Poker in the Front, Writer in the Rear

I have another story for you. It may not seem as if it's related to writing, but hang in there, I’ll make the connection at the end.

My husband and I like to play poker. We also like helping our community. So, five or six years ago, when a friend asked if we wanted to play in a charity poker tournament, we said “Sure!” Actually, we probably said, “Do you want to go?” and then, “I dunno. Do you?”

 

One of my vintage purses. 

IMPORTANT: While I have been to poker tourneys in my city of residence, this tournament was a fundraiser for a high school girls’ basketball team in a neighboring city. The tourney took place at a restaurant (now defunct) in a city in my county that is not the city in which I live. Now put away the pitchforks and lanterns.

We paid our hundred bucks or whatever it was, went to the restaurant and were directed to the banquet room. I’m pretty good at socializing in situations where I don’t know anyone, but most of the other attendees were not what you’d call chummy. You know the type. Upscale housewives who don’t make friends outside their clique unless they think it will get them a free spa day, and husbands who are deciding whether to buy a new BMW or boobs for their girlfriend.

Oh shut up. I am not bitter. If I had money I’d still shop at thrift stores.

Almost immediately, we were regretting our decision to do something on a Saturday night. When you’re at a fundraiser and the kids who are benefitting from your donation have parents that are standoffish jerks, then you probably should’ve stayed at home, watching TV and eating pizza in bed.

We started playing poker. My husband was in for a while, but got knocked out. I was in and stayed in. I couldn’t help it. I just kept getting great cards. You might think that, because I like playing poker, there was skill involved, but anyone who’s ever played in a small-town tournament knows that the participants who don’t know anything about poker are generally the ones that end up winning. I believe it’s a corollary of Murphy’s Law.

I made it to the final table. And this is where the story gets worse. A guy started heckling me. Yes, heckling. At a fundraiser. For children. He was drunk. He was angry that “Wendy sucks out on the river,” which, in poker language, meant I kept getting a good card at the end of each play. Which was not entirely accurate, but I assume that’s how I beat him. I don't know. I wasn't keeping track. At that point, I just wanted to win a prize to make up for the crappy evening.

At first I thought the heckler was kidding. He wasn’t. So my six-foot-four-inch husband stood up and politely told him to knock it off. The heckler was suddenly quiet.

Worse yet, the guy sitting next to me at the final table kept taking chips off my stack in a “joking” fashion, but was actually keeping some. He also kept looking at my hole cards. He was cheating while pretending to be cute.

I think I came in seventh place, which made me seventh in line to pick from a pool of donated prizes. I chose a flowerpot in which there were some of those plastic pick thingies that go into bouquets to hold the little gift tags. I believe there were five picks, each with a gift card to a restaurant.

During the game, someone had stolen one of the gift cards.

And this is why I kill people in my books.

Free eBook, Unless You're Wendy's Parents

I’ve told you the saga of THRIFT ME DEADLY, right? No? Oh, man, it really is a saga.

I wrote this book about five years ago. I thought it was “experimental fiction,” but my daughter the English major—as in college, not British military—told me, no, it’s just fiction. Weird-creepy-I-can’t-believe-you-wrote-that-and-you’re-my-mom fiction, but still fiction.

I prefer to call it a “kitschy, dark thriller.” Because that’s what it is. A funny-but-painful diary of a thrift store-loving serial killer. She shops for cool stuff, she kills people, she shops some more, wash, rinse, repeat. I’d like to make it Lucite purse-clear (a point of reference understood by thrifters and vintage collectors) that the shopping part is the only trait I share with my protagonist.

With I MURDERED THE PTA and I MURDERED THE SPELLING BEE, people in my community purchased the book to see if they were in it, which they weren’t. Also, there were quite a few that asked who certain characters were in real life. As if a hunky police detective has ever fallen in love with me. No, that’s never happened, that I know of. I usually don’t find out about unrequited crushes until high school reunions, and the last one I attended was 22 years ago.

But we’re talking about THRIFT ME DEADLY. In 2009, as part of my experiment to send out something writing-related every day of that year, I submitted it to the Fabri Literary Prize competition, thinking I’d never win. Why? Because I’m always a bridesmaid, that’s why. So I decided to self-pub it as an ebook on Smashwords, a place to self-pub ebooks. Shortly after that, I got an email from the Fabri people saying THRIFT ME DEADLY was a top three finalist in the Fabri Literary Prize competition. I frantically called the guy in charge of the contest and left a message asking if the book’s being on Smashwords disqualified it. He said, no, just unpublish it while the judges are deliberating. I remember the conversation well, because he called me back on my cell phone while I was driving and I had to pull over to talk to him. He was very nice, but I still didn’t think I was going to win.

