In my July book, DARING A DUKE (out today!), I named a secondary character, one of the brothers of the heroine, after my son’s friend. Well. When I told Jed (the real Jed) that I’d named a character after him (the fictional Jedidiah Elliot), you’d have thought I’d given him the moon. He blushed. He stammered. He got tears in his eyes!

I am not making this up.

Jed, the real Jed, was so excited and so flattered and so thrilled that I’d used his name as a character in a book…and of course Jed is desperate to buy a copy of the book the second it hits the stores…because…because he’s touching greatness? Fame? Something? I don’t know. All I know is that Jed can hardly contain his joy. He thanked me profusely. He hugged me repeatedly.

Huh.

Within 24 hours of my telling Jed the Great News about using his name, another of my son’s friends called me. His name is Chris. He told me that his middle name is Celestino and wasn’t that a cool name? Didn’t I think that would be a great name for one of my characters? Didn’t I want to, you know, use his name in a book?

Huh.

What do you think? Does this reaction surprise you (like it did me) or do you get it? Would you like to have a character named after you? Would it matter to you if the character was good or bad, pretty or ugly, nice or mean? How do you feel when you’re reading and one of the characters has your name?

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Well, it happened. Diesel’s pillow, his gigantic chew toy/pacifier, had to be thrown out. I was as nervous as a cat about throwing out his pillow, finding a new one, wondering if he’d reject the ‘fake’ pillow and swirl into a deep doggy depression.

I forgot I was dealing with Diesel, Wonder Dog of the Galaxy.

This is what happened: I bought a new pillow for him, covered in purple fuzzy fleece, and handed it to him as I walked in the front door. He sniffed it, grinned up at me (really), and carried it back to his little nest in the family room, tail swinging happily the whole way. He nestled down on his fluffy pile of blankets and buried his face in his new pillow, ignoring me completely as I picked up his old pillow and threw it in the trash.

That’s when I realized that he’d been waiting for me to buy him a new pillow for weeks, and I’d been dithering, afraid he’d reject a new pillow. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Bad Mommy. Bad. Bad. Bad.

What kind of pillow do you like? Standard or king sized? Down or fiberfill? Soft or firm? Do you travel with your own pillow? Do you sleep on your back, side, stomach? Nestled into a mound, curled around a loved one, or straight and untouchable? Do you snore? Talk in your sleep?  Do you dream?

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I’m between projects, those things that are at the top of the priority list every day for as long as it takes until the project is finished. I’ve had two projects that have been gobbling up all my brain cells, all my time, all my physical energy. One was writing a book. The other was putting in two full bathrooms, from scratch, Big D and I doing all the work ourselves.

The book is finished. The bathrooms are finished–as of four days ago. To say I have nothing but time on my hands is an understatement.

What have I done with this between project time? I’ve scrubbed out the refrigerator and freezer, throwing out old food and reorganizing the shelves. I always clean the fridge between books. How many times do I look into the fridge every day? About fifty, at a guess. That’s a lot of minutes of ick assaulting my eyes during the course of a book. Lost in the wilderness of a book, I’ll avert my eyes and mumble, “I’ll clean it when I finish.” It’s what I look forward to doing when the book is finally off my back and out of my brain.

Yes, I actually look forward to cleaning out the fridge. That’s how taxing writing a book is; it makes scrubbing the inside of a refrigerator look good. Not that I’m complaining, because writing a book is easy peasy compared to building a bathroom.

Besides cleaning out the fridge, I’ve mailed graduation cards, paid the bills (oops), put the houseplants out for the summer, cleaned off the kitchen island (AKA the dumping ground of the universe). You know, necessary stuff, those lesser jobs that must be done, but which I ignore in the midst of the big project. Big D always works on the car as his downtime small job. There’s just always something to be done on the car. According to him, anyway. Does the oil really need to be changed that often?

What little jobs do you look forward to doing when the big job is finished?

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we got our new (used) dog. Diesel is a German Shepherd, a former police dog that flunked out of the police academy (he thinks he graduated ahead of his class).

I’ve had dogs all my life, big dogs and little dogs, and while I know that all dogs are different, I am not different. The dogs came and went, but I remained unchanged. Until now. My life is now divided sharply into Before Diesel and After Diesel.

Before Diesel: no dog toys. Find a stick or an old tennis ball in the yard and play with that.

