Honestly, I don't know how it happens.
As you know (because I told you in one of my blogs) I had a black eye and a shaved eyebrow at my very first booksigning, for Horseplay. This was because my sharp eyed derm spotted a wee skin cancer possibility right above my eyebrow and insisted that he remove both right away. And you also know, courtesy of another blog, that my very first radio interview was done with a mouthful of toothpaste due to a mix-up with the time differences. So, here I am, new book, Still Life With Elephant, out on July 10, and I am doing a booksigning and all excited, and what happens? I do something dumb like pick a tiny weed from my garden on my way into the house, and piss off some yellow jacket/wasp/killer bee/Mothra combination and get stung on my right hand, which of course, is my SIGNING hand, and it swells to baseball glove proportions and i look like The Hand From Outer Space. Can't hold a pen, can't even close my fingers. So I quickly look up cures on the internet, which is, as we all know, just absolutely the most respected venue for medical accuracy, and in short order, put the following on the sting: a messy, sloppy, dripping-all-over-the-place paste of baking soda (which did nothing), ice (which numbed it as it swelled like a balloon), a sugar and water paste (nothing) vinegar (nothing, but now my hand smells like cole slaw), tabasco sauce, pickle juice (nothing, nothing, nothing) and finally, ta dah, Preparation H, which, I am embarrassed to say, I keep in the house to apply to other surfaces. Tiny bit of relief with the Prep, but the hand still looks like it could float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. My only comfort is that the wasp, incensed that I dare interfere with its privacy, divebombed and followed me screaming (i did the screaming) into the house, where i KILLED THE DAMN THING! I hope it ends up in wasp hell and has an intense allergic reaction to the medication that i take for my blood pressure. Poetic justice, i say.
Happy Trails,
j
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
RUN!
to the nearest bookstore! Today is the release date of Still Life With Elephant.
I hope you enjoy it. Please let me know what you think. You can reach me at judyreene@hotmail.com
Are you part of a book club? Writer's club? Discussion group? Let's talk!
Happy Trails,
Judy
I hope you enjoy it. Please let me know what you think. You can reach me at judyreene@hotmail.com
Are you part of a book club? Writer's club? Discussion group? Let's talk!
Happy Trails,
Judy
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Happy Fourth of July
We are rained out, but I wish everyone a happy Fourth of July and a salute of gratitude to all those who are serving and have served in our armed forces. My own father, now deceased, was a World War II veteran and he was very proud of having served in the Army Air Corps. Please join me in fervent wishes that our service men and women are brought home safely and as soon as possible from this terrible mistake of a war.
God bless,
judy
God bless,
judy
Thursday, June 28, 2007
It's Almost Like Having a Birthday
I know. I once agonized on these very pages, how i will not celebrate my birthday anymore because i was just foolishly celebrating getting older, but waiting for a birthday to come along is something else. There is a tingling feeling of anticipation, wondering what great surprises are going to delight you. And waiting for my new book, Still Life With Elephant, to be released on July 10 is sort of the same feeling. I wonder how it's going to do on it's "birth " day, if people will like it, if I should have a party in its honor. We can all wear funny hats with elephants on them, wave balloons and here's the best part - eat ice cream and donuts.
There definitely has to be donuts.
So, if you are part of a book club, writers group, elephant lover's group or almost any other group who wants to join in the party, let me know. We can do a phone chat, I'll have a donut or two or three and some ice cream (and maybe you will too, on your end) and we'll have a good time together. You can email me at judyreene@hotmail.com with your phone number and we'll make arrangements.
Party on!
There definitely has to be donuts.
So, if you are part of a book club, writers group, elephant lover's group or almost any other group who wants to join in the party, let me know. We can do a phone chat, I'll have a donut or two or three and some ice cream (and maybe you will too, on your end) and we'll have a good time together. You can email me at judyreene@hotmail.com with your phone number and we'll make arrangements.
Party on!
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
The Sound of Sopranos
Where did the time go? I promised myself i would post once a week, and obviously, like promising to lose twenty pounds right after New Year's, broke that vow almost right away.
