The Balls Incident occurred when I lived in Los Angeles.  As you might suspect, Los Angeles’s yellow pages are much bigger than here in Tahlequah, Oklahoma.  In L.A. the book is as big as a concrete block and weighs about the same, too.  I didn’t use the yellow pages there either unless you count the time my couch broke a leg and I used the book to hold that end up.

To be truthful, the Balls Incident didn’t happen because of the yellow pages.  Not exactly.  It was the pink pages.  The pink pages are just like the yellow pages except they’re pink.  And all the businesses listed inside are gay owned.

I had just watched that Ellen episode – the TV sitcom, not the talk show – where Ellen used the pink pages to call a gay plumber.  This particular episode happened in the season right after the character Ellen, played by Ellen, had come out of the closet and right before the show died because people didn’t want to see funny lesbians.  Audiences think fags are funny – who doesn’t – but funny and lesbians don’t belong together in the same sentence.  They did a poll on this very topic out in Tarzana.   But I digress…

Ellen used the pink pages to call a gay plumber and it turned out the plumber wasn’t gay.  I think.  Okay, maybe it wasn’t all that funny after all.

I had just bought a house and was all excited to be a homeowner.  Or as they call it in the pink circles – a homo-owner.  However, my new house was filthy.  I mistakenly had all my belongings delivered and unpacked before I’d had the house cleaned.  I was busy writing a TV movie on a deadline – and I thought the deadline was tres important because, after all, TV movies can and do make the world a happier place.  Again, another poll in Tarzana proved this.  But I digress…

I didn’t have time to clean my new house and it was too dirty to live in.  So, fueled by Ellen’s moral of throwing my money to gay businesses, I let my fingers do the walking through the pink pages and called up the Down and Dirty Cleaning Service.  I made an appointment for them to clean my house the next morning while I was off battling producers.

The next day, I came home and found their van parked in my driveway.  They’d found the key right where I’d said it would be and had let themselves in.  I walked in my front door and was greeted by the sight of an ass.  An ass bent over and aimed right at me.  And this ass was not of the female variety either.  This was an ass of the hairy male variety.  And all his male works were dangling between his legs.  Bouncing around down there while he swiped a dust cloth over my coffee table.

I guess I shrieked or something because he turned around and everything that could jiggle did.

“Are you Down and Dirty?” I asked.

“Are you the owner?” he asked.

“Yes,” we both said at the same time.

He had the good graces to sidle back behind my couch, but unfortunately he was too tall for the couch to hide much of anything.

“Your balls are perched on the back of my couch,” I said.

“I know,” he said.

Well, to make a long story short, Bruce (he told me name was Bruce.  I told him my name was  Jo Anne Worley) put on some pants and did the rest of the cleaning clothed.  He explained that he did all his housecleaning naked. That all the maids who advertised in the pink pages cleaned in the buff.  That’s what his customers – of the male variety – paid for.  And to think, I just wanted my house cleaned.

Ellen hadn’t said anything about that in her TV show.   Maybe she should have.

Bruce did clean really well, though.

I bought a new couch, too.

*spoiler alert*  The teacher did it.

I only remember the first two sentences of the book:  “She tripped over the sidewalk and stubbed her big toe.  It hurt.”  Even at that young age I had a sense of drama.  Which I probably got from watching all those Charlie Chan movies on Sunday afternoon.

I remember trying to weave humor into the story.  I had my protagonist, Michelle, write the teacher an anonymous note.  Michelle mistakenly signed the note ‘Miscellaneous.’  I thought that was hilarious.

*spoiler alert*  My readers didn’t.

I brought the humor down a notch in the next installment.  This time Michelle cut the cheese in class.  My readers thought that was hysterical.

I thought my newfound fame would make me… desirable.  That being a published writer would make girls swoon in my presence and that boys would want to be me.

*spoiler alert* Didn’t happen.

So, I moved on.  I became the paper’s cartoonist.  It was the era of Watergate, which means I drew a lot of cartoons of men with ski-slope noses saying things like “I am not a crook.”

*spoiler alert*  He was.

My fellow students still didn’t fawn over me.  To earn their love I began to do impersonations of famous personalities a la Richard Little.  (If you’ve never seen a fat, ten year-old girl wearing cat-eye glasses do an impersonation of John Wayne, you haven’t really lived.)

*spoiler alert*  I became the kid nobody wanted to eat lunch with.

However, as it has a tendency to do, life went on.

