News, Views, and Shmooze....

"Buried Treasure"

If you'd like to read "Buried Treasure," my essay on my summer trip to central Europe, you can read it on Aish.com, where it was just published.

Get on the Case

This Sunday, October 7,  thirteen past presidents of Sisters in Crime, including myself, will be doing events around the country, signing and talking about their short stories in Sisters on the Case, a just released Sisters in Crime anthology edited by SinC founder Sara Paretsky.

For a complete listing of October 7 and future Sisters on the Case events, please click on this link: Sisters In Crime: Sisters on the Case anthology

For those of you in the Los Angeles area--I'll be signing this Sunday with Claire McNab at the following two locations:

2 PM

Sisters in Crime, Los Angeles Chapter

The Community Room
South Pasadena Library
1115 El Centro
South Pasadena

5 PM

The Mystery Bookstore

1036 Broxton Avenue

Los Angeles,

310-209-0415

If you can't make either event, but would like a signed copy of Sisters on the Case, please call the Mystery Bookstore to order your copy.

I hope you'll "get on the case" and celebrate with Sisters in Crime!

Londond and Paris--A Tour "To Die For"

My friend Barry Fisher and his partner Anne Block are leading To Die For, a unique mystery tour of London and Paris, October 17-25, 2007. From their web site:

Murder mystery fans and writers, "CSI" TV show devotees, how would you like to get inside an actual forensic lab and meet the experts who solve the crimes? Here is your chance to experience exclusive private visits to two world renowned crime labs in London and Paris! This once-in-a-lifetime trip will be led by Barry Fisher, Director of the Crime Lab of the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department, and Anne Block, of Take My Mother*Please custom-designed tours.

Visit the web site for all the details.

Oswiecim, Friday, June 29

After breakfast at our hotel, we walk the short distance to the Eden to pick up kosher tuna sandwiches. When I ordered the sandwiches and our Shabbat meals (shipped from Hermolis, in England), I was struck with the irony that kosher food was availabe-- in Krakow. The person I talked to assured me that the Eden had a separate kitchen for dairy and meat, and that they were familiar with the laws of preparing food for Shabbat and keeping a chulent warm.

While at the Eden, we meet Benzion Miller, a famed chasidic Brooklyn cantor, and his wife Blimi. Benzion's father, like my mother, of blessed memory, was from Oshpetzin--Oswiecim, the city we plan to visit today. In fact, they were neighbors. Benzion is in Krakow for the Jewish Cultural Festival, which he has attended numerous times. This year he has already performed, and will be performing Saturday night, after Shabbat ends, at the open air concert in Szeroka Square, right outside our hotel window. Benzion will also be leading the davening (prayers) tonight and tomorrow, though he is not sure at which shul or shuls. The festival has attracted over 10,000 visitors, mostly non-Jewish Poles, and 100 or so Jews, including a number of Orthodox Jews who will be having their Shabbat meals at the Eden.

Back in Y's Volvo, we take the same route out of Krakow and head toward Oswiecim, after a short detour to retrieve one of my brother's suitcases. (The status of the other is still unknown.) We pass the massive brick house and other sites that are now familiar. For years I've been trying to imagine what Oswiecim looks like--the town stripped of its charm and beauty and branded forever with the infamy of the exterminatin camp that took its name. We enter the town and again I have that uncomfortable ambivalence as we pass pretty buildings.

We begin the search for my mother's apartment. We don't have an address, but several months ago, my mother's friend, also from Oswiecim, showed us a framed photo of her grandfather's large house. "Across the street from the house is a church," she told us, pointing at the photo. "And behind the church is where your mother lived."

We find the church and cross the street. A year ago, while visiting my uncle (my mother's brother) in Israel, I watched a home video he took when he and his family visited to the apartment he and my mother and their parents and five siblings lived in. I was mesmerized by this glimpse at my family history, and I recall seeing a lovely courtyard filled with trees.

"This isn't it," I tell my brother and the others. "There should be trees."

Using his cellular phone, my brother calls our uncle in Israel and puts Y on the phone. We listen as Y, speaking Polish, moves quickly first to one end of the church, then to the other. Still on the phone with my uncle, Y reverses direction and stops in front of a bank.

"Tak, tak," he tells my uncle. Then he turns to us. "This is it," he tell us. "Where your mother lived."

