SquawkRadio

Being a witch comes naturally to some—no, not the Witch Political, the old fashioned caricature. You know.  Wicked Witch of the West. The cackling hag. The hook-nosed, green skinned, wart covered old bat that pokes out newts’ eyes for her diabolical soups...Oops. Sorry. I got carried away. Anyway, my point is that I possess a natural bent towards such witchiness and all things Halloween that my husband doesn’t. So, of course, when our kid (Doodah) started making the trick or treat rounds Daddy got nominated to trudge dutifully behind her as I gleefully remained home, ohing and awing at the various ghouls and monsters and politicians (and yes, that grouping was purposeful) that showed up with hands out stretched and bags at ready. 

But soon, oh-ing and ah-ing palled and I began to yearn to partake more fully in the festivities and the first thought that came to min was that I could be a witch. Mind you, this was long before the explosion of Halloween as a commercial industry. People carved pumpkins and doled out candy and sometimes stuck an animated 14” tall, moon-walking Frankenstein in their front windows but that was pretty much it. The first year I dressed up I put down as my rehearsal and while fun, it wasn’t as much fun as I had envisioned it being. Somehow, opening my suburban door dressed in black dress and wearing a wig failed to strike awe into the tender little breasts of my neighbor kids. Which , of course, was my goal. Children today are too sophisticated. Even the three year old from down the block could see through my disguise – or maybe she just didn’t think there was enough difference between what I opened the door in and my usual muck-about-the-yard garb.

The next year I decided to go for broke. Oh, mind, I wasn’t about to dump tons of money we didn’t have into the project but with a little ingenuity and some really dim lights, I made out. I donned my navy blue bathrobe, floor length with a zip front, bought a pointy hat at JoAnne Fabrics, and liberated Doodah’s karaoke machine (complete with vibrato special effects) from the attic where it had been banished until Doodah could carry a tune (still waiting for that.) Then, just after the dinner hour, I climbed out onto the faux balcony above the garage with a bag of mini-snickers bars, turned the karaoke machines’ volume and vibrato up full blast, and peeled forth with the witchly cackle to end all cackles. I have it on good authority that as many as three blocks away strong men paled upon hearing my witchly bell canto. And when flocks of little goblins came tripping up to my front door I would peer over the eaves and cackle, “Hey kiddies! Want a treat or would you rather I had one....?” Oh. I’m giving myself shills. Not as many as I gave the neighborhood kids who clutched each other and screamed in a rhapsody of delighted terror as I lured them forth in my karaoke enhanced voice, “Here, kiddie, kiddie. Here kiddie, kiddie.” As soon as they reached the porch, I’d lean over and toss down their candy to them. And a good time was had by all.

So began my blighted career as the Balfanz Witch.

I am humbled to admit that I was an instant hit with the sub-ten crowd.  As the years went by my notoriety grew. People would walk for blocks to come to the house just so I could rain snicker bars down on their kids –and just what does that say about parents of today, anyway? Then one cold, blustery Halloween night it all came to an end. Hubris and my own ignorance of the average thirteen year old’s capacity for revenge were my undoing.

I was sitting on my roof about to call it a night. It was late, the four to seven year old crowd were long gone and the eight to eleven year old surge was pretty much over, too. All that was left were the twelve to fourteen year old stragglers. You know them. The older brothers and sisters of the darling tykes dressed up as Tinkerbelle and Pound Puppy? The age bracket that is too cool to dress up but are still young enough that the idea of a bag of free candy is irresistible? The stage of life where they are just perfecting the sneers that will pretty much carry them through the next half decade? Yeah, those kids. Anyway I was just about to call it a night when four females showed up. They were about thirteen or so and all four had turned their jackets around and wore hand printed envelopes that read “Backward Girl.” And to think all the years I’d been ashamed of Doodah’s cheapo ghost bedsheet…

They couldn’t see me; The lights were on over the front porch which made me, hovering on the rooftop overhead, invisible. They shuffled around at the bottom of the drive a few minutes and I could hear them talking. I have to admit that the only bit of charm this quartet showed that night was their speech. It was a weird synthesis of 80’s Valley Girl vocabulary with a Fargo-esque accent.

“This is that house where that lady dresses up as a witch,” said Backward Girl #1.

“Oh, fer lame,” said Backward Girl #2.

