Gayle's not here, Mrs. Torrance.

Gayle is back from Sacramento and will be giving a debrief sometime soon, but she is so tired, she can only refer to herself in the Third Person. To paraphrase Danny in The Shining (everyone hold up your index finger):



Here are some observations about the actual trip.

1. She should never take Red Vines on a 7-hour car ride. Even after she does not want another one, she must eat another one, and the last one tastes just like her salty tears because there are no more.

2. Singing along with Gladys (and Carole and Carly and well, you get the idea) at the top of her lungs is all well and good, but after such a long car ride and so much iPod music, her throat hurts.



3. When she is on the I-5, she can drive 75-80 miles an hour and run with the big dogs, but once she hits L.A. County, she is reduced to a whimpering pup as the Escalades and other large projectiles-on-wheels scream by her.

4. She passed a lot of Schneider National trucks on the way up and back, to the point that, as she followed the last one from the 210 to the 57, a story began forming in her head.

It involves a bad girl coming to a bad end, laying in the twisted wreckage, a vision of the Schneider National truck burning into her retina as Florence and the Machine pounds the Dog Days Are Over into the atmosphere, to join the coppery smell of blood turning sticky in the heat.

And with that, Gayle is going to turn on The Voice and turn off her brain.

Am I back?

I must be. I'm at least sitting in my family room.

We got in last night around 7:00 p.m. which was just early enough to unpack the car, wander through the house wondering how I left it in such a mess, start a load of laundry and discover the dryer vent needed to be vacuumed out again, and finally rummage through the pantry and ice chest for something approximating dinner.

So even though I'm here, I'm still kind of sleep-walking, trying not to admit I'm back to chores and commitments. I'd show you pictures of the idyllic mountains, still dotted with snow, and the crystalline lakes that are uber-cold, but I didn't take any. Here's a picture from 2004 of our children, enjoying the stream that runs through the lodge:

The boy in the middle back is Thor. He's 21 now. His brother Nick, front center, just graduated from high school, as well as Alanna, to the right. Marcus is on the left, looking so much smaller than today's version, a sophomore at CSULB.

I don't have pictures of them this year, although Dale might. As odd as it sounded, it was painful for me to think of them as growing up and going off. Thor hasn't been able to join us since he graduated from high school. Who knows who will be able to join us next year.

Yes, it's fun to see them become fine young men and women. Yes, I know they must become adults. But look back at that picture, feel the innocence and tell me it doesn't hurt to see them slip away.

In addition to the mountains, the ladies took a day to scamper over to Portola and shop. I stuck my head in Kelly Peroni's indy shop, High Sierra Books. This is what I found:

Too cool, yes? I'm right next to Lee Child. Kelly ordered more books, which is even more cool.

To cap everything off, we had a one-nighter in downtown Sacramento.

I loved-loved-loved walking around the neighborhood with the dog, and on Sunday morning, I went on a tour of the old Governor's Mansion. I love touring old neighborhoods and houses and hearing all about how people lived.

Before we left, I made my family walk back over to the mansion and take a picture of me and Duffy. The mansion WAS only across the street from our hotel, and the Governor DOES have a Corgi.

Yes, I know he doesn't live in the mansion, but still. Corgis rule.

And now, as Dale said when he turned on Hell's Kitchen when we came home, "Back to reality."

So - anyone else want to share what you did on summer vacation?

Friendship

Today's post is brought to you by the letter G for Grief, Good-bye, Gah.

Remember my sassy little book trailer for Freezer Burn? There is a picture of the book on a boat:

That's Jim Barnes. My book is wearing his arms, paddling the kayak on Salmon Lake, in northern California. Here's the actual shot:

I met Jim at the Gray Eagle Lodge in the Plumas National Forest in 2002. It was a fairly innocuous meeting; I honestly don't remember much about him except he was very quiet and went along with whatever anyone else wanted to do.

We kept going up to Gray Eagle every year, and kept meeting Jim and his family and kept forging our friendship. In addition to being quiet and agreeable, I also found out, over time, that he was funny, he played the guitar, and he was nice to hang around with. (This is a pic of our usual campsite. Jim's in the middle, standing.)

