So I just went to a Romance Writer’s of America conference. Lots of estrogen, breath mints and unmet need. And that was just me. But I would guess that 70% of the people there fit my category. Still, it was amazing amounts of fun. The main reason I attend the event is that I get to be around 2200 other romance writers: my sisters, my compatriots, my fellow lunatics.

You’d have to be a lunatic to do what we do. Most of us toil and sweat and swear for countless hours on a manuscript. Then we bravely show it to our critique partners who dissect it down to the syllable and make us believe we have created The Next Big Hit. Then we rewrite it to death. After much wringing of hands, we send it off into the world where editors and agents respond to our greatest hope, our greatest desire, our unbound passion, normally with a form letter: Dear Author, It was great meeting you at the RWA National Conference. I apologize for this form letter, but you can’t believe how much of this crap I have to sift through daily. You people freakin’ inundate me with this junk and I simply can’t respond to every goddamned one of you. Like what do you expect? I’d have to give up my family, my vacations and every spare moment of my life to respond to every query letter I get. I get five hundred submissions a week. This is an insane amount of paperwork. Not only that, most of your ideas aren’t worth my time. Most are either trite, bizarre, nonsensical, just plain bad or incoherent. Sometimes downright disturbing. So, I’m sorry but I could no more sell your work than I could sell a meat pie to a vegetarian. But thanks for thinking of me and please, never give up the dream.

And yet we feel compelled to move forward. An unknown force drives us. I believe it is misguided optimism. Or a terrible addiction, more like. I jones for my stories, to get lost in my other world like a heroin addict craves for the next fix. Worse I think. Because I’m more coherent when I’m getting my fix. More awake when I’m indulging my favorite drug. The power of creation is heady stuff. More fun than anything. Which is bad when the book is finally done. Saying good-bye to people you’ve spent more time with than your own husband is hard. Which brings me to my next point.

Writing is a form of insanity. You can’t call leaping from one reality to the next sane behavior. It splits you. You are your writing self, your mind completely dedicated to solving a problem like: How do I get my heroine in bed with the villain without making her seem brainless or immoral? I need the villain to attempt to make love to her, but the hero saves her at the very last minute. With a twist so it’s not trite. Making it funny is a bonus. But not too funny so the punch isn’t there. Something really original. Be clever! You allow yourself to journey there in your mind: you can see your created world, smell it and touch it. You try to quickly write down what you see. A millisecond later it’s dinnertime and we switch to our normal where’s-my-beer selves. What’s on the tube? Did we pay the taxes? Who ate the leftover beef, now I don’t have dinner. Very jarring, transporting back and forth. Most of the time, I can’t leave my created world. I cook, I clean, but in my head I’m running down some alley, a van stops in front of me, three dark, scary-looking guys dressed in black with scars and three-day-beards leap out and grab me and oh, goddamn it, I just burned the sauce.

Wait… how did I get on a diatribe about writing? Where was I? Oh, yes, the conference.

So I’m at the RWA conference. There’s the main organization, then chapters within the group. Some are regional, like most people belong to a local chapter, then there are the national chapters for various genres within romance. The ones I belong to are the Kiss of Death (KOD) for the romantic suspense authors and Passionate Ink for erotica writers. Mainly I joined those two chapters because they have great parties. KOD has a Death by Chocolate party where they give out their Daphne Du Maurier awards. Passionate Ink has their awards party (Sex by the Bay was this years theme), but it’s the raffle prizes and door prizes that kick ass with Passionate Ink. Plus they are some FUN people. Always know how to have a good time.

So this year the Passionate Ink Party preceded the Death By Chocolate Party. I went to the Passionate Ink Party at five. As I enter the room, one of the organizers points to a table in the back, “Make sure you get your goody bag—it’s got a silver bullet in it!” Yes, this year’s door prize was a vibrator. (I told you these people were fun.)

The night I got the vibrator was also the night I won a huge raffle basket at the Death By Chocolate Party (And my friends Ann and Linda won an award!) So I’m going up in the elevator with my huge basket and there are about five people in the elevator, mostly men in their mid-sixties, plus I think one woman. I don’t remember. I’d had a few. So a guy comments on the raffle prize and I tell him that I just won it at this RWA party. He asks about our conference (kinda hard to miss 2200 women in a hotel). I explain about the different chapters and mention the erotica chapter. One guy really liked this idea. So as the elevator stops and I walk out, I enthusiastically relate the information about the door prize. “No, really, a real vibrator! It was so awesome!”  I looked over my shoulder and five frozen, slightly horrified faces gaped back at me. Then the elevator doors closed on my audience, wiping away the montage of shocked expressions like a movie fade in a 50’s horror film. I couldn’t tell whether it was the information about the vibrators as door prizes or the enthusiasm with which I delivered the information that shocked them the most.

