Blue Martini Blues

I, Myki Rebl, am a terrible person. I am a troublemaker. A rabble rouser. I may look sweet, but I'm really not. But I am driven to be this way. How else can I drum up some good stuff for my blog?

Some galpals (cowhores, if you prefer) wanted to go out to celebrate the release of my latest creative endeavor, Tulle Little, Tulle Late. I'm like, cool. After eating (Thanks for dinner, Sandy. I feel like I shoulda put out or something!), we all traipsed over to a hot spot, a colorful martini bar to meet with some fun loving people I'd never met before.

We all had a sweatin' good time, dancing on the cramped dance floor, bouncing and giggling to the live band. To say we all had our share of admirers would be an understatement. Staimy (the cute blonde with the weird name) had her gorgeous psycho military admirer. We had him pegged to be the type to shimmy and buck like a killer machine gun at the height of orgasm (I'll have to have Staimy confirm this at a later date).

And I had this other guy bopping around behind me. Cute guy. Clean cut. Good dancer. Well dressed. Built like a bull dog...he came up to about my nose, when it comes to height. I'm all for the taller-woman-shorter-man thing, but, um, I'm 5', 3". We let him join in and he danced with us all. We had some good laughs (no...not at the bull dog's expense...just laughs in general), because we all danced so funky and goofy. Caramel martinis will do that to a girl.

I ended up laughing so hard, I got a stitch in my side. Through the peals of laughter, I screamed out, "Oh, dear God, I think I pulled an ovary!"

Staimy (I'm stymied by Staimy's unusual name) cried back, "You lost an ovary?"

So, of course, I nodded and said yes. Well, Staimy must have believed me because she started looking down at the dance floor looking for my lost ovary, as if it fell and was now rolling around on the dance floor somewhere. I was still laughing, still holding on to my side, (I lost an ovary, remember?), and so I started looking too. Staimy started asking other dancers if they'd seen my ovary.

Bull dog boy started looking around, too, and asked, "What are we looking for?

Staimy said, "Her ovary!"

To which he asked, "What's an ovary?"

With sweat pouring down my face and tears of hysterics blurring my vision, I had to get off the floor and catch my breath.

The rest of the cowhores quickly said good bye to bull dog boy and followed suit.

We were ready to go. But then another girl at the table of married couples asked for info about my book. So, I took out a piece of paper and started writing down the info for her.

Right then, another woman (strikingly gorgeous woman) who was part of this gang of people I really didn't know, came back from the ladies room. She saw me writing down something, and asked, "What are you writing?"

"I'm writing down my phone number to give to this guy!" I then pointed to her husband.

(See? This is the troublemaking part of me that comes out when I need to good stuff for my blog. I knew that this guy was her hubby.)

She looked at me. She looked at her husband, who had been sitting nearby the whole time. She then looked at me again. Her doe eyes rounded in surprise.

She then gave her the hubby the most beautiful pout I'd ever seen.

I couldn't stop laughing. (Cuz she believed me!) She kept asking, "Huh?" and "Whaah?" and "How come?"

I couldn't help myself. She totally walked into that one and I couldn't resist.

I finished writing on the paper, but of course, handed it to the other woman who wanted the book info...not to the hubby.

As my galpals and I left the building, I left the poor beautiful girl completely confused and clinging to her hapless hubby.

Hopefully, the beautiful girl will read my book. Once she sees my oddball sense of humor, I'm sure she'll understand.

RWA National Conference

Okay, so I'm at the RWA National Conference this past weekend. I'm sashaying my way through publisher parties. Signing my way through autograph parties. And following a chocolate-laden "tea" hosted by my literary agency, I find myself bringing a Frenchman back to my hotel.

Bear with me on this one...

When my good friend, T.R., opens the door of our shared fancy-shmancy hotel quarters, she looks at me and my French compatriot all confused. I say to her, "You knew it was only a matter of time before I brought a man back to our hotel room during one of these conferences!" She nods and ushers us in...

My little French friend is none other than F.G. Gerson, the author of 21 Steps to Happiness, by Red Dress Ink. (So go get it already, wouldja?). I met him during my romp in NYC earlier this year (I'll post on that adventure in due time, my dears) and he's my new buddy. Fancy meeting him at the conference! He hung out with T.R. and me for the afternoon. Kept us in stitches. Gloated over his wife and kiddies.

That night, I wore him like an accessory and treated him like an object (he didn't mind...trust me!) at the conference's Welcome Reception. He even ran into his very first official fan. It was fun to watch. He even got to meet some cool women like Linda Howard and Jo Beverly. The poor man had no clue he was meeting some mighty fine women in the writing industry.

I really like this author. His book came out just before mine. He's an unlikely chick lit author. Yet he shares the same soul as the rest of us authors when it comes it fulfilling your dream of getting published and writing about crazy relationships between men and women. His writing is like a breath of fresh air in the world of women's fiction. So go ahead, get his book...you'll adore him as much as I do! Buh-bye! --Myki