BIG TIME *SPOILER ALERT*  I grew up to be a writer as an adult.  I still think farts are funny, but now I call it scatological humor.  Girls still don’t swoon over me – and some even run from me.  I still wear glasses and I still do a mean John Wayne.

Thank you and enjoy!

Yamila:  (sleepy voice) Hola.

Layce:  Hi! I hope I didn’t wake you.

(Long pause)

Yamila:  Hola?

Layce:  Can you speak English?

Yamila:  Ingles?

Layce:  En..glish…  You know American?  Speak English?  I know you can read English.

Yamila:  I speak English, si.  Who are you?

Layce:  My name’s Layce Gardner.  I’m calling you from the United States.  Oh, no!  I’m sorry, I forgot about the time difference!  What time is it in Argentina?

Yamila:  Two.

Layce:  Oh, that’s not so bad.

Yamila:  Two in night time.  Who is this?

Layce:  (enunciating slowly) Layce Gardner .  I wrote the book Tats. 

Yamila:  Tats?

Layce. Si, si.  I just called to tell you thank you.

Yamila:  Thank you?

Layce:  Si.  I wanted to thank you for buying my daughter’s braces.

Yamila:  Braces?

Layce:  For her teeth.  Not her legs.

Yamila:  Teeth?

Layce:  Are we having a language barrier problem here?

Yamila:  No.  Yes.  I no understand.

Layce:  Let me explain.  You stole my book –

Yamila:  – I no steal book.  No steal.

Layce:  Ummmm…. Let’s cut through the bullshit, ok?  You stole it.  You may have bought it first, but then you uploaded it to a website and told all your friends they could have it for free. So they downloaded it for free and read it and all the money I could have made was gone, kaput, vamoose.

Yamila:  This not stealing.  It sharing.

Layce:  Okay, whatever, I didn’t call you to argue semantics.  I called to tell you thank you for sharing your credit card with me.

Yamila:  Que?

Layce:  Well, when you shared my book, I figured I lost A LOT of income.  And I have a daughter who needs braces ’cause her teeth are jacked up and I couldn’t afford it without that income.  So, I contacted a friend, who knows this guy who… well, anyway, I got your credit card number and I shared it with a bunch of other authors and I paid for my daughter’s braces, so I just wanted to say thank you.

Yamila:  You stole my credit card?

Layce:  No, silly, I shared it.  There’s a big difference.  By the way, you may be getting some more phone calls from other authors.  They want to thank you, too.

Y:  $^PJ&N@U)R!$%^$)P+KMO!!!!

Me:  I’m sorry, no habla espanol.  Sweet dreams!

(Layce hangs up.  Giggles.)

Yamlugue has been approached by many of our  authors before but still insists on committing this criminal activity.  Legally, we don’t have much recourse because Argentina does not recognize U.S. copyright law.  That means we need to operate outside the realm of the law.  I’m not saying we need to do anything illegal or even anything morally wrong, but we do need to find a way to appeal to this woman and get her to ‘cease and desist.’

So far, Yamalugue has been approached by authors one at a time.  What I’m suggesting we do is approach her en masse.  If we can get 300, 500 or even 1,000 people to bombard her mailbox and her email with letters asking her to stop, we stand a much greater chance of succeeding.  Imagine going to your mailbox one day and dozens of letters are stuffed inside asking you to stop stealing… It’s worth a shot.

Below is a sample letter. Please email her.  Please write her a snail mail.  The letter will cost ninety-eight cents.  Please consider investing this dollar into the future of our publishers.  You can write your own letter if you wish.  Remember, no cussing and no threats.  The content of the letter doesn’t matter as much as the fact that the letter has been sent and will be in the company of hundreds of its sisters in her mailbox.

Please share this blog with every lesbian, lesbian organization, FB page, FB lesbian group, aw hell, paper this blog with her name and address everywhere you can.  Saxon Bennett and R.E. Bradshaw are also blogging about this very topic and sending out a call for help.  Visit their website to get their takes on the subject.

Here’s her particulars:

email: yamlugue@yahoo.com.ar

Yamila Luciana Guerrier

Cochabamba 948

Ciudad de Buenos Aires

1150 Argentina

Dear Ms. Guerrier,

It has come to my attention that  you are stealing many works of lesbian fiction, uploading them to file sharing sites and giving away free copies.  I am writing this letter asking you to cease and desist this criminal activity.  What you are doing is against United States copyright law and is morally reprehensible.

