King Al's Consort Kicks Ass

So here comes my dry-eyed, non-sentimental Mother's Day blog.

The picture on my FaceBook page (posted on the Wall as well as on a Discussions tab) is a bullseye. It's a shot straight through the center ring of a target, what is sometimes referred to as the ten spot, or 10-X. Or, in our family, business as usual. The weapon used was a Smith & Wesson .22 target semi-auto. The distance was 25 yards. The shooter was my 64 year-old mom.

This is nothing new in our family. At all. And you'll notice my mom didn't dick around with a headshot, or a 5-spot. Nope. Straight between the eyes. I found this awesome. But it's okay if you find it terrifying. Sometimes they're the same!

I've told many fans that the characters from my parallel-universe Alaska series (The Royal Treatment, The Royal Pain, The Royal Mess) that the main characters from the House of Baranov aren't "based on" family members. They ARE my family members. Queen Daria died before the events of the first book (and no, I don't harbor a secret desire for my mom to succumb to a fiery, controversial death) but her presence is felt throughout the trilogy.

So is the patriarch's, King Alexander Baranov II, who rules the princes and princesses with an iron fist. Okay, a paper maiche fist. He's kind of a softy. But a fun character, and easy (bordering on effortless) to write about.

I can still remember watching my dad floss his teeth (we were in a museum or a library or a funeral or some weirdly inappropriate place), then groan as he carefully put the (used) floss in his shirt pocket.

"Jeez, Dad!" (It's amazing how many of my sentences start like that.) "Will you please throw that thing away?"

"Hell, no," he protested. "It's still good. And now it's right here in my pocket for when I need it."

"I'll buy you a new one," I begged. "I will buy you a carton of dental floss. I will buy stock in your name in Glide or Oral-B! Lots of stock! Lots of cartons! But please throw that away!"

"Your problem is, you think everybody's made of money."

"I DO NOT THINK EVERYONE'S MADE OF MONEY! I think everyone is entitled to a fresh, clean length of dental floss. That's what I think." Etc., etc. Although it was a short time in real life, in my head it lasted about three days. Actually, in my head, it's still going on.

So I had a new tic for King Al, and promptly put it in the book. What I wasn't prepared for was the fan mail: "Hey, that's a good idea! Dental floss always within arm's reach! Thanks, MJ."

Nooooooooooooooooooo! (No.)

Which brings me to my Mother's Day theme, in which I've included my dad so as not to have to do this again in June. My parents are bad at lots of things. To wit:

1) Throwing away used dental floss.

2) Missing targets while wielding a .22 pistol.

3) Retirement.

4) Normality.

5) Being bad at fishing.

6) Being bad at hunting.

7) Not breaking world records for sharp-shoot.

8) Not being super, strutting proud of my mom for same.

I'll cover the rest of the list some other time, but for this blog I'm only touching on a couple of them. You'll just have to wait to find out why my parents suck at retirement. And believe me, they do suck at it. Who retires and moves down south and then gets their EMT certification and go on ambulance runs at all hours of the day or night when they aren't running training sessions for the local fire department? THIS IS NOT RETIREMENT. I'm pretty sure it's the polar opposite. Ah, and here I said I wasn't going to go into it, yet I did. I'm such a liar...even to myself!

Flashback to when I was six. It was the weekend, so naturally we were at a silhouette tournament. Silhouettes are big heavy targets shaped like animals and made of iron, or something else that's super heavy (I forget, and I'm too lazy to look it up). People sign up for these tournaments from all over the state (and, when we'd go to Canadian tourneys, all over the country) and then plink away at the silhouettes until everybody decides they've sprayed enough ammo and hangs it up for the day. The person who knocks over the most silhouettes wins.

My parents were/are excellent shots and fishermen/women. They loved being outside shooting at heavy metal things or hooking trout for dinner or hollering "Git the little red son of a bitch!" while riding to the hounds. Okay, I made up that last one. Anyway, because we didn't have much money for baby-sitters (to this day I can count on two hands how often we had a sitter), my folks always brought my sister and I along to the local watering hole or up a tree stand or to tournaments. I can also count on two hands (okay, one hand) how often my folks left one of these tournaments empty-handed.

Which brings me to angry men and the world record for silhouette shooting. And my mom, of course. At one point in the tourney, one of the officials told my folks that my mother was only so many points away from breaking the world record. Sure, way to alleviate the pressure and help my mom to keep cool under relentless, soul-shriveling pressure. Thanks tons, Un-named Official.

So my mom bangs away (I can't tell you how much it disturbs me to have "mom" and "bangs" in the same sentence) and lo and behold, good-bye old world record, here's your hat and what's your hurry? Also: suck it, old record!

