Deidra Alexander's Blog

Whenever my fellow writers and I visit other author organizations, invariably they have us each stand, give our names and our genre. My friends always go first. They’re all sweet and genteel and wouldn’t consider saying anything untoward.

“I write regency.”

“I write inspirational.”

“I write paranormal.”

And then they come to me. You should know this, but I’ll tell you just in case you haven’t realized, I can’t be normal or demure.

“I write …. Prehistoric Erotica. I have two titles out. Once You Go Rhino You Never Go Back to Dino and Is That a Brontosaur Bone Under Your Loin Cloth or Are You Just Glad to See Me?”

This always creates a disruptive moment when cell phones are whipped out to search for the aforementioned titles with no success. So when I saw these images by Rodrigo Lazzarini, I knew it was perfect for my someday project. The Bones of Yesterday Chronicles.

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Ran into Gert again, the 80 year old chain smoking erotica author. I asked her about her work.

“Yea, I was writing erotica back when it came in brown paper bags.” She tossed the lime and salt aside and down a tequila shot straight. The only way I got her to let me interview her was to challenge her to a tequila shot contest.

I drank my shot, wincing. “So you’ve been writing about people in love for a long time?”

“No, I’ve been writing about people having heart stopping sex for a long time. Write what you know and this I know.” She blew a succession of smoke rings. “Ready for another.” She was already two shots ahead.

“Sure.” I gagged on another.

She grabbed my lime and tossed it to the bar tender. “When do you get off handsome?”

“And you’ve been successful.” I tried to draw her back to the conversation.

“It’s no Harry Potter, but I’ve gone ok. Which reminds me my next title is coming out – Gordan and His Little Wizard.”

I don’t remember much after the fifth shot. I woke up on an old sofa with lint stuck to my face.

I don’t know if I learned a lesson, other than don’t try to out drink an 80 year old chain smoking, whiskey drinking, man hunting author.

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To the caller of 8:00 a.m. meeting –

Early and I are rarely in the same meeting. We don’t like each other. We are not friends. Early frequently ridicules me and Morning just eggs him on.

And no you cannot bribe me with Breakfast Food. I know Breakfast Food and I go way back and get along quit well, but I refuse to be bribed…

Pass me Mr. Bagel and his girlfriend Cream Cheese.

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This morning there was an ambulance and a fire truck at my neighbor’s house. There wasn’t a fire, so the truck must have just gone along for the ride. I understand sending an ambulance with a fire truck, but not a fire truck with an ambulance.  I’m hoping the guys in the ambulance know CPR and the rest of the medical stuff. Maybe the fire truck guys were hoping for spontaneous combustion.

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While Fiona is putting together her next blog, here’s some random stuff.

You know your ancestors were of color if the Ku Klux Klan regularly screwed with them. You know they were Native American if they kicked ass back. You know you’re southern if you’re still talking about it three generations later.

Last night, I reached into the vegetable crisper and pulled out something soft and mushy like half-cooked squash. It was wrapped in plastic or my hand would have been covered with green slime. It was then that I became a fan of petroleum products.

I love the physical act of writing. I love the smell of eraser and the scratch of pencil on paper. I can even write without looking at the paper. I like doing that and pretending I don’t have control, like it’s a Weegie board. People freak out when I start writing a note from their long gone Grandma.

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It was early one spring when I found myself on a French highway between Normandy and Paris with my panties strung on a line across the back window of a silver sports car. French truck drivers, not unlike American truck drivers were quick to express their approval of my delicates flapping in the breeze as I zoomed back to Paris.

This would never have happened if I hadn’t decide liquor was more important than panties. You see I worked in Europe three weeks of every month. So naturally, I decided I could forego clothing to create luggage space for more wine and champagne.

This time my brilliance got the best of me. I found myself in the unfortunate position of being in a hotel in rural France without clean panties.

Never fear, I thought, a quick wash in the sink and they’ll be dry and ready for the flight back to the U.S. in the morning.

Unfortunately my delicates were still wet. Not to be outwitted by panties, I grabbed a string from the hotel owner and strung it across the back window of the sports car I had rented. I set off for Paris, my windows down and my line of undies flapping behind me.

Admiring truck drivers honked at me all the way back to Paris. I pulled into the car rental lot to the shocked horror of the Parisian employees. They found me ripping my underwear out of the back window and shoving it into my suitcase just in time to catch my flight. Lesson learned keep better tabs on your panties when traveling.

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It was late one evening or early one morning depending on your perspective. I was finishing the last chapter of a great book (reading, not writing) when I heard a loud bang come from my garage. I could see the garage from another room in my house, so I peered across to see the garage lights on and the door open.

If I was sure of only one thing, it was I always close the garage door. All was silent, so I grabbed my home phone and called wait for it – a friend.

“Are you behind my house by any chance?” I asked.

“No, I’m in Louisville.”

“Holy crap, I think someone’s in my garage.”

“Just go check.”

Another crash. “I’m going to call (wait for it)  my sister.”

I called my sister who suggested 911 might be a more appropriate group to get in touch with. I didn’t want to bother 911 in case it turned out to be nothing. But finally (3 minutes later) I decided, What the hey I’d give them a call.

The 911 operator said, “Police are already on the way. Your sister and your friend already called.”

More banging, clanging and mayhem came from the garage. As I crouched behind the kitchen island, I realized how flimsy the door between the garage and the kitchen was.

My cell phone rang. It was my friend, a man as you’ll see from the following conversation. I had him on one phone and the 911 operator on the other.

“Go see if you can see anyone outside the window,” he said.

“Okay,” I said.

“What did he say?” the operator asked. I told her, she said, “NO, stay down.”

“Turn on the outside light,” friend said.

“What did he say?” the operator asked. I told her, she said, “NO, stay where you are.”

“Go listen at the garage door,” friend said.

“What did he say?” the operator asked. I told her, she said, “tell him to shut up.”

After a time of hiding in the dark behind the kitchen island, the 911 operator said, “The police are outside. Do you have a weapon?”

I said, “I have a wire hanger.”

The operator snickered and told the officers that I was armed with a wire hanger. The officers snickered but said I could hang on to the hanger if it made me feel safer.

Yes I in a room full of knives I picked up a wire hanger and was ready to throttle any intruders.

NO MORE WIRE HANGERS. Remind you of anyone?

P.S. I slept with that wire hanger for quit for almost six months.

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