(Stacey's Note: While I often gripe about having too much on my plate, this week, I actually did. So I asked fellow writer and good friend John Valeri of Hartford Books Examiner fame to help out. Besides having a delightful sense of humor, John also has the endearing quality of not being able to say "No" when  you beg him for a blog post. I hope you enjoy John's reflections on the women in his life as much as I did.)


Women I Love (Besides My Wife) by John Valeri

“Your poor wife! She must be a saint ...”

Those words have become a familiar refrain in my life, and while most people tend to trail off at that point in some semblance of politeness, the “to put up with you” is clearly implied. Allow me to set the record straight: my wife is many things, but a saint is not one of them. Fortunately, she is good-humored. Quite beautiful, also. And impressively tolerant.

I, too, am many things. Obsessive. Compulsive. Fanatical.

I’d like to think that these traits make me the ideal life partner. After all, obsession and fanaticism are pretty much synonymous with loyalty. And who doesn’t want a loyal husband, right?

Of course, when you consider that this loyalty also applies to the women that came before my wife, you understand the potential for conflict. Fortunately, all of these prior relationships have been of a platonic nature.

And while some people might question this seemingly endless parade of lady friends, I firmly believe that I have the capacity to love them all … 

Gloria Estefan

I can’t tell you how many people have asked if, or assumed that, Gloria Estefan is my wife. That’s not to say they always recognize her as “the Conga Queen,” but the picture of us that adorns my desk at work—and the second one that serves as my computer’s backdrop—apparently creates the false impression that we’re a bit more intimately acquainted than is actually the case. Go figure. Having said that, I do maintain that Gloria is (and was, and always will be) the first lady of my life. Long before Chelsey became the music of my heart—hey! See what I did there?—Gloria turned my beat around, providing the soundtrack to my youth. Chelsey has made her peace with this, and we’ve since followed Gloria across the globe together (all the way to Canada!), incurred bucket-loads of debt, and done all kinds of shameless things in pursuit of the true G-spot.   

Oh, and in my defense: my wife’s picture also holds a place of honor on my desk—it’s just a tad less prominently placed than Gloria’s ...

Marcia Clark

Yes, that Marcia Clark. She may have come out on the losing side of the “Trial of the Century” but she won in the court of public opinion—and in the recesses of my teenaged heart. I’ve been told I have a thing for older women who possess, ahem, strong opinions and colorful vocabularies. Perhaps this little infatuation is the proof? Anyway … seventeen years after my twelve-year-old self took up the Marcia mantle I met her while she was traveling on a book tour. (Did you know she’s a brilliantly accomplished crime novelist now? No? For shame!) I knew we were destined for BFF’dom from the very moment that I asked her not to take out a restraining order on me and she replied: “Everybody knows those only make you try harder.” And then she laughed—she does that often, and infectiously—and we’ve been compadres ever since. Bonus points: the rhythm dun got her, as Marcia is a fellow Glo-head.

Neve Campbell

What can I say? As a neurotic and perpetually anxious child, I avoided horror movies like the proverbial plague. And then one night I made the fateful decision to watch Scream alone in the dark. The only thing that tempered my absolute terror was the hot, frightened girl-next-door who had the moxy to drop a TV on her would-be killer’s head. Snap! Nobody does the strong-yet-vulnerable thing better than Neve Campbell, and I’m a sucker for a woman in need of saving. (That’s no reflection on you, Chelsey—I swear!) Which is probably why, when writing my own obituary for a high school Journalism class, I fancied myself transitioning to the great beyond during a moment of coital bliss in Ms. Campbell’s trailer. And yes, she was screaming—but the good kind. For that reason alone, I forgave her when she dropped out of the TV pilot based on Marcia’s books.

Are there more women? Of course there are! But I don’t want to brag. Besides, I’ve got packing to do. Gloria’s expecting me in Chicago. Don’t get the wrong idea, though—I invited my wife to join us …

(Stacey here again. If you enjoyed John's post, please take a moment to go visit his Hartford Books Examiner page at http://www.examiner.com/books-in-hartford/john-valeri. Because John is not only awesome, but he really saved my neck this week. Thank you!)

