Plotz! A Romantic Comedy About the Safe Disposal of Low-Level Radioactive Waste

By Andrea Siegel

Have you ever struggled with loving someone passionately who was a complete idiot about the basic scientific data that proves the existence of human-caused climate change? You are not alone.
Of the many possible twists in a contemporary romance, Plotz! hilariously employs forty-four: Lilith, a brilliant and voluptuous—and of course fiery and headstrong—research scientist, works tirelessly to solve the problem of safe disposal of low-level radioactive waste. (Trust us, it's a real problem.)

Meanwhile, her dashing and deplorable climate-science-denying ex-husband, Von, secretly schemes to take over the company where she works, threatening not only our heroine's research, which will save life on Earth as we know it, but also upending Lilith herself, who is rushed to the hospital unconscious. After a car accident, a cancer diagnosis, and other plot points too improbable to mention, enter her nebbishy boss, Arnold, who secretly hopes to take our heroine kayaking ... and more.

But Lilith longs for a normal life. Far from her parents and now her nefarious and delicious ex-husband, during an utterly unlikely series of events, she takes control of the company, when a stack of hidden letters comes to light, and a long-kept secret finally surfaces, revealing a tragic turn of events that leaves an infant orphaned. With all the maternal instinct that God gave a turnip, Lilith is forced confront the fact that her newly-discovered adorable half-sister, alone in the world, has no one else to turn to for help.

Will Von succeed in seducing Lilith into things she would be horrified by if she weren't so overwhelmed by his unsettlingly virile presence? And what about that incredibly attractive Dr. Welby (yes, that is his real name), who keeps popping up in the most surprising places? And even more peripherally, will Lilith also solve the global problem of Climate Change by stealing her sister's theory?

Guy gets girl, guy loses girl ... you know the rest. Or do you?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrea Siegel
• Release date: Nov 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9780967275024

Andrea Siegel

Andrea Siegel, PhD, is a writer, curator, lifeguard, and teacher.

Book preview

PLOTZ!

A Romantic Comedy

About the Safe Disposal of Low-Level Radioactive Waste

by

Andrea Siegel

In memory of my friend Alan Pasternak,

who devoted his life to the safe disposal of low-level radioactive waste.

Thanks to my friends whose feedback helped make this project better, stronger, faster: Laura Greenberg, Taj Habib, Lisa Levine, Danika Lew, Joe Murkette, Julie Murkette, Tom Nathan, Neil Smith, Jacob Tanenbaum.

© 2020 Andrea Lynn Siegel. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-9672750-2-4

Agapanthus Books

If a character in this book bears a resemblance to any person, living or dead, or to any person I’m related to in some third category, or to any character in any romantic novel ever, that is purely coincidental.

This work employs (and thus parodies) ALL of Louise Vernon’s forty-four romance novel critical situations and points of conflict from page 82-83 of Revised and Updated How to Write Romances; Conflict, desire, adventure, romance, Learn how to weave these threads into compelling stories that live on in your readers’ hearts by Phyllis Taylor Pianka. Given that Pianka’s book is intended to help teach writing, the author of Plotz! hopes that both Pianka and Vernon understand that the aforementioned author has gratefully taken their lessons to heart. However, instead of using one or two of the situations the authors recommend to encourage writing a good romance, the author got carried away and was inspired to use all of them. Each chapter heading is a situation. Thank you to Vernon and Pianka.

They come from different worlds.

We make promises as children do. Some we are bound to our whole lives; and some not. It can take a lifetime or two to untangle our obligations, and find our loves.

It was a dark and cloudy morning. I had just put on my lab coat and was sitting down at my workbench to see the results of the over-night computer simulations of my non-toxic low-level radioactive waste disposal project. Another idea was tickling at the back of my mind, about a process that could possibly suck all the carbon out of the atmosphere and turn it into diamonds, thus solving the Climate Change problem, and creating some astoundingly pretty jewelry in the process.

Something, perhaps it was the crash of thunder outside, perhaps it was the pervasive smell of mildew emanating from my colleague’s lab next door, made me think of a promise I had made to my sister, many years ago, when we were but children. This was before Father had lost all our money through a bad investment advised by my uncle, and at the time when we still lived in the grand stone house on the hill, with many servants, and filet mignon every night for dinner (OK, there was a house, but the servants had fled two generations before, and dinner was hit-or-miss, largely miss, and never steak). My older sister and I each had an army of dolls; she would dress hers, and undress hers, with a repetitiveness that would stunt the mind of a turnip. She took great pleasure in having one doll complain to the other about medical conditions that I had never heard of: My Scientica! It hurts, Doctor!

By contrast, I would cheerfully rip the legs off my dolls, to see how they were made, and fruitlessly try to re-assemble them, finally calling upon my dear father to take us all—me and my tiny charges—to the Doll Hospital for rescue.

My sister had recently started to dress her dolls strangely: some wore underwear on their heads, some had torn garments, shredded in places that modesty prevents my describing. Much as I loved her, it was clear that we were on different paths.

I already had a tiny lab coat, which I wore even to sleep. She already had that look of acute self-pity, which would not help her prospects many years later when she would attempt—and fail at—dating.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. I clucked at her like Albert Einstein (whose poster was over my bed), and taped a gray paper mustache to my upper lip. Tell me, I asked her. Vat seems to be ze problem?

She stopped playing with her dolls for a moment. The shredding noise ceased. She looked up at me with utter seriousness, and said, Lila, when we are older, if we both like the same boy, things will be easier for you. Let me have him?

I could not ever imagine liking a boy, and I knew her life would be challenging. The least I could do was give her the boy I didn’t like.