So the vibrator was the highlight of the swag I got at the conference. Coming in a close second was the five boxes of books. Yes, five. Full. Boxes. Of. Books. This year, I was a book whore. The big publishers sponsor book signings at the conference. The first year I went to a RWA conference, I avoided the first three book signings because I couldn’t afford to buy any more books. Then someone finally gave me the unbelievable news that the books were FREE. Your favorite authors signed their books and GAVE THEM to conference attendees FOR FREE. After that, I went at the free books like a mad woman, giggling uncontrollably while grabbing armloads of books. Well, until I remembered that I was in Atlanta and California was a long way away. That’s the trip I learned about overweight charges on luggage. I learned that paying the fee is actually a lesser cost overall than the damage one does to one’s back and shoulder when one carries sixty pounds of books in one’s carry-on backpack to avoid the aforementioned charges. A-hem.

The other highlights aside from the vibrator and books: Christina Dodd’s room was close to mine, we rode up in the elevator a couple times together. On the last trip, she pointed to me and said: “This is my favorite person at the conference!” I was floored. This woman is a freakin’ goddess-writer person and I am… well, me. Of course, I chat with everyone I meet because these people are my sisters and even if they’re famous-type people, we do the exact same job, they just get paid more than I do (at the moment). Still, it was flattering and went straight to my head.

Then I was at our Silicon Valley’s chapter’s workshop called Speed Dating With Agents and Editors, when a woman sat next to me and started asking me questions. Turns out she was with the FREAKIN’ SF CHRONICLE! Too cool. She interviewed me for about ten minutes and got all sorts of info about my work and website. Of course, I haven’t seen a story come out yet, the Chronicle probably nixed the story. Not sure how cool or important romance writers are to the capital of the Left Coast. At least the interview impressed my chapter buddies.

The only slightly bad news came from one of the most important reasons I attended the conference: to get face time with an agent and an editor. Attendees sign up online before the conference during this five-minute period where 2000 women are all trying to get appointments at the same time which normally crashes the RWA server. Somehow I managed to navigate the system and picked the editor from the house I thought most compatible with what I write and a hot New York agent.

I met with the editor first. I already had two packets for the same story, Tastes Like Chicken (a sci-fi romance), on his desk. He remembered the story and told me what was wrong with it and why he wasn’t going to buy it. But he liked my humor. He asked what else I had and I pitched a new series I’m doing: twisted fairy tales with no magic, just the main story arc (Cinderolda, Beauty and Mr. B. East and some variation of Sleeping Beauty). He liked the idea and wanted to see three chapters of Cinderolda and a synopsis.

Which overall was still good, he didn’t totally hate my work, but I was still bummed. I’ve already had many rejections on Chicken and I really think it could be The Next Big Thing.

So with this rejection in my mind, I now had to be super positive about the work because next I had to pitch it to the hot New York agent. This woman gets her authors such good deals and she’s so caring, all her clients rave about her. When we met, we hit it off, but it quickly became clear to her that my stuff was too fringey for her. I was bummed, but she could not have been more complimentary, nor more helpful. A tremendous person. She just doesn’t handle my flavor of work, she doesn’t represent “weird”.

So be it. Now I will sit down and finish Cinderolda and send the man his chapters. I can feel my delusional optimism returning. I am even more convinced that this next book will be My Big Breakout Book.

And if not, I still have my new vibrator.

©2008, Janet Periat

On June 10, my sister went into surgery to remove a golf-ball-sized tumor in her head. On June 11, she had a stroke. These past weeks have been the hardest of my life (and obviously, Judy’s) so far. I’m Judy’s primary caregiver and have never dealt with anything like this before. I’ve been flailing my way through, doing my best. I’ve learned many things in this short time. Below are some of my first thoughts that might help others who find themselves in the same situation.

Number One: The Caregiver must take care of themselves and build a caregiving team. Be honest about what you can and can’t do. Don’t run yourself into the ground (like I did). You can’t be by your loved one’s side 24/7. Yes, you have to take care of them, but that does not mean exhausting yourself. If you get sick or falter, your loved one will suffer even more. But be careful about your team. There are many idiots disguised as helpers out there. Be brutal in your evaluations of the offers that come your way. You don’t want to add more work to your already over-filled plate.

Number Two: If you are the main caregiver, your only responsibility is to your loved one. Not to the four hundred people who freak out that something bad happened and want you to console them. I can’t believe some of the knuckleheads that have been plaguing me. Many have come up with more things for me to do. “You should start a Yahoo group and blog everyday about what’s going on with your sister.” WHAT???? When would I do that? I’m either paying Judy’s bills or driving to the hospital or filling out paperwork or going through scary what-if scenarios with nursing home administrators or trying to devote a few spare minutes to handle the four thousand details of my own life. Which brings me to Number Three.

Number Three: To the friends and extended family of the patient and main caregiver: be a help, not a hindrance. If you are coming from out-of-town, don’t expect to be put up at the main caregiver’s house. Stay with friends or rent a motel room. Don’t burden the caregivers with your needs. Don’t let your kids run all over the house and saddle the caregiver with more work. Ask how you can help. Clean, cook, water the yard, take the patient to a therapy appointment. In other words: DON’T BE AN IDIOT. The Main Caregiver is overwhelmed and is probably on the verge of losing their minds. I know I am. Which brings us to Number Four.