“Duh,” Backward Girl #3 agreed –at least I think that was meant as an agreement. “What-ever.”

“It’s like way stoo-pid,” said Backward Girl #4. “Who’d be scared of some old witch dressed up like some old witch?”

There ensued hoots of laughter at this penultimate example of pubescent wit.

“Totally,” Backward Girl #1 said when the hilarity died down. “It’s like so sketchy. ‘Look at me! I’m a scary witch!’ It’s like totally lame.”

“You betcha, er, I mean, totally,” Backward Girl # 4 agrees.

“So, then, let’s go and get our candy,” Backward Girl # --oh, hell who cares which girl said what? They were like totally interchangeable anyway.

Now, I am not proud of what happened next but I was a trifle offended by these aspersions on my ability to strike terror into kids’ hearts so, in a truly uninspired moment, I decided to have a little “fun” with the girls. As they started up the driveway, I crept out off the balcony and onto the roof, lurking just out of the sight at the edge of the eaves.

They milled about on the porch a few seconds before one of them pushed the doorbell as another said, “I am so scared I can hardly stand it.” At which point, I popped out over the eaves, just above their heads and shout, “Heya girls!” in my best-cracked, wicked witch voice.

Their reaction was all a defamed witch could want. They jumped at least a foot in the air, shrieked like banshees, and clutched each other like, well, like little girls. 

“Want some candy?” I cackled.

They did not want some candy. Their terror was, of course, over in a matter of seconds, and I reckoned they’d just stomp off in a teenage huff. I reckoned wrong. I know. Stupid. In my own defense, all I can say was that Doodah was little yet and I didn’t yet know that the absolute worst thing in the world you can do to a thirteen year old girl is embarrass her in front of her peers and that if you do, you do so at your own peril.

“Get her, girls!” Backwards Girl Whatever shouted as with a cry of young female rage (the most fieresome kind), the girls fell to the ground and started scooping up windfall crabapples.
I squatted on the roof, mouth gaping, as the little bi—er, witches started hurling crabapples at me. Lots of crabapples! And I’m going on record today to say I think at least a couple of those girls must have ended up on the Olympic fast pitch softball team because those suckers HURT!

Now, I was not in a good position being stuck on a steeply sloping roof as I was, so I started a quick retreat, crabapples whacking my hat askew and making way too many directs hits on the undoubtedly too easy target of my giant bathrobe encased bum. By the time I scrambled back onto the balcony, I was ready for some payback –I did mention this maybe wasn’t my finest moment-- but I didn’t have any crabapples. What I did have was mini-snickers bars. Lots of ‘em,

The ensuing battle raged for a good ten minutes, volleys of dozens of crabapples countered by my own sniper-like accuracy with one candy bar at a time. We fought grimly, mutely, and in earnest, the silence punctuated by little “Uffs!” and an occasional “Ow!” and quite a few expletives (and these weren’t from me.)

Alas, despite my valiant last stand, ultimately there could only be one outcome: there were, after all, five crabapple trees down on the front lawn and only two bags of candy on the balcony with me, and I know when to quit. So, pitching my last snicker bar, I raised my fist and shook it at the sneering girls below, then made as regal an exit as through a small window as one can while wearing a witch hat and a bathrobe. The girls hooted in mockery.

And thus ended my career as the Balfanz Witch. The blue bathrobe returned to being just a bathrobe, the wig has long since been bequeathed to a new generation of witches, and the karaoke machine sits in the attic gathering dust. And Me? I learned a valuable lesson, one that I’m afraid I needed to learn over andover again when Doodah reached puberty: Never, ever underestimate the retaliatory response of an embarrassed teenage girl.

I’d like to say I was disheartened by my experience, that the fun of dressing up just wasn’t there after that night, but the truth was I didn’t dare go out the next year. Or the next. I was afraid they’d come back and next time they’d be packing regular-sized apples.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!

It’s Halloween, my dears, and Halloween is a day to share tales of the inexplicable and the other-worldly. The story I am going to tell you is true and it is my story. And if you do not like ghost stories, you may not like this one. However, if you are not afraid of ghosts but instead find them a matter of wonder rather than alarm, you may like my story very well.