Eight years later, we're good friends, even though he's in Sacramento and we're in Placentia, which is about seven hours apart. We don't know the details of each other's lives, we don't speak daily, or even weekly, unless you count our Facebook shenanigans. But we see each other when we can, and if he needed us, we'd be northbound to Sacramento ASAP.

Which made it difficult when we found out he had cancer. Neither Dale nor I are doctors, caregivers, or have any clue about how to help our friends and loved ones go through this awful disease. We can be cheerleaders. We can offer our shoulders to absorb tears, or the weight of the world. We can even stand in the middle of a hospital and yell, "Who do I have to sleep with to get some attention around here?"

Okay, I can probably yell that better than Dale.

So we hovered, as best we could, 400 miles away, texting, calling, and doing the Facebook thing. We saw Jim in August at Gray Eagle. He was taking a lot of extreme medication to control the pain, and had just had the first biopsy. It was either lymphoma or pancreatic cancer, and he'd find out when he got back from vacation.

It's weird, but we were praying for lymphoma. It is, at least, the most treatable and most recoverable.

Several weeks pass, mostly because it seems that his doctors and nurses each want to piss one more day away and schedule things daaaaaayyyyyyssss apart. Not that I'm bitter about the medical establishment and insurance companies… We finally find out it's lymphoma and he's starting chemo.

Yay, lymphoma! (Weird, right?)

His first treatment doesn't go well. He's in pain, he's scared, and all we can do down here is tell him he's in our thoughts and prayers and we love him and if the kids need anything, we're here to help. I see on Facebook that some of his friends are familiar with the effects of chemo and are offering suggestions, and I feel better, knowing he's got such a big support group.

Another few weeks go by and I don't hear anything from him. I send a message to his daughter, Alyssa. "How's your dad?"

"Not good." Her reply is devastating. He is in constant pain. The chemo isn't working. Nothing is working. He asked his daughters for permission to go into compassionate care and slip away. There is nothing else to be done, except to be medicated beyond consciousness and wait.

Turns out it was pancreatic cancer all along.

At 11:25 p.m., the same day I receive this message and alert the rest of his friends in southern California and send a message to Lyssie of love and support, I get a text from a friend of his oldest, non-bio-daughter (not that it matters). Jim has just passed.

There are a frantic few days, trying to figure out whether to run to Sacramento just to hug three girls, or whether to wait until we can be of help, or attend a service, or… or what? What do you do for a friend? When my dad died, we flew back to Illinois to attend the funeral and help my brother clean out his apartment. Services for Jim are still a few weeks away. He has family who are helping the girls.

All I feel I can do right now is get out the tissues and the pom-poms. Cry on my shoulder, Sweeties, and know I'm rooting for you.

And Jim – I'd tell you to rest in peace, but I'd rather you rest on your own terms. Let it be peaceful if that's your desire. Or come back and haunt us if it gives you a giggle. Love you always.

One of our outings was when Jim, along with "Sarica" (Sara, the oldest and her BFF, Erica) came to the Sacramento Convention Center to see Marcus sing with the All State Jazz Choir. He was here, in the audience:

This has nothing to do with writing, except that I wrote it.

We're home, thank God. Did you miss me?

Hubby, son, and I took two different trips to northern California on two consecutive weekends. Marcus auditioned for two all-state choirs, performing on back-to-back weekends. At the time he was auditioning, I explained the meaning of "back-to-back" weekends, family finances, blah-blah-blah. He stared blankly, so I said, "Go ahead and apply for both. We'll let God make the call."

God has such a sense of humor, especially with me. Marcus made both choirs.

So, last Wednesday, we left Orange County around 5 p.m. for Sacramento. Yes, I know it's a seven hour drive. Yes, I know 5 p.m. is late. What can I say? Dale and Marcus wanted tacos.

Since Dale's hands were busy stuffing his face, I volunteered to drive. I thought I'd at least get us through the Grapevine. (For those of you who are unfamiliar with California, there are a very few routes north from the southern end of the state. The most common road is Interstate 5, which cuts across the Tejon Pass of the Tehachapi Mountains along a route we call the Grapevine. It consists of four lanes, straight uphill for half the distance, followed by straight downhill in the second half, where semis fill the right two lanes and cars are left with the other two.)