I am skeptical. I still don't see trees. We follow Y along a narrow street between the bank and church and there we find a small square, and the trees. The gate at the back of the bank building is unlocked. We follow Y inside into a small courtyard.

"Your uncle says their apartment had a balcony," he tells us, the cell phone pressed against his ear.

There is no balcony, and we are disappointed. But we study what looks like a newer wall and realize that at some point the balcony was enclosed and is now a room. I am overcome with feeling, standing where my mother lived with her family--parents, siblings, nieces and nephews. We stay a while longer, not talking, each of us lost in our thoughts. A bank guard enters and shoos us out. We look around one last time before we leave.

A few hundred feet from what is now the bank is another builidng, the Mishnayis Shul, where my family undoubtedly prayed. The shul, like most in Poland and in other European countries, is now a museum, restored after the war. I buy a journal with a cover photo of what I assume is Oswiecim (it's not). I also buy a copy of The Jews of Oswiecim --in German, because there is no English translation. I buy it because it has photos of the city, and more importantly, at the back, it has a list with the names of people who lived in Oswiecim--first name, last name, date of birth, date when they were taken to a ghetto in Sosnowice, another date when they were taken to a different ghetto.

My mother's name is there: Sprinca Tadanier. Or is it my mother? The birthday listed is in July--that's correct. But it's the wrong date. Then again, I tell myself, my mother  could never recall her exact birtdday. Birthdays in Poland, she would tell me, weren't monumental events.

My eye returns to her name. Sprinca Sara. I feel a stab of disappointment. "My mother didn't have a middle name," I tell Y. "This isn't Mommy," I say to my brother.

"The Nazis called all Jewish women Sara," Y tells us. "And all Jewish men, Israel."

So this is my mother. I scan the page and find other Tadaniers. My uncle in Israel. An aunt and uncle who were killed and whose photos I have never seen. Some names I don't recognize, and some aren't listed.

We enter the Mishnayas shul, beautifully restored, though now empty except as artifact. Then we watch a video of survivors, all from Oswiecim, and are surprised to see a family photo of my father with his parents and grandparents and his extended family. We learn from the pleasant, non-Jewish curator that a copy of the photo was donated by my father's cousin, who also lived in Oswiecim. I find my cousin's name and others of his family listed in the book, too.

"Are there any Jews in Oswiecim?" we ask Y again.

"Two," he replies. "Jesus and his mother."

From the Mishnayos Shul Y drives us to the main Jewish cemetery, which is situate along a wide street. Y unlocks the gate and we enter. This cemetery is much larger than the one in Trzeninia and is filled with beautiful old trees. The trees, and the sun peeking through them, add serenity that is marred by rows of headstones--those that have't been destroyed by the Nazis-- that lean with Gothic eeriness toward each other. My uncle had told us that one of his aunts was buried here. We search in vain for her tombstone and say a "K'el Moleh Rachamim" before we leave and lock the gates.

Trzebinia, part 2, Thursday, June 28

Y has made arrangements with Andre, who has the keys to the Trzebinia Jewish cemetery. Andre is a tall man in his seventies. He kisses my hand and my sister-in-law's with a flourish, then tell us what he knows about the graves, which isn't much. He is writing a book about the Jews of Trzebinia, he says--he was a child during war, and remembers almost everyone.

"Do you recall the Bobover Rebbe?" my brother asks.

"Tak." Andre nods. "He lived in that big house on Novoskaya. We always heard singing."

We glance at each other. If we had any doubts, they are gone. That was our grandfather's house.

The cemetery is long and narrow, overgrown with shrubs on which fallen tombstones lie. Many graves are unmarked, the tombstones destroyed by the Nazis and used for building materials. Very economical and practical, the Nazis. We search for the graves of my father's family who died of natural causes before the war and find the grave of my paternal grandmother's ancestor. We recite Kaddish and "K'el Moleh Rachamim" ("God Full of Mercy").

Andre accompanies us back to that pretty square and points out what used to be the cheder where my father probably learned his aleph-beis. From the square we drive to a building that houses memorabilia--some of it Jewish. Entering the building, we see a see a trio of Polish women, wearing the traditional festive peasant garb. They are singing (we find out they're celebrating the 50th anniversary of several couples), and as we climb the stairs to the museum, I hear the familiar refrain:

"Stola, stola." It's the song my parents always sang at birthdays and anniversaries. If I remember, it means, "May you live a hundred years." We all look at each other and laugh.