Sincerely,

Your name

I don’t know why so many people are googling “sex with Karin Kallmaker.”  (that’s her problem, not mine) And I really don’t know why Google is directing people to my site when they type in those words.  But that’s the way it is so I decided to capitalize on it.   In fact, if I really wanted to generate even more traffic (and maybe some potential book sales)  I would write some stuff like this:

I am Saxon Bennett’s girl toy.

* KG MacGregor is my sex therapist.

* Sara Marx doesn’t wear any pants when she writes.

* Amy Dawson Robertson is stalking me.

* My vagina is in love with Pol Robinson’s lips.

That should drive some people to my site!  I’ll let you all know next week if it worked.

P.S. the moral of this blog is that catchy titles are what make people read your blog.  Or maybe  sex sells.  Something like that.

* this did not actually happen except maybe in Layce’s imagaintion

Vivian is running from more than the men in black chasing her.  She’s running from a past that’s not everything it’s cracked up to be, and mostly from herself, first on the back of Lee’s Harley, then in various other modes of transportation used as getaway vehicles, whisking them from one near-death experience to another.
For her part, Lee struggles with her feelings for Vivian and marvels at the adventure they are on together.  However, she gets herself into more trouble than she’s bargained for by engaging in a one-night stand with a man she’s using to forget Vivian.
Tats is full of wit and one strange event after another.  There’s a Thelma and Louise quality to this story with more than one twist.  This one is full of heart-stopping turns of events that will have you screaming, “Don’t do it!” into the pages of this book.  When you’re not doing that, you’ll be laughing at the hi-jinks of these two crazy women or feeling an overwhelming sadness at the state of their lives.  The road to this story’s end is paved with a comedy of errors that leads to an unlikely conclusion.  One thing is certain: you will be entertained in a quirky, thrilling kind of way.

Reviewed by Anna Furtado

Don’t forget – Tats Too: The Case of the Devil’s Diamond is being released May 15, 2012!  Available now for pre-order at Amazon!

I haven’t smoked for over a year.  I am very very very proud of myself.  (three verys is a whole lot!)  Quitting smoking is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.  Smoking was so ingrained into my every waking moment, every fiber of my being, that if I didn’t have a cigarette in my hand I didn’t know who I was.

I can’t think of anything I did that a cigarette wasn’t a part of.  I smoked in the movies.  In the grocery store.  During my college classes.  While writing.  (oh how I miss a cigarette while writing!)  After dinner. (I miss this cigarette second most)  While driving a car.  Drinking.  Ironing.  Working crosswords.  Watching TV.  Reading.  Talking.  Walking. Taking a bath.  Cooking.  OMG, the only time I didn’t smoke was in the shower and I have to confess I even did that a couple of times.

I still want a cigarette.  Every moment of every day.  But I won’t smoke.  Not ever.  I find my strength in my daughter.  She abhors smoking.  And she tells me daily how proud she is of me for quitting.  And I want to live a very long life so I can see her grow up and all the magnificent things she’s going to do with her life.  Saxon helps me, also.  I know you’re not supposed to out other people, but she used to smoke, too.  And together we’ve been quit for over a year now.  I’ve finally found the love of my life at the ripe old age of fifty and, by God, I’m not going to lose her because of a stupid addiction.

So, if you smoke and wish you didn’t,  (and let’s be serious here, I think all smokers really want to quit) here’s some honest advice — there is no easy way.  There’s no shortcut.  It’s hell, pure and simple.  The only sure-fire way to quit is to stand up, point your finger at the tobacco companies and say, “Fuck you!  You can’t have my time, my money, or my life!  As of right now I am taking my life back!”  Get good and angry and throw those cigarettes in the trash and don’t ever touch another one.

If I can do it, I know you can.

My friend Brenda Lou and I left early one Saturday morning from Los Angeles and were in Ensenada by noon.

Mexico didn’t look a thing like I thought it would.  First, there’s not as many Mexicans in Mexico as there are in L.A.  And second, it’s a whole lot poorer.   We walked down a little street, looking for a place where you could buy Retinol A when this little Mexican dude steps out of an alley and watches us walk by.  We’re just barely past him, when I hear him say, “Excuse me, lady.  You dropped your vagina.”

Now to get the full effect of this, you have to imagine him saying that with a Speedy Gonzales accent.  Read it again with that accent.  Here we go… “Excuse me, lady.  You dropped your vagina.”