We all have our favorite authors. Some of them are consistent pinch hitters, delivering a satisfying read with each new book, and some of them are known to throw the occasional clunker between fastballs. Our relationships with these authors, much like our relationships in life, can often change. Sometimes they grow. Sometimes they flame out like an eighties child star. How do you know when it’s time to break it off with your favorite writer?

1. Have you been in denial regarding your true feelings about the author?

I love Larry McMurtry. Lovelovelove him. But there are times, I’ll admit, where I’ll read something of his and think “What just happened there? I’m not entirely sure that was worth the effort.” Have my feelings changed? In this case, no. I still love him enough to forgive him the occasional miss. But there are others with whom I am less forgiving . . .

2. Do the benefits of the relationship outweigh the hardships?

When you buy the latest Patterson novel, do you feel like it was worth the $25 in hardcover, or do you feel slightly . . . used? Like you'd put out (the money, of course) and all in all, you could've had a V-8? If you don’t feel like you’re getting your money’s worth (and honestly, this is subjective: nobody else can tell you if you enjoyed a book or not), it might be time to call it quits.

3. Is the issue with you? And are you willing to change?

You know what genres and writing styles you enjoy, and what ones just don’t work for you. That’s okay. Own your issues and don’t apologize for them (I, for one, have never been attracted to fantasy). I’ll always remember the good times Ann Rule and I had. But I outgrew my passion for true crime books and started reading more non-murderous nonfiction. She did not follow me. It’s okay. Sometimes authors and readers will grow apart.

4. Are you only in the relationship because you don’t want to hurt the author’s feelings?

Trust me: James Patterson will get over it.

5. Are you only in the relationship because you’re afraid of being without a book?

Maybe John Irving hasn’t been doing it for you lately. Maybe he hasn’t in a long time. Sure, you can try and revisit the good times you had with Garp and Owen Meany, but after the third or fourth reading, you start to feel a little . . . bored. Nothing's changed. Garp hasn't changed. Now think of all the other new, exciting books you’re missing out on because you feel obligated to slog through Last Night in Twisted River. You’re not having fun. Sometimes you actively hate the book. Time to put it to the side and find something new.

6. Be willing to accept that you’re just not that in to your favorite author anymore.

Nobody knows why human beings are so darn fickle. But we are. There was a time when I couldn’t get enough Jodi Picoult. I loved her, and she could do no wrong. I’m not so sure she was that in to me, though—I suspect if she truly did care about me, she wouldn’t have written so many darn depressing books. She didn’t make me laugh. She made me feel bad about things that weren't really my fault. Spending quality time with her novels made me sad, and I had to give her up.

All of these are telltale signs that it might be time to find someone new. We can all forgive the occasional bad book, but if the bad times outweigh the good, it just might be time to move on.

Breakups are rarely easy. Feelings can get hurt, emotions get involved . . . it's a situation I try to avoid at all costs. But I'd had a lot of time to think about this, particularly on my morning and afternoon commutes, and I'd sadly come to realize that it was time: I needed to break up with my radio station.

When I first moved back to Connecticut, I got back together with my old radio station purely out of nostalgia. Maybe that sounds shallow, but I remembered how good it used to make me feel, listening to the current Top 40, cruising around Glastonbury with Nirvana and Alanis Morissette blasting from the speakers. I wanted to recapture that old feeling. At first, I think my radio station was happy to have me back. It flattered me and gave my family gifts—my sister won backstage passes, my nephew got some tickets to see the WWE. But soon, I was feeling a little left out. What about me? I thought. Every day, I had to listen to my radio station shower other listeners with fabulous prizes, and I couldn't even score two tickets to the movies for being the tenth caller. I was feeling neglected.