Nert was our first “baby.” We found her at the end of a rutted dirt road, in a ramshackle machine shed somewhere deep in rural Minnesota. The sign at the end of the drive had read, “FREE KITTENS” and we were young, just married, and eager to start a family of our own even if that family, perforce, was one of cats and dogs. So we chose the smallest, muddiest looking female kitten from the litter, wrapped her in one of David’s old tee-shirts, and took her home. She did not cry during the thirty mile drive home. She entered our lives without making a sound.

Nert never grew a whole lot larger and her colors were never much prettier, though in our fond eyes she was elegant and subtle. Until the day she passed on, she never weighed much more than six or seven pounds and she never spoke much. A silent, light-footed, svelte little creature with a fine sense of humor and a gypsy soul. That restless nature ended up being the death of her.

In her eighth year, soon after we moved to a new state and a new house, Nert dashed across the street and was hit by a passing van. The poor man who drove stopped and brought her to me. He was crying. We ended up crying together. We buried Nert beneath the lilac bushes in the backyard, even though the house wasn’t her home. We missed her. She’d been our companion, our baby, or jester, and our confidante. She had sat beside us while we studied, ambushed us from under the Hosta leaves and slept curled between my knees at night.

Sometime after she died, I awoke one night with a vague sense of anticipation. Not fear, mind you. Simply, a drowsy expectation. Then I felt the bed by my feet give way, ever so slightly, and heard the almost inaudible poof! of the duvet giving way beneath some sudden small weight. What I had felt was, quite unmistakably, a cat jumping onto my bed. I knew that feeling intimately. I had felt hundreds of times before. Anyone who has lived with a cat as a family member knows that feeling...like a powder puff being dropped into a box of talc, a soft alighting, a settling.

Without thinking, still slumberous, I reached down to pet my friend. She was, of course, not there. Or was she? Over the course of the next few weeks, almost nightly I felt my ghostly companion join us in our bed late at night. Finally, I told David about it and without much surprise, learned that he, too, had heard and felt the little cat’s nightly arrival.

A year passed, then two and three and we moved back to Minnesota and I thought perhaps now we would have to say a final goodbye and leave Nert, or her spirit behind, beneath the lilacs in New York. But just as she had come with us to New York, she returned with us to Minnesota. For many more years we felt her springing onto our bed at nights. Not every night and eventually, slowly, as inexorably as memory fades, her visits ended.

It’s been many years now since Nert has curled between my knees but I like to think that she hasn’t done with us yet and that some night when I fall asleep she will find me once again.

So tell me, my dears, have you ever seen a ghost or felt one brush by you?

Easter and Passover and spring breaks and snow in Dallas. Fabulous! Squawk Radio is celebrating their two-year anniversary starting April 16, with two weeks of classic blogs, group blogs and special days. And prizes. Did we mention prizes?

And this week, on April 10 and 11, bestselling author Julie Kenner. Julie’s’s first book hit the stores in February of 2000, and she’s been on the go ever since, with over twenty books to her credit. Her books have hit lists as varied as USA Today, Waldenbooks, Barnes & Noble, and Locus Magazine. Julie is also a two-time RITA finalist, the winner of Romantic Times’ Reviewer’s Choice Award for Best Contemporary Paranormal of 2001, the winner of the Reviewers International Organization’s award for best romantic suspense of 2004 and best paranormal of 2005, and the winner of the National Readers’ Choice Award for best mainstream book of 2005.  She writes a range of stories including sexy and quirky romances, young adult novels, chick lit suspense and paranormal mommy lit.  Her foray into the latter, Carpe Demon: Adventures of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom, was selected as a Booksense Summer Paperback Pick for 2005, was a Target Breakout Book, was a Barnes & Noble Number One SFF/Fantasy bestseller for seven weeks, and is in development as a feature film with Warner Brothers and 1492 Pictures.  The sequel, California Demon is currently a finalist for the RITA award.  Julie lives in Georgetown with her husband, two daughters, and several cats. Join us on Squawk Radio Tuesday and Wednesday to welcome Julie Kenner!

Christina is proud to announce TROUBLE IN HIGH HEELS has been awarded Romance Reviews Today Best Contemporary Romance of 2006 award.

TERESA would like to wish all of her peeps at SQUAWK RADIO a joyful and blessed Easter!  The Easter bunny has already visited her this morning and left a box of Godiva truffles and the 50th Anniversary DVD of THE TEN COMMANDMENTS (Who can resist Anne Baxter crooning, “Moses, Moses...") May all your eggs be chocolate ones! 