Well, Brenda Lou and I looked at each other, then at the same time our heads swiveled to the little man.  He was pointing at the ground behind us.  He said it again, “You dropped your vagina.”

I looked at the ground.  There was nothing there.  I looked back at the man and said, “No, sorry.  That’s not my vagina.”

Brenda Lou and I scurried away, laughing our collective asses off.  But that got us to thinking.  What if vaginas were removable?  What if we could switch them out, change them around, wear different ones with different outfits?  Wear a different vagina for different moods?  What if vaginas turned colors with your mood – like a mood ring?  Wouldn’t that be cool!

There would be vagina fashion designers.  Martha Stewart could have her own Wal-Mart line of vaginas.  I’m sure Miley Cyrus would like her own line of tween vaginas.  Channel would have fancy smelling vaginas. Rich women would have mink lined vaginas.  PETA would boycott the fur vaginas.  You could have holiday vaginas - like a pink one for easter,  one with a Santa’s beard for Christmas — omg!  A chocolate vagina for Valentine’s Day!  Don’t even get me started on Halloween vaginas.  Could you wear a white vagina after labor day?

Hollywood would have a ‘worst-dressed vagina list.’  All the famous rock stars would get together and release a song to help underprivileged third-world vaginas.  They could call it ‘Vagina Aid’ or ‘We Are Vaginas.’

We might even want to rename Virgina.  Then their motto could be: “Vagina is for lovers.”

The possibilites seemed endless!  Brenda Lou and I discussed the future of vaginas all the way back to our homeland.  I dropped her off at her house then drove myself home.  When I walked in my door, I saw the light on my answering machine blinking.  I pressed the button and heard Brenda Lou’s voice say, “Layce, I tried to stop you before you drove off…  when I got home I didn’t realize I had your vagina and… well, to make a long story short, I found the cat playing with it.  I finally rescued it and put it in the sink to soak.  Feel free to use my vagina until I return yours.  Mi vagina, su vagina, you know.  But try not to do any of that weird lesbo stuff with it, okay?”

To Be Continued…

If you haven’t read Tats, you might not want to read this blog as there is a big-time spoiler.

****************************************************************************************

Several readers have asked me, “Why did you make Lee sleep with a man to get revenge on Vivian?”  I’ve always responded with a short answer, but I think I owe it to the people who are asking to give a better explanation.  So here it is:

I wish the world were black and white.  I wish there were definite good and bad choices.  I wish people would make only good choices.  However, they don’t.  Lee sleeping with a man was a bad choice.  She made a really bad choice.  Afterwards, she realized what a bad choice it was and there were consequences.

I think us lesbians would like to think that we are better than that.  That we don’t make bad choices.  But, the reality is that we do.  Some of us are alcoholics, abusers, victims of abuse, drug users, over-eaters, thieves, and bad mothers.  Some of us aren’t.   But we are all normal people and even the most normal of us sometimes goof up.

I don’t write about self-realized women who always make good choices.   I choose to write about flawed women who embark on a journey, make some wrong turns, realize they’re lost and find their way again.  By the time they reach their destination they are better.  Not perfect, but better.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not saying we should like all the choices a character makes.  In fact, you shouldn’t.   Lee doesn’t.  You don’t even have to like the character herself.  Lee is filled with self-loathing so intense she doesn’t even like to look in a mirror.  Until the end.

So, there’s that answer.  But here’s another:

I had Lee sleep with a man because it was the most debasing, humiliating thing she could do at that moment.  I needed her to hit bottom and be vulnerable so she could reveal her past in the next scene.  She would never normally reveal her truth to Vivian, so I had to strip her of her armor and leave her emotionally naked.   It’s what I call the ‘core-out’ point.  That’s the point where a character has hit bottom and they have nowhere to go but up.  Lee sleeping with a man and revealing her core to Vivian was the point where Lee began to find her own strength.

I’m going to continue to write about flawed women.  I will write about women who have holes in their panties, who smoke even though they know they shouldn’t, who don’t put on their turn signals, who abandon their children because they themselves aren’t grown up, who burn the casserole because they were watching Jerry Springer, who laugh when somebody falls on their ass, who eat a whole gallon of ice cream when they’re depressed, who battle with addictions and who have sex with people they shouldn’t.

However, I promise that they will always find the strength to learn, grow and at the end of their journey they will be a better person than when they began.

I am so glad that people have asked me this question.  It’s made me think, listen and learn.  And that’s part of my journey.