The exciting news is that my new book, Still Life With Elephant will be coming out in about a month, and i'm really happy. It takes so long - about a year - to see your work in print, and it's a little like waiting for the results of a lab test. You wonder - positive or negative, although for books, you hope for positive.
Am I the only one who thought the satellite went out in the last few minutes of The Sopranos? Weird ending. I like things tied up neatly. Even if the good folks in New Jersey didn't all get taken out, there should have been some sense of closure. Leaving your faithful viewers feeling confused, and ultimately cheated is not good writing. Although the series has been stellar, realistic, brilliantly written and acted, it needed an ending. Squashing someone's head under the front wheels of a car had a high eeeuwww score and I suppose, set us up for more violence. Not that i wanted more violence, but the tension built in the restaurant scene until it became palpable. At least, in our family room, it was very palpable. The new puppy bit me on the ankle and i almost jumped out of my skin. Then the screen went blank. Huh? Not that i expected them all to stand up and sing So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, from The Sound of Music, but.....
anyway,
Happy Trails
The exciting news is that my new book, Still Life With Elephant will be coming out in about a month, and i'm really happy. It takes so long - about a year - to see your work in print, and it's a little like waiting for the results of a lab test. You wonder - positive or negative, although for books, you hope for positive.
Am I the only one who thought the satellite went out in the last few minutes of The Sopranos? Weird ending. I like things tied up neatly. Even if the good folks in New Jersey didn't all get taken out, there should have been some sense of closure. Leaving your faithful viewers feeling confused, and ultimately cheated is not good writing. Although the series has been stellar, realistic, brilliantly written and acted, it needed an ending. Squashing someone's head under the front wheels of a car had a high eeeuwww score and I suppose, set us up for more violence. Not that i wanted more violence, but the tension built in the restaurant scene until it became palpable. At least, in our family room, it was very palpable. The new puppy bit me on the ankle and i almost jumped out of my skin. Then the screen went blank. Huh? Not that i expected them all to stand up and sing So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, from The Sound of Music, but.....
anyway,
Happy Trails
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
My Radio Interview
It was last Saturday morning, on April 28 and for once, I didn't drool, cough, hiccup or come off sounding like the village idiot. June, the interviewer, actually read and enjoyed my book and asked all the right horsey questions and I had a blast. It gives me hope for future interviews since my past has been spotty.
One of the questions that came up was one I'm frequently asked. How I got started. Well, I seem to be the epicenter of weird and unusual horse - uh - dramas, and these became the basis of stories I started writing for The Chronicle of the Horse, a well known horse magazine. I wrote for the Chronicle for over thirteen years, as a feature writer, and even won an award or two. With one story leading to another, and some enthusiastic fan mail along the way, the idea of a book was born.
One of my fondest stories is about The Horse in the Kitchen. I never got around to writing this for the Chronicle and I still reserve the right to tuck it into a book somewhere, but it was how I acquired my old tb, Loom. He belonged to Lizzy, a friend of mine. He was 16.1 hands, a chestnut, and was around eight or nine years old at the time this happened. It was early morning and I got a phone call. I get a lot of phone calls from horse friends, mainly because I am a fairly calm person in the face of calamity. I get all excited afterwards, my voice goes up three or four notches and I get absolutely untethered, but during, during, I am an oasis of calm. So, it's around nine in the morning and Lizzy calls to ask for my help. She is whispering into the phone, so as not to scare her horse. Now this is the era before cell phones, right in the middle of the era of kitchen wall phones, so after Lizzy informs me that she is in her kitchen and doesn't want to spook her horse, I get a tad suspicious.
"Where's the horse, Lizzy?" I ask her, in a nice calm voice.
"In the kitchen with me," she whispers into the phone. "He's licking the kitchen sink."
"Where?" I ask her again, my nice calm voice now betraying my disbelief with a high little treble.
"In the kitchen, with me," she says, a little louder now. "I was taking a shower and I came downstairs and he was IN THE KITCHEN."
"How on earth did he get-" I start, but she interrupts me.
"Just get here," she scream-whispers. "He's in the garbage pail now, and if he spooks, it's going to be awful. I just installed new linoleum. PLEASE GET HERE!"