Off we went, the sun slowly sinking toward my eyeballs as we drove west on the I-210 toward the I-5. By the time we started the long haul uphill through the pass, the sun had disappeared and I was wondering if I could drive and dig the Excedrin out of my tote at the same time. I had just turned the headlights on when I saw the big sign on the roadside: "Left Two Lanes Closed at Vista Del Lago Road. Two Hour Delay."

NOOOOOOOO! Okay, I told myself, maybe it was left up from road construction earlier today. Maybe the traffic's already cleared. Maybe it's not as bad as it… is.

Turns out, the horrific winds blowing sideways through the pass (how do they do that?) had blown a semi pulling one of those half-a-prefab-homes onto its side. We crept for an hour or more, slowly scrunching our way over lanes, jockeying for position with other creepers, until we could survey the damage, after which, we were on our way.

We made it to Sacramento around one in the morning, had a great time, and were home by ten o'clock Saturday night.

Oh, some quick observations about Sacramento:
1. The Capitol building is really pretty. So's the park.
2. Loved the Train Museum.
3. Saw the Guvernator. That man's head is too big for his body. Seriously. He's his own Bobblehead doll.

The following Wednesday, we had to go to San Jose. Once again, Dale wanted tacos, and once again, I volunteered to drive. What was the worst that could happen?

Nothing, you negative Nellys. We got to San Jose around ten thirty. San Jose was a love/hate city. We did some fun things, Dale got to watch lots of basketball in the lounge (NCAA championships, baby), but that city is SOOOO expensive. I'm telling you, it bled us D.R.Y.

On Saturday night, we knew we'd have a long trip home. The concert didn't end until 9 p.m., but I just couldn't justify one more night in the Fairmont, which gave us a group rate but nickel-and-dimed us for everything. I mean, $14 for WiFi? Really?

Dale drove. All we had to do was go down the 101, across the 152 to the I-5, then straight home. That's alllll we had to do…

It's not Dale's fault, but he missed the turnoff to the 152. Lola, his GPS, cooed the instructions, but he just didn't follow them. I've done this before. Your mind goes somewhere else for a minute and suddenly you're not where you want to be. Much like the rest of my life.

Lola, in her usual Zen-like calm, recalculated and told Dale to get off on the next road, which he did. We thought she would take him on a parallel road that would lead back to the 152.

God knows she tried.

We drove miles and miles, down dark country highways. Four miles here, then turn left, then four more miles and turn right. At some point, he and Lola stopped speaking the same language. She would tell him to take a "slight" right and he'd take a "hard" right. She'd recalculate. At one point, she told him to take a road that had been closed due to construction. When she started telling us to drive eight miles, then make a legal U-turn, even Dale wanted to slap her.

By ten thirty, we weren't even past Gilroy yet. To add to the stress, we were low on gas, and the radio found a station that played the most progressive-rock, fuzzy-stoner-guitar-riddled, acid-trip-to-hell music I've ever heard. I was pretty certain the cast of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre were going to jump from behind a tree at some point.

In an attempt to keep from screaming, I played with Wanda, the GPS lady in my cell phone. According to her, we were on Route 25, which would wind through King City before dumping us back on the 101. I didn't know whether I'd cry because we'd wasted an hour wandering in a circle, or I'd weep for joy that we were back on a major highway, but I knew there'd be tears involved.

But Lola prevailed, and finally got us back to the 152 toward Gilroy and Interstate 5. I may have "whooped" a little when we got to the interstate, after which I fell into that restless sleep of the car passenger with no pillow.

In the end, we were home by 3:30 Sunday morning. Thank God.

P.S. Here's what Marcus did in Sacramento (he's the first male soloist):

What an adventure: Day One

I just got back from my trip and I barely know where to start. I was going to give you the Reader's Digest version of where I went and what I did, but the trip was so rich and filled with interesting things to see and people to meet, I'm going to take it a day at a time. It was a short trip, so it won't take long, I promise. And tomorrow, I'll have pictures.