We browse through the museum. It doesn't hold much of interest for us, but we don't tell Andre. We don't want to insult him. Soon we leave and drive Andre to his small house. He kisses my hand again, and my sister-in-law's, and wishes us well.

"Are there any Jews in Trzebinia?" we ask Y when we're back on the highway.

"Two," he says. "Jesus and his mother."

We return to Krakow. Y takes us to a large square on which are a number of empty chairs--dedicated to Krakow's Jews, he tells us, who were expelled and later taken to Plaszow camp, the one made famous by Steven Spielberg in Schindler's List. At the far end of the square is a pharmacy whose gentile owner saved many Jewish lives. Y also shows us the Bais Yaakov School for Girls--the first of its kind--founded by Sarah Shenirer. He points out remnants of the ghetto wall, its arches symbolizing the holy Temple in Jerusalem.  We also see Schindler's factory. Y has some criticism of the film's inconsistencies, and of Schindler, who he says brutalized the Jewish factory owner to wrest control of it. (I mentioned this the other day to my cousin, who was a hidden child during the Holocaust. She She knows people who were saved by Schindler. "Maybe he changed," she told me. She's probably right.)

Before Y drops us off, he takes us to a minimarket near our hotel, where we buy soda and bottled water and spot American products that are kosher back home but may not be kosher here. Back at the hotel, we eat dinner together in our room--La Briut meals. Not great, not awful. The meatball one is okay, actually. I knock my shin against another bedpost and go to bed, but not to sleep, since outside our windows people are noisily assembling a stage along with audio and video systems for a grand concert that will take place this coming Saturday evening, the highlight of the 17th annual Krakow Jewish Cultural Festival. The din doesn't end until 2 a.m. and resumes at six in the morning.

This had better be some concert, I think.

Trzebinia, Thursday, June 28

Because British Airways made them miss their Lot flight from Vienna to Krakow, my brother and sister-in-law have to purchase two new round-trip tickets--with no "fourteen day advance" benefits.

And their luggage--both suitcases--are lost. This comes as no surprise to my sister-in-law, who has been predicting as much for months. Later, someone tells them British Airways loses 7000 pieces of luggage a year- permanently. No wonder they lost the Revolution.

I would have been beside myself and gone "terminal." My brother and sister-in-law, though not thrilled, take all this in stride. British Airways is stubbornly unhelpful. In contrast, one of the uniformed Lot Airlines representative (in a bizarre amusement-park-red suit, red tights, red shoes), works hard to get them a better fare--better than the $1200 per ticket it would have cost without her assistance, but still not great. It's business class, she tells my brother and sister-in-law.

Business class on Lot Airlines, we learn, is distinguished from economy class by a small white doily on the back of the seat with "Business Class" stenciled on it. That's it. There is no more leg room or butt room. There is a meal, but not kosher. Oh, and there's a short curtain separating Business from economy. My sister-in-law pulls the curtain, separating her seat from ours. Coincidentally, we're sitting in the row in front of her.

"We're in business class," she says.

"Thanks a Lot," I tell her, and we're laughing again.

The flight from Vienna to Krakow is just over an hour. I do a Sudoku puzzle and am reciting"Song of Songs" when our very small aircraft begins lurching up and down. I stop reading, but it's too late. My stomach is queasy. I'm perspiring. "Take deep breaths," my husband advises. I do. Several times. When the plane lands I make it through Customs and passport control, but the nausea is there.

We meet Y, the Polish tour guide who will be taking us all over during the next four days. Y is much younger than I expected. He is tall and fit. He's wearing black baggy slacks and a black t-shirt, and a black visored cap that has Hebrew, Yiddish, and English references to Judaism on the back. Y isn't  Jewish, though his wife and son are, and he has taken some steps toward conversion.

Y drives a gray, boxy seven-passenger Volkswagon minivan (he tells us it was formerly a police vehicle). I sit up front and will my nausea to stay at bay. The drive from the airport to the Ester Hotel is twenty minutes or so of lovely countryside. Y keeps a running commentary, pointing out sites of interest along the way, but all I can focus on is the rumbling inside my stomach. When we arrive at the hotel, I sit at a curbside table belonging to the hotel's restaurant and use the Lot bag I took with me. I feel much better, but I stay in the room and lie on my bed while the others take a short walk to the Eden Hotel, where we'll be having Shabbat meals. I worry that my condition will prevent me from touring that day, but the short rest makes me feel better.