The Webster’s Dictionary definition of shame:
1 : a painful emotion caused by consciousness of guilt, shortcoming, or impropriety
2 : a condition of humiliating disgrace or disrepute : IGNOMINY .

As it happens, I’m not blogging on being arrested, a shame to which I have not (yet) been subjected.  But at some point yesterday I realized that I was suffering little arrows of shame repeatedly.  The occasion that brought this bitterly to mind?  I took my children to a museum and then we wandered into a restaurant that turned out to be very, very nice (the kind where a waitress seems to have nothing to do but stand by your table, refill your glass, and smile in a long-suffering type of way).  I won’t go into what inspired shame.  It makes me turn pink and my blood pressure goes up.

But I started thinking about it.  My experience of shame has changed its focus over the years, but it doesn’t seem to go away.  Here’s a few things that used to shame me that don’t even make me blink anymore:

1) buying a box of tampons when a very cute teenage boy is bagging groceries (though I might not enjoy buying Depends, if those lie in my future)
2) having the bottom of my bikini fall off in the pool (I don’t wear bikinis, so this is not a problem)
3) buying romances in front of intellectuals (I’m a crusader now)
4) breaking into uncontrollable giggles during sex (no need to elaborate)
5) having my bra straps show (they’re designed to show, besides no one cares)

The cruel thing is that although I’m tougher and older and smarter...I still find myself ashamed.  A lot.  Some of it is self-inflicted.  For example, like most working moms, I tend to shop frantically, ahead of time, for holidays if I happen to find myself alone and in a cash-accepting environment.  So a couple of weeks ago I madly bought a lot of chocolate eggs, rabbits and the like.  Along with 12 marshmellow easter eggs covered with chocolate.  Oh no, I thought, looking at them. I can’t buy this: it’s too many and the children will get sick.  But then the brilliant thought occurred to me that I could eat a few myself (they’re my favorite!), thus throwing myself into the path of junk food to save my children.

Fine.

Every day around 4 I got into the habit of sneaking into my own closet, grabbing a marshmellow egg and sneaking back out again. 

Anyone want to guess how many eggs are left?

Oh the SHAME!

How about the rest of you?  What no longer shames you...and what’s shamed you most recently?

All poor Julius Ceasar had to worry about on the Ides of March was being stabbed in the back by his best friend.  We Squawkers have to worry about that on an hourly basis PLUS cope with these other terrors of the modern world like cellulite and rude cell phone users.  Hope these helpful tips will help you survive your own Ides of March! 

LISA WARNS: 
1. Beware of people who talk on their cell phones in places where you’re forced to listen
2. Beware of all-automated customer phone service when you’d rather talk to a person.
3. Beware of painful lip-plumping products
4. Beware of people applying makeup or otherwise self-grooming while driving
5. Beware of cashiers making snide comments about the romance novel you’re buying when they should be grateful you’re spending your money there!

TERESA WARNS:
1. Beware of that box of Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies that’s been in your freezer since 1978
2. Beware of men who tell you on your first date that you remind them of their mother (or their ex!)
3. Beware of any weight loss plan that promises DRAMATIC RESULTS IN LESS THAN TWO WEEKS!!! (when the tiny print at the bottom of the screen says you have to follow a sensible diet and exercise daily)
4. Beware of that pesky strip of toilet paper that insists on following you out of the stall and through the expensive restaurant
5. Beware of desperate romance authors at mall booksignings who offer you candy to come over and fondle their books

CONNIE WARNS:
1. Beware of answering any question that begins with, “Tell me the truth...”
2. Beware of going barefoot to an off-leash dog park.
3. Beware of hair stylists who wants to make you look “sassy.”
4. Beware of one-size fits all anything
5. Beware of cute little girls dressed in khaki uniforms who appear at your door carrying clipboards. If this happens, do not open the door. If you open the door, do not bring your checkbook. If you bring your checkbook you are doomed to spend months of aerobic exercise combating the results of this ill-fated meeting...unless you are Terri, who hides her cookies in the bottom of her freezer (like any cookie could hide from me! :snort)

LIZ WARNS:
1. Beware of the home improvement document that includes the word “estimate.”
2. Beware of the school parent association official who uses the word “volunteer.”
3. Beware of the retail sales associate who, under the fluorescent lights of the fitting room, utters the word “fabulous.”
4. Beware of the twelve-year-old who strings out over several time zones the word “pleeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaase.”
5. Beware of the kitten who resembles the word “angelic.”