After Diesel: he loves his toys, so I buy them. He has a pile of toys that he carries around the house. And leaves around the house. I didn’t have toys laying around on the floor when my kids were toddlers. Now I do.

Before Diesel: no dogs on the bed or the sofa—ever! Upon pain of death.

After Diesel: he climbs on the sofa every time I leave the house. I’ve put a lap robe there to catch the worst of the hair, a sign of defeat. When I wake up in the morning and say, “Morning!” Diesel takes that as an invitation to jump on the bed and snuggle. He puts his head on the pillow and rubs his face in the blankets. I now think this is adorable. My kids think I’ve lost my mind. I am always washing my bedding. I find this annoying and yet still say, “Morning!” to the dog all the time.

Before Diesel: no puffy doggie beds. A nice carpeted floor should be good enough for any dog.

After Diesel: he has a pillow that he wraps his arms around and sucks on like a giant pacifier. I mean that literally. It is slimy and stained, and I can’t get the saliva out of it no matter how much I wash it. He carries his pillow from room to room, tail wagging, so delighted to have his pillow to rest his head on while I’m watching TV. Every car trip, I bring the pillow. I don’t dare go anywhere with him without his pillow. I’m beginning to live in fear of when the pillow “dies.” I’m looking around now for replacement pillows, hoping to wean him off one and onto the other.

BTW, he came to us with this pillow. This is HIS pillow.

Diesel has turned my life upside down. I hardly recognize myself. My kids certainly don’t recognize me anymore. They shake their heads in bewilderment, talking amongst themselves about early onset Alzheimer’s. It could be true. I’m sure I’d be the last to know. But since I’m having so much fun with Diesel, I don’t think I care.

And now, I have to do a load of sheets again.

Do you do anything now that you never thought you’d ever do? In the past year has your life changed in some way you never saw coming? Has an animal ever changed your life in any way (and that includes Mickey Mouse, Suzanne)?

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This is a true story. I have not even changed the names to protect the innocent, because there are no innocents in this story.

On Wednesday, I went to TJ Maxx to buy a basket. I did not find a basket, but I did find a purse, a pair of New Balance sneakers, and a quilt for the bed. You know how that goes.

I have to test out purses. I have to walk around with them over my shoulder for a good ten minutes to see if they’re comfortable, if the straps have a tendency to fall down, if the purse looks good on me when I happen to pass by a mirror. I assume everyone does this. If you don’t, don’t tell me. I’ll just feel ridiculous.

Part of my purse testing procedure is to see if it will hold my stuff. Sure the purse looks cute on the rack, and even over my shoulder carrying nothing but wadded up paper, but will it still work when holding my essentials? My wallet. My cell phone. My make-up bag. My sunglasses. My reading glasses. My notebook. My pen. My…well, you get the idea. So while I was waiting in line to pay for my quilt and my sneakers and my purse (no basket, and I came into the store needing a basket), I pulled out some of the paper and put in my wallet and my make-up bag. The purse gaped. I decided not to get the purse. I pulled my stuff out of the purse, bought the goods, and went home.

This is not the end of the story.

The next morning I had to run to the post office, and as is my habit, I put on my lipstick once I’m in the car (don’t ask me how I got into this stupid habit, and it is stupid, but I can’t seem to break it). I get in the car, put on my seat belt, and scrounge around in my (old) purse for my make-up case. It’s not there! In less than a second, I knew where it was.

It was in the purse I didn’t buy. The purse at TJ Maxx. The purse with wadded up paper and MY make-up bag. I hoped. What if someone had bought the purse? What if they found my case and gave it to the sales clerk and she threw it out? Should I just give up? Should I consider my make-up bag a total loss?

This was a very easy decision to make. I love that make-up bag. It’s cute, the right size, the right price, and I haven’t seen another one like it since I bought it. I wanted my make-up bag back. And then there’s the make-up. I have five lipsticks in that bag, two liners, a tiny package of dental floss, and nail clippers. The contents total about…$200.

Okay, I’m kidding about that, but it was too much money to just toss out without an effort to get it back. Plus, one of the lipsticks has been discontinued and it’s the perfect color for me. You know how that goes, too.

I worked over plans in my mind as I drove to TJ Maxx. Would I ask the clerk if she had my make-up? Would I go directly to the purses and search out my bag? Would I then tell the clerk that I was leaving with my make-up bag (if I found it) so she wouldn’t think I was a thief?

This is what happened: I walked in. I saw the purse immediately. I walked over to the purse. My make-up case was inside. I took it out. I put it in my purse. I walked out of the door.

