Welcome to My Worlds: A Bipolar Christian Tells All

 

Now This Is Romance

So, I told y’all about the horrors (for me) of the RWA conference, 2008. This installment covers the good stuff. Unfortunately, the good things aren’t funny, but what the heck? Just didn’t want ya to think everything was gnarly.

Once I made it on the plane, I thought, I must be on the Space Mountain ride at Disneyland…. I flew Virgin America. Their planes are Phly! (No pun intended … well, maybe.) The side lights overhead are neon amethyst, the seats are black leather (yeah, even in coach), the seatbacks are slick, pristine, white high-gloss whatever-they-make-’em–out-of (I realize I only allow my authors two such descriptive words, but I’m an agent, and this is my blog. Oh, the power…). Great leg room too.

They had lots of spiffy flight attendants, and I knew my other, other business (4 Gals Designs) was well on the way to making it big, cuz when I trolled down the aisle, flight attendant Brad took one look at the briefcase I made (not the one I nearly lost a thumb over), stopped me and said, “Oh, my. I love your bag!" (Sigh.)

The plane arrived on time and without incident: no crashes, no turbulence, no warning of a possible water landing—what a letdown! But at least the pilot and co-pilot came out to say goodbye, although neither commented on my bag. (Sigh.)

Hotel check-in was a breeze, unlike a few years ago at the Adam’s Mark when it took two hours of waiting in line. Some genius decided to book RWA and Mary Kaye at the same time. (Beastly!)

Since I was still incognito, as I was too late to register and get my name badge, two gals strollin’ toward the elevator didn’t know who I was. They were commenting on the ribbons on one of their badges. One gal was explaining what the PRO ribbon meant, (means you’ve submitted a full manuscript to an editor/agent and received an answer, even if it’s a rejection) and that as a PRO member, she was supposed to get a better shot at an agent appointment. I asked who she booked with, and she said she couldn’t get anyone. So, I got to play Santa. I whipped out a business card (from the sassy handbag I’d made in addition to the briefcase) and told her to show up fifteen minutes before my scheduled appointments. Man, she looked stunned. I love helping people. (Sigh.)

Next, I met my fantabulous roomie, Jennifer. Thank you, God. She’s great. Most agents don’t offer to share their room, and it wasn’t until later we found we were sharin’ more than that. The “Executive King Suite" not only had an “open floor plan,” but it only sported one bed! (I wanna know why they call it a suite when it had one room with a half-wall that hid the bed if you’re in the bathroom. Sheesh.) No worries. We managed nicely.

I had a great time at the Death by Chocolate Party, even though my clients didn’t win Daphnes. (Yeah, I agree, they were robbed.)

Friday mornin’ rolled around. I had no choice but to skip the showcase (editors from major houses tell everyone what they’re lookin’ for) I wanted to attend, and go buy some shoes, drat the luck! Of course, one pair wouldn’t be worth my time, so I bought three pairs (or would that be “three pair”?).

I loved seeing my clients at our annual Friday night dinner, as I don’t get a lot of face time with them. Some also made appointments with me. Sharp!

I ran into a gaggle of gals (well, not literally) who, boo-hoo, also didn’t get agent appointments. Yes, I already have too much to read, and yes, I wanted to meet with all of them anyway. Imagine spendin’ all that money for a conference and not getting’ an appointment. Not. On. My. Watch.

Poor Marjorie was workin’ a walker, and was last person to reach me. I had no time left. I’d booked every minute I wasn’t already meeting anyone, or attending something. (Yes, literally.) But wait … no obstacle can overcome “the mominator" (what daughter #3, The Genius Child, calls me). I asked Marjorie if she was game to put her walker into high gear and hoof it up to my room at 8:15 a.m. before my Saturday morning appointments. Think she wasn’t? (In Kelly-speak, that means “yes.")

In rolls the Mighty Marjorie. I was dressed, but sans make-up (and the brave lady still came in!) I moved the desk chair in front of the bathroom door for her to sit in, grabbed all the stuff that makes me look human (or close), and applied my make-up while Marjorie pitched. (See, told ya I was a regular gal.)

Skip to the appointment room. (No, I didn’t really skip.) All us “industry professionals" had little tables to sit behind with are appointment lists in front of us, and empty chairs across. No way I was gonna sit there and wait. I got up and moved to the empty-chair side.

I memorized the prospective clients’ names, and when the rigid line of hopefuls marched in with a wee bit of trepidation, I was all excited, leaning in to get a better view of the nametags. It felt like old times, when you could actually wait for your loved-one disembarking the plane to rush out into your awaiting arms—which is just what I did. I opened my arms wide and said, “There’s my Esther!, My Fiona (Julie couldn’t make it)!, My Mary!, My Marsha!, My Cindy!, My Barbara!, My Anne Marie!, My Sandra!" Gave each a big hug and babbled, “I’m honored you had one agent appointment, and ya chose me." (FYI: I meant it.)

Well, as if anything could get better than that, I snagged a coveted spot on Esri Rose’s “Shoe Revue." Only the coolest shoes make the cut. Yep, this proved what I’d known about me all along. I don’t crack under pressure and just settle for any old shoe. I found three gorgeous pairs (or would that be “three pair"?) in forty minutes flat (well, actually, I bought stilettos.).

To view my spiffy lava-like pumps and read my quality quote, go to: www.elvesamongus.com. On the right top margin, click on “Shoe Revue." My foot is under the header, “And I’ll take the even higher road…" I’m foot #1, of course. (Sigh.)

So, I make it home after another uneventful (boring) flight, and finally set foot on my piece of heaven on earth. What could be better?

My hubby (he’s such a sweet man) grins and tells me to sit down, as he has a surprise for me. My anniversary gift was comin’ early. Hmm. I sit, he reaches under the couch, then jostles to hide something behind his back. Hmm.

He jerks his hands forward, and reveals the prize. I jump up, I scream, I shout, “Yes! Yes!" with all the joy I can muster. What was in the box my hubby (he’s such a sweet man) handed me? AMMO! And I knew what was comin’ next. BOO-YAH!

Then it was in my hands, in all it’s titanium glory. A new Taurus, .38 Special (+P) Revolver. I know some of y’all opt for semi-automatics like the Glock or Sig, but a revolver has its place. Recently, a nasty Iraqi terrorist went to a local area and hassled a local chieftain. The chief refused to back down, so the nasty Iraqi pulled his Glock and fired at point-blank range. Oops! The Glock jammed. The chief calmly whipped out his revolver, probably unearthed from 500 A.D., fired, and shot that nasty Iraqi, who’ll never know why he didn’t get a shot off.

Still, I stood perplexed for a moment ’cause I already had a titanium, Taurus .45 Colt. Hmm. This new weapon was lighter, and the handgrip was the perfect size for me. How sweet is that hubby?! (And where’s that interrobang when ya need it?!) But wait, Johnny, that’s not all—no bored holes in the barrel. This puppy not only fires regular bullets, it shoots, you guessed it: SNAKESHOT! (Sigh.)

Now that’s what I call R-O-M-A-N-C-E. My hubby really is such a sweet man.

Welcome to My Worlds. (Sigh.)

This entry was posted on Wednesday, September 2nd, 2009 at 17:55 and is filed under Welcome to My Worlds - Gotta Read it!. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.