My voice might stay calm when I'm under stress, but my driving skills are anything but. I leapt into my car like Batman, and raced across a highway, careening down side streets, skidding around corners, and do what is normally a fifteen minute drive in five plus. There is no one around when I pull up to Lizzy's house, so I let myself in through the back door. Lizzy is absolutely correct. There is a 16.1 hand chestnut ex-racehorse standing in the middle of her not-very-big kitchen, calmly chomping on the remains of a wilted salad from the previous night.
"We've got to get him out of here," I say with what is the understatement of the century.
So, under my supervision, Lizzy feeds him carrots from the fridge, while I s-l-o-w-l-y push all the chairs and the kitchen table and the microwave and cart to one side of the room. And then, because I am a dressage person, I take the horse by his halter and move him sideways, doing a lovely and quite elegant demi-pirouette, right there, in front of her stove. He ends up facing the back door and I lead him out.
I also bought him that afternoon, because I figure a horse that is so athletic, that he can do a nice turn on his hindquarters next to a big kitchen set, a television and a baker's rack, is a horse for me. He did do well in dressage, his purchase gave Lizzy enough money to replace her linoleum, which her husband did not believe came with all the horseshoe shaped cuts in it, and everybody was happy. The rest of my horses were acquired in more traditional ways.
That's what I mean about how stories seem to fall into my lap.
It was a nice radio show.
One of the questions that came up was one I'm frequently asked. How I got started. Well, I seem to be the epicenter of weird and unusual horse - uh - dramas, and these became the basis of stories I started writing for The Chronicle of the Horse, a well known horse magazine. I wrote for the Chronicle for over thirteen years, as a feature writer, and even won an award or two. With one story leading to another, and some enthusiastic fan mail along the way, the idea of a book was born.
One of my fondest stories is about The Horse in the Kitchen. I never got around to writing this for the Chronicle and I still reserve the right to tuck it into a book somewhere, but it was how I acquired my old tb, Loom. He belonged to Lizzy, a friend of mine. He was 16.1 hands, a chestnut, and was around eight or nine years old at the time this happened. It was early morning and I got a phone call. I get a lot of phone calls from horse friends, mainly because I am a fairly calm person in the face of calamity. I get all excited afterwards, my voice goes up three or four notches and I get absolutely untethered, but during, during, I am an oasis of calm. So, it's around nine in the morning and Lizzy calls to ask for my help. She is whispering into the phone, so as not to scare her horse. Now this is the era before cell phones, right in the middle of the era of kitchen wall phones, so after Lizzy informs me that she is in her kitchen and doesn't want to spook her horse, I get a tad suspicious.
"Where's the horse, Lizzy?" I ask her, in a nice calm voice.
"In the kitchen with me," she whispers into the phone. "He's licking the kitchen sink."
"Where?" I ask her again, my nice calm voice now betraying my disbelief with a high little treble.
"In the kitchen, with me," she says, a little louder now. "I was taking a shower and I came downstairs and he was IN THE KITCHEN."
"How on earth did he get-" I start, but she interrupts me.
"Just get here," she scream-whispers. "He's in the garbage pail now, and if he spooks, it's going to be awful. I just installed new linoleum. PLEASE GET HERE!"
My voice might stay calm when I'm under stress, but my driving skills are anything but. I leapt into my car like Batman, and raced across a highway, careening down side streets, skidding around corners, and do what is normally a fifteen minute drive in five plus. There is no one around when I pull up to Lizzy's house, so I let myself in through the back door. Lizzy is absolutely correct. There is a 16.1 hand chestnut ex-racehorse standing in the middle of her not-very-big kitchen, calmly chomping on the remains of a wilted salad from the previous night.
"We've got to get him out of here," I say with what is the understatement of the century.
So, under my supervision, Lizzy feeds him carrots from the fridge, while I s-l-o-w-l-y push all the chairs and the kitchen table and the microwave and cart to one side of the room. And then, because I am a dressage person, I take the horse by his halter and move him sideways, doing a lovely and quite elegant demi-pirouette, right there, in front of her stove. He ends up facing the back door and I lead him out.
I also bought him that afternoon, because I figure a horse that is so athletic, that he can do a nice turn on his hindquarters next to a big kitchen set, a television and a baker's rack, is a horse for me. He did do well in dressage, his purchase gave Lizzy enough money to replace her linoleum, which her husband did not believe came with all the horseshoe shaped cuts in it, and everybody was happy. The rest of my horses were acquired in more traditional ways.