Number Four: Be nice to the Main Caregiver. You’d think this would be obvious, but I have endured more second-guessing and abuse by idiots than you can imagine. Think before you criticize the caregiver. Make sure the information you received is accurate before you call up and rant at someone who is doing their best and is already at the end of their rope. Or they may bite you.

Number Five: Don’t treat the patient like an idiot. Assume they can understand you. Assume they are in there. Treat them with respect. And please don’t shout at them. Just because someone can’t speak doesn’t mean they can’t hear. Keep your visits short. The wounded have very little energy, be careful with it.

Number Six: Beg, borrow or steal some health insurance if you don’t already have it. Get long-term health care insurance when you’re 65. You don’t want to know what happens to people without it. There are many fates worse than death. And yes, I’ve heard all the excuses. “Oh, that won’t happen to me. Strokes and accidents happen to other people.” Well, guess what? You are the “other people.” Another one I’ve heard from friends: “I can’t afford it.” Well, you can’t afford NOT to have health insurance. Most of my friends who’ve said they can’t afford insurance still manage to take vacations, buy concert tickets, iPods and new clothes. Skip the freakin’ extras, get the insurance. At least get catastrophic insurance. The money is not wasted. Without insurance, navigating our broken health care system is a nightmare and a potentially fatal experience. Even with insurance, it’s a nightmare. Basically, our health care system is a nightmare. Best to protect yourself with as much insurance as you can afford.

Number Seven: Eat right and exercise. If you are overweight, get on a freakin’ diet, NOW. This will prevent 70 percent of cancers and most illnesses. And if you do get sick, you’ll recover faster. My husband Frank works on medical magnetic imaging devices and sees the insides of people all the time. Basically, if you’re fat and unhealthy, your insides look just as bad as the outside. And sorry, but candy is not a food group.

The Most Important Thing I’ve Learned: Tragedies bring out the worst, but also the best in people. A core group of people has come through for me in extraordinary ways during this event. My life is completely changed because of it; my heart feels fifty times bigger. Sometimes your greatest lessons come from life’s most painful events. Be open to the lessons and the love, even when you’re in the middle of what seems to be the worst days of your life. You’ll be amazed at what’s there for you, if you only have the eyes to see it.

Author’s Note: When Judy had her stroke, the doctors told us it was so massive that she would be institutionalized for life. Lucky for us, Judy proved them wrong. She’s making a miraculous recovery and eventually she will regain what she has lost. By the time you read this, she will be living with me and healing. I’ve never felt more blessed.

P.S. A special thanks to the team watching Judy’s house and cats. You guys are the best!

©2008, Janet Periat

I am at war with my fat roll. I put out a contract on it, but so far, my fat roll has cunningly been able to avoid termination. I’m convinced the damn thing is sentient.

A friend of mine recently began competing in triathlons. She trained for a few months and whammo, just completed her first mini-triathlon. A half-mile swim, a fifteen-mile bike ride followed by a four-mile run. She’s dropped twenty-five pounds in three months. I was so impressed with her and so excited when she told me about her plans, I thought, hey, what a great idea. Get some endorphins, sunshine and kill the fat roll all at the same time.

But my fat roll had other plans. Much more sinister plans.

When I started training, I took it slowly. Especially the running part. I walked a brisk ten minutes, then ran for about a block. One block on, one block off. Not too much, right?

Well, somehow my fat roll traveled down to my right knee and pulled hard, my knee went out and there went the running for… a month now and counting. Thankfully, my fat roll didn’t damage me enough to stop my daily walks. But FR made the walks much more difficult.

I told my fat roll that I’d caught on to its little ploy and that it wouldn’t work. I haven’t given up the triathlon idea, just postponed it. I told it there was no way it was winning. I was in charge. Fat Roll’s days were numbered.

Taunting my fat roll turned out to be a bad idea. I pissed it off.

I was innocently grocery shopping the other day and sometime when I wasn’t looking, my fat roll threw some delicious chocolate cookies into my shopping cart. And when I got home, I found a box of ice cream sandwiches in the grocery bag. Foul beast! I cursed. Devilish fiend of blubber! I know I heard the damn thing snickering as I put the ice cream sandwiches into the freezer.

However, my fat roll did not stop at this slight. It launched an all out assault on me.

While I was gardening the other day, I bent over to pull a particularly tenacious weed and Fat Roll pushed down hard on my pants and nearly pushed them off. With both hands full, I told it to back off, I couldn’t stop and pull up my sweats right then. With a great burst of energy, Fat Roll ruthlessly shoved down on my waistband until my crack showed.

Angry, but helpless, I sighed and decided what the hell, who was looking anyway and finally got the weed out of the ground. After tossing away the weed, I pulled up my pants and gave a quick look around to make sure no one had seen my White Cliffs of (Ben) Dover. What I forgot to take into account during my assessment of butt visibility was the new building across the street. As I stared, horrified, four people looked back at me from a balcony of a condo that was for sale. It was clear they had been witnesses to my humiliation. It was also clear that the real estate agent had just lost a sale.

My fat roll loved this. Chortling gleefully, it led me to the fridge and handed me a beer. Without thinking, I drank it and several others. Again, my fat roll won the round.

