Friday, 25 February 2011

Oh my God, my parents have sex!

Our guest author today is Shiela Stewart. Enjoy her humorous post and sexy excerpt.

Yep, news flash, every parent does. How do you think you came about? Yet kids think it’s the worst thing in the world to hear the action coming from their parents' room. Teenagers are the worst.

But what’s worse is hearing your child say, “What the hell was that thumping in your room last night?”

Sibling: “What the hell do you think it was? They were having sex.”

Child: There is no damn way that was them having sex. Dad can’t move that fast.”

Another news flash. Adults do have stamina. And, they do enjoy having sex, often. We like to get it on and we don’t appreciate you ragging on us for it.

When our children are small, having sex is no big deal. The children are innocent and have no idea what is going on behind their parents' closed doors. Well, unless they happen to run into your room amidst wild thrusting, and starts crying that daddy is killing mommy, then proceeds to jump on the bed, arms thrashing while Tab A is inserted into Slot B and you’re buck naked. Then you’re stuck trying to console a crying child while your hooters and wang are bouncing everywhere and explain that daddy wasn't hurting mommy, followed by fielding the endless questions of why he was on top of you and why you’re naked…. But I digress….

**clears throat**

As I said, When you’re children are young, you can have sex anytime you want. Kids go fo

r a nap. Have sex. Kids watching a movie. Have sex. But as they age, it’s not so easy. So parents have to steal moments whenever they can.

My kids are all over the age of sixteen. They know we have sex, but for some reason it’s the worst thing in the world, though they have no problem teasing us about it.

Oldest child: “I’ve been traumatized. My bