Grumble. Grouse. Complain. (Restaurant Edition)

So here’s a situation…  What would you do?

You and a companion spend a long morning traipsing around a national battlefield in near-100-degree heat. Around 1:45, you realize you’re ravenous. At 2:00 p.m., you enter the Tavern, the only restaurant visible on Main Street of the town nearest the battlefield. A sign says, “Seat Yourself,” which you do. About five minutes later, a waitress comes over, brings menus, and takes your drink order. She brings you your drinks and takes your meal order (for one plain burger and one chicken panini, hold the chipotle sauce on the panini; add fries to both sandwiches.)

Then, you wait. After about 10 minutes, the table of four that ordered immediately before you gets their food. After another 5 minutes (15 total since ordering), the waitress refreshes one of your drinks. After another 10 minutes (25 since ordering), the waitress re-refreshes both drinks. She says, “They made a mistake and put the chipotle on the sandwich. They’re fixing it now.”

About 5 minutes (30 since ordering), another party of four enters, sits, orders, and gets drinks. After about 15 minutes (45 since ordering), the second party of four gets their meals. Your waitress is nowhere in sight and has, in fact, been absent since telling you about the mistaken order.

Do you:

  1. Continue to wait, in hope that your meals can now be completed because no one else is waiting for food in the restaurant and you know you’re in a small place and people need to relax and be patient?
  2. Ask the bartender to track down the status of your meal, in hopes that he might be able to determine the cause of the wait?
  3. Pay the bartender for the drinks and leave, because you really don’t trust what you might say to the bartender, the waitress, or anyone else, in your ravenous state?
  4. Walk out without paying for anything?
  5. Something else?

We opted for option 3. We were fresh out of patience for option 1, and we didn’t trust ourselves to be civil for option 2. Ordinarily, we’d ask for a manager, but we suspected none was around, and we certainly didn’t want a free future meal at the place. We needed to get home within two hours, and we had 1.5 hours on the road, so we didn’t want to spend any more time waiting.

The entire experience was tremendously frustrating. I felt for the overworked waitress (right up until she didn’t manage to get our corrected order out before the second table of four’s food.) I understand that restaurants work on narrow margins, and we cost them three sandwiches, and I actually feel a little guilty for that. The locals at the bar didn’t-look-at-us with the sort of disgust locals feel for unreasonable out-of-towners.

Sigh.

But ultimately, we were left with a new catch-phrase – “chipotle sauce” – for a certain type of not-life-threatening disaster that we’ll certainly encounter in the future. And a new appreciation for the efficiency of McDonalds, which served us for half the cost in less than 1/10 the time. (Yeah, it was McDonalds, but by that point, we didn’t care…)

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Another RWA Nationals Bites the Dust

I spent the majority of last week at the Romance Writers of America annual meeting, in New York City. When it came time to register for the conference, I almost chose not to go–I don’t have any ongoing traditional contracts right now, and I parted ways with my agent earlier this year, so there weren’t those all-important dinners, lunches, and other meetings to attend. As I dithered about whether or not to attend, the slots filled up at the massive book-signing that launches the convention, so I couldn’t give away my books in the service of literacy charities. Plus, the conference was at the Marriott Marquis, in the middle of Times Square, which is so crowded and loud and crowded and bright and crowded and under construction and crowded and…

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(That’s not my picture of Times Square; it belongs to one of the jillions of tour bus companies that ply their trade in the space. I didn’t stop to take pictures–see above for the the explanation of chaos!)

But one of the workshops I suggested for the conference–The Midlist Guide to Making Six Figures in Indie Publishing–was accepted, so I had a chance to sit on a panel with smart, funny, successful women like Deanna Chase, Angie Fox, Eliza Knight, and Kathryn LeVeque.

And I scheduled meetings with some of my favorite authors, to find out how they’re doing, and to talk about possible joint projects (in some cases) and perspectives on some of my solo projects. And I had a chance to meet my new cover designer in person. And I saw my former Harlequin editor, who is now a freelancer offering her decades of experience to clients. (Hi, Pamela Aares! And Deborah Blake! And Kristan Higgins! And Mary-Theresa Hussey! And Kim Killion!)

And I was able to schedule a meeting with my editor and publicist at Open Road, the publisher who currently has my Glasswrights Series–all in service to an exciting announcement I can share with you in the next month or so.

And one of my Book View Cafe compatriots, Sarah Zettel, was looking for a roommate. Sarah was one of my beta readers for the Diamond Brides Series. She’s a life-long fan of baseball, so she was able to comment on all aspects of the game plus she wasn’t afraid to comment on details in love scenes. I already knew we had a ton in common, and I was looking forward to discussing all sorts of career issues with her.

And so, I arrived in New York City a week ago. I spent Tuesday as a civilian, not a writer. Sarah and I went to see The Weir, at the Irish Repertory Theatre, a play about the power of stories and storytelling and truth and fiction–a perfect launch for the convention.