Now, when I least expect it, my fat roll playfully escapes from my waistband and taunts me. “Ha, ha, here I am, you can’t kill me, no you can’t!!!” Right when I think I’m back in control, I find myself at the doughnut shop. I take my mind off my weight for one second and there’s a piece of chocolate in my mouth.

Fat Roll didn’t even exist fifteen years ago. It snuck up on me, attached itself to my middle and now, like some science fiction movie monster, it seems to grow more powerful the more I try to annihilate it. It is evil.

I know I’m supposed to love every part of myself. That I need to make friends with Fat Roll. I should nurture it and love it to death. Mother my fat roll. But I just hate it. I watch all those skinny people on TV and I yell at my fat roll. “You’re ugly, you make me look old. You say to the world, this woman is WEAK. This woman is OVERFED.”

My fat roll, however, is used to this. It has many replies for my Skinny People Are Happier diatribe. Fat Roll says, “Ignore those anorexic little morons, they’re idiots. They deny themselves the pleasure of food. They are so skinny that when the Apocalypse comes they’ll die first, you can live on your blubber for months. Besides, Frank will sleep with you no matter how fat you get.”

Since these arguments seem somewhat plausible, I listen a bit more openly to my fat roll. And that’s when FR goes in for the kill. “You are much healthier with a little extra weight on you. That third beer won’t make you fat. How could one little cookie hurt? So what if you had three beers and an ice cream sandwich, what could this bowl of cheese popcorn possibly do to you? Eat it, no worries, just eat it.” As I stuff my face, my Fat Roll bursts into maniacal laughter. “I have you now! Muahahahahaha!”

Still, I have not given up the fight. I will win. I’m not going to let some stupid chunk of blubber run roughshod over me. I’m going train for that damn triathlon, I’m going to heal my knee and I will run again. And swim. And bicycle. And my damn fat roll just better get used to it. In fact, I’m going for a walk right now. Take that, Fat Roll!

Wait. Where did this half of a beer and empty bag of barbecue potato chips come from? Damn it!

©2008, Janet Periat

Okay, here’s a newsflash for you. A new study just came out that says when Botox is injected into your face, the poison has been found to ENTER THE BRAIN. Really? I am astounded! You mean, when you stick a needle into someone’s face, less than a half an inch away from the brain, and inject POISON, some actually travels there??? Wow! Stop the presses! How could this possibly happen?

Obviously, very few people took science in school. Including me, but even I figured out that if you stick a needle in someone’s body and inject poison, the stuff doesn’t magically contain itself to the injection site. There are these things called veins and capillaries and neurons that ACTUALLY CONNECT to other parts of the human body. Ever heard of the circulation system, people? Freakin’ kindergarteners seem to have a better grasp on the human body than most adults, especially the ones who think they’ll look younger with their faces frozen like mannequins.

I just can’t believe that anyone believed the manufacturer when the Purveyors of Poison told them that “studies had shown” that the neurotoxin completely broke down at the injection site into innocuous compounds and didn’t go beyond it. Wait. Let me get this straight. Poison—a compound used as a bioterrorism weapon—is injected into the muscle, kills some nerve endings and then somehow magically transforms into pixie dust or something? After destroying tissue, poison turns into rainbows and unicorns and pretty pink clouds? How the hell could anyone buy this BS? Even doctors believed it. Probably because their golf trip to Scotland was funded by the drug companies. And where did they do the testing on Botox originally? Greed Labs?

Doesn’t anyone realize that these corporate bastards don’t care if their product kills us? The Botox guys are the same kind of corporate creeps who told us Vioxx was safe. All they want is MONEY. And people are so gullible, they watch an ad on TV that says sticking poison in your face is completely safe and will make society like you more, so they grab their credit cards and rush to their nearest plastic surgeon.

The underlying message from these corporate jerks is that aging is a character flaw. If you don’t poison yourself, you might actually commit the horrible sin of LOOKING YOUR AGE and you will end up friendless and alone. Yeah, every time I see my grandmother, I think, wow, what a hideous troll, she should hide herself away. I mean, what is wrong with people? When did aging become something to be ashamed of? And just whom are we trying to please with all our Botoxed looks?

Which brings up the entire reason people get cosmetic procedures and inject their faces with poison: to make some stupid superficial people like them more. I mean, how dumb is that? No friendship is worth shoving a bunch of poison into your system. Women are spending money poisoning themselves so some fat middle-aged idiot won’t divorce them for a trophy wife. Why would anyone risk life and limb to stay in a relationship for the rest of your life with some creep who wanted you to look like a freakin’ twenty-year-old at forty? Why would you risk brain damage or death for some narcissistic freak? How could you be this desperate to stay with an idiot like that? For God’s sake, spare the injections and buy yourself a vibrator.

I realize some women are forced into cosmetic procedures to protect their jobs. If I were in that position, I’d tell my corporate masters to take a hike. What? Poison myself so I can keep my bloody job? Screw you, I’ll start my own freakin’ business. I mean, if you put Barbara Walters next to her wax figure at Madame Tussaud’s, there is no way you could tell the difference. Her face is a mask of surgical Botox wonder. And let’s not even go into Joan Rivers, she doesn’t even look human any more. Do these people look better than they would if they’d left their faces alone? No. They look like circus freaks.