He is all yours, I said grandly, and promptly forgot about it. Until today.

A knock on my lab door startled me out of my reverie. I would recognize those light taps anywhere. It was Shmeg, my boss, also known as Arnold Shmeggegie. He is short, light, and homely. He poked his bearded face in the room.

How’s the simulation run coming? he asked.

I gave him my cool, level, go-away-now gaze. I knew he cared about the safe disposal of low-level radioactive waste as few people did. Just a handful of scientists, and fewer lay people, understood that the glamor of high-level radioactive waste captured public attention and sometimes even public tax dollars, but the dangers of not correctly disposing of the low-level stuff, over the next few decades, could cost humanity its place on this small green planet.

He looked out the window and then looked at the floor. My gaze followed his. This office could use a mopping. Because no cleaning crew members were allowed in my office—for security reasons—the tidiness level was somewhat low. My mastery of paperwork, of any kind, was dismal. As we watched, a dust bunny scuttled along the floor, seeking shelter. My boss looked up at me again. Was that longing in his gaze? He wanted this project to work. The concept was brilliant. The execution relied on so many complex factors it made even my head spin, and I have a doctorate in physics.

It’s still running, I said.

We come from different worlds, he and I. His background is in humanities, mine is the sciences. He wants to save the world for reasons that can be explained in words, stories, pictures, the sight of children playing with fishing rods they’ve made out of small branches while standing over a stream in the summertime. I can crunch every number you’ve ever imagined and make it into a complex computation that will show you how to save the world, and pop fat-free popcorn in my lab without the use of a microwave. With undergraduate degrees in biology, chemistry, and physics, I can think across disciplinary boundaries. He can write the poetry that communicates to ordinary folks to get us the money to do this. The two of us working together? I guess you can call us a team.

Does this thing have legs? he asked me.

I leveled another gaze at him, and thought about those dolls’ legs from long ago. I nodded, certainty in my gut foolishly jumping ahead of results I had not yet seen in my analysis.

Two men love her, but one is not quite honorable.

After Shmeg ambled back toward his office, I turned to face my computer. Before I had a chance to check my new results, I was startled to hear a dark handsome rumbling noise of someone clearing his throat behind me. Note to self: close door next time. I’d recognize that sound anywhere, the tender masculine throat of my ex-husband Vone. I sighed, quickly flicked my screen dark, and swiveled my chair back around.

His tall, dark, and—I admit it—gorgeous frame never failed to make my nostrils quiver slightly. A brown-black forelock curled casually down the middle of his forehead. His penetrating hazel-brown eyes and broad chest made my bosom heave a wee bit. I wasn’t proud of it, but I couldn’t deny it. Even after not having seen him for many years. However, four years of marriage in my early twenties to this astounding hunk had taught me much. Despite what he’d whispered to me the night we met, that, Chemistry is destiny, chemistry, I had learned to my sorrow . . . well, chemistry could stand independent of any rational thought or even supernatural premonition of disaster. Chemistry, in fact, in matters of love, is something I believed now should be run from, quickly. If it follows you, barricade the door. If it comes in the window, leave out the back, fast. Get a plane to the next country, or get on a rocket to the Space Station.

Lila? he asked. I tried to ignore wanting to kiss those firm lips.

Vone, what do you want? And how did you get in the building? What are you doing here? I asked, pretending my physiology was sitting in the Good Humor ice cream truck that came down my town’s main street during my childhood. I contemplated whether to have a coconut flake frozen thing over vanilla ice cream on a stick, or that thin dark chocolate bar with ice cream around it, coated by a layer of chocolate. I thought, Cool thoughts.

How are you, too? I’m glad to see you, he said, and it looked like he meant it.

With my left hand, I pushed my long auburn hair back over my shoulders, something I do when I’m nervous. Then I remembered him saying, long ago, how alluring he found that gesture. The right hand took and held the left hand firmly like it was an errant child.

I’m going to pitch Shmeg an idea about carbon collection, he said. We’re meeting in a few minutes.

Does he know about us? I asked.

How would he know? You ditched me as soon as you got the PhD.

Reader, it would be fairer to say that I let him go from our legal bond, which he had never taken seriously after our Honeymoon trip to Hawaii. Three years and 237 days I put up with his making eyes at every woman, man and goat in the immediate vicinity.

How did you know I was here? I asked.

His nostrils quivered. I saw the flinch. Pheromones.

Oh, I said. He felt it too. He’d followed my scent to the office. I didn’t feel quite so powerless, now that I realized that both of us were.

Gotta, run babe. Good to see you, he said. He waved gently and walked away. He knew better than to come closer for a chaste peck on the cheek. Thank goodness. Who knows if our kind of chemistry still packed a wallop after all this time? I didn’t want to find out. Not with that cad. Or maybe he was a bounder. I once looked him, I mean the words, up in the dictionary, but you will, I hope, forgive me that at this moment the definitions escaped me. Vone disappeared as immediately as he had arrived, leaving me in a state not fit for description in polite company.

I walked to the door, closed it, and locked it. I ignored my weakened knees. They’d recover.

What was he pitching to Shmeg?

I turned to my computer to find his dissertation abstract, and searched though his subsequent academic publications, something I had not given myself permission to do in the years since we parted. Now, since his glorious physique had appeared in my doorway a few moments before, things had changed and I had a lot of desire. To know, Dear Reader, simply to know. The Hawthorne Theory teaches us that simple observation of the experiment at hand changes the actors’ behavior. I had observed him, and found that he looked good. I had felt his head-to-foot appraisal of my curves, still ample beneath my lab coat, and I felt the change, for better or worse. For the sake of sanity, I