Conference began on Wednesday, with all those planned encounters I mentioned above. Plus, I ran into friends from all over the country (especially a number of folks in Washington Romance Writers and Maryland Romance Writers, who I just don’t get to see often enough here at home.) I listened to horrific stories of traditional publishing messing up writing careers. And I heard amazing tales of publishers who came through in major, unexpected ways. I developed ideas for new writing projects, both solo work and collaborative efforts. I talked, talked, talked.  And I ate, ate, ate.

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Our group at Isle of Capri restaurant, before the table was filled with amazing pastas, meats, desserts, etc.  (That’s Angelina Lopez, Amy DeLuca, Me, Denny Bryce, Olivia Kalb, and Erika Kelly.)

On my last day in New York, my roommate had an early flight, so she left before my eyes were fully open. After I staggered to wakefulness, I walked up to the Bouchon Bakery, where I indulged in a cheddar bacon scone and a chocolate macaron. (What? You don’t do dessert-for-breakfast?) Then, I returned to the room and finished packing.

My last task was to slip $5 into an envelope left on the desk for that purpose–for tipping the maid who had served us so well each day of our stay. I’d left $5 each morning, and Sandra J had been a fantastic ambassador for the hotel, greeting me cheerfully in the hallway every time I saw her. On this last day, I opened the envelope and found $20–left by my roommate. Neither she nor I had ever discussed the matter, but we both believed in tipping such hard workers who get paid so little. Just another sign that Sarah was the right roommate for me!

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Now, I’m back at home, with dozens of new ideas for short stories, novellas, and novels. My career-management to-do list has a number of new entries.

Yes, it takes time and effort and money (so much money!) to travel to RWA Nationals. But this year, it was worth it!

Pardon me, while I get back to work…

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A Lost Weekend

Wow, is it Monday already?  I feel like I’ve been living in a warped zone of time, where days mistakenly drop away from my calendar, without explanation or warning.

In other words, I’ve had a cold for the past week.

We spent Presidents Day weekend up at Gifford Pinchot State Park in Pennsylvania, huddling inside a modern cabin as the temperatures dipped into the single digits.  (One morning, we woke up to the textbook definition of a “dusting” of snow — about half an inch that covered all the existing snowbanks and ice slicks with a beautiful, pristine layer of white.)  The time was perfect for catching up on reading, and for being disconnected from the online world.  (Although there’s cell phone connectivity, there’s no wifi in the park.)  Alas, it was too cold and too icy to do much hiking, even on the very easy paths.  More time for reading!

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We drove home last Monday, cleverly meeting the park’s required check-out time of 10:00 a.m. and arriving at our house about two hours before a snowstorm.  Those five inches proved enough to shut down the federal government (Mark’s employer) and the local schools (providers of my Tuesday-morning exercise class), so we enjoyed an additional day of vacation.  At home, of course, we also enjoyed the added attention of the local felines, each of whom staked claim to a lap and protected it with great ferocity.

And then began the loss of days.  I came down with a head cold on Monday — nothing serious, but a wonderful excuse for sleeping.  And sleeping.  And sleeping some more.  I got *some* work done (editing two chapters of JOY OF WITCHCRAFT — gotta get ready for that August release!) but mostly I drank Day-Quil and Ny-Quil, and provided a stable bed for the kitties.

Then another weekend happened.  Another weekend with another five inches or so of snow, this time followed by a nice glaze of freezing rain.

I know we’re not getting weather anything like our poor friends in New England.  But the snow and ice we’ve gotten is more than enough to complicate life here — especially when we had massive melt-off yesterday, followed by a precipitous drop in temps today.  The world outside my door is pretty much a skating rink, and it looks like it’ll stay that way for several days.

I hate ice.

I hate slipping on ice.

I live in terror of falling on ice.  (Not so much the fall.  The resulting broken bones, concussions, etc.)

Yuck.

At least I’ve been amusing myself with one thing:  Of the two cats in the house, the greatest challenge (by far) is Poppy.  She is an extremely strong-willed cat, with firm ideas about where she should be when, and what we humans should be doing to serve her.  She makes writing a challenge, because she refuses to settle on a lap (why take a nice, warm, cat-trap-blanket-covered lap, when there’s a keyboard in use so nearby?)

But when we got Poppy from the shelter, about six years ago, we decided that she’d been owned by a family of consumptives.  She *hates* when people cough.  In fact, she’ll leave food, her favorite scratching toy, her warmest lap, even a keyboard-in-use, if someone coughs.  And when one or both of her humans have colds, her sensitivities are heightened.  She’ll take her leave as soon as one of said human takes a deep breath (presumably, preparatory to coughing.)

I’m trying very hard not to use my knowledge for evil.  But if I just happen to take a deep breath and if that just happens to send the cat upstairs to the guest room, where the sun is streaming in the window, and if I just happen to be able to get more work done…

Well, that benefits everyone, right?  I’m not cruel for testing her responsiveness.  Right?  Right?