Which brings us to the other problem with Botox: it doesn’t work. You don’t look younger after you get injected. You look like a stroke victim. Part of your face reacts to my jokes, part of it remains frozen. You can’t even raise your freakin’ eyebrows. And when you smile, your face goes all lopsided. You look freakin’ weird. Like some character out of a horror movie. I mean, whenever you run into anyone who’s had a bunch of plastic surgery and Botox injections, you don’t think, hey, they look good. You think, wow, they had a lot of work done. I think, jeez, there’s someone without any self-esteem. And lack of self-esteem can only be cured with therapy not surgery or poison.

And yes, I’ve heard the “pro” arguments for Botox. Medical uses like with cerebral palsy and stuff like that. Okay, so that makes sense. But other than for a disease, I don’t get it. Some shrink friend of a friend had some bad stuff happen to her earlier in her life so her neutral expression made her look mean. It was off-putting to her clients, so she got Botox. How dumb is that? Yet another example of someone poisoning themselves so crazy people will like them better. I mean, this is the reason everyone gets injected with Botox, so crazy people will like them better. What solid reasoning!

Of course, I’m sure the new warnings won’t scare off the die-hard plastic surgery junkies. In fact, I’m so sure of it, I’ve started a new company. Forever Beautiful: Embalming For The Living. I’m gonna make billions.

©2008, Janet Periat

Hey People!

This just appeared in CoastViews and I thought I’d share it with you folks, too. Even though if you are here, you already know about this part of my new evil plan to dominate the publishing world. But here this is anyway.

Hugs,  Janet

For eighteen years, I wrote novels, submitted them to large publishers and got… nothing. While most writers dream of The Big Publishing Contract (me included), the truth is writing is a crapshoot. You can write hundreds of novels during your life and never get published. But with the aid of the new advances in technology, anyone can now publish a book.

Which is a good thing and a bad thing. Good for those of us who can write, but don’t have million-plus readerships that attract the attention of the Big Guys. Bad because now Grandma is publishing collections of her favorite colonoscopy anecdotes and Jeb, the guy who works graveyard at 7-11, is publishing his belly-button-lint art books. Which, I suppose, for the sake of diversity isn’t a bad thing.

But for me, these advances in technology have been amazing. I am now selling books. Confessions of a Pink-Haired Lunatic (a collection of my columns) and How To Make Your Life Suck (a parody of self-help books) are available through my website; Lulu.com; Stage Road Shops in Pescadero; Coastside Books, Moon News, and Bay Books in Half Moon Bay; and Barnes and Noble in San Mateo. By the time you read this, my books will be available on Amazon.com and for special order at all bookstores.

I have been considering self-publishing for years. But in publishing circles, when you say you’re self-published, it’s like virtual toilet paper on the shoe. No one takes you seriously. Well, until you sell big numbers and then suddenly, they always loved your work and you’re a star and here’s your contract. (Think The Celestine Prophecy.)

But when I attended the Romance Writers of America conference last summer, I took a workshop for published authors called Shameless and Shocking Self-Promotion that completely changed my mind about my career. At the time, I assumed my latest sci-fi novel, Tastes Like Chicken, would sell to a publisher faster than photos of Brad Pitt naked (ahhh, denial) and I wanted to find out what my next step would be. What an eye-opener that seminar was!

When you get your first publishing contract for fiction, you get an average advance of around five grand (varies WIDELY from $300 to double digits). Basically, the large publishers buy bunches of these first books and throw them out there to bookstores and see what happens, like throwing cooked spaghetti on a wall to see if it sticks. If you sell, you get another book contract, if you don’t… you go back to the end of the line and hope someday you get another shot.

When a publisher spends five grand on a book, they do no promotion for you. Which dollar-wise makes sense. Like they’re gonna spend three grand on an ad in Romantic Times for a book they paid five grand for? So basically, you have to spend your own cash and energy and time promoting your work.

The agent who taught the workshop, Jessica Faust of Bookends, LLC, said authors need to “think outside the box” and utilize any and all of our special talents to promote our work. At this point, I realized that I could do a lot for myself while I was waiting for The Big Contract. And so began my journey.

So far, I’ve self-published two books, had three websites built (www.janetperiat.com is one), started two blogs and now, I am working on the promotion of my projects (yes, this article is part of my evil plan to dominate the publishing world, one reader at a time).

For self-publishing, I chose Lulu.com, basically because the service was free and relatively easy to use. Lulu.com along with several other Publishing-On-Demand companies utilize a new technology: a sophisticated printing machine that spits out one finished book at a time, cover and all. On Lulu, you upload the text of your book, choose a cover (the free ones are pretty limited, but doing your own is as simple as taking a photo and uploading it) and whammo, you are published and can buy/sell your books. While the service is free, we paid a hundred bucks per book for distribution so my books would be available on Amazon.com and for special order at all bookstores.

