ahbaker

IMPORTANT NOTICE

Sun, 20 Nov 05 13:30:00 UT

My website, www.ahream.com, is about to go live. As some of you may know, A.H. Ream is my pen name, and just to keep everything consistent, that will be the new name of my blog, too. So as of Monday the 21st the new blog address will be:

www.journalscape.com/ahream

Please update any bookmarks you may have. And, if you are a subscriber, youâll need to re-subscribe to the new blog. My deepest apologies for any inconvenience.

Please take a moment on Monday to check out the new website, too. It has been a much bigger project that I ever thought, but I think it has promise. On it, youâll find information about my upcoming anthology as it becomes available, a bio and a link to the blog along with an archive of all the oldies but goodies. There will also be a contact link for letting me know about any comments or suggestions you might have.

Iâll leave this blog up for awhile until everyone can make the move over to the new site.

Canât wait to see yaâll at the new digs!

Anthology news

Wed, 16 Nov 05 08:31:00 UT

Weâve signed!

âLAndmarked for Murderâ will be published by Top Publications in midsummer 2006.

For those who havenât heard me talk about it before, âLAndmarked for Murder,â is an anthology of Los Angeles crime fiction. Youâll find my story, âRunning Venice,â written under my pen name A.H. Ream, among the 10 or so short stories, each taking place in or around a famous L.A. landmark. The anthology is being edited by several excellent writers, including Harley Jane Kozak, author of âDating Dead Menâ and winner of the Agatha, Anthony and Macavity awards among others.

See you on the bookstore shelves!

Surrealist conversation

Tue, 15 Nov 05 08:10:00 UT

It turns out my very bright husband is even smarter than I originally thought. He has pioneered an entirely new technique for avoiding wife trouble. Itâs a surrealist approach, really. Apparently, art school does pay off.

Hereâs an example from today.

Me: âWhy did you put an empty roll of tape back in the drawer?â

Husband: âI didnât.â

Me: âWell, it wasnât me. Is there someone else using our tape?â

Husband: âYes. The hamster.â

(Note: We donât have a hamster.)

Me: âThe hamster?â

Husband: âYes. Heâs orange.â

This is when I walk away. Itâs a very effective technique. In fact, I expect a delegation from the United Husbands Association to knock on our door and present him with his own holiday or maybe one of those fuzzy hats with the horns on them.

Apple pie and the Grateful Dead

Sun, 13 Nov 05 15:53:00 UT

Apple pie is the culinary equivalent of a hippie commune. So very, very many things can go wrong.

Apples too done, apples not done enough, too much juice, not enough, top crust burnt, bottom crust raw, DEA raids and children named Sunflower. Anything can happen, and no one has any control.

This is why, up until now, Iâve avoided them â apple pies and communes. (Also I donât eat cooked fruit or let my arm pit hair grow â but thatâs another post.)

But I have Thanksgiving guilt. Itâs coming. People are coming. Theyâre going to expect pie, and letâs face it. Nobody really likes pumpkin. If they did, it would come up more than once a year and wouldnât have to be covered with four pounds of whipped cream.

So now Iâm sitting here, staring at the closed oven door and imagining the horrors within. Thereâs too much nutmeg. I just know it. The apples are going to turn to baby food, and the whole thing is going to explode, catch on fire and come whizzing out like some sort of heat-seeking, napalm bomb.

This is why Iâve got on my rain slicker, two oven mits and my husbandâs hockey mask. Iâve cleared all the upholstered furniture out of the way, laid down tarps and been practicing with the fire extinguisher.

At some point, Iâve heard Iâm supposed to make my pie a collar. Odd, because as far as I know, itâs not wearing a shirt. Apparently, now thereâs fashion involved.

Also, itâs difficult to construct clothing while wearing oven mits and a hockey mask. The rain slicker, however, really isnât a problem. Maybe I could just put that over the pie for the last twenty minutes of baking...

Boogers make you run faster

Wed, 9 Nov 05 10:28:00 UT

Early Sunday morning while my husband was still asleep, I stood in my kitchen staring down at the packet of sport gel lying on the counter. Old western shoot-out music played softly in the background.

I can do this, I told myself. I want to do this. I like gel. Itâs yummy. Itâs going to be the best thing ever.

I tear off the little top and sniff. Fruit like. I squeeze and watch the yellow-ish goop ooze out the top. Okay, donât think about that. I put the open end in my mouth and swallow.

Oh, holy mother of God. Itâs snot. Itâs a big globule of boogers.

I take several gulps of diet soda to get it down. The packet is only one-third gone. I check the label. One serving per package.

Deep breath. Squeeze.

Ug...ga...blech...

More soda.

I look down at the still-not-empty foil pouch of Satan puss in my hand. Forget it. I toss the rest in the trash and grip the edge of the counter, willing my stomach to stop rolling.

Itâs fine, I tell myself. Everythingâs fine. I can still run. Iâm okay.