The Ester, a boutique hotel in the Kazimier (the Jewish quarter), has a pretty facade--prettier than what you see on the website--with its name in shiny brass letters over the lobby door. Our room, 25, is two flights up and has two views of Szeroka Square. (Szeroka means "wide.") The room is long with three beds whose spreads camouflage the wooden posts of the bed frame. I hit my shin on one of the posts. My husband does the same.

Minutes later we are off with Y to our first destination--Trzebinia, where my father, of blessed memory, lived as a child, as a teen, as a young husband and father to two daughters who were killed in Auschwitz, half sisters whose names and existence have always intrigued me and haunted me. Trzebinia is a 45 minute drive from Krakow, most of it on a two-lane highway that alters its route from time to time to accommodate highway repairs and construction that, according to Y, will never end but will continue to add taxes to the populace. We pass a huge, all red brick house. Y explains that this belongs to a man who owns a brick factory. "The house is an advertisement," Y says. In the distance we see a blue-gray shadow of the Zakopane Mountains where my father used to vacation with his family. The fields on either side of the road are green and lush, and I feel an uneasy appreciation for the scenery in the country where my family was decimated.

We enter Trzebinia and stop at the railway station. The town is small and industrial, without the culture or charm of Krakow, which people are calling the next Prague. From the station we search for the street where my father lived. My brother has with him a plot map of the property, which is curiously assymetrical. We are looking for Ulica Novoskaya ("ulica" means street). We drive past several buildings (one used to be a huge synagogue, Y tells us) and pass what used to be a small "trade" shul. Then we reverse direction and park in a pretty, flower-filled square. From there we walk to Novoskaya and, referring to the plot map, we locate our grandfather's house.

Throughout my adolescence and my adulthood my father talked about the three-story building that was his home. There was a nursery, he would tell us, with trees and flowers. There were shops on the ground floor, residences on the top two. When the late Bobover Rebbe, of blessed memory, came to Trzebinia looking for refuge, he and his entourage lived in this house, and my grandfather built a "beis medrash," a study hall, for him.

For years I have envisioned coming here one day, and now I am standing where my father stood, and his father and mother, standing where he proudly strolled the enameled pram with his daughters, half sisters whose names I always had difficulty remembering, until recently.

The top two floors are still residential. On the ground floor are an optical shop with chic frames displayed in the window, and two hair salons--one for women, one for men. Those Polish words I can translate.

We walk through a short, narrow passage to a backyard that fits the assymetrical shape on the plot map. "The same lines!" Y exclaims. He is as excited as we are, confident that this is my grandfather's house.

I wonder which room was my father's. I picture him behind one of the lace-curtained windows, looking out on the nursery, playing a tune on his beloved violin, singing a melody that he just heard the Bobover Rebbe compose at a Friday night "tish."

We return to the street, and Y points to a plaque on the corner of the building. "This is government property now," he says. "They lease the apartments. That's good for you--better than if they were privately owned."

Over the years my brother has tried to get restitution for this house from the government, but our lawyer told us we didn't have the right documents -- birth and death certificates for our grandfather, who was shot to death in Bochnia. Now, I read, the Polish government is relaxing its criteria and more amenable to making restitution, but I am doubtful. And this government decision has already given rise to (or uncovered?) antisemitic feeling. Rev. Tadeusz Rydzyk, who controls a conservative Catholic media empire that includes the influential Radio Maryja, criticized President Kaczynski for "considering compensation for people whose property was nationalized by the postwar Communist government. Many of those people are Jews."

“You know what this is about: Poland giving $65 billion” to Jews, Father Rydzyk said on the tape, according to the newsmagazine. “They will come to you and say, ‘Give me your coat! Take off your trousers! Give me your shoes!’ ”

It has started to drizzle, and a blustery wind turns my umbrella inside out. We dash across the street and wait in the shelter of a doorway. I watch as an elderly woman approaches from the backyard of my father's house. She is staring at us, and there is something at once suspicious and menacing in her air and in her plodding footsteps and thickened body, which takes on a looming quality as she comes closer. I have heard stories from others about hostile reactions from Poles who feel threatened by Jews who have come to view their former homes or those of family members. I prepare myself for a confrontation--or a curse. A rant, accompanied by spitting?