You have probably wondered what Weasel-on-a-Stick has to do with any of this. Well, Weasel-on-a-Stick.com is one of the websites I had built. WOAS is a fictional, intergalactic fast-food restaurant featured in my latest sci-fi novel, Tastes Like Chicken. While WOAS almost a throwaway in the book, the name gave Frank and I the giggles, so I decided to use WOAS as a promotional tool to sell Chicken. I hired cartoonist Randy Cleveland to do the logo and musician Glenn MacPherson to do the jingle.

Frank put the logo on CaféPress.com (an online t-shirt and promotional schwag printing shop—you upload images, people buy the stuff and you get a small cut of the proceeds) and put up the one-page website. So now, at www.weasel-on-a-stick.com, you can read an excerpt of the book, buy schwag and hear the jingle. All to promote a book I haven’t quite finished yet… Yes, I got the weasel ahead of the cart, but hey, at least I’m selling some t-shirts. I’ll be self-publishing the book soon while also promoting it to large publishers.

Coming up this summer, I’ll be using my performance background and starting a new venture: podcasting. Podcasts are videos or radio-type broadcasts you upload to the Internet, like YouTube videos. I’m going to perform some stand-up routines, film them and upload them to YouTube and my website/blog thingy. In September, I’ll be taking some of this material and performing it live in Pescadero at Harley Farms for a special event to promote my books.

While I’m not a household name and I don’t have a huge publishing contract (yet), I feel so good about myself, I can’t tell you. Actual movement in my career other than collecting rejection letters! And I have made Weasel-Wear available to the globe at large! Such worthy endeavors!

So check out my websites and listen to the Weasel jingle. If you’re feeling generous, please visit your local bookstore and pick up a copy of one or both of my books. The bookstores and my mortgage company would greatly appreciate it.

©2008, Janet Periat

I just spent the last twenty minutes trying to remove a giant sticker from my new step ladder. Two giant stickers, actually. I got so mad, my head started spinning around and I began screaming things like “These stickers suck socks in hell!” I am still frothing. Twenty full minutes. Count them, twenty. I timed it. And I’m still not done! Not only did I waste twenty minutes of my precious time today, I have to go back and sit there and rip off teeny tiny minute pieces of this nasty evil sticker, one match-head sized piece at a time. And the stickers are freakin’ HUGE. One foot by eight inches big. No lie! They’re vast, each covers an entire step of the ladder. Fully half the ladder is covered with these insidious stickers. Infuriating!

Who are these morons at the ladder company who order these things? “Oh boy, I’m gonna save the company a whopping two tenths of a cent per ladder with cheap paper and army surplus glue. That will win me my promotion!” If they’re gonna adhere a billboard-sized sticker to their product, they could at least have the decency to use thicker paper. This sticker is three quarters adhesive and one quarter paper. The only way to get it off is to pry itsy-bitsy pieces off with a fingernail. Maddening! And there’s no one to scream at! What have I done wrong except for buy this manufacturer’s product? Why do they hate me so much? Why must I be submitted to this kind of torture? Someone contact the White House. Forget flushing the Q’oran down the toilet, make those prisoners at Guantanamo do ten hours of sticker removal. Better yet, send them my ladder! That chore would break anyone.

Sometimes I get so frustrated, I just give up and leave the damn stickers on stuff. Makes the objects look like hell, but how much time do I actually have for sticker removal? Last time I looked, making money, fixing food and getting the oil changed in my car took priority over sticker removal. I checked my To Do list for the week and sticker removal wasn’t even on it. This is not something I plan for. It’s a job that sneaks up and attacks me like some sticky stealth bomber. I hate the manufacturer of the sticker, I hate the person who made the decision to order and adhere the cheap ass sticker—a GARGANTUAN sticker at that—to the entire step of the ladder. I’d love to leave it there, but the sticker is printed on shiny, glossy stock and I don’t want to slip off and break my neck. The manufacturer added insult to injury when they printed this on their diabolical sticker: “Please Remove Sticker Prior To Use.” Bastards! Taunting me! What they need to say is this: “Prepare To Waste Hours Of Your Precious Time Removing This Sticker Because If You Don’t And Slip Off And Hurt Yourself It’s Your Own Stupid Fault And You Can’t Sue Us For It Because We Printed This Warning Here And We Used Cheap Glue To Make Sure You’d Be Spending Quality Time Looking At It”.

I wish the sticker manufacturer reign of terror was limited to the rare purchase. But no, businesses are now covering more and more products with permanent stickers and price tags. Yes, I understand the need for protection against shoplifting, but these people have gone too far. This week alone, I removed stickers from a credit card, two lamps, four shirts, ten apples, four bananas, one lemon, seven zucchini, a watch, four bowls, six glasses, a planter box, two garbage cans and now, this freakin’ stupid step ladder from hell! That’s waaay too many stickers. And over half of them had to be removed one atom sized piece at a time. I wonder how many billions of dollars are wasted each year in lost productivity due to sticker removal. Countless, I’m sure!

