First Methodist Church in Hurst, TX has a book group! Who knew? And, despite a few of the... shall We say... questionable words in QUEEN OF THE ROAD, these ladies of impeccable taste, decided to discuss it, anyway.

Although they didn't drink martinis (it was in the early afternoon, people - give them a break), I think this group has the right idea: Meet at a fabulous restaurant first (no wonder they call themselves, "Food for Thought") then return to a church meeting room to discuss the book. When the food is Tai and the book is QUEEN OF THE ROAD, how could they go wrong?

Some of the ladies apparently thought the food a bit spicy. As the book group leader said, "I should have told them about your website!" (Speaking of which: Do you know - well, how could you, I'm only revealing this now - that my local AAA chapter declined to recommend or otherwise promote QUEEN because we went to a nudist RV park AND because I had martini recipes in the book. They didn't want to promote drinking and driving - or driving naked, I suppose. I really must cancel my membership.)

So, thank you, Clara, Lorraine, Nancy, Sarah, Phyllis, Carrie, Nancy, Roseann, Bobbie, Barbara, Clarita and Peggy (and especially to Nancy Nelson for setting this up). I would wonder if your questions were so thoughtful precisely because yours is a pre-happy hour book group. But frankly, I have no desire to be thoughtful enought to ponder the implications of that.

What I have pondered and decided is, next time I'm in Hurst, Tai is on me, ladies!

We just had to get out of The Shitty.

And, look: I don't mean to insult anyone - this time - but one of Tim's prison buddies (NO not THAT kind of buddy), tells us he and his wife refer to The Shitty as "Oklahoma By The Sea."

So... FIELD TRIP! But, since it was raining (what else is new? Let's just assume that's the default position in these here parts. I'll send out a bulletin and alert the news media when there's some sun) where else could we decide to head but... caves. The Oregon Caves, to be exact.

I (well, OK, Tim) dug out my hiking boots from the bay. Then, he shook them out for me. I figured there might be spiders inside - the cobwebs were a good clue. When I didn't put them on, but instead, wore my slip on sneakers for the car ride, he started to ask why, but then figured it out for himself. I hate wearing shoes, so always take them off in the car. Or, as Tim so eloquently put it, "You're too lazy to lace up your shoes more than once today."

So, what does a Royal wear when gracing the caves with Her presence? For some reason, Tim thought this outfit was noteworthy. I really don't get why, especially as I can attest to the fact he was the only one laughing.

The cave tour took about an hour-and-a-half. Half-way through, they pointed out an entryway that was used when the caves were first explored by tourists early in the last century. Since they didn't have the clear path we did, getting to the point we had would have taken them hours. Besides, our helpful Park Ranger said, the best, most beautiful, interesting part of the cave was yet to come!

Well, good, 'cause it hadn't been any of that up until then. Really, why couldn't we have lopped off the uninteresting part of the tour and just started right there? Tim anticipated this excellent question by clamping a hand over my mouth. Geez.

Here. Judge for yourself:

Oh, OK. I'll judge for you: Nice, sure. But for an hour-and-a-half?

Of course, Tim was entranced with the whole thing. I was more entranced by the idiocy of one of our intrepid little band. When the ranger asked, "So, how do you think the first explorers made sure they could find their way out of this maze?" A young man I would guess to be about twenty, answered, "Cookies." I kid you not. He thought they left trails of cookies. Tim had to clamp his hand over my mouth, again.

I really had hopes for this country after Obama's election. No so much, anymore. Our future, folks, is grim.

Tim, of course, knew the answer and called out, "String." Smarty Pants. Later in the tour, the Ranger asked some other, utterly factoidinating question of the group. This time, perhaps so as not to repeat the cookie debacle, no one answered. I hissed to Tim, "I suppose you know the answer to that one, too." The Ranger reminded us to not whisper, as it might disturb the bats.

I ducked.

The final question was posed when we entered one "room". Mr. Ranger-who-has-been-at-this-job-for-over-a-decade-but-still-apparently-knows-so-little-he-has-to-posit-questions-to-Cookie-Man, asked, "So what fruit do you think this room is named for?" Cookie Man answered, "Carrots." Ranger guy retorted (and none too gently, to his credit), "I said, 'fruit.'" (If anyone cares, it looked like bananas. But, really, why would you? It's not like bananas are so exotic you can't see real ones any time you like, so who gives a crap about seeing imitation ones you have to be prompted to know what you're looking at, anyway.)