My second favorite part of the story is how my dad was easily ten times more excited than my mom was. For months: "Hey, Jim, how's your wife? Never mind, I only brought up yours to talk about mine. She broke a world record! Hey, June, glad I caught you before you went on medical leave: my wife broke a world record! I see you sneaking out, Dave. You're not going anywhere until I tell you about my wife, I don't care how close you are to insulin shock." He was thrilled. He told everybody. EVERYBODY. ("I know I was speeding, Officer, but did you know my wife broke a world record?") I literally believe he wouldn't have been any happier if he'd nailed the record himself. In fact, I'm sure of it. It's not nearly as fun, or socially acceptable, to brag about yourself as it is to brag about someone you love.

My favorite part of the story is this: two Grumpy Old Men (though since I was six, they could have been in their mid-twenties) stomped past my mom and grumbled, "Goddamned women should stay home where they belong."

Oh, blow me, Grumpy Old Men. Also: sticks and stones may break my bones but my mom TOTALLY KICKED YOUR ASS TODAY. (Technically, the world's ass.)

Which brings me to another parallel between the Baranovs and the real deal: as far as my sister and I were concerned, it was just another trophy. It went up on the wall with their zillions of other trophies. It was something else to be dusted. We were way more interested in the garter snake that chased us into the river (I can still see the hate in its tiny beady black eyes). Certainly mom's coup was nothing to dwell on, because there was always something new to tackle. Next weekend: fishing opener! Never mind world records; we've got to re-rig all these fishing poles! Yippee!

So when I saw the bullseye on my mom's FB page, I couldn't help think that the more things change, the more they kick ass. And I seem to be accidentally raising my kids to think the same way I do, because when I called their attention to the 10-X, they were puzzled, especially my son: "But, Mom, it's Grandma. What did you think would happen?"

All right, fine, but at least pretend to be awed and amazed, you little jerk. This is my dreadful legacy: kids who assume if their grandmother didn't nail the X, she was probably having a stroke at the time.

Hmm. On second thought, that's kind of cool. There are worse things than having children who assume a person can reach world record excellence if they just got down to it.

So, in summation: my mom shoots better than yourrrrr mom, nyah-nyah-nyah!

On the off chance one or both of those two Grumpy Old Men from way back are reading this blog and recognize themselves...I never forgot about you. But I bet you forgot about me. And that's okay. Because we all know who YOU'LL never forget if you live to be a thousand.

My mom.

So there.

I Give Away Bodily Fluids

Lately I've started collecting, and then giving away, my precious precious bodily fluids. Okay, the Red Cross is actually doing the collecting and the distributing, but I'm definitely part of the process. Maybe even an integral part! (Maybe.) Today was the second time I had ever donated platelets, and do not ask me what platelets are; what am I, Doogie Howser?

True story, though: one of the donors asked his nurse how many pints of blood are in a person, and she didn't know. So she was all, "Hmm, good question. Fellow nurses and assorted health care professionals? Anybody know how many pints of blood are in a body?" And I was all, "Um, concern number one, why do you want to know, exactly? Also, concern number two, you're an RN. Why don't you know? Don't take this the wrong way, Red Cross, but I'm starting to get a little nervous. Not to mention, now I'm wondering how many stupid pints of O-neg goodness are in my stupid body. Dammit! That's gonna bug me all morning. Does anyone know? Bueller?"

But I'm getting ahead of myself, as I often do except when I never do. This whole thing started when my husband/nemesis/writing partner/arch enemy/stud/sweetie noticed there was something wrong with our living room couch. Specifically, I was always on it. Being a writer is swell for many, many reasons, one of which is that staying home and setting my own hours gives me time to work on my agoraphobia. Unfortunately, my husband had this silly-ass idea that I was becoming a shut-in. To which I replied: What have you got against shut-ins, you judgemental bastard? Huh? What'd a shut-in ever do to you? Huh?

So I started looking for an activity that would get me out of the house a few hours a week, that didn't bore me to death, or remind me of any of my SDJs, and wasn't too long a drive, and didn't give me migraines. Or food poisoning (do not ask). Or rubella. Also, it'd be really super great if it was an activity where strangers told me how terrific I was.

Behold: the Red Cross! Specifically, platelet donations. You can donate platelets every seven days, as opposed to only being able to donate whole blood every few weeks. People aren't as quick to donate platelets because it takes a couple of hours, and you're not allowed to move your arms. They suck the delicious delicious O-neg goodness out of one arm, run it through a centrifuge ("Wheeee!"), then put the bodily fluids, minus platelets, back into me via the other arm. Then they give me cookies. And sometimes a Coke. And then a sticker! I have, like, zero complaints about any of this. Where else could I literally LIE ON MY ASS FOR TWO HOURS, get complimented on my heroism and general awesomeness, and then get cookies? Yeah, exactly. Nowhere. Okay, maybe the plastic surgery clinic. But that was a much longer drive.