I didn’t. You know, bridesmaid. That’s me. Big, ugly, pink dress with a bow on the back. But the real bummer is that, even though it was a finalist, it doesn’t say anywhere on the Fabri website who the finalists are or were. It only has each year's winners. So you’ll have to take my word for it. My daughter, who was a high school student (and not yet an English major) at the time, was in the car with me when I answered his call. She’s my witness, so ask her. She’s frustratingly honest. Before she wanted to be an English professor, she hoped to become a Supreme Court justice, so there you go.

Actual maid of honor dress from my 1985 wedding. No bow in back, thank goodness.

After the contest I returned THRIFT ME DEADLY to Smashwords (even gave it away as a freebie as part of a donation thing for servicepeople overseas), took it down to rewrite it, re-published it as an ebook, and also put it on Createspace. It’s now available in paperback and for Kindle, but only on Amazon, because Amazon has a deal whereby if you sell strictly through them, you get to retire as a multimillionaire. Or something not even remotely like that.

You can get THRIFT ME DEADLY for free as an ebook right now until May 14 if you go to Amazon. Please do not read this book if you are easily offended. By anything. And please do not read it if you are my parents. See you on Mother's Day, mom!

Thrift Me Deadly Book Trailer

All the News That’s Fit to *$@! Up

This guy.

WARNING: Do not click if you are offended by bad language. Or stupid people.


I am so irritated by him. Not because he screwed up on his first day on-air, but because of all the notoriety that followed. Here I am—and maybe here you are—a working freelance writer—or, in your case, some other professional—trying to get that big break, and this guy does something horrible and then proceeds to go on Letterman.

Not actually on Letterman. On his show. And a few others. I don’t know what this alleged anchorman is doing now, but he must’ve been paid for his fifteen minutes-worth of appearances. Meanwhile, I’m sending proposals for freelance writing jobs where my competition is bloggers who charge half as much as I do. Or will do it just for the writing cred.

Look, I don’t want to be famous. That is, I’m content with whatever modicum of fame it is that I have. I just want enough money to be comfortable, and for my husband not to have to climb ladders for the rest of his life, and I’m willing to work for it. If all it took was saying curse words, then I’d have a #@$!-load in the bank right now.

In other, lighter news, and also observed on the news—the business news, that is—I saw this perfect-haired business reporter talking about an event she’d attended that was sponsored by all-powerful magnate Warren Buffett. She proceeded to hold up a white paper-wrapped box of See’s Candies (owned by Buffett’s company Berkshire Hathaway) and pointed out that ye olde tymey portraits on the box were of Buffett and Charlie Munger (vice chairman of Berkshire Hathaway).

I don’t know if I saw it wrong or what, but I don’t think that was Charlie Munger. Although I can understand the error.

At least the business reporter didn’t use any swear words. Mrs. See would never have approved.

Speaking of Writing

Last month I was invited to speak to another group of wonderful women—the ESO Book Lovers—who put up with my juvenile one-liners. They didn’t seem to mind the one about my pilcrow* tattoo—otherwise known as a paragraph mark. You can see it over there, to your right. You can also guess what I said about it. Go ahead. Guess. It has to do with it being P… on my leg.

*Microsoft Word does not recognize the word "pilcrow." It keeps giving me the red, squiggly line. It does, however, recognize the word "squiggly."

So, yeah. That's me. What you see is what you get. So much for looks being deceiving. Goofy is as goofy does. Life is like a box of chocolates—nobody eats the marzipan.

I’ll be speaking at the June 11 meeting of the Ventura County Writers Club. The VCWC and I go wayyyy back, when I was a novice writer. At that time, I was a stay-at-home mom who’d sold a few articles and essays, but mostly wrote risqué greeting card copy. I worked as a freelancer for a greeting card company that would fax me (this was before email) dirty cartoons and I’d come up with the copy. It was and still is my favorite job ever. Pretty good money, challenging and fun. Would love to do it again. A bonus is that I no longer have to hide the pictures from my kids, who are now grownups, and I'm sure have seen much worse. Thank you, Internet.

I was on the VCWC board for years, but haven’t been a member for a while, mostly because I belong to the Groucho Marx School of Club Membership. Although, I did win the club's short story contest in 2005. Got $500, publication in an anthology, and it was the last short story I wrote that I actually got paid for.

I’m pretty pumped about doing a talk for them, which will be similar to the one I gave the book lovers’ group—all about my wacky career as a freelancer. I'll tell them the truth about rejections, always-a-bridesmaid outcomes, and lots of near misses—which is one of those phrases I hate because it really should be “near collisions.”

But no matter the outcome, no matter how bummed I get, and how much I want chuck it all and work as a greeter at Walmart, I keep writing.

Why? Because.

Everybody Loves Some Bodies Some Time

I watch way too much Investigation Discovery. When their commercials say that it’s addictive, they’re not kidding. For those of us whose favorite genre is true crime, those shows are positively habit-forming.