ELOISA WARNS:
1.  Beware of overly wet mascara (like Lancome’s), because life is too short to spend your time looking like an owl.
2.  Beware of anyone who resembles Borat.
3.  Beware of the computer.  (This item added by my daughter, who wants me to read Stuart Little right now.)
4.  Beware of Stuart Little.  There are some children’s classics that are just too weird for words.
5.  Beware of SUGAR DADDY by Lisa Kleypas.  It kept me up half the night and I feel like a frazzled french fry.  And I look like one too.  And I would feel like one, except for this warm romantic glow I got from the book!

CHRISTINA WARNS: 
1. Beware of a cigar-smoking woman named Kitty who claims to be a decorator, moves in, drinks wayyyy too much tequila, and “beautifies” your home. (photo is Xtina’s house.)
2. Beware of the new ballet flats. They may be in style, but remember — you weren’t in ballet for a reason.
3. Beware of looking too closely at current photos of Daniel Radcliffe (especially if there’s a horse involved.)
4. Beware of construction workers who come to your house to sand off the lousy finish on your woodwork and refinish it (when it should have been done right the first time), and when they leave a fine silt shifts out of your airvents for weeks, covering everything with dust including your windows, and all the wall trim, and your new bookshelves and all the books you lovingly placed and the picture frames and the knick-knacks which you have wayyyy too many of, and that metal tree sculpture you accidentally left up in the entry which is made of wires and how are you supposed to dust that?
5. Beware of husbands who promise to dust your metal tree sculpture with the air compressor of his nail gun.

So have you ever experienced any of these horrors?  And if you could warn the Squawkers and your fellow Squawkees about something they should beware on the Ides of March, what would it be? 

Not only have we decided to each share our all-time favorite snippet of romantic advice, we’re also hosting a very special VALENTINE’S DAY CONTEST!  The lucky winner will win a complete set of autographed Squawker books.  We thought you might like to play too so we’ll be choosing the BEST PIECE OF ROMANTIC ADVICE from the Comments of this blog but you ALSO have to be a Squawk Radio Member to win.  So if you haven’t signed up to join the Squawk Family, now is the time!

TERESA says, ”Never forget that little actions can have big benefits.” When my husband works, I make his lunch for him the night before and always tuck a little “love note” inside the bag.  He sends me one-line e-mails every day that simply say, “I love you the most,” to which I reply, “You can’t because I love YOU the most.” (Stop gagging, Xtina!) Neither one of us ever leaves the house without getting or giving a goodbye kiss.  Nor would we ever dream of going to sleep without a goodnight kiss.  On summer Sunday mornings when I’m in the bathroom getting ready for church, he makes me a strawberry smoothie and brings it to me.  And yes, when he talks about sports, I pretend to be interested.  When either one of us comes home, the other one always tries to stop what they’re doing to greet them at the door.  It’s so easy to become lazy and apathetic in a long-term relationship but it really doesn’t take that much effort to remember why you chose each other in the first place.  So when it comes to keeping romance alive, DO sweat the small stuff! 

ELOISA has a piece of advice that’s a great deal less romantic than Terri’s—but I swear it’s just as important.  I’ve watched my friends, over the years, develop crushes on men who don’t seem to be responding with the proper level of fervor.  It happens.  My advice?  DON’T CALL HIM! I mean it.  Yes, as women of the 21st century we have every right to express ourselves freely and aggressively as do men; if you want to call someone and suggest a quick, mutually satisfying burst of sexual desire, definitely go for it.  But if you think you might have found a man you’d like to keep around, then do NOT call him.  I think it’s some ancient hunting instinct—but men really seem to need to think they’re chasing a woman.  That she’s not all that interested in them.  And from what I’ve seen, while men boast about women calling/texting/IMing them—they really relish the idea that they’re beating off opponents with a stick, or persuading a reluctant future bride that he’s worth her time.

LIZ Says Keep a United Front

The best piece of romantic advice I ever received was to make sure my husband and I always come across as a unit in times of turmoil. Whether it’s dealing with your family or your in-laws--or even your own kids--always be make sure everyone knows the two of you are TOGETHER. And be sure to refer to each other as “my husband” or “my wife” to stress that unity. Even if the two of you might not see eye-to-eye on whatever’s going on, settle your differences privately so that no one sees a crack where they might divide you.