More soda.

And then I do run. And then the weird thing happens. The Satan puss starts to work. I have more fuel, more energy. I feel stronger. My run goes smoother. I beat my goal time.

And all I can think is #@!*$&^@** !

Iâm going to have to eat boogers! Iâm going to have to eat them on a regular basis! And theyâre not even MY boogers!

I slump defeated onto the couch.

If anyone knows a good way of eating boogers, er, sport gel, Iâm listening.

The first shot is fired

Mon, 7 Nov 05 08:43:00 UT

Me: (wiping down the kitchen after dinner) âAnt! Ant!â (a flurry of paper-towel death rains down upon it from the sky)

Husband: âHuh. I saw one over in the living room earlier.â

Me: (shocked and horrified) âYou saw an ant, and you didnât tell me?!?â

Husband: (head cocks to one side in confused puppy look â I have done something wrong, but what?) âUm. It was just one ant.â

Me: âTwo! It is now two!â

I race to the bathroom and pull from my secret stash bug-plague-in-a-bottle. Not the earth friendly stuff. Not the plant-based, organic, hippy bug spray. I pulled out the skull-and-cross-bones, warning-label-longer-than-the-Magna-Carta, poison-control-centerâs-worst-nightmare bug spray.

Husband: (eyes the can warily) âThey could be just a couple of stray ants, you know.â

Me: âOr they could be the scout platoon for an entire invading army.â (holds out the can) âPrepare yourself.â

Husband: âYou donât even know how they got in. We live on the third floor.â

Me: âOperation Hail of Fire shall begin by building a bug spray moat around all egress points, followed by a perimeter spray of the mess hall. At 0800 hours, we shall convene and review progress. Further instructions at that time, soldier.â

Husband: âYouâre scaring me.â

Me: âWar is a scary thing.â

Husband: âBug spray smells bad.â

Me: âI love the smell of napalm in the morning!â

My little old man

Fri, 4 Nov 05 08:37:00 UT

Halfway through every early morning run, he shows up, tottering along. He canât be more than four and a half feet tall, and he is old, very old. He nods at me curtly as I pass. Chinese, Iâm guessing, but I could be wrong. Whatever the ethnicity, I feel very certain he was born there, not here. I canât tell you exactly why, demeanor maybe, but it seems very clear to me that he is of another place and even more clearly another time. He seems far too dignified for the glitz of L.A. and very much like he knows something â a lot of somethings â that I donât.

I am fascinated with this man. I want to know where heâs going each morning, and where heâs coming from. I wonder what his voice sounds like and where he finds clothes to fit such a small frame. I wonder if I stopped and told him about an aching knee or a sore runnerâs foot, he would have some fantastically holistic remedy rather than the ice pack and ibuprofen Iâll resort to.

Mostly, he makes me glad I gave up the treadmill and started pounding out my miles on the streets. There are so many more interesting things out there...

Anthology update

Wed, 2 Nov 05 09:18:00 UT

As some of my loyal blog readers may remember (God bless you if you remember), a story of mine is set to appear in the upcoming anthology âLAndmarked for Murder,â a collection of L.A. crime fiction. And there is finally some more news. The contract for said book has been delivered to the board of the L.A. chapter of Sisters in Crime, the writersâ organization that organized the anthology and selected the works. IF the board accepts the contract, the proposed publication date is midsummer 2006.

Here's hoping...

The first step is admitting you have a problem

Mon, 31 Oct 05 07:32:00 UT

Stage one: Denial

Iâm not sick. Iâm not sick. Iâm not sick.

Stage two: Acceptance

Okay, Iâm sick.

Stage three: Cranky

I donât wanna take the pink medicine.
Weâre out of orange juice!
Itâs hot in here.
Itâs cold in here.
Honey!!!

In a world gone terribly, terribly wrong: Volume 1

Thu, 27 Oct 05 09:47:00 UT

A moment of silence, please, for the passing of the last bastion of dignity, hope and green felt.

According to the Associated Press, ABC has ordered a script for âAmericaâs Next Muppet,â a reality show in which viewers choose the next...well, muppet.

I feel sad in my soul.

I imagine Kermit, too depressed to show up on the set, will be tracked down by the reality camera crew in some dingy bar in the middle of the afternoon. Heâll be eating peanuts, the shells all stuck to his ruff, a row of empty beer bottles in front of him, his speech slurred, his eyes unfocused, leading the other sad-sack cases in a rendition of âIt Ainât Easy Being Green.â

The pet store saga continues

Mon, 24 Oct 05 13:42:00 UT

Holy mother of Yoda.

Even I thought I was kidding about the whole flea collar thing (see previous post), but sadly, I wasnât far off. Iâm on my way to my local Pets âR Us to buy myself...

â go ahead, guess â

a pet I.D. tag.