And, even though I'm O-neg, I get an A-positive for donating (yeah, you read that right; it was a terrible joke but I went for it anyway). Apparently a donor has to have a minimum platelet count of around 150,000 to be allowed to donate, and I have over 400,000. What can I say? I like to pack spares of everything: toothbrushes. Granny underpants. Blood.

Anyway, I'm so friggin' good at this that I'm a triple yield donor. Which sounds like grand prize winner to me: "And now, our Triple Yield Donor, fresh from the trailer park slums, MaryJanice Davidson!" Zow. So instead of selflessly yet awesomely donating for one person, three different patients can drink my yummy platelets. Or whatever the hell they do with the platelets. Platelets on the rocks? Platelets casseroles? Whatever they do, I got lots and lots to help 'em do it.

Really, the only downside is the two hour immobilization. I found out that meant you can't turn the pages of your book. Or scratch your nose. Or scratch your nose. Or scratch your nose. The nurses, though, they'll turn your book pages. And, I'm so sorry to actually know this, they'll rub your itchy nose for you, too. Which swamps me with guilt like you can't imagine. These intelligent dedicated people did not go to college in order to wipe my nose. God forbid I needed to take a...you know what? I'm just gonna stop right there.

They also feed you Tums with calcium. They do this because occasionally people have a minor reaction to the procedure. Guess what the minor reaction is? Go on, guess. No, really, I'll wait. Okay: it's...facial itching! Yep, they plunge needles into the inside of your elbows, strap all sorts of tubing to you, then command you to stay put and not to move your arms and, oh, by the way, you might experience some facial itching which for some reason is helped by eating Tums. So here you go: fruit flavored Tums!

That's really the worst part, the arm thing. And the Red Cross knows it's a bit of a pain in the ass, so they do what they can to make donating as enjoyable as possible (see above: Coke and cookies). So they have wireless Wi-Fi, and DVD players, and TVs, and headphones and, of course, very nice nurses who tell you how terrific you are.

Oh, and the blankets! That's the best part. They have an entire oven filled with warm blankets! Okay, it's not an oven, but it sure looks like one, and it's filled with warm blankets. And they have heating pads for your ankles. And warmers for your hands. So they poke you, immobilize you, and then tuck you in with warm blankets after scratching your nose and reading you Pat The Bunny. No, wait, I was the one reading about my old pal Pat. I swear, I was having huge flashbacks to the awesome kindergarten naps of my childhood. No, of course I didn't doze off. Why would I doze off? Okay, maybe I dozed a teeny bit. I'm not made of stone, people! Warm blankets!

The first time I donated, I thoughtlessly brought a Batman graphic novel to read. So I couldn't turn my own pages, and it was only taking me about eight seconds to read a page because of all the pretty pictures. And I felt sooooo bad asking the nurse to come over every eight seconds to turn the page for me. Memo to me: bring dense books to the Red Cross: Gone with the Wind. It. The Encyclopedia Britannica.

What I find especially hilarious is that I bruise like a peach; I always have. If you sneeze on me (and don't you dare), I bruise. So you should see the monster tracks these IVs leave in my arms. They don't hurt a bit, of course, but they look sort of terrifying. They give me the look of someone up to no good of any kind. So, my normal look, except with bruises.

Today while I was waiting to get stabbed I was reading about some of the patients who needed platelets. Leukemia patients, little kids going through chemo, people recovering from organ transplants...like that. All kinds of people need platelets, and the Red Cross has to get them from somewhere. And...I dunno. It didn't seem like such a big thing to ask. What was so bad about taking two hours a week and wrapping up in warm blankets and getting tucked in and taking a nap and getting your nose scratched and then going back home to your family? Nothing I can think of.

After I finished donating the first time, I gave it some thought. And I figured it breaks down to this: two hours out of my very very blessed life to help someone recover from cancer. Or a kidney transplant. Or whatever...they get the platelets. And then they can get back to their families as I could go back to mine, full of cookies and feeling good.

A bargain, really.

I Anticipate Romantic Times

I'm off to Los Angeles tomorrow for the 2011 Romantic Times Convention. This should be excellent good fun, for me at least. I love RT. I need a couple of months to recover from it, but it's still a good time, every time. And readers do a good imitation of not being horrified upon meeting me, which is always nice. I'll be doing a couple of workshops and lurking in several more, and I'm also being rewarded for a year of bad behavior, which RT is calling a Career Achievement Award. Say it with me: woo-hoo!