While I almost understand the placement of stickers on non-grocery items, the one thing I cannot fathom is the advent of pricing individual pieces of produce. It’s criminal. When I was a kid, the only produce with stickers were bananas. I still have Chiquita Banana stickers stuck to some of my childhood books. But those came off easy. And damn, with bananas, you can just leave the sticker. Peel the banana and you’re fine. But zucchini and apples have edible peels. And the stickers on both my zucchini and apples were tenacious little buggers. Unremovable. I finally just dug the stickers off the outside of the zucchini and threw away little chunks of vegetable with the stickers. But the most egregious offenders were the stickers on my apples. The paper came off, but not the glue. I got so frustrated that I ended up just eating chunks of glue. Or I ate all the way around the stupid apple and left the part with the adhesive. Which wastes perfectly good food, all because some chemical engineer can’t come up with a good glue. We can cure cancer, we can give people new hearts, we can fly people into space, but we can’t come up with a good removable sticker for apples? Come on, people! Get with the program! Stickers are not part of the food pyramid. Stickers provide no nutritional value, taste bad and stick to your teeth. Last time I checked a menu at a restaurant, they didn’t serve the fruit and veggies with a side of sticker. My Joy of Cooking doesn’t even have a section on how to cook stickers. And Martha Stewart has never featured stickers on her dinner menu. Because stickers are not food and therefore have no place on produce!

So now I find myself seriously thinking about returning the ladder to Home Depot to make a point. Which, I know, would be an exercise in futility and aggravation. Home Depot is the closest thing the US has to an East Bloc market. You wait in long lines, there is only one kind of whatever object you seek, it’s not what you want, but there are vast quantities of it, and it’s cheap so you buy it anyway. Home Depot is a big, nameless, faceless totalitarian dictatorship. This is what we offer! You will buy! If I went in there complaining about stickers on products, I’d end up talking to a minimum wage employee who is more victimized by the corporation than I am. Home Depot doesn’t care. I think they intentionally buy products with permanent stickers. They probably train their people to pick the product with the most permanent sticker. It’s probably one of their markers for a perfect product. “Which sink do you like Mabel? This one or this one?” asks Harry. Mabel replies, “Which one has the sticker that’s hardest to remove? That’s the one we want.” If I actually pulled a Michael Moore on a Home Depot executive and ambushed them regarding their sticker policy, they would probably give me some BS line about how their stickers help with theft prevention. How many billions are lost to shoplifting each year. Which is actually a valid point. I know hundreds and hundreds of people stash ladders in their pockets every year and just walk out the front door. Millions of dollars are lost every year to ladder theft. It’s an epidemic.

I just figured out that the thirty dollar ladder has cost me an additional twenty bucks in sticker removal time alone. And I’m not even done yet. After I get done ranting here, I have to go and take off the rest of that stupid sticker from that stupid ladder because I’ve got half of it off and it’s a big sticky mess. By the time I’m done, a thirty dollar ladder will cost me seventy bucks total. Not to mention a healthy portion of my sanity. I’m not sure it’s all worth it. After all, I bought the ladder so I can change some light bulbs. Which will enable me to see better. So I can remove the stickers from my purchases more efficiently.

I bet the manufacturers of stickers make Prozac.

©2005, Janet Periat

For those of you who are sick of others, I have some perfect remedies for you. Just think, you won’t have answer any pesky emails, your Christmas gift list will only have one name on it (yours), you won’t have to share your beer and Pringles, you get complete control over the TV remote and best of all? You’re right all the time. Sounds dreamy, doesn’t it? Well, I guarantee, if you follow my ten steps below*, you, too, can be friendless and alone.

Number One: Cultivate An Irritating Tic or Habit

Continually chew ice: that squeaking sound is the closest noise to fingernails-on-a-chalkboard you can make with your mouth. Clear your Eustachian tubes often: it makes a lovely, high-pitched honking noise. Don’t blink—this really disconcerts people. Suck on your teeth. Suck on your hair. Spit often. Twitch frequently. Chain smoke. Develop a high-pitched squeal of a laugh and laugh often at inappropriate times. The key to irritating tics is that you must commit to them. Be diligent. It’s like the old water torture. It’s the continual repetition of these habits that causes the true torment to those around you.

Number Two: Be Cheap

When at the end of a meal in a restaurant, keep a keen eye out for the server. As soon as you see the bill coming, throw out a wad of crumpled bills onto the table—make sure they are all ones—then get up, head to the bathroom and stay there. Another trick: when the bill arrives, pat yourself all over and proclaim you forgot your wallet. Assure your friends that you will pay them back—they always fall for that one! Or take the bill from the waitress and go over it, line by line. Explain to your group why you don’t have to pay much. Remind them that you sent back the soup for being too salty, the salad because the cherry tomatoes weren’t completely spherical. And that you only had water. Forget the five rum and cokes you had earlier. Another option: leave before the bill comes. Explain that you’re late to a very important appointment, that you had very little to eat, that the meals your five children ate don’t count because kids don’t eat much. Toss a twenty onto the table and split. Again when employing these “cheap” tactics, it’s important to be consistent. It’s only after the fourth or fifth time you’ve forgotten your wallet that people will begin to see the pattern. You’re trying to get rid of these people, remember? So be dedicated. And make sure to leave that pesky wallet at home!