My journey got off to a great start in Bakersfield on Thursday. First of all, I have this mental image of independent bookstores as hole-in-the-wall operations with tight rows of floor to ceiling bookshelves, crammed with Everything That's Ever Been Published. This picture was dashed when I pulled into the upscale shopping center and entered Russo's Books, next to Talbot's. It was clean and pretty and neatly arranged.

As always, I took a tour around the store, checking for their mystery section and seeing if they carry any of my friends' books. I then wandered to the back and saw a lady coming out of the office who looked like she might know something.

My spiel usually goes something like this: "Hi, I'm a debut novelist on my way to a book signing and I'm visiting independent bookstores (or libraries) along my route to see if you'd like to carry my book, or would like to have me come for an author event." This is said in a very perky voice, after which I whip out Freezer Burn and give them the 25-word commercial.

The lady in Russo's introduced me to Tony, as in Tony Russo, who went back to his office immediately and got his calendar to book me. Wow, as they say at Staples, that was easy! I'll be sharing a table at the Bakersfield Book Festival on November 7, which should be fun.

After my success, I headed up CA-99 to Fresno. The Fig Garden Bookstore was also in a rather ritzy section of town. While not exactly icy, they did not run to their calendar to see when I could come back for a visit. In hindsight, the lady who spoke with me is very old-school; she couldn't see beyond local authors and large publishers. But she graciously took my media kit and said she'd certainly order my book if anyone asked for it.

Naturally, I'm going to appeal to any of my Facebook/MySpace/Twitter friends in the Fresno area to go order Freezer Burn from The Fig Garden Bookstore. Pleeeeeeze. I want to turn this lady's head.
I had planned to see some stores in Sacramento, but I got into town too late for anything but dinner with my friends, Jim Barnes, his two daughters, Alyssa and Melinda, and their older sister, Sara. I met them in Roseville, at a place called Dos Coyotes. Getting there was fun…

Here's the thing: my 12-year old minivan does not have a GPS system, so I prepared for my trip with a bunch of Mapquest maps and the VZ Navigator system on my Verizon phone. As with most GPS systems, a gentle female voice told me where to go. I originally named her Wanda the Wonder Navigator, but after traveling 1200 miles with her, I've decided it's a pair of sisters. Wanda gives the very clear directions to "prepare to turn right in 500 yards" then lets her sister pronounce the names. Her sister (let's call her Justine) says things like, "Shee-Ay Wan ThurdEEN," for CA-113. I think she has a little problem, and Wanda may be enabling her.

I do hope she's not spending her entire paycheck at the corner bar.

The other problem with Wanda and Justine is that they are too polite. If I receive a phone call while they are in the midst of navigation, they won't interrupt to tell me I need to turn, like, NOW.

So as I was trying to get from CA-99 to the I-80, a girlfriend called, which silenced my navigating sisters and sent me to the wrong freeway. By the time we ended our conversation, I was in a very dark, very quiet, very industrial part of Sacramento. Was I worried? Pish, tosh, no. I had gas in the car, locks on the doors, and a potential story to tell.

"Recalculating," Wanda said.

After a few miles, I heard the reassuring direction to "prepare to turn right in point-five miles, onto-"

"Aye-etty eesht," Justine chimed.

After dinner, the gals directed me to my Motel 6, which seems like the kind of place you'd send someone who's just been released from the Institution for the Terminally Fragile. There are no sharp corners, no drawers on the desk, no lid on the toilet, nothing to hurt you. There are also no people who actually want to sleep or use their inside voices, and all the rooms have to be built underneath a busy freeway. But I was exhausted, so I slept anyway.

And that was Day One. Tomorrow, I'll talk about my signing in Quincy, but first, I'll show you pictures of some really big naked people in Auburn. Promise.

Road Trip!

Dear Minions,

I will be away for the next four days. Although I'll have access to my email, I cannot say the same about the Internet - it will be hit and miss. I am going to a book signing in Quincy, California.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the region, Quincy is in the northeastern part of California. Here:

It is the county seat for Plumas County. Out of the 20,000 residents of the county, Quincy is home to 1,879 of them.