And to be honest, I didn't even like the music that much. They were still playing Top 40 hits, and half the time, I'd never even heard of the songs, much less cared about them. I was bored with their playlist. Nothing ever changed. I'm ashamed to admit it, but on the weekends, I started flirting with other stations. In particular, the station down the dial regularly broadcasted an Awesome 80s Weekend, and I started spending a lot of time with them. Maybe too much time. The warning signs were there; I just chose to ignore them.

Nobody likes to admit that they have a wandering ear. When had I become that girl? I ran back to my old radio station out of guilt. But after listening to "All About the Bass" for the third time in an hour, I came to a sad realization: I was not happy. I started thinking about my needs, what I wanted:  decent music, maybe a surprise Duran Duran song once in a while. I had to face a hard truth: I was begging for more out of this relationship . . . but my radio station wasn't even willing to meet me halfway. Not even an overplayed Pink Floyd song. Nothing.

Maybe my radio station wouldn't even notice if I quietly slipped out of the room.

I scanned the dial, desperate now for a station that would play music I actually liked. I'll admit it was selfish, but I was so unhappy, I didn't care. Something had to change. A smooth talker around the 106s caught my ear. He played Clapton. And U2. He even threw a little Nirvana my way. I felt a twinge of guilt when the opening notes of "Faithfully" by Journey started strumming through the speakers, but not for long: I liked that song. My old radio station would never have played it.

I found myself singing on the way to work. When was the last time I'd actually done that? And the deejays were funny in an intellectual, grown-up way. Not one of them made crude jokes about their co-deejay's breasts or inappropriate gas. These new deejays made me laugh. It felt so good to finally let go and just enjoy myself, to throw caution in the wind. No longer did I care what my friends might think if they found out I was listening to what might arguably be classified as an easy listening station. For once, I was doing something for me. And I liked it.

On the way home today, instead of hearing Taylor Swift or Bruno Mars being barfed out of the speakers, my new radio station played the Beatles. The Beatles! This station was awesome! I cranked up the volume and sang "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" at the top of my lungs. It felt good. And I'm sorry if it upsets my old radio station, but it made me happy.

Life goes on, indeed.

Often when I’m hard at work, my mind will wander. “What shall I have for lunch?” I’ll sometimes think. Or, “Didn’t Mia Farrow say not that long ago that her son might be Frank Sinatra’s kid? Why haven’t I heard more about that?” I decided to investigate. (Also, I decided on Taco Bell.)

I found this picture online,  comparing Ronan Farrow to both Frank Sinatra and Woody Allen, the man who raised him. I don’t know. He does have Sinatra’s face, but Woody’s shirt collar. I think it could go either way here. Ronan himself was pretty funny about the whole situation, tweeting “Listen, we’re all *possibly* Frank Sinatra’s son.” This got me thinking: Could I be Frank Sinatra’s kid?

Let’s look at the evidence: First off, my mother not only has never met Frank Sinatra, she actively hates his guts. Honestly, Sinatra is her kryptonite. If you want to see my mother shoot actual green balls of smoking venom out of her eye sockets, just mention what a nice guy you thought Ol’ Blue Eyes was. She despises him. Plus, and maybe this should have been my first point, she loves my dad and would never risk her marriage for a fling. Finally, let’s turn to the photographic evidence.

This is me and my father. I have his hair color (before his went white, but don’t tell him that—he thinks he’s still a blonde), his eye color, his ridiculously overly-sensitive skin, his high cholesterol, his love for sour cream  . . . yup, there was no denying it: Dad was most definitely my biological father. 
But I do have one parent that I don’t resemble AT ALL. That’s right: my mother, with her Greek features and olive skin, looks nothing like me. Was it possible that Mom wasn’t really my biological mother?

I thought about this for a while over crunchy tacos. Mom  loves math and science, whereas I am a creative writing and arts-and-crafts kind of gal. Mom would never turn down the opportunity to visit the city—any city—whereas the thought of riding a subway makes me break out in hives (thanks again for that sensitive skin, Dad). Okay, maybe that could be explained away by the fact that she grew up in Hartford whereas I grew up on a farm in the middle of nowhere. But then I looked down at my fast-food tray and realized that Mom never would’ve ordered crunchy tacos. She is a soft taco woman all the way. And that, my friends, is biology. I called Mom immediately.

“Mom? If that’s your real name,” I muttered. “Do you actually have any proof that I’m your daughter? Or is it possible that you did, in fact, adopt me, and I’m really the long-lost Princess Anastasia?”

“What?” Mom said. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

I tried to question her further, but she was losing her temper, and fast. I never lose my temper that quickly. She was just making my case for me.

Mom is also the no-nonsense sort (whereas I am the high-nonsense sort, you see) and she immediately produced what she considered photographic evidence: a picture of her, quite pregnant, in the month and year of my birth.

Wow, I thought. I’d had no idea Photoshop was even around in the 1970s, but Mom had done a great job of making it look like she’d been nine months pregnant right before I was born.

“That’s all well and good, but how do you explain your aversion to crunchy tacos? Dad doesn’t like them either, so clearly, the only explanation is that I am a Russian princess,” I insisted.

“How about because I don’t like it when the taco shell breaks and dumps its contents in my lap?” she asked. She said a few other things, but I didn’t catch much beyond “nuttier than a pecan log.”

Mom can deny it all she wants. I know the truth. See? Just look at us:

Except for the fact that I have her forehead, nose, face, smile, and neck, we look nothing alike.  Plus, you can't see it here, but I also have her body shape, hips, hands, and feet. And I guess it's a little odd that we went out to buy new frames for our glasses at separate times, and picked out the exact same frames. (I am not making that up. We have also gone on separate shoe-shopping excursions and bought the exact same sandals. Twice.)

The good news is, it turns out my parents really are my biological parents. I am not a long-lost Russian princess, which is also good news, because that would've made me 113 years old. The bad news? I’m pretty sure Mom is thinking about disowning me now.

Many thanks to my mother, who let me use that nine-months-pregnant picture of her without even questioning what I’d be writing about this week or using the picture for. THAT’s a mother’s love, folks.

This week, I have a new role: nurse.

I don't believe in PMS. I think it's a cheap excuse created by insecure chauvinist pigs in an effort to dismiss astute points raised by brilliant women simply because it makes these jerks look insignificant. 
I do, however, believe in mood swings. And I suspect my mood has been swinging lately.
Take this conversation my husband and I had yesterday:

Jason: What's for dinner?
Me: Fish.
Jason: Hooray!
Me: Hooray? Hooray? Hooray that my wife just spent her day stocking books, cleaning shelves, and vacuuming and shampooing the store carpets, and now she gets to go home and prepare me dinner? Is that what you're cheering? That you've got your own personal Dobby the House Elf?
Jason: Umm ...what?
Me: It's not like the flour and breadcrumbs mix themselves, and then the fish jumps into the breading and swims on over to the oil in the frying pan. Dobby has to do a lot of prep work before you get to eat, you know. (Starts crying)
Jason: I'm sorry! Why are you crying?
Me: Because it's your fault that Malcolm got kicked off of Survivor.
Jason: Umm ...what?
Me: It's your fault. You mentioned when we watched the first show that you hoped Malcolm won the million dollars, and you jinxed him. Now he's been voted off and I never, ever want to watch Survivor again, and it's all your fault!
Jason: Listen, you seem a little stressed. Why don't I take you out to dinner tonight?
Me: What, my cooking's not good enough for you? You insensitive jerk!
Jason: I give up.
Me: You would. You don't love me.
Jason: Yes I do. 
Me: You don't know what love is!
Jason: Listen, you're talking crazy, and I'm tired of getting yelled at for nothing. I've had it!
Me: Please, let's not fight. I love you.

See? See how he twisted everything around on me there? I'd go into further detail about how I'm perfect and he's crazy, but unfortunately Dobby has to go make dinner now.