There are, however, a few problems.

I’m not talking about the same line that’s in almost every ID show where a body is discovered in a field by some hapless passerby: “He thought it was a mannequin.”

Because, yeah, right, people are throwing mannequins out of moving cars practically every day of the week, I tell ya.

If I saw a body in a field I’d think it was a body.

 Faith the Mannequin and me, before her tragic accident. Don't ask.

But this mass mannequin misidentification is not the problem with ID shows.

As a writer, I find it difficult to suspend disbelief, even when there’s not supposed to be any, e.g. in a show about something that really happened. Meaning, when the writing sucks—as it does on some of the ID shows—I find it hard to focus on the crime and its resolution.

There’s one show that has a smarmy narrator whose voice is so bad that it’s intriguing. However, the smarminess, coupled with mixed metaphors and turns of phrase that aren’t quite right, create the ear-bleeding, poorly-written narrative that causes a serious distraction. For me. And maybe just for me. I dunno.

"There was something rotten in Denmark, Ohio, and it wasn't the fish tacos at Billy Budd's Bar and Grill." (Note: I made that one up. But you get the idea.)

I'm not sure, but I think it’s the same show that also fills in the hour slot by telling us about the hobbies of the police detectives who are searching for the murderer. Really? I don’t much care that the dude shoots deer or hoops or skeet in his spare time. I want to find out who killed the poor old lady, so I can Google his name and see how much time he got in prison.

But ID has that hour to fill. Or, rather, forty-seven minutes, not counting commercials.

Another thing I don’t like about ID is that they have the same murders over and over in different shows. Sure, the sicko who killed his pregnant girlfriend in order to stay married to his wife is an interesting and disgusting train wreck of a case, but to show it repeatedly in episodes of separate ID series’ is kind of a ripoff to viewers who don't expect a rehash when they’re working out on the elliptical while watching TV.

Yeah, that would be me. I hate exercise so much that I watch TV to distract myself from my hatred, and then I end up disappointed when I see something I’ve seen before. Does it not occur to the execs at ID that perhaps the people who watch their network are watching it at the same time every day?

If I see an obvious repeat on ID, I will switch the channel to Law and Order: Criminal Intent, if it’s on while I’m working that stupid elliptical. Because I can watch Vincent D’Onofrio any day, fat or skinny, no matter how old the rerun and how many times I’ve seen it. I know those shows are fictionalized versions of true crime, but at least the writing is good. 

And I’ve never seen one where someone thought the body was a mannequin.

House Calls

As I said in my previous post, I really like writing articles for the Homes section of my newspaper. While I still feel kind of weird about going into other people’s bedrooms and bathrooms—obviously not a problem for real estate agents—I do enjoy architecture and interior details. You know, stuff like corbels and dentil molding and other crap I have to look up because I’m not a contractor.

My husband, however, is. A contractor. He’s done a great job with our house, which is old, but very nice, and which we’ll never pay off because we’ve refinanced it a couple of times. That’s how it goes these days. Meaning we’re not the only ones. At least we haven’t refinanced it to the point of it being worth less than what we owe… so far. I do live in California, where one good earthquake can do more damage than any l’il ol’ stock market crash.

My ranch-style house was built in 1967. 

When we moved in, it had a “popcorn” ceiling, country kitchen, and gold-veined cultured marble countertops in the bathrooms. Yeah. Preeeeeetty. While we still have one bathroom with that ‘60s styling (my husband’s—he refuses to change it), we’ve pretty much created a whole new house. The biggest and most expensive improvement was a second floor, built just before my kids started moving out, but still here in case they move back in.

Here’s where I’d say “PLEEEEEEEEASE, NOOOOO,” but the younger one has already informed me that she’s coming back for a year between her bachelor's degree and grad school, which is fine. I’m gearing up again for sleepless nights, waiting for her to come home from a party. You never stop being a mom. Dammit.

We also got rid of our horribly rundown pool, put in pavers and made a pond, which is lovely, especially for the local egret that periodically enjoys fresh sushi.

Here’s the latest project: Our coffered ceiling in the dining room. And by “our,” I mean my husband built it while I stood there and applauded. Giddily.

Normally, when I write articles for the Homes section, I think, wow, that’s great, but I love my house. And then I walked through one on Friday. Luckily, I am not religious, so I don’t feel I broke any commandment referring to coveting.

But I WANTED it. It was perfect. It freakin' CALLED MY NAME. (Not in a creepy, Stephen King way.) Huge house. Really cool features. Nice big yard.

But…

It was priced at $2 million. So now I am counting on winning Powerball. Either that, or I have to write a lot more advertorials.

Help Wendy out. Visit Advertorial75.com. Or sell her the winning Powerball ticket.