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Lessons from an Off-Season Beach Vacation

We added a day to the already three-day weekend last week and headed down to the Outer Banks, in North Carolina.  A relative owns a gigantic “cottage” there, a beach house that’s intended to sleep around 20.  We’ve found that we love, love, love going down there in the heart of winter, when the vast majority of businesses are boarded up and the beach is deserted as far as the eye can see.  Some lessons learned on this trip:

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  • It really is better to remember the keys to someone else’s house before you’ve driven 1.5 hours.  Through rush-hour traffic. Paying for the use of the toll-based express lanes.  (When you finally remember the keys that are hanging on the hook at home, be grateful that the cottage has a keypad entry system, designed for summer guests who arrive after hours.  Don’t bother driving back for the keys.)
  • The weekend following New Year’s Day really is the weekend when most places shut down for the season. Don’t have your heart set on any favorite restaurant. Don’t hold your breath for any particular store. That’s not why you went to the Outer Banks, anyway.
  • The restaurants (and movie theaters) that are open are going to be crowded.  Very crowded. Plan ahead, if you have time constraints.
  • Heat really does rise.  When you’re staying on the third floor of a huge cottage, with only the heater for that floor turned on, you will shiver when you walk down to the lower floors. Take a jacket when you go to inventory the bed linens in the lower rooms.  Really.
  • Sand is much more firmly packed in cold weather, especially after a day of solid rain, than it is in the summer. Plan on walking a lot farther along the beach. But you probably still won’t get to that pier, the one that seems to move farther away with every step you take.
  • No matter how thoroughly you think you cleaned your shoes, you’re going to track sand into the house. A lot of sand. Really. Even when you thought you’d knocked off every last grain. Just plan on sweeping it up — it’s easier that way.
  • There are few things more enjoyable than curling up on a comfy couch, beneath a warm quilt, sipping from a mug of hot tea, reading a RITA-submission romance novel in the middle of a driving rainstorm.

We had a wonderful break. But it’s oh so hard to get back into the rhythm of working! Of course, with a book release next Tuesday, I don’t have a lot of choice…

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Mission Accomplished (Bed Bug Edition)

About eight years ago, I started a job where I traveled a lot.  I was on the road between ten and fifteen days a month, staying in hotels throughout the U.S.  At the time, there were occasional stories about bed bugs in hotels.  I never took the stated precautions — putting my luggage in the shower until I’d had a chance to strip the beds and check for evidence of bugs, never ever ever using the wooden dressers, studying mattresses, sheets, and pillows for fecal residue of the insects, etc.

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I escaped without any bed bug bites.  In the intervening years, I’ve followed the mainstream press articles about bed bugs, noting how difficult it can be to eradicate them from homes (or hotels.)  I’ve checked out a few potential hotels on the Bed Bug Registry, but I’ve never made plans based on that information.  And I continued to escape without any bed bug bites.

Skip forward to late last year.  I was doing a lot of traveling — conferences, writing retreats, vacation.  And as fate would have it, I came in contact with bed bugs at one of those places — bites on my arms, hands, and feet.  The ones on my hands were severe enough that I couldn’t get my rings off, and my doctor worried that I was cutting off circulation to my fingertips.  She gave me twenty-four hours of treatment with steroids before she ordered the rings cut off.  I responded immediately to the drugs, so I still have my rings.

(I didn’t write about my bites publicly at the time.  The hotel followed up immediately, hiring a remediation service, and they paid for my medical treatment — and a chunk of my hotel bill.  I figured they shouldn’t get a permanent bad mark on the Internet, when they can’t control who brings what into their rooms.)

While the treatment cleared up my bites quickly, I waited for a few days, fearing that I’d brought the critters home with me.  (I’d only know if my husband got bitten; I wouldn’t see new bites, given the drugs in my system.  He took to calling himself the Tethered Goat.)  I laundered all the clothes I’d taken on the trip, using the hottest water.  I froze items that I couldn’t launder, wrapping them in plastic bags and cycling them in and out of my kitchen freezer.

And that left the suitcases.

Some Internet advice says to throw them out, that they can never be salvaged, but I didn’t want to do that because I truly believed I had not brought home any bugs.  (The Tethered Goat remained unbitten.)  Some Internet advice said to leave them in a summer garage where the temperatures reached above 150 degrees.  Um, we don’t have a garage.  And even on our worst summer days, the temperature wouldn’t get that bad.  And some experts said that wasn’t high enough to do in bed bugs.

That left freezing them.  And so, I bagged up my suitcase (and carry-on bag) in two layers of trashbags, taping closed the tops, to make sure no six-legged enemies could climb out.  I left the bags in a corner of my office.  And I waited.

During our first hard freeze, I was out of town, unable to put the bags outside overnight.  Our second hard freeze was New Year’s Eve, and I decided not to put the bagged suitcases out on our porch when there were rowdy parties going on across the courtyard, lest some drunks think it a great idea to start off the New Year with a little theft.

But last night, the temps got down into the upper teens.  Last night, I set out my suitcase and carry-on.  Last night, I let the freezing temps do their worst.

And now, I have luggage again.  Just as well.  Dragging my duffel bag through Costa Rica was a pain in the … palm.

Mission accomplished.

 

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