Obviously, I don't get why everyone oohed and ahhed over this stuff. Especially for an hour-and-a-half. Really. Five minutes would have been enough. For all you nature lovers who disagree, explain this to me: Why is it, if nature is so wonderful, that you always feel the need to anthropomorphize it into decidedly unnatural, more familiar things? For example, the Ranger delighted (and everyone, especially Cookie Man, which should tell you something) loved the formations that looked like a wedding cake, and another, a Freddie Kruger mask.

I don't have to tell you what this one looks like, do I? We're not talkin' Rorschach, here.

Why is something "natural" so much more intriguing when it looks like something man-made? If you want to see a wedding cake, go to a bakery.

And send me some cookies while you're at it, in case I get lost in a cave.

At least I had the consolation of wine tasting afterwards:

We happened upon Foris winery and Minerva was kind enough to profer copious samples. Apparently, the Wall Street Journal did a story on one of their wines, recently, and they've been innundated with orders. (Hint: They ship.) Try the port and semi-sparkling. Trust me. You know you should.

(And, if you're wondering why my hair looks as wild as the wild river, see my previous post - and, deal with it! I have to. And, why should I suffer alone?)

That's Crescent City, California, folks! And, even more accurately (sorry Stevie), let's substitute "surviving" for "living." We'll get most accurate at the end of the next paragraph.

How could I have neglected to tell you anything about the place we're parked for the next couple of months while Tim does his time? Well, if you were here, you'd know. Perhaps our nickname for the place will give you a clue, "Crescent Shitty." Or, when we're feeling particularly affectionate toward our home away from home, simply, "The Shitty."

Why in the world, then, should you keep reading about this place? Look at it this way: The more you learn, the less likely you'll ever feel the need to come here yourselves. That's a good thing. Trust me.

Granted, the beaches are gorgeous. If you simply stared out at the ocean all day, you might forget you're actually "in the shitty." But, you've got to turn around, not to mention actually go to town, sometime. Poor you. Or us, as the case may be.

Herewith, some Shitty highlights (or lowlights - you decide):

Since there's a harbor with, you know, boats and everything, I had been looking forward to eating loads of fresh fish. Thing is, you can't buy fresh fish at any store in town - not even the (two) grocery stores. The only way to get fresh fish is right from the fishermen themselves, but they won't filet it for you. Believe me - I asked. The grocery stores are another issue - the nicest one in town is 23 miles up the coast in Brookings, Oregon.

Ah, the harbor. The lighthouse's fog horn sounds every 7 seconds. Every 7 seconds. All day, every day. 7 seconds. It's like Chinese water torture.

As the subtitle of my books says, I have approximately 200 pairs of shoes, although I regularly wear maybe four. I like admiring the rest on my shelf - like works of art - but I haven’t bought new shoes in ages. I thought I’d been “cured” of that particular obsession while living on the bus. But, in Crescent City, I bought my first pair in a very long time: Waders. At Wal-mart. Oh, Queen of the Road, how far hast thou fallen?

Last year while we were here, I saw this Elephant Seal on the beach by our rig:

She seemed to be in distress (even more so than one would expect simply being in The Shitty), so I went to the RV park's office. They said not to worry, "she's just molting." Hmm. This Queen has always believed one should molt behind closed doors but, oh, well. Kids these days. The marine center said she’d come all the way from Alaska, and was headed to the Faulkland Islands to… hook up. I turned to the seal and gave her some free psychiatrist advice (which, as with everything in life, you get what you pay for), "Honey, there are perfectly nice seals next door in the harbor. But, if you insist, I hope he’s worth it." (Clearly, this seal has no sense if she stopped here to pick up a new coat. She should have gone just a little ways down the coast to the Nordstrom in San Francisco. Good luck finding anything nice here in The Shitty.)

It has been way too long since I got my hair done in Boulder - including weeks of ungodly humidity. As I observed when we were in Arkansas - which looks positively cosmopolitan compared to this place - think Hindenberg disaster - “Oh the humidity!” Tim wasn't crazy about my new look either, but as I always say, why did he marry a Jewish woman if not to be disappointed every day of his miserable life? I found this salon (notice it’s conveniently located on the fishing harbor). I think I’ll just wait until we get home.

No Scissors 'R' Us for this royal. What do you want from me?

One plus is that in nice weather (so, every few weeks), Tim and I walk on the beach. I love watching the pelicans skim the water (Pelican Bay has pelicans! Who knew?), but some kind of seagull flock recently got to town. They are decidedly less enchanting. Prior to our last walk, I had just washed my hair. The seagulls kept flying overhead.

