Even though it’s still ninety degrees outside, I know it’s fall because the grocery stores are loaded with apples. Sure, they’re available year ’round, but they taste best right now. Have you checked out all the varieties? There are some I’ve never heard of in the stores this year.

When I was growing up, we had the green Granny Smith for pies, Red Delicious, that got huge, and Golden Delicious, which I think is a little wimpy for an apple. And since I lived in Missouri, we had my favorite–the Jonathan. Its sweet-tart crunch defines the apple taste for me. My dad used to get a bushel of Jonathans and we’d snack on them until Christmas.

After we moved to Texas, I missed the taste of Jonathans because until recently, they weren’t stocked in the stores. I felt sorry for my friends who’d never eaten a Jonathan and thought the sweet, watery Red Delicious with its tough, bitter skin was what an apple tasted like. For years, I ate my apples baked in pies.

A new variety appeared in the stores–the Gala from New Zealand. Not bad, meaning a lot better than the Red Delicious. Yay New Zealand! But after that, I was taunted by Jonagolds, a cross between a Jonathan and a Golden Delicious. Why? Why did they taint the perfectly good Jonathan apple? Oh, sure, the Jonagold’s a pretty decent-tasting apple, no thanks to the Golden Delicious. The Jonathan is clearly doing the heavy-lifting in the flavor department.

And then one fall, I was shopping in a ritzy grocery store about twenty miles from my home and there they were–bags of Jonathan apples. I gasped. At last my children would taste real apples! I anticipated their little eyes wide with wonder as the mighty Jonathan zapped their taste buds. But since they were teenaged boys what I got was, “Mom, chill. It tastes like an apple.”

So, what’s your favorite apple?

It’s Labor Day! Last day to wear those white shoes! I’m referring to the rule that in the US, white shoes should only be worn from Memorial Day to Labor Day. And we’re talking the actual Memorial Day, May 30th and not the fake Memorial Day Observed. The only exceptions are brides, athletes, and those whose uniform requires white shoes. Don’t worry. This still leaves winter white, off-white, ivory, cream, eggshell, candlelight, bone, and any other not-quite-whites.

Who made up this rule? After exhaustive Googling, I have no idea. All I can tell you is that It’s Just Not Done. Other fashion rules have been retired, but not this one. The white-shoe edict is more than a mere rule. It’s part of our social DNA. Ignore it at your peril. Think I’m kidding? In November, 1989, Sarah, Duchess of York, arrived in Houston wearing a yellow and white dress and white shoes. The faux pas made the evening news along with an explanation that she had dressed for a tropical climate, since it was still eighty-five degrees during the day time. To this day, people still discuss the incident.

But what about the temperature? It’s still summer outside! As Judith Martin, writing as Miss Manners says, “Weather is never an excuse.” And “Sensible people therefore adhere to the concept of seasons without regard to whatever chaotic conditions may be prevailing outdoors.”

Many arbiters of style have declared the rule obsolete. They’re wrong, or I’d be wearing white sandals tomorrow. But I just can’t make myself. At least not until Memorial Day 2010.

Thanks to Alison Kent, we have a poll!

Sometimes I’m too clever for my own good. I enjoy signing at RWA’s Literacy Autographing, which kicks off the annual conference. So do 400 or 500 other authors. Since we’re all packed into one room, space is at a premium. Therefore, we’re no longer allowed to have posters of our book covers or any vertical displays to lure readers to our spot. Some authors are so well known, they don’t need to do any luring. They sell out in fifteen minutes and head for the bar. The rest of us smile gamely and wait for our legions of fans to find us. Or legion of fans. Or even one fan.

I needed an attention getter. Around Valentine’s Day, I found a string of heart lights and got an idea. I would decorate my signing space with blinking lights. There aren’t any rules about blinking lights, probably because there isn’t any place to plug them in. Oh, but I’m married to an electrical engineer. “Can you design me a power supply that will fit in a flat-rate mailer and run this string of lights for three hours?” I asked him. And like magic, he produces a plastic case with a plug and a red on/off switch. There’s even a cooling fan inside along with a cord to recharge the battery. After mailing it to myself–in Washington, D.C.–I learn that the nifty case is actually a gun case. A gun case?!? “It was the right size,” he explains. I figure the US Mail will never let the thing through. Nevertheless, I pack the lights in my suitcase and head for the conference. After landing, I get to baggage claim and hear, “Continental passenger Heather MacAllister please report to the baggage service office.” I knew it couldn’t be good.

What happened was airport security had removed my suitcase from the plane prior to take off because my heart lights, wiring neatly arranged in the unopened box, resembled a bomb. I’m lucky they didn’t blow the suitcase up first and ask questions later. I could hardly wait to find out if my gun case made it to the hotel.

It actually did and so did my suitcase after Continental put it on the next flight out and rushed it to the hotel in time for the literacy signing. Here I am, blinking lights and all.

After all the drama, I’m curious–how do you feel about book signings?

Mosquitoes love me. I do not love them. I don’t return their calls, I’m always busy when they want to go out, I slap them when they get too close, but they’re not taking the hint. Maybe it’s because I’m outnumbered here in the Bayou City and the word being spread isn’t, “Stay away or die!” but “Free all-you-can-eat buffet!” The RWA Conference is next week and I’m going to look as though I just got off the plane from a two-week stint at Girl Scout Camp.

Meanwhile, the battle rages on. My first line of defense is an electronic goody: the Stinger Mosquito Trap. I have one just inside the front door. A light attracts the mosquitoes and a fan sucks them in where they dehydrate. No muss no fuss. Until I have to empty it.

My favorite weapon was an anniversary present. Roses are nice, but give me an electronic mosquito zapper anytime. I sleep with it next to the bed and when I hear that whiny buzz, I grab the racket without turning on the light, wave it around until I hear a snap and see a spark as 1500 volts fry the mosquito. Very satisfying. The smell of burning mosquito? Not so much.

Speaking of smell, a couple of years ago, I started looking for a new perfume. I’ve been squirting myself at counters, buying samplers, and rubbing my arms with those cards that come in magazines in hopes of eliciting more than, “It’s okay” from my husband. I’d about given up until one day he said, “Hey! What’s that perfume? I really like that.” And so I’ve found my new signature scent: Off Smooth and Dry.

If you’ve got any mosquito-fighting tips, please tell me!

P.S. I’ve just redone my website. Stop by and take a look.

My first Blaze is on the stands! Whoo hoo! I was looking forward to its release because the number one question I’m asked is, “Where do you get your ideas?” and this time, I’ve got an easy answer. Naturally, no one has asked me that about this book. But the month is young.

UNDRESSED is four stories about couples who overhear conversations in the dressing rooms sharing a wall between a bridal salon and a tux rental shop. The idea for the book came from shopping for a wedding dress with my sister, who got married last year. You would not believe some of the conversations we overheard in the fitting rooms. At one point, I wondered what would happen if the grooms could hear their brides and future mothers-in-law talking . . . and a book was born.

I made up the conversations in the book. The real ones were too unbelievable. A lot of what happens in real life is too unbelievable to use in a book.

For example, at my sister’s wedding last May, I, as matron of honor, am standing next to her, listening as the minister preaches about marriage before the nitty gritty of exchanging vows and rings.

Now, what’s the classic cliché here? The missing ring, of course.

Yes. A horrible, awful, terrible feeling goes through me as I realize that I don’t have the ring. It’s on the table in the bride’s dressing room.

As I am thinking of how I can sneak off the dais and retrieve the ring without anyone noticing, I am also thinking that I could never use this in a book because it’s such a cliché. I turn to the other bridesmaid and mouth, “I don’t have the ring.”

She smiles and mouths back, “I have the ring.”

I go limp with relief. She discreetly hands it to me and I stick it on my thumb. Moments later, I hear, “May I have the rings?” And that’s when I go for cliché number two–the stuck wedding ring.

I’d been working with the flowers and my hands–and thumb–were sticky from florist’s tape. Since by now I was holding the bride’s bouquet as well as mine, I tried to slide the ring off my thumb with the fingers of the same hand. There was no sliding. The ceremony pauses as the minister waits for me to give him the ring. My sister thinks I’m joking. Finally, I pass off a bouquet and use my other hand to remove the ring because I’m afraid it’ll suddenly become unstuck and go shooting across the dais.

You’d never believe that in a book. I didn’t believe it as it was happening. But I can use the idea, if I make up something more convincing and less like real life.

It’s June! What are your wedding stories?

And apparently squash do it, too. Who knew? My mother, that’s who. I should backtrack and tell you that my husband planted a vegetable garden this spring. His first. All by himself, which is astonishing since he hates yard work. Me, I’m a verified plant killer, so I told him he was on his own with the planting and the tilling and the weeding, but I would be happy to cook and prepare any of the garden’s bounty. To my shock, plants are growing. A couple of weeks ago, I told my mom that the squash had started blossoming.

“Do you have any bees?” she asked.
“What? No.”
“Then you’ll have to help your squash have sex.”

Okay. These are not words I expect to hear from my mother. However, as is usually the case, she is right. By the way, do not Google “squash sex.” The results are not helpful.

After adjusting my search string, I learn that there are male and female blossoms and that if there are no bees, yes, they need help with pollination. Oh, yeah, they only bloom once. That’s right, they get one shot to make a baby squash, and that one shot takes place between 8:00 a.m. and 3:00 p.m. So they’re incompetent and picky. Since my husband’s at work then, I am the squash’s only hope for romance. I don’t even like squash.

Outside, I stare at the garden and figure out that there are a lot more females than males, which must be some kind of male squash fantasy. I can see the little squash babies all ready to grow, and know that if I can’t get the males to man up, the unfertilized babies will shrivel and die.

I shall not fail you, my squash sisters.

Early the next morning, I go to the garden with my paintbrush and perform intimate acts with strange squash blossoms. I match make. No kinky brother/sister stuff. And I check all the males—are they strong and handsome? Reliable? Employed? Does their pollen deserve to live on? I am emotionally invested in the lives of the squash.

For three days, I run a squash bordello. On the fourth, I interrupted a bee. I was so startled, I actually apologized to it.

Now, the bees have taken over, and a couple of days after that, the first squash, hand-pollinated by me, were born. They tasted great.

So . . . who read this and Googled “squash sex?”

Yes. Princess Beatrice is wearing a cloud of butterflies on her head. I’ll admit, when I saw this picture, I thought, “Oh, honey, no.” But then . . . but then it became a “hmmm.”

And here is Sarah Jessica Parker with her homage to Dr. Seuss.

There’s actually a name for these whimsically bizarre bits of feathers, tulle and fabric: fascinators. And I find myself fascinated.

Look at these things:

I want one. Easy enough. They’re for sale. Or I could make my own. But it’s not enough to want one. I want some place to wear it, some event where wearing a fascinator is not only appropriate, but encouraged. Realistically, I’m not headed to a royal wedding or Ascot any time soon. I’d freak out the people at Kroger and Ace Hardware. I bet the 99 Cent store folks would be cool, though. Still. I do not have the kind of life that requires a fascinator. But I want one anyway.

So am I alone? Well, maybe about the fascinators, but who else has something in her closet she just had to have but doesn’t have the life for? You know what I’m talking about. ‘Fess up.