Number Three: Talk Only About Yourself

Remember that subject matter is the most important thing when boring people to death. Above all, it must concern yourself. If anyone ventures their opinion, turn the conversation back to yourself. Whatever topic comes up, say “That reminds me of a story. When I was ten…” Make sure your stories don’t relate at all to the subject. This really bugs people. Tell stories in real time. If you are older than sixty, never talk about anything that happened after you turned twenty. Talk about how bad things are today as compared to when you were a child. If you run out of stories about yourself, talk about the most inane subjects you can think of: when you went to Home Depot recently and got nails, the brands of motor oil available on the market today, the differences between varieties of trout. Don’t let anyone get a word in edgewise. Interrupt if others take the reins of the conversation. Stop only when your audience is gripping the arms of their chairs to stop themselves from punching you.

Number Four: Never RSVP

Especially if you are invited to a small dinner party. Or better yet, when a couple or a single friend has invited you over. Lead them to believe you will be there so they buy all kinds of extra food and clean their house. Then just don’t show up. Soon, you won’t have to worry about forgetting to RSVP—you won’t be invited anywhere! Joy!

Number Five: Inflict Your Ill-Behaved Children On Your Friends

Arm Timmy with an ax, a squirt gun and a toy that makes an insane amount of noise. Preferably a one-man-band. Instruct your children to run through your host’s house at top speed while screaming at the top of their lungs. Make sure they run into the china cabinet or something containing many fragile knickknacks. Give them sticky foods and don’t let them wash their hands. Make sure that they leave goopy fingerprints on the host’s new baby grand piano or mahogany dining room table. Have your children go through all the personal items of the host; through their drawers and closets. If possible, make sure the baby loses their diapers and messes on the host’s new Berber carpet. Snacks to bring: pomegranates, raspberries, beets, chocolate—anything that’s sure to leave permanent stains.

Number Six: When People Try To Dump You—STOP THEM

This is a very necessary step to ensure that the friends you’ve successfully driven out of your life, stay out of your life. When you first feel the signs of the cold shoulder, make sure to start plaguing the friend with phone calls. If they still ignore you, send them cards with poems you wrote about them. About how special their friendship is to you. Even if the person has ignored your calls for a year, don’t stop. Send them Christmas cards acknowledging the fact that they’ve obviously been too busy to get back to you. Be understanding. Then make them feel as guilty as you possibly can. Mention a disease you can’t speak about, imply you might be dying. Let them know they are the only friend you have left. How much they mean to you. Then make sure to flatter them. Lead them to believe there is actually some benefit in calling you. If they cave and call you, make sure to roast them over the coals for taking their sweet time in getting back to you. Eventually, they will hate you enough to contemplate putting out a contract on you, just so they’ll never have to hear your voice again. Won’t that be cool?

Number Seven: Complain About The Gifts They Give You

This is a wonderful tool for turning a thoughtful gesture into a nightmare. Tell your friend that the gift wasn’t the right color, the right size and it didn’t go with your new Berber carpet. Tell them if they really loved you, they wouldn’t have gotten you such an inappropriate gift. They should have instinctively known what you wanted. Make sure they return the unwanted gift and give you the cash. Make them feel horrible for letting you down. Try to make them cry. Talk about human repellent!

Number Eight: Try To Convert Your Friends

Amway, the Forum, politics, religion—any didactic fundamentalist dogma should drive them away. Pontificate on the merits of your newfound platform. Respond to your friend’s natural objections with oblique questions such as: So you don’t like money? So you don’t want to improve yourself? So you want to be in pain for the rest of your life? So you like being poor? Are you afraid of the truth?

If they don’t respond to the questions, attack them. Say things like: You just want to be a loser for the rest of your life, is that it? I thought you were smarter, I guess you’re not ready to be a millionaire. Well, it’s clear you’re not worthy of God’s love. You deserve to be left behind. Well, when I’m on my private island, having my feet rubbed by a local islander, sipping on a frosty drink, I’ll think of you toiling away in your cubicle, chained to your desk. Repeat the above incessantly. Don’t let the conversation end, either. Don’t give up. Eventually, your friends will give you money just to make you go away.

Number Nine: Gross Them Out

Bring the video of the birth of your child to the party. Force everyone to watch it before dinner. Compare parts of the meal to the experience. Talk about your recent colonoscopy. If the doctor has furnished you with pictures, bring them. Make sure to show people the polyps. Work your bodily fluids into every conversation. Talk at length about your recent bout of dysentery. When dining with people, fill your mouth with food and then start talking. Spit little bits of food onto your dinner companions and their plates. When your audience turns good and green and begins rushing to the bathroom—you’ve done your job.

Number Ten: Ignore All Social Conventions

Stand too close. Talk too loudly (of course, not all people who talk too loudly are bad people…). Arrive late. Stay late. Drink too much. Vomit in inventive places. Tip: try the potted plants or behind the bookcase—people love to be surprised!

You know what’s great about being a writer? You can write columns like this one, insult the hell out of the people who annoy you, and the annoying people never see themselves nor their behavior in your examples. Or maybe that’s what’s not great about being a writer…

* All of the above examples were based upon true events that happened to either me or a close friend.

© 2004, Janet Periat