I am still expecting the police to show up at my house. I’m not sure how I’m going to be able to convince them that I was only “stealing” back my make-up bag.

Yes, this is my public defense of my actions. If you’re reading this, you are now a witness to my innocence. What I said about no innocents in this blog? Forget I said that. I am innocent! I only needed my make-up bag back!

Facing a jury of my (female) peers, I think I’ll do okay.

Oh, and while you’re out shopping today, go pick up a copy of The Courtesan’s Wager. It’s cheaper than a lipstick, and harder to misplace. It will even fit in your purse.

Describe your perfect purse. How do you shop for a purse? How many purses do you own? How often do you switch them up? Do not tell me if you’ve ever “stolen” something from a store; I do not want to start a ring of thieves, unless we can also recruit the White Collar guy, then I might need to rethink the whole ’stealing is bad’ thing.

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Okay, so here’s what happened: Big D, who is very good with his hands (ahem), met with a rough carpenter to discuss cutting a hole in the roof to raise the slanted wall and change the angle of the roof so that a tub would then have the head room to become a shower. Following all that? So the carpenter comes over–and let me pause to describe the costumes of these two men (Big D and the other guy)–both are wearing jeans covered with paint and dirt stains, the jeans are also ripped out at each knee from one seam to the other. They are each wearing ratted out shoes. They are each wearing torn and stained shirts. They each have hands covered in cuts with dirty cuticles and split fingernails. Get the picture? These guys look like they WORK.

Here’s my rough approximation of what they said:

Big D: It’s  t-11 siding with a 1 inch.

Other Guy: They don’t make 1 inch anymore. I think I can get 3/4. You have a dry stack behind that wall; do you want to trim the box in one bys?

Big D: Yeah. The dry stack is behind the toilet. Box it out another 6 inches.

Other Guy: Right. You’re going to have a problem with headroom, only six feet.

Big D: Not if you start at the apex and make the roof three twelve.

Other Guy: Right. Right. We could do that. That would give you plenty of headroom.

They went on like this for half an hour. This is the thing: they both spoke the same language. The language of carpentry and construction. I don’t speak that language. I stood by, smiling in bemusement, grateful that someone in my family could speak Construction.

When you don’t speak the language, you get taken advantage of. That’s my belief, based on years of experience dealing with car repair men. Big D also speaks fluent Car. I’ve lived a life of ease since marrying him, he speaks so many languages. I have my language skills too. I can speak Hair Salon, Cosmetics, Fashion, Home Decor, Publishing, Education, Literary Agent, and Kids in Packs. Big D doesn’t need to learn those languages because I know them. I call this an efficient division of labor.

What languages do you speak fluently? When do you feel like you’re listening to a foreign language? What’s the last language you learned?

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Somehow, through some fatal error on my part, my kids don’t like toast. I love toast! How can anyone not like toast? Toast is wonderful! Toast is buttery delicious (no margarine substitutes, please). Toast with butter and jam. Toast with butter and cinnamon. Toast! When I was growing up, I had toast every morning for breakfast. The corner, the last bite, always went to the dog. Even the dog loved toast. Who doesn’t?

My kids, that’s who.

How did this happen? I have no idea.

Big D loves soup. I do not love soup. I don’t hate it, but if I never had soup again I wouldn’t mind. Soup is liquid. Soup is not a meal. Soup is a drink. Stew? I love stew. Stew is soup on steroids with a major case of dehydration. But soup? Meh. Big D cannot fathom why I do not share his soup fetish. Soup is his favorite meal.

His favorite meal? How is that possible?

My kids love cookies, homemade only. All kinds. Oatmeal, chocolate chip, shortbread, peanut butter. You name it, they’ll love it. I do not like cookies. I have never liked cookies, not even as a kid. Why? I don’t know why. I’d rather eat a cracker than a cookie. I like the salty, crunchy, scratchiness of a cracker (sort of why I like toast!). I do not like the sweet chewiness of a cookie.

My kids think I’m nuts. Not like cookies?

My husband thinks I’m nuts. Not like soup?

I think they’re nuts. Not like toast?

What do you not like to eat that most people love? Do you like toast? Do you prefer cookies or crackers? Stew or soup?

And on the subject of what you like, I expect to hear only praise and adoration about The Courtesan’s Wager, out now in mass market paperback. You love it, right? You have to have it, right?

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