"You better not poop on my hair" I called, more than once, eyeing the sky warily.

"Keep looking up and it won't be your hair you get it in," Tim snickered. Told you he's evil.

Unfortunately, the pelicans are soon migrating south, so we'll only be left with the seagulls. Tim lamented that fact, saying, "Even a bird-brain knows to get out of The Shitty for the winter."

On the plus side, we can walk to Turf Club (although do we really want to?):

Tim thought maybe we should give it a try. Feeling scatalogical (what else is new?), I commented they should change the "f" to a "d".

Tim said, "I don't think anyone will notice." He has a point.

Anyone have a nomination for Worst Shitty?

A little while back, I did a fabulous book group in Toronto by speakerphone. (Here's how to invite me to thusly appear at your own group. Oops! Just invited myself, didn't I? How rude. Oh well. What do you want from me?)

The ladies were very well-read, asked incredibly thoughtful questions to which I tried to provide intelligent answers (note to future book groups who invite me: let me know beforehand that you're going to ask such penetrating questions and I'll be happy to forego the libations on my end until after we hang up), and even gave me some wonderful ideas for my own book group, including Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See, and The 19th Wife by David Ebershoff. (I haven't gotten to either yet, as I'm also behind on my reading. Anyone else want to weigh in?)

Although we had been to Canada during our QUEEN OF THE ROAD trip, we hadn't gotten to Toronto. (I did spend a week there on my first book tour and I must say, Canadian publishers are far more evolved than their U.S. counterparts. In Canada, I stayed in Toronto the entire week, doing one event per day. I got to spend the rest of the time exploring that lovely city, which of course, included eating at fabulous restaurants. A lot of eating. At a lot of fabulous restaurants. U.S. book tours are more notable for doing a different city every day with little sleep, and, if you can imagine, I was even too tired at times to take myself out to eat - at fabulous or any other type of restaurants. Sigh.)

Anyway, when I was in Toronto that time, I wish I had known about the Bata Shoe Museum.

I think it deserves a trip all its own, don't you? All is not lost, however, as these lovely book group ladies said they'd take me there next time we travel to their fair city - followed by martinis, of course. (Now, if anyone knows of a martini museum... )

Not that We require the endorsement of mere elected officials - sniff - but... holy crap!

A lovely and insightful reader of excellent taste emailed to let Us know that she is a huge fan of Jen Lancaster's books (Bitter is the New Black, Such a Pretty Fat, and Bright Lights, Big Ass Sigh. You have to click that link, if only to see her subtitles. I am clearly an amateur) and thought I might like them, as well. We have obviously been holed up in Our throne room for too long (where most people do read, but as We certainly no longer have to remind you: We are not "most people") as even though she is a New York Times Bestselling author, We had never heard of her (have no fear - heads will roll!) So, We checked out her blog and quickly realized We and she (note the small "s," although Governor of Jennsylvania: Land of the Free, Home of the Bitter is, indeed, a laudable title), were likely twins separated at birth. We promptly emailed the Governor herself (large "G", although alas for Jen, small "h"), and although she is hugely popular (and thus, a shoe-in for re-election on Tuesday), she actually emailed right back!

In a true ugga-bugga coincidence (that's Boulder-speak for "like, um, freaky psychic-karmic-convergance, dude!" But, even more ugga-bugga, mere days after her email, during a reading/signing and royal schtik in Denver, I was placed directly across from a shelf full of her books) she said she was totally mad at me (thank goodness, Governors don't run the guillotines) because instead of finishing her current manuscript (which she was on deadline for), she stayed up late all week reading Queen of the Road. She also said she was about to do a blog post on her favorite recent reads and Queen of the Road was at the top of her list!

Because she is so popular, I promptly got thousands of hits to my own website from hers and am eternally grateful for her support. Here's what she said:

Queen of the Road is basically what would happen if you took me, gave me a modicum of maturity and a better education, and then tricked me into living on a (very nice) bus with my husband and pets for a year. I loved this book and I love this author.

If you're wondering why it's taken me so long to blog about this, you obviously haven't read my book (ie, you'd know how lazy I am). Seriously, I promptly ordered all three of her books and have been devouring them ever since.

I LOVE this woman. If you haven't read her books yet, please go NOW, get them. You will love, LOVE, LOVE! I cannot wait for May 2009 and Pretty In Plaid.

Trust me on this, dear subjects. Has your monarch ever steered you wrong?