That's what I mean about how stories seem to fall into my lap.
It was a nice radio show.
Friday, April 13, 2007
teenie tiny mini rant/observance
It says something about this country that Kurt Vonnegut's death did not stop the presses. There were no tv magazine shows discussing his brilliant wit, his futuristic insights, his remarkable writing talent, his caustic observations on human nature. No special bulletin from CNN, no extra programming (as yet) from the big three stations about his life and works. I mean, you couldn't turn on the telly without an in-depth report on the latest wrinkle concerning Anna Nicole, who, as far as I can see, contributed nothing more than a few sad, stoned incoherent tv moments. I'm sorry that she died, any life cut short is tragic, but did she really warrant so much press coverage? And I'll betcha a box of fresh, fluffy, hand dipped chocolate donuts that just about anyone you talk to will look at you blankly if you ask them who KV was, but could go on at length about Anna Nicole. If you haven't read his short story, Harrison Bergeron, I urge you to read it. It'll take you a minute or two and strike you as eerily prophetic. Even though it was written in 1961.
And i have to comment about the Imus thing. I'm not a political/sociological/ideological commentator - don't wanna be, but why was it ever okay to denigrate any woman of accomplishment? That he chose a disgusting and particularly cruel and nasty racial slur is beside the point. (Though of course arguments can be made that this is totally the point). Why, in this new millennium, in this anno Domini enlighteniosiment (shaddup, i made it up) is it still okay to knock and mock women for doing anything of importance? I mean, these were young college girls, athletes at the top of their game - the kind of girl we all want our daughters to grow up to be. Yes, one would argue, Imus's remarks came out of a rap culture infamous for its foul treatment of women, but why was that even allowed to flourish on our airways? Our culture seems to be on a runaway train, and it's heading backwards.
Nuff said.
So, a few weeks ago, i celebrated another birthday, March 21. Why on earth do i use the word celebrate? Why does anyone anticipate their birthday with any kind of joy? Getting older is not a great accomplishment, I mean, you just have to hang around to do it. And celebrating one more year of heading towards the inevitable stiff joints, wrinkles, graying hair and - um - forgetfulness - doesn't make sense. Henceforth, i will use the word "noticed" instead of celebrate, as in I noticed my birthday. On the other hand, I am happy to be here, enjoying life, so i will joyfully declare that March will be my birthday MONTH, that i want everyone to notice it, and toward that end, I expect lots of gifts. I may not like birthdays, but i love goodies. You can just leave them all by the front door, please.
Happy Trails,
Judy
And i have to comment about the Imus thing. I'm not a political/sociological/ideological commentator - don't wanna be, but why was it ever okay to denigrate any woman of accomplishment? That he chose a disgusting and particularly cruel and nasty racial slur is beside the point. (Though of course arguments can be made that this is totally the point). Why, in this new millennium, in this anno Domini enlighteniosiment (shaddup, i made it up) is it still okay to knock and mock women for doing anything of importance? I mean, these were young college girls, athletes at the top of their game - the kind of girl we all want our daughters to grow up to be. Yes, one would argue, Imus's remarks came out of a rap culture infamous for its foul treatment of women, but why was that even allowed to flourish on our airways? Our culture seems to be on a runaway train, and it's heading backwards.
Nuff said.
So, a few weeks ago, i celebrated another birthday, March 21. Why on earth do i use the word celebrate? Why does anyone anticipate their birthday with any kind of joy? Getting older is not a great accomplishment, I mean, you just have to hang around to do it. And celebrating one more year of heading towards the inevitable stiff joints, wrinkles, graying hair and - um - forgetfulness - doesn't make sense. Henceforth, i will use the word "noticed" instead of celebrate, as in I noticed my birthday. On the other hand, I am happy to be here, enjoying life, so i will joyfully declare that March will be my birthday MONTH, that i want everyone to notice it, and toward that end, I expect lots of gifts. I may not like birthdays, but i love goodies. You can just leave them all by the front door, please.
Happy Trails,
Judy
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