I live in Placentia, which is in the southwest part of California. Here:


Listen - can you hear the sound? It's all of your brains, thinking, "Why would she make a 1200-mile round trip to such a small location?"

Because they asked me. When I was up there in August, I stopped by a few bookstores to introduce them to Freezer Burn. Christine Crawford, the owner of Epilog Books in Quincy, read it, loved it, and emailed me about doing an event.

My options were to wait until next August, when my family vacations there again, or to find a time and a way to get up there while my book is still new and fresh on the market. What's a girl to do?

I tossed it about in my mind for a few days, before deciding that I could visit bookstores and libraries on my way up and back. Somehow, I find it easier to sell people on Freezer Burn when I meet them face-to-face. I have friends in Sacramento to visit, as well as San Jose, so I can visit with them. As a matter of fact, Marsha (the Book Club Cheerleader) Engstrom is near Sacramento and invited me to an author's luncheon while I'm there. The featured author is John Lescoart, so I'm pretty excited about that.

I'm really excited about the trip, although I'm hoping that the 12-year old minivan with 185,000 miles on it is a good sport about it all. (I promise to clean out the back before I go.)

I can't decide what the best part will be - meeting new people or coming home with stories to tell. Admit it, you know I'll have them. See you all when I get back. And if you live in the Quincy area, come by and see me!

* * * * * * * * * * *

Post Script: Here is my horoscope for the week of September 17th. I'm not certain whether I should be trembling in fear or happiness...

Pisces Horoscope (courtesy Rob Brezsny's Free Will Astrology)

Your quest has come to a fork, Pisces. Down one path lies a tumultuous obsession -- a compulsive, tormented hunt like Captain Ahab's pursuit of Moby Dick. In the other direction, a graceful chase beckons, more in the manner of Sir Galahad's pure-hearted search for the Holy Grail. Choose one fork and your quarry will be beastly, impossible, and frustrating. If you choose the other fork, your quarry will be magical, earthy, and transformative.

Okay, don't be mad...

I'd love to tell you all more about the launch party, as I promised last time, but I'm afraid this is going to be a quick post to tell you I'm not going to be telling you much at all, at least not for a week.

I'm off with my family to our annual relaxation: a week at the Gray Eagle Lodge, which is nestled in the Sierra Mountains, about two hours northwest of Truckee, California. We do this with about five other families every year, most of us driving up from Orange County to meet the family who lives in the Sacramento area. Coming from southern California, this is a lengthy trip for us, so we usually take two days up and two days back, unless someone has to blast there/home due to (damned, cursed) work.

We were introduced to this area by our friends, the Russells, who've been going there for, like, ever. I think we started going in 2003, but I could be mistaken. The earliest pictures I can find are from 2004, when we started bringing Mikey the dog. Although he's a couch potato and an inside dog, he's learned to like it up there. Truth be told, I am the center of his universe, so he likes to be with me, where ever that is. Yes, it's good to be the Queen.

I've watched, in pictures, my son go from this (he's the one on the right):

To this (he's still the one on the right):

It has been one of the pleasures of this trip to watch these kids grow, and see their interests, as well as their relationships, change.

The other pleasure of this trip is that I met this guy:

His name is Mark Tieslau, and if you've read Freezer Burn and paid a lick of attention to the acknowledgements, Mark is the bartender extraordinaire who introduced me to the Grey Goose dirty martini. It became Peri's signature drink, the one she saves her money to have. It was also the perfect drink for a housecleaner.

So I'm off for a week with no WiFi, no TV, no cell phone reception. Incommunicado is the word, I believe. Trust me, I'll have plenty to say when I return.

In the meantime, please check out Mr. Dino Martin Peters' blog, whether you're a Dean Martin fan or no. I am truly falling in love with his Dino-speak, and when he posts anything I've done or said about Dean Martin, he refers to me as "Miss Gayle Carline", a moniker I find so endearing, I'd probably loan this man my car keys if he asked. Which would sound a lot better if I didn't drive a 12-year old minivan with 185,000 miles on it (but don't tell DMP).

By the way, I do love my life-sized cardboard Dean Martin. When I get home, I'm putting him in my guest room, just so I can say hello to him every morning. Until then...

Wagons, ho!