With Valentine's Day coming up, I thought I'd take a trip down memory lane and revisit some of my past romantic holidays. This could explain a lot about my personality, so bear with me.
In 8th grade, I was going out with a boy, whom we shall call Randy Mitchell of 45 Hopewell Rd, Glastonbury. Going out with Randy mostly meant that we exchanged school pictures and I giggled like a drunken smurf every time we passed in the hallways. This was my first Valentine's Day with a boyfriend; I bought Randy a five pound Hershey's Kiss to celebrate the event. Randy dumped me (via handwritten note that he gave to my friend Amie to give to me, no less) on the morning of February 14th. Amie and I ate that whole giant Kiss during history class, thus kicking off life-long food issues.

In high school, I was friendly with a boy we'll call Lee Gardner of 122 Weir Street. Valentine's Day fell on a Saturday, and I was working at a little grocery store in town. Lee called me and asked shyly if he could take me out on my break for a romantic lunch. Of course I said yes, and lo and behold, the rotten little snotbag stood me up. I consumed an entire pint of Ben & Jerry's Heath Bar Crunch that day, and to this day, toffee makes me gag. Maybe Randy and Lee should get together to compare notes on how to give a teenage girl an eating disorder.

In college, I dated a guy named Tom who was fifty thousand times more in to me than I was in to him. In February, he sent me roses, a diamond pendant, a 1986 vintage Ron Francis Whalers jersey, a new car, and gourmet chocolate drizzle popcorn. In return, I hand-made him a card that said "Roses are red, violets are blue, you skeeve me out, I'm dumping you." Personally, I thought it was clever as heck. From what I understand, Tom wound up in therapy for years. It turned out that inflicting psychological damage on February 14th was a power that could be weilded by either party, and I liked it.

My first husband used to demand breakfast in bed for Valentine's Day. I think this was because he was too lazy to waddle in to the kitchen and cook it himself. I would cheerfully comply, always adding something a little extra, like egg shells. And if the eggs happened to slide off of the frying pan in to the litter box before I served it to him, all the better. I'm sure he thought I was the world's lousiest cook. That's okay; I thought he was the world's lousiest husband.

When I finally shed all of that baggage, I tried to find someone  who was considerate, kind, and not inclined to celebrate Valentine's Day. When I met Jason, I thought I'd lucked out. However, it turned out that Jason had a tendency to promise that we wouldn't do anything for Valentine's Day, then surprise me with the complete works of Augusten Burroughs. And I have to admit...it was kind of nice.

So to all of you, I wish you luck getting through this Valentine's Day. If you're feeling down, ask yourself: what's more important? Having a snugglebunny to share this day with, or being the first in line at CVS when all of the candy is reduced to half price on February 15th? Honestly, you could make a good argument for both. 

Happy Valentine's Day!

There’s nothing like nine days of no power to make a person really appreciate how dependent we’ve become on technology. Even something as simple as making a cup of coffee has been revolutionized in my lifetime.  Our coffeepots never used to have digital displays and fancy timers to set your coffeepot to start brewing on its own early in the morning.  That’s right, kids – when I was your age, we used to have to get up, turn on the pot, and wait fifteen minutes for our coffee to brew.  You youngsters have no idea how easy you have it!

I remember our first microwave.  My father brought it home for my mother one Christmas, and it was the size of a dumpster.  We were in awe of this monstrosity, which could cook bacon in half the time. This might have been our first brush with real, honest-to-goodness, modern technology.  (I can’t quite remember which came first – the microwave or the VCR?)  Regardless, when I realized it could heat up a bagel in 30 seconds instead of having to wait three minutes for our antiquated toaster, I was in love.

My next love affair was with the word processor.  I’ve always loved to write, and my mother had found an old typewriter at a tag sale that I would bang out short stories on in the afternoons. as a kid.  When my parents presented me with a word processor one Christmas, my writing career took a whole new path. So long, sore fingertips and white-out!  I could now write twice as many stories in half the time.  I lugged my word processor back to college, and promptly put it to use, writing humorous narratives starring my college roommates.

But by far, the most life-changing techno-revolution for me has been my love affair with Apple products. (Blogger Linda O., who writes a fabulous blog that you can find HERE, calls it iLove.)  My iPhone is my constant companion, and I spend (or waste, whichever) most of my day emailing, texting, and fighting zombies with cartoon plants on that little phone.  My iLove for the iPhone is only surpassed with my iDevotion to my iPad.  iKnow it’s annoying. But if you own one, you know what iMean.