From the sublime to the ridiculous: I'm going to be on KCLU-FM, that's Ventura's (88.3 FM) NPR station and Santa Barbara's (102.3 FM) NPR station, tomorrow, for their very popular (until tomorrow), "Emotional Fitness" show with Dr. Barton (ya think?) Goldsmith. Fortunately, the media is too preoccupied with some silly election (Monarchies rule, people! When will you all wise up?) to bother with the impending ruination of NPR.

Consider thouselves duly warned.

I was minding my own business, wide awake in bed the other night at 2:30 am (don't ask) when I felt our bus shake. We haven't moved from that large campground in Crescent City, and are still right on the ocean. I knew there was no wind. I got up and peered out all the windows into the dark, to see if there was a prowler/prankster/town drunk/giant pelican.

Nada.

The next day, I got this email from someone who has read QUEEN OF THE ROAD (obviously, a woman of impeccable taste) and now keeps up with our travels: Heard there was an earthquake south of Eureka...did the queen get shaken out of her berth?

Thing is, Annette's traveling in Cambodia (and you think I move around, alot), yet she knew there was a 5.1 at 2:30 am and I didn't.

I think I have to start reading the local papers, or something. Isn't there some kind of election next week? You and your silly democracies. Come back to the monarchy, subjects! All is forgiven!

I had Tim sent to prison. He hates when I say that. So...

Tim's in prison!
Tim's in prison!
Tim's in prison!

Just like last year.

Alene called up, said she had a job opening for at least two months and within a week, we hit the road. Our goal when we get back is to do a final push (fine - for Tim to do a final push), get the house on the market by spring and sell that sucker so we can full time in the bus.

Yes, I know our timing couldn't be better with the way housing prices are, but hey - diesel prices are definitely declining (for now).

Since Alene doesn't do much internet, I'll repeat here what I said about her in QUEEN OF THE ROAD:

Alene is one of my best friends from residency. We’re about as different as friends can be: She was never interested in private practice. She had no patience for patients with “issues.” She wanted to go where the need was greatest, to treat the sickest of the sick, so she became the first female psychiatrist to work on San Quentin’s death row. Now she’s chief of psychiatry at Pelican Bay State Prison, which houses some of California’s most dangerous inmates. And we’re still about as different as friends can be: I wear designer duds. She wears a slash-proof vest. I go to Mr. Lai for tailoring. She gets her fittings at the armory. When I’m interviewed for a new contract, it’s on the phone in the safety and comfort of my own home. When she interviews for a job, she must first sign a waiver acknowledging the “no hostage policy” (and this after passing the sign helpfully informing all comers “NO WARNING SHOTS FIRED.”) She always laughed at me for my sheltered life. I always told her, “Thank God for sheltered.” After the bus thing, I bet she thinks my life is less sheltered. Then again, maybe not.

We spent an afternoon with Alene and her partner, Debra, at their lovely home near San Luis Obispo. As a dog person (who is also allergic to cats, but has acclimated to ours over the years), Tim could not understand their living with eight felines (they also had one very understanding terrier). I promptly informed him that if I were living alone, I’d probably have twice that number. He wasn’t so much impressed as horrified. Debra, ever the caring hostess, laid out towels for us and offered that we use their shower and other indoor plumbing, thinking that surely living in a bus for a year meant we’d been roughing it. As I said, it’s Alene and I who have been close.

We're staying at the same RV Park as last year - the exact same spot, as a matter-of-fact (let's just say they're not real busy during what's supposed to be the rainy season), right on the beach:

Although, it can get crowded at times:

The guy would be certifiable, if I could catch him to do the evaluation. Not that I tried - or would want to. It's probably best to keep one's distance from a guy who's idea of a good time is to fly sitting in a glorified lawn chair with a leaf blower attached to the back. Just 'cause he's a bit off, why should I suffer?

Speaking of certifiable, for anyone thinking of crashing for the holiday dinners, just remember: I'm making my usual - reservations.

Finally... just a quick word about dearreader.com. It's a free and utterly fabulous site for book lovers. I've been a "subscriber" (remember, it's free) for years. You can sign up for books in any genre, then every week, Monday through Friday, Suzanne Beecher sends you an email with an excerpt. By Friday, you've read the entire first chapter. It's a great way to be exposed to a lot of books so you can decide what you then want to buy or check out of a library. I'm mentioning it now, because QUEEN OF THE ROAD is going to be the nonfiction selection for the week of November 3rd. We're also including an author chat, so I encourage you all to sign up and head on over. Oh, come on! You'll need a break from all the election stuff by then!

You and your democracies. Return to the monarchy, subjects - all is forgiven!