Sort of like how when Paul and Chani marry in the novel DUNE, they do so back-to-back, to emphasize how couples should always look out for each other and have each other’s backs. How incredibly romantic is that? (Okay, I’ve never read the book, but my husband told me about it, and I’ve always had extreme writer envy for not thinking of it myself.) When two people marry, they become one unit. Yeah, we still have our distinctive personalities and differences and all that. But you need to be on each others’ sides. Get there however you can. And don’t let anyone get between you.

CONNIE says, “It’s Always Best When It’s Unplanned.”
Whatever “it” is. Magic can happen between the most unexpected people. Don’t ignore chemistry and don’t depend on external appearances. I’m lucky. I happen to be married to a Veritable God (and if that doesn’t get me to Paris this fall, nothing will!) but I’ve dated men who weren’t in the least bit good-looking. You know what? As my attachment grew --Note, Beloved Husband Mine, that I say “attachment,” because I have loved but One and that is You (Paris. Paris. Paris)--- the guys I dated got more and more handsome, until I thought they were crazy good-looking. And they were generally excellent kissers. At least I think they they were. I don’t remember. Having been kissed by you, Prince of My Dreams, I have forgotten all those who went before. Not that there were all that many. Again, I can’t remember. They are pale shadows from a murky past while you, Vibrant Lord of My Hearth (shuddup, squawkers) burn brightly, savagely, eternally in my heart!!!! (Paris. Paris. Paris.)

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Strike when the iron is hot! No one expects the Spanish Inquistion.... (double points for anyone coming up with the reference)

Christina Offers the Proof You’ve Been Looking For
Before I was published, I sold books for an independent bookseller. As a service for customers who had moved, Carol, my boss, would pick out romances, pack them up and send them off, and the customer would send her a check. It saved the customer having to find a bookstore in a new town and made money for Carol’s bookstore.  One day I walked into the store to find Carol laughing. She was holding a column by Dr. Joyce Brothers which quoted a study in Psychology Today. The study said that in married couples, if the wife read romances, the couple had sex seventy-four percent more often than couples in which the wife didn’t read romances. Carol had received the column from the husband of one of our long-distance customers. He’d also sent a fifty-dollar check for books and a note saying KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK.

Show that stat to your significant other and watch him squeal his tires all the way to the bookstore to get you a gift card. And have a nice Valentine’s Day.
.
LISA says, “Don’t forget a man’s most vital organ.”
You may think it’s an anatomical impossibility for a man’s heart to be reached through his stomach, but let me assure you, fixing his favorite meal will appeal to his heart, brain and all significant places of physical interest. I don’t think you have to be a great cook. A long-ago female friend, who always got all the great men, told me her big secret : they appreciate the effort. Which is why there’s no such thing as a bad blow job, a bad back massage or a bad red velvet cake. Your willingness to give it a shot is all that counts. My husband assures me that he appreciates my scintillating conversation and my attempts at seduction . . . but let me put a plate of homemade pot roast in front of him, and his eyes glaze over in rabid appreciation. It’s a primal response, in my opinion. They bring home a woolly mammoth, we put it in a Dutch oven with garlic and a can of crushed tomatoes, and there’s a hot time in the old cave tonight.

Turn on the oven. Make him a meatloaf. Maybe some cupcakes.  See what happens.

And if by chance any men are reading this, let me assure you the reverse is also true. There is NOTHING sexier than a man wearing oven mitts.

So how about YOU guys?  What’s YOUR favorite piece of Romantic Advice?  We’ll be picking our contest winner from the best tip we get late today.  But don’t forget that you also have to be a Squawk Radio Member to win so make sure and sign up if you haven’t!  The winner will receive a complete set of autographed Squawker books.  We wish you all a wonderful Valentine’s Day and hope you can curl up with your sweetie tonight or even better--a great romance!

1. I resolve Connie should use her spell-check. (Or spel-chek, as Connie calls it.)
2. I resolve Lisa stop being so nice and showing the rest of us up.
3. I resolve Mary should buy some clothes and stop posing half-naked for her covers.
4. I resolve Liz should stop all her $#%@^! profanity.
5. I resolve Teresa should stop tantalizing me with hints about her new book.

Cheers and Happy New Year to everyone!
LA DODD