And for exactly the same purpose as Fido. If someone finds me, hopefully theyâll get me to my rightful owner. Or rather, the hospital who hopefully will call my husbandâs number on my shiny new bone-shaped I.D. tag.

Iâm in the process of training for my first marathon. And the first rule of running is to have some identification on you in case you should, say, suffer a brain aneurism in the middle of a park path. (This actually happened to a âRunnerâs Worldâ editor who did not have any I.D. but did manage to make it home before being rushed to the ER.)

You can buy non-bone-shaped I.D.s at various specialty running outlets. Nobody I know runs with a wallet, so these military-looking metal plates attach to your shoe or wrist or nose ring and off you go. The thing is, theyâre about $20, which seemed kinda high to me. Especially when I remembered I could go off to my local Pets âR Us and have my own personal tag engraved for less than $10, plus a coupon on flea spray.

So the question becomes, am I the only person on earth who finds they need pet products? Are there others out there buying themselves squeaky toys or dog shampoo? How far off the rails have I really gone?

Corporate America thinks I am a golden retriever

Mon, 24 Oct 05 11:11:00 UT

I had to buy a pet product today. I have no actual pets â or imaginary ones for that matter. I had to buy said product for myself. Itâs a new low.

I had to buy the âFuremover Broomâ for âpeople who love pets.â Itâs a broom/squeege with short rubber bristles that grabs pet fur and lifts it out of carpet. Or, in my case, people fur. The package shows two happy golden retrievers next to three floor surfaces so entirely covered in fur that their lower halves, conveniently out of frame, mustâve been shaved and sprinkled about like fairy dust.

Or perhaps theyâre just afflicted with my condition.

I have long hair that falls out to such an alarming degree that youâd think I was the poster child for Rogaine. It falls into the carpet and wraps itself around the pile like cockleburs. And then, late at night, it multiplies. Like disease in a petri dish, it spreads out and takes over until I have to go to my local broom store and pretend I own 14 dogs.

âYes, yes. Pet hair is a major problem for me. I run a rescue shelter for Persian cats...Persian cats with a follicle condition. Yes, yes. Very sad.â

Now, if youâll excuse me, I see a flea collar thatâs just my size.

Revenge of the menus

Thu, 20 Oct 05 08:42:00 UT

When I was about four years old, I announced that I would pack my fatherâs lunch for work. The question of why my parents didnât supervise this process is a fair one, but clearly, I inspired more than my fair share of trust.

When my father got to work, he opened his lunch pail to find three apples and a salt shaker.

(I think itâs also fair to ask why he didnât hear three apples and a salt shaker rattling around, but thatâs another question for another day.)

But everything that goes around comes around. While I was in Missouri, reuniting with old college friends and assorted family members, my husband was at home and announcing that he would choose the weekâs menu and do the grocery shopping.

I returned to find the following menu taped to the fridge: BBQ chicken sandwiches and fries. Sausage sandwiches and fries. French dip sandwiches and fries.

If anyone in our house wants a vegetable this week, theyâll have to go out to the courtyard and eat grass or lick the fuzzy green stuff off the old cheese in the back of the fridge.

Maybe Dad still has those apples...

Bubble battle

Thu, 20 Oct 05 08:27:00 UT

While watching a nature show on PBS (yes, Iâm a nerd), I hear the narrator say, âThe male humpback whale, while trying to win over the female, will chase off other suitors by threatening them with...â

â wait for it â

âbubbles.â

Does this work for other species? If you were in competition for a promotion, could you scare off your rival with bubbles? Would there need to be actual bubbles or would the mere threat of bubbles be sufficient? Would the dime store bottle of bubble solution work or would you need the great big bubble wands like clowns have at amusement parks? Would the bubbles actually have to strike the rival or do you just need to get them in his general vicinity?

Or perhaps a more probing question: What happened in the humpback whaleâs childhood to make him fearful of the bubbles?

Reunion recovery

Wed, 19 Oct 05 09:08:00 UT

You know what really ruins the look of an up-to-there mini skirt? Being so drunk you can have an entire half-chewed package of gum â including the wrapper â stuck to your butt and not know it. No firm 18-year-old legs can make up for a package of Bubblicious fossilizing on your ass. Just canât do it.

Thatâs also the best part of being a visiting alumni â knowing thatâll never be you again. That and drinking in all your old haunts but ordering much better booze. (God, did we ever actually drink things involving melon schnapps?)

Some old friends from college and I flew back to the old alma mater for homecoming, and an absurdly good time was had by all, mostly revolving around conversations that started, âHey! You remember that time when...â and âWhatever happened to...?â

Of course, mostly youâre just remembering each other back before people got married, had kids, got divorced, got mortgages, went to law school and had real problems. Back when the line between yourself and graduation was clearly marked with maps and sign posts and everything else was past the horizon. Mostly youâre remembering how good you had it then even though you didnât know it.

It was a blast, guys. And I canât wait to do it again.