Have you heard about the Swedish Parts Network? Well, if you are the owner of a Saab or a Volvo automobile then you need to know about the Swedish Parts Network. You see, they are THE place to go if you are in need of any Saab Parts or Volvo parts. They have a great selection so why not check them out today!

Warning: This could be offensive to visiting Mormi. It shouldn’t be, but some Mormons are so sensitive.

I was wondering earlier today (I do that sometimes, get curious about things I don’t know about) and wondered thus.

When Mormons get crazy at a party, and clothes start coming off, what about temple garments? On or off?

I know when I strip down at a party, I go all the way back before original sin, but, then, I’m not Mormon.

You know, it is getting to be the holiday season. I have even seen some talk on message boards about Black Friday and Halloween has not even gotten here yet! Well, anyways, I do not know about you but I have already started my holiday shopping. Of course, I have only been able to cross off one person, but still, it is a start. And I just recently became aware of a rather interesting, in an odd sort of way, gift certificate that you can get for the holidays from C’elle. And really, nothing says happy holidays like a gift that allows you to get up close and personal with your own menstrual fluid. But really, I suppose this is a good gift idea for people that are interested in harvesting stem cells from their menstrual fluid while they are young and healthy. If you know someone like this you can head on over to their little Order Now page and order it right up. Of course, if you are trying to buy for the person that has everything, well, I bet they don’t have this! Heh. You can have a look at the Pricing page on the site to see what your options are. And in case you are not familiar with C’elle - it is a revolutionary service dedicated to providing women with a safe and easy method of collecting and preserving stem cells found in her menstrual fluid each month. You can get the C’elle gift certificates can be purchased in any amount over $50. So look into it today for your holiday shopping list.

A while back, one of you caring people asked what I was up to these days.

Things you might have noticed:

I haven’t been updating my WMC fic as regularly. Or anything else on here.

I haven’t been ranting about work, so, therefore, I clearly don’t have a job. If I did have a job, trust me, I’d be ranting. I have yet to have been employed somewhere that I only had good things to say.

Now, aren’t those two things incongruous? After all, if I’m not working shouldn’t I be able to produce fic like a flash-fiction machine, churning out words like a stenographer with, you know, her own thoughts? You would think. But actually, being forced into the daily grind is like fertilizer to my fic writing. This analogy works in all kinds of different ways. Being chained to an office makes my fic flourish, but due only to the fact that I am mired in shit all day long.

In an office, writing fan fic is easier for me than writing most other things. It’s generally shorter and a little easier to think up amidst distraction, since the characterizations are already there and all I have to do is stick them in an apartment together, or a hotel room, or throw a bucket of emotional pain on them and try to remain true to their voices. (Anyone wishing a job on me right now is no longer my friend.)

Amidst noise and interruption, I have difficulty creating new things, getting in touch with my own thoughts. I have found that I can write screenplays with some degree of success while on the clock, but I have yet to master really focused writing, novel-writing for instance, while co-workers are yapping nearby and someone is trying to talk me into entering some numbers into a spreadsheet for them so that they can get more time on the internet.

And right now, I have some novel writing to do. (Sorry it’s not the sequel to Bleeding Through Kingdoms. Not yet.) It’s another idea I’ve had for some time that’s been marinating. At first, I thought it would be a screenplay, because an awesome movie it would indeed make. But I can’t do exactly what I want to do with it in screenplay form. Not that I wouldn’t love to see it both ways.

What I’ve learned about myself is this. When it comes to writing a novel, I need a kind of absolute focus that is beyond normal. I wrote Bleeding Through Kingdoms in about a month. (Just the first draft… obviously.) During that month, I got up everyday, ran on a treadmill for an hour to clear my head and thought about my book. I took a swim and thought about my book. I made coffee and showered, thinking about my book. Then I sat down at the computer and I didn’t get up again until I had finished a chapter. Sometimes I was done by the time Shawna got home from work. Sometimes I had to stay up after she’d already gone to bed to finish. But I was singularly focused. You could safely say I didn’t have a single thought outside of what Cinderella was going to do next for an entire month.

I am going to try to be a little more realistic this time. I have another virtual season episode to write after all, and I do want to keep updating my WMC fics. But if it takes more time than it should, and it has, I apologize for the wait. I am also still doing things that come with a move, putting together furniture, etc. (Not to mention the ant invasion that has taken place in our apartment over the last two days. It’s nasty and has put me on high alert.)

But, for the sake of your further understanding, here is a typical Riley schedule when she gets up in the morning without a place to go.

Sometime before 8 a.m. (but usually after 7 a.m.) - Riley drags her ass out of bed and curses her caffeine-addiction as she beelines for the coffee pot.

As soon as the first mug is filled with pleasing java - Riley sits her butt down on the couch and hunches over her laptop.

One of two things happens at this point. Either ideas start flowing out of her as if she were a volcano and coffee the catalyst - OR - she stares blankly at the screen, wondering if she will ever have another idea again.

If the ideas start flowing, and are really coming strong, Riley may sit there, her back turning to a pain-filled lump, as she refuses to move (other than when natural bodily functions demand it and cursing the entire way) until she has gotten every idea out. Occasionally, Riley’s back demands she get up from her happy ass and do something to stretch it out, and, therefore, occasionally Riley does her exercises in the middle of writing like a good girl.

If ideas aren’t on the agenda, Riley wrinkles her nose, sighing that it never causes anything cool to happen like on Bewitched, and either tries to switch to an idea that is coming more freely (Yay! Fic!) or realizes there are things in the apartment that need done. Due to the ant invasion, I spent half of yesterday on my hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen and bathroom floors. (Ah, the good life.)

So, there you have it. This is the excitement that is Riley while writing a novel. I know. It’s all very glamorous. I believe Biography has scheduled a piece on me next week.

I am certain that you have seen mention of the latest smelly good item from Renuzit. In fact, I suspect that you have seen some of the ads that feature Tanya Memme, the host of the A & E show ‘Sell This House.’ Well in case you have managed to miss out on seeing any of those ads that are out there the latest and great smelly good product that you want to get for your home is Renuzit TriScents. They are kind of unique in that while they do have the smelly good oil like some of the other brands out there, they have more than one. You see, if you get a Renuzit TriScents Transform Your Home kit for your home you will notice that it has actually three different oils included in it and they are all different scents. Of course they are scents that do not clash and actually smell good together. I have one in my living room. And the way that it works is that it kind of rotates out the scents. It is actually kind of neat because one minute you are getting one smelly good smell and the next time you walk through the room it is a different scent! You should try these out today for your home. You will be glad that you did. So head on over to their site for more info. Or even look for them the next time you head on out to a store like Target or something. You should be able to find them there.

Sometimes, when I’m eating popcorn, I eat the kernels. If I engage in vigorous activity after, and my body temperature rises, will it pop?

TITLE: A Conversation with Claire about Fate, Destiny, Two Souls… and Other Metaphysical Crap
PAIRING: Lindsay/Cindy
DISCLAIMER: Women’s Murder Club does not belong to me. The characters do not belong to me. They are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. (Well, not anymore. Jackasses.) I have no problems with that as long as I can borrow them for short bursts and use them in pursuit of my own enjoyment. I am not trying to infringe. Though, I don’t know why anyone has a problem with fan fic. After all, it really is a compliment. If anyone wants to write fan fiction about my book, feel free.

“Why so pensive, Inspector?” Claire asked, glancing up from her pile of paperwork. “No one’s been murdered today, have they?”

Watching Lindsay sit down across from her desk, in what she would clinically call a full-bodied crash, Claire tilted her head in concern.

“Are you okay?”

“Mm,” Lindsay hummed in a way that didn’t really confirm or deny. “I had a talk with Jill earlier.”

“About what?”

With a small, not particularly humored, chuckle, Lindsay looked up at Claire.

“I’ve had a lot of conversations lately. I think they’re all about different things, but then it turns out they aren’t. How weird is that?”

Not as weird as Lindsay’s behavior. Claire refrained from stating that fact aloud.

“So what are they about?” Claire asked carefully. “Because you look really depressed.”

“I’m not depressed,” Lindsay contradicted with a sudden bout of liveliness, before settling back into her chair looking spent. “Caffeine just wore off, and I didn’t get any sleep last night.”

“So you’re not depressed, but there is something wrong,” Claire reasoned.

Lindsay studied her, forcing herself into a more upright position.

“You took psychology, right?”

“I took a couple electives, yeah,” Claire nodded.

“Okay, so let’s word associate,” Lindsay said.

Claire narrowed her eyes, trying to read Lindsay, who was going out of her way to make herself indecipherable.

“As your friend, I vow to help you in any way that I can, even if you haven’t actually told me what the problem is,” Claire declared. “But just to be clear, you do realize I’m not a real shrink, right?”

Lindsay gave her a moderately honest sneer, before concentrating a very forceful gaze across Claire’s desk. She wanted to be ready for any visual clues that Claire was being less than straightforward.

“When I say ‘love of Lindsay’s life’, you say?” Lindsay queried.

Claire froze up like she’d been hit with a freeze ray. “Aren’t you just supposed to say one word?” she asked, visibly flustered. It was telling, since it was exceedingly rare that she got that way.

“Who’d you think Claire?” Lindsay mercilessly interrogated.

Claire shook her head helplessly, looking everywhere but at Lindsay, and quietly uttered what might have been the flimsiest perjury in the history of the universe. “I don’t remember.”

“It was ten seconds ago!” Lindsay exclaimed.

Claire chose not to respond to the accurate, aggravated comeback.

“Okay,” Lindsay tried again, calming to a more reasonable volume, and putting herself at Claire’s mercy. “Let’s say there are people in this world who are supposed to be together, two halves of one whole. Soul mates.”

The strange look that materialized on Claire’s face stoked Lindsay’s discomfort into flat out embarrassment, and she felt the sudden need to act a lot cooler than she felt.

“I’m not saying that’s the case,” she scoffed lightly, but despite her effort to maintain total aloofness, there was a desperate need to know in her follow-up. “But if it is… who’s my other half?”

Obviously less than delighted to be the sounding board for this particular debate, Claire looked around for a saving grace, turning back to Lindsay only when she’d exhausted every nook and cranny of her office without finding one.

“Pete?” she tried.

The lie could only have been more obvious if she had actually buffered it with, “I’m lying about this, but…”

Lindsay shook her head, not in dispute, though she knew it wasn’t true, but in refusal of Claire’s attempt at fibbing her way to a safer topic.

“Tom?” Claire submitted.

It was even more untrue. And more transparent.

Lindsay’s eyes drilled into Claire, trying to make her succumb as if she were a suspect. Refusing to bow to Lindsay’s authoritarian demeanor, Claire huffed.

“Is this about Cindy?”

“I knew it!” Lindsay shouted, pointing her finger at Claire accusingly, before jumping up. Energy renewed, she paced, in brisk, clipped strides behind the chair. “Does everyone think this but me?”

“You don’t think it?” Claire questioned.

“No!” Lindsay snapped at once, feeling instantly guilty and hypocritical. She didn’t want Claire lying to her, but apparently had no problem returning the favor.

“Just askin’,” Claire returned without a trace of anger, which doubled Lindsay’s guilt.

Carelessly, she collapsed back into her chair.

“Dreams don’t always mean something,” Lindsay proclaimed, mostly to herself. “Or sometimes they mean the opposite of what they seem to.”

Of course, the opposite of sleeping with her youngest, newest best friend would be sleeping with her oldest, most long-standing best friend. So what was she saying? If she didn’t want to sleep with Cindy, then she must want to sleep with Claire?

Only she didn’t want to sleep with Claire. She wanted to sleep with Cindy. That part she could admit. She just wanted to get it out of her system, because it was the only thing that she could think about since she was being simultaneously brainwashed by everyone in her inner circle.

“Soul mates, dream interpretation. I think we’ve gone a little beyond psychology,” Claire uttered.

“Work with me, Claire,” Lindsay exasperatedly beseeched her.

“I’d love to,” Claire countered, “but you’re talking in generalities. Maybe if you were a little more specific.”

Lindsay looked for telltale signs that Claire was being a smart ass, but, honest or not, she looked convincingly sincere.

“I love Cindy. Like a friend,” Lindsay continued quickly when Claire’s eyes expanded to unnatural proportions. “But apparently my subconscious… really wants to…”

Hesitantly looking up, Lindsay caught Claire trying to wipe the smirk from her face.

“Something amusing?” she asked.

“Not amusing,” Claire answered with poorly contained merriment. “Just interesting.”

“Yeah? What’s interesting about it?”

“It’s interesting that you would bring it up… since it doesn’t mean anything,” Claire explained in a way that plainly suggested it did mean something.

“Jill brought it up,” Lindsay mumbled in her defense.

“Really?” Claire tossed back in a mildly intrigued tone. “And how do you think Jill would know any of this?”

“That’s a good question,” Lindsay muttered.

“It is?” Claire seemed surprised. “You don’t think it’s because you are totally obvious. Oblivious… but obvious.”

Stopping just short of yelling “Hey!” like a grouchy toddler, Lindsay leaned forward on Claire’s desk.

“Obvious about what? And oblivious of what?” she inquired, menacingly.

“Oh Linds, come off it,” Claire finally lost her patience, stunning Lindsay back against her seat. “Your subconscious isn’t telling you anything your conscious doesn’t already know. You did everything in your power to keep Cindy from getting too close to you because you knew. You knew and it scared the hell out of you.”

Lindsay felt whiplashed by the abrupt change in tone.

“What did I know?” she softly inquired.

“Soul mates. Who said that?”

Lindsay dropped her eyes to the edge of Claire’s desk, gnawing her lower lip.

“Exactly,” Claire continued. “Those are your words, Lindsay. Cindy, she just popped up. You were going about your daily business. You weren’t expecting her. It was messy and complicated, and you treated it like a fluke. When Pete came along, he was the perfect cover. It was all very rational. Man meets woman, flirts, buys her flowers, asks her out on a date. They go out a few times. They have sex. You may as well have been reading a manual on how to have a rational relationship. It was a perfect diversion from the fact that Cindy waltzed on into your life and owned you.”

Slack-jawed, there was no other way to describe Lindsay’s subsequent state of immobility. Clearly, Claire had been dying to preach this sermon for some time.

She wanted to at least deny that she’d been owned, but she couldn’t even get that far.

“Cindy follows no logical pattern,” Claire went on more gently. “Hell, she can’t even follow rules.”

Warmth spreading through her, Lindsay felt a small smile threatening.

“Pete makes you comfortable,” Claire rationalized. “You know exactly what to do with him. It terrifies you that you could live a thousand years and never quite figure out what to do with Cindy.”

Claire couldn’t be all right all the time. But, then, neither could she.

“So I guess the question is,” Claire declared, her voice pure challenge. “Does Lindsay Boxer have the guts to step outside of her comfort zone?”

So, indulging in the fabulosity that is Free Night of Theater, we went to two performances this weekend. The first one, 11 pm Friday night, was the Sacred Fools’ Magnum Opus Theatre, in which they take a script that was sent, unsolicited, to Hollywood production companies and perform it exactly as it was written. The script for this performance was a little gem titled What’s Love Made Of, Anyway? To explain the level of hilarity that ensued, one of the possible recipes for love was sunny side up eggs and orange juice. And to explain just how bad the script was, the final answer of what love is made of? You and me.

Before Friday night, I never would have believed that the worst writing ever put to page could make the best theater. Bravo, Magnum Opus, Bravo.

Friday night highlights included:

• Hearing some woman outside the theater explaining to her friend that she gave some guy a kiss, “but, you know, like a friend kiss?” Her words. Not mine. I had to turn away I was laughing so hard.
• Seeing Velma from Scooby Doo. She sat in the row in front of us and had an amazingly loud laugh that increased proportionately to her drunkeness.
• Also in the row in front of us, two women, one leaning into the other and using this come on. (This is a direct quote. I wrote it down so I would be able to repeat it word for word.) “That’s right, I’m leaning on your shoulder, ease you into it, ’cause tonight I’m going to cuddle with you.”

Saturday night, we went to a performance of MasterGate at The Actors Repertory Theater. The political play on words is a bit brilliant and a bit lacking at the same time. This performance tended more toward the lacking, though there were some shining moments.

The most interesting thing about both of these performances is that they served as a reminder that there are some people who still perform out of love, without the perk of a big paycheck. It also, sadly, served as a reminder that there aren’t a lot of people going out to appreciate it. Sometimes I really do miss New York.

Do you like pianos? Do you like bars? (Does any one really like bars though?) Well, if you happen to like both of those things then it sounds like you need to check out a piano bar. That way you get two fun things all in one cool place. If you are new to piano bars then you need to get to know the Howl at the Moon chain of piano bars. They have a sweet Orlando piano bar location that you should try to check out the next time that you are down in Orlando, Florida. Send the rest of the family to see the Mouse and you can head on over for good times at the piano bar. What is even more exciting about the Howl at the Moon piano bar chain is their tagline. They claim to be the ‘most fun you can have with your clothes on.’ What a bold statement. And judging from the picture on the main page of their website of the woman in the red pleather firefighter outfit I guess I can see what made them think that. Well, if you are interested in having an insane amount of fun with all of your clothes on then you should be happy to hear that they have multiple locations of the Howl at the Moon dueling piano bar. Oh yes, that is correct, I said ‘dueling piano’ which is like dueling banjos only way cooler and much less redneck. So be sure to head on over to their website to see where all of their locations are so that you can get ready to plan a trip to a Howling at the Moon dueling piano bar. There just might be one in your city! So be sure to check it out today!

TITLE: Extreme Sensitivity… as an unexpected surprise. (22/?)
PAIRING: Lindsay/Cindy
DISCLAIMER: Women’s Murder Club does not belong to me. The characters do not belong to me. They are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. (Well, not anymore. Jackasses.) I have no problems with that as long as I can borrow them for short bursts and use them in pursuit of my own enjoyment. I am not trying to infringe. Though, I don’t know why anyone has a problem with fan fic. After all, it really is a compliment. If anyone wants to write fan fiction about my book, feel free.

(Cindy’s POV)

She was headed for a serious warning, the type that usually preceded a discussion of how much she really wanted her job. Every time she went to type a word into her current article that started with an ‘L’, her fingers automatically keyed out ‘Lindsay’ before she could stop them. Then she would sit and stare at the name with a ridiculously stupid smile for a good thirty seconds before she could snap out of it. Every. Single. Time. It was making for one incredibly long writing process, and, at the rate she was moving, she would never make her deadline less than an hour away.

And just when she thought her raven-haired hottie couldn’t possibly serve as any more of a distraction, Cindy’s cell rang and the picture she’d snapped of Lindsay during one of their late nights at Papa Joe’s when Lindsay drank enough that her reflexes were too slow to stop it, and that she had sworn to erase, popped up. With an excited smile at her leather-clad inspector, Cindy giddily flipped open the phone.

“Hey,” she softly greeted.

“Hey yourself,” Lindsay returned.

“Lindsay, take care of this would you?” an unexpected voice rumbled across the line.

“Sure,” Lindsay returned, sounding utterly annoyed, before her voice softened again. “Sorry about that.”

“Was that Tom?” Cindy asked in confusion.

“Yeah,” Lindsay answered. “Apparently the phone in my hand is invisible.”

“You’re at work?”

“Don’t worry. It’s all desk stuff. Technically I’m still off-duty.”

“Good,” Cindy responded. “I don’t want you getting yourself gravely injured before I get to seduce you.”

There was a profound pause, after which Lindsay gently cleared her throat, bestowing Cindy with a supreme sense of satisfaction.

“You’ve seduced me plenty,” Lindsay murmured. “It’s the follow-through we’re having some trouble with. And trust me, I’m not about to do anything to mess that up.”

Feeling the lump rise to her own throat in reaction, Cindy swallowed so hard she was certain Lindsay had to hear it.

“So,” Lindsay’s husky voice affected her like a caress, and Cindy knew that she was going to miss her deadline for the first time ever. There was no way in hell she’d recover from this phone call fast enough. “Are you coming over tonight?”

Lindsay shouldn’t have even bothered with the question. There was only one possible answer. Cindy would have canceled on Jesus Christ, Himself, if she had dinner plans with Him.

“I guess that means I’m invited over tonight?” she nonchalantly queried nevertheless.

“Guess it does,” Lindsay countered.