This morning, I came across a gigantic fanged tarantula with beady eyes in my kitchen.  I was barefoot, so I quickly looked around for something with which I could squish it.  There was my sleek iPad, cradled in its case, sitting next to The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, a 562-page hardcover that I picked up at the Book Barn in Niantic last week.

Lets face it.  Modern technology isn’t always better.

I like to think of myself as a strong, independent woman.  However, it turns out that if you take away my electricity for a few days, I turn in to a slobbering, weeping mess of hysteria.  Honestly, the cow in Twister displayed more tenacity than I have this past week. Let’s take a look at the past few days:

Hurricane Day:  Jason and I wake up to no power. Jason fills a couple of empty kitty litter buckets with rain water so we can flush the toilet for the day.  We joke about having to read by flashlight and we eat melting ice cream for lunch.  After the hurricane passes, we drive around the neighborhood and assess the damage.  Jason almost trips twice on downed electrical wires.  It occurs to me that we might want to conserve our toilet water.

Day 2 of no power:  I pack up what’s salvageable in the freezer and go over to Mom and Dad’s, who have a generator.  My nephews and I catch frogs, and then I help my parents pick up branches in the yard.  All in all, it’s one of the best days I’ve ever had.  Then I return home to my dark pit of a house.  I don’t bother reading by candlelight tonight; I’m asleep by 9 PM.

Day 3:  Brushing one’s teeth with bottled water is a little tiresome, but I brave through it. I bring some empty jugs of water to work with me as our toilet-flushing water is dangerously low and our house is starting to smell like a public urinal.  We visit my in-laws at night to celebrate my mother-in-law’s birthday.  I’m so jealous of the fact that they can run their dishwasher that my teeth ache.

Day 4:  Depression has set in, and I wake up weeping.  My carpooling buddy reports that her power was restored to her house the night before.  Even though I love her, I kind of want to punch her in the face.  At night, the cats start going crazy, hissing and howling as they look out the front window. Coyotes are circling in the yard.

Day 5:  If I have to eat one more peanut butter sandwich for lunch, I will hunt down George Washington Carver and disembowel him for inventing the damn stuff.  Jason informs me that GW Carver is already dead.  Keep arguing with me, Mr. Smarty Pants, and you’ll be dead soon too.

Day 6:  I hate everyone.  You smug holier-than-thou jerks with running showers at home can kiss my grimy butt.  My sister, whom I once would have died for without question, keeps hogging the shower at Mom’s house.  We’re barely speaking, except that we’re the only people we know who have it as bad off as we do.  Everyone in the entire state of Connecticut has power except for our house, my sister’s house, and my parents’ house.  Don’t tell me there’s no such thing as Longo luck.  There is, and it’s very, veeeeeery ugly.

Day 7:  My husband has run away from home and I’m insanely jealous, because I’m positive wherever he is, there’s a working television.  I miss my soap opera. I miss being able to cook a hot meal from frozen meat products.  I miss doing laundry.  I vow to make the sign of the devil every time I pass a power company truck…except I haven’t seen one on the road since before the hurricane hit.

Day 8:  A man wearing a full suit of armor knocks on our door.  He is from the electric company, and reports that we can expect our power to come back on in six days.  I break all of the fingers in my hand when I try to slap him.  Now I understand why he’s wearing the armor!  Jason rummages around the basement by flashlight to find a baseball bat to smack him with while I distract Sir Lancelot.  He’s not stupid.  He runs away in his armor, but I do get a small twinge of satisfaction when he trips and falls over the power line lying across our driveway and can’t get up.  I go outside and kick him.  Break my toes.  Figures.

As Jason says, we have learned a couple of important things this week.  For instance, neither one of us will ever bother to audition for Survivor.  And if the zombie apocalypse ever does happen, I hope I’m one of the first to have my brains devoured.