In the end she glares at us and passes without saying a word. Across the street people in the women's salon are eyeing us. The rain stops, and we leave.

Our European Trip: Tuesday, June 26

From my journal:

Today we leave for Krakow. After our weekend  houseguests, two charming young couples who are friends of our son and daughter-in-law), checked out of Hotel Krich, I stripped the beds, did several loads of laundry, and packed my luggage. This is a challenge, since Lot Airlines allows only one checked bag and one carry-on weighing no more than 13 pounds per passenger, and we'll be away three weeks. I'm always a little spacey before I travel--"raizeh fever," me parents called it. Travel angst. I'm certain that I'll forget something, that the clothes I'm packing are all wrong. That our bags will be overweight, not because of the clothing, but because we are shlepping with us five La Briut kosher meals, a jar of peanut butter, crackers, trail mix, and  more than thirty South Beach granola bars. All this for Krakow, because there isn't much kosher food available there.

Finally, we're off. We say goodbye to our son and daughter (their original flight having been cancelled because of weather conditions in Dallas, they're scheduled to take an evening red-eye--business class, so they're thrilled--but a false text message telling them that the evening flight has been delayed causes them to miss their flight. Long story. Much frustration).

We used mileage for first-class seats, which turn into actual beds. I watch "Notes on a Scandal" (excellent and disturbing) and take an Ambien tablet, but it's a while before I fall asleep.

At Heathrow we meet up with my brother and sister-in-law, whose delayed British Airways flight has now made them miss their Lot flight from Vienna to Krakow. In Vienna, we take a shuttle to the EuroHotel, where my husband and I had reservations. On the website the hotel is advertised as being 5 kilometers from the airport. I don't think so!

The surly desk clerk tells us that he has no vacancies, and that there is a shortage of hotel rooms that night-in Vienna-probably because Barbara Streisand is performing. I'm not kidding. So the four of us share our room, which is small and spartan, but clean and serviceable. A sign on the door cautions not to leave the bathroom door open when taking a shower, as the heat may set off the smoke alarm. There is no phone in the room--tough, when you want a wake-up call. Only later do I notice a note on the door that says cordless phones are available upon request. It doesn't matter, really. We're just here to sleep a few hours until our morning flight to Krakow--although the truth is, we laugh more than we sleep.

Not a bad thing, actually.

The Ninth of Av

This past Monday night was the eve of Tisha B'Av, the ninth day of the Jewish month of Av, a day of mourning that commemorates the destruction of both Holy Temples. Since I was twelve years old I've, I have observed the day, fasting for 25 hours, listening to the lugubrious chanting of "Aicha," the prophet's harrowing description of the ruin not only of buildings, but of a people.

Some years I've been able to connect more deeply with the tragedy in the prophet's words. Some years, less so. This past Monday, having just returned from Europe less than a week ago, where we visited Auschiwtiz and Tereizin, where almost everywhere you go you are confronted with the painful reality that Europe is a vast Jewish graveyard--this year, it was all too easy to relate to the heartbreaking verses.

Tuesday my husband and I returned from a three-week trip that took us to Krakow, Vienna, Prague, Budapest, and finally London. I began writing in a journal that I bought in a Jewish museum shop in Oswiecim (Auschwitz), down the block from the apartment where my mother, of blessed memory, lived until the Nazis took her to a ghetto, and then to a series of labor camps. But after touring each day, I was too tired to write. And so in my journal I'm still in Krakow.

I'm still processing everything  we heard from our various guides and everything we saw. Palaces, opera houses, monuments. Grand synagogues that are, for the most part, museums. Graveyards where we searched, mostly in vain, for family tombstones; other graveyards where we visited the resting places of renowned Jewish scholars.

People ask, "How was your trip?" I tell them it was wonderful and depressing, beautiful and tragic.

Bada Bing..and No Bang

I've been a fan of the Sopranos from the second season, primarily because I was impressed by the realness of the family dynamics. Although I found many of Tony's actions despicable, I did feel sympathy for him--until he snuffed out his nephew's life. But having "known" Tony and his family for over six years, I didn't want to see him or his wife and children killed. During the last two episodes, the tension was so intense that I left the room several times, unable to watch the bloodbath I was certain was coming.

Make Your Reservation for Murder with Reservations

My friend and fellow mystery writer, Elaine Viets, has a new book coming out next week: Murder With Reservations.

Elaine, who is always ready to help others, is  in the hospital, recovering from a stroke, and won't be able to promote her book.

You can help Elaine and "pay it forward" by buying a copy -- or more -- of Murder With Reservations.

Now You See Me....

I was delighted to learn from Joanne Sinchuk of Murder on the Beach in Delray Beach, Florida, that Now You See Me..., my fourth Molly Blume, is in its third printing.

It pays to travel...

Silent Nights

No jacuzzi party last night, or the night before, or the one before that. Maybe our neighbor has gone away for a few days.

Oh, and the neighborhood dog  that has been yanking out the flowers along our walkway, rootball and all, almost every day for the past two weeks is AWOL, too. I can't understand how a person would allow his pet to ruin damage someone's property. Or maybe the pet owner is the yanker. Either way, I'm bothered.

But not today. And I hope, not tomorrow.

Good Filters Make Good Neighbors

We have a new neighbor. He lives next door, but we haven't met him yet and know little about him, though we did learn from the person who fixed up the house and sold it that the buyer is young and from Chicago.

We haven't really seen our neighbor. His lawn is hedged on all sides by a wall of ficus trees, and his back yard is secluded by towering trees that hide the new pool and jacuzzi. My husband and I did catch a glimpse of him through the ficus trees this past Saturday morning as we left our house. We were on our way to shul, we were running late, and it wasn't the right moment to walk around the hedge and introduce ourselves...and mention the filter and the jacuzzi.

The pool filter--at least, we think it's the filter--is noisy and runs most of the time. If I open a window, the drone is mildly annoying. I like opening windows, airing out rooms, inhaling fresh air. I don't know if there's a solution to the noise. I had mentioned it to the seller and he promised he'd check into it. I guess he didn't get around to it. (He did, however, move the ficus trees that abut my driveway a foot back when I expressed my concern that the trees, which have a notoriously shallow root system, would cause my driveway to buckle. That was neighborly, I have to admit.) I suppose over time I'll become accustomed to the noise from the filter, which you can't hear when the jacuzzi is being used.

True, the jacuzzi motor doesn't run most of the time, but when it does, the noise is louder and jarring. And the motor runs at inconvenient times, like 2 in the morning, when I'm trying to sleep.

While we haven't met or next-door-neighbor or seen him, we hear him and his guests (some male, some female) often. Mostly late at night, when they're in the pool or jacuzzi. (Last week, they were in the jacuzzi even when it was raining.) They sound like nice people, and they're certainly having a good time, judging from the bellowing laughter and the cheery back-and-forth yelling. Saturday night they were discussing Alec Baldwin's appearance on "Saturday Night Live." Well, it was 2:48 a.m., so technically, that was Sunday morning.

I'm pleased for our neighbor that he's formed a circle of friends so soon after his move from Chicago. I'd hate for him to be lonely. And I do want to be a good neighbor, not one of those judgmental types who thinks people should be sleeping at 3 in the morning. And no, I'm not hurt that our neighbor hasn't invited us to share in the fun.

So I'm not sure what to do. Say something and create an uncomfortable situation? Keep quiet and deal with the disruption of sleep?

Wake Me Up, Please!

If you read my previous post, you know that I'll be joining eight other Sister in Crime authors this Thursday at a roundtable book fair sponsored by AAUW at the Barnes & Noble in Encinitas.

All of the authors, who are coming to L.A. to attend our national conference, SinC Goes to the Movies: Selling Your Book to Hollywood, will be meeting at my home before we drive down to Encinitas. I figured I'd prepare light refreshments before we set out.

Naturally, I had a nightmare. In my dream I'm in a mad Frasier-like episode: 

The food isn't prepared.
The table isn't set.
I'm not dressed for the book fair.

One of the authors, a male, is in my kosher kitchen making (dairy) pancakes in the frying pan I use for meat. I will have to chuck the frying pan and the pancakes. I don't know where the pancakes came from. I don't know this author and can't figure out what he's doing in my kitchen.

My sink is making gurgling noises. I run the garbage disposal and am rebuked with a rising sea of orange colored water that threatens to spill onto the floor.

I shut off the disposal and hope the churning waters will calm down.

"By the way, what's your name?" I ask the male author.

He tells me.

"You're not signing with us today," I point out.

"Right," he says, full of cheer. "I heard about it, figured I'd stop by. Sounded like fun."

That's when I wake up.