“Alright then,” Cindy replied, trying not to sound overeager and failing miserably at it.

“So you’re not sick of me yet?”

The speedy process that her brain utilized in the midst of playful banner, that always provided her a witty retort, went off without a hitch. But Cindy tucked away the comeback about playing doctor for future use and went with honesty.

“I don’t see that ever happening,” she declared softly.

Lindsay breathed deeply into the phone, almost a sigh, just barely audible. “Seven o’clock?”

“That’s good for me.”

“I’ll see you tonight.”

“See you tonight.”

There was a long moment of silence, in which neither of them wanted to be the first to hang up, finally broken up by Lindsay’s quiet chuckle. “Bye,” she said.

“Bye,” Cindy said in response, hanging up, and clamping down on the unreal urge to jump up and dance around her desk.

When her boss appeared out of nowhere a half a second later, she was really glad she had managed to refrain.

“Thomas.”

“Yeah?” Cindy grinned up at him.

He looked almost offended.

“What are you so happy about?”

“Nothing,” Cindy replied, forcing her face into a more workplace-friendly scowl of ultimate concentration. “Sorry.”

The boss eyed her suspiciously for several seconds, at last letting it go with a small shrug.

“Good news,” he informed her. “Scott has food poisoning.”

“Um… yay?” Cindy offered.

“Well, it’s not good for him,” the boss acknowledged. “But it is good for you.”

“It is?”

“Yeah. You know the murder out in Napa?”

“The couple this afternoon?” Cindy nodded. “That was freaky.”

“I am really hoping you won’t describe it that way in your article,” the boss stated, gazing down at her with professional concern.

“Wait,” Cindy backtracked. “It’s my story?”

“Yes. As previously mentioned, Scott got food poisoning on the way. We have a room booked at the hotel where the murder occurred for three nights so we can get the whole story. I need you to get out there.”

“No,” Cindy responded automatically.

“What?”

Cindy grimaced at the sharp reply.

“No… problem,” she recovered quickly. “I am so all over this.”

Her boss’ apprehension was now openly on display, and she suspected if he had any other alternative, he would be rushing off to find it.

“Here’s all the information you need,” he gave in and handed her a stack of papers. “You need to leave soon.”

“What about my…”

“Give the article you’re working on to Ben.”

It took all of her willpower not to smile triumphantly. Poor Ben certainly did have his work cut out for him, between meeting what was, by this point, an impossible deadline to editing out any random ‘Lindsay’s that may still be hiding within.

“And whatever you do, don’t stop at the Fiesta Cafe on the way.”

“Yes sir,” Cindy replied, watching him walk off.

She had to look on the bright side. This was an amazing opportunity. It was only three nights. Until very recently she’d spent most of her nights without Lindsay. It wouldn’t kill her. Just as long as she didn’t think about Lindsay sitting alone on the couch in her apartment, unable to get away because she was still on the mend. Or think about how many promises had been prevalent in Lindsay’s tone just minutes ago. Or think about Lindsay’s hair. Or skin. Or lips.

Oh God. It would kill her. It would absolutely freaking kill her.

She was supposed to spend her evening, if not her whole night, at Lindsay’s, doing things with Lindsay that she used to fantasize about on a regular basis. Instead, she would be alone, reporting on a murder, in, ironically, one of the most romantic spots in the entire state. And, because the universe wanted to screw with her, staying in what was apparently one of the most luxurious suites in the area if there was truth in the hotel’s advertising.

Cindy ceased her miserable flipping through the brochure and tossed it on her desk with a sigh. The sales pitch, in its large, easy-to-read font, stared mockingly up at her.

Spend a night in romantic bliss.

Yes, well, that would be ideal, wouldn’t it?

Eyes locked on the scenic vineyards, Cindy reached for her phone, calling Lindsay on autopilot.

“Miss me already?” Lindsay answered.

Fire coiling inside of her at the question, Cindy was struck by the fact that she didn’t want to spend three nights away from Lindsay right now. After which she was struck by the atypical fact that she didn’t necessarily have to.

“So, since you are technically off-duty, does that mean you don’t technically have to be there?” she asked.

“Pretty much,” Lindsay replied. “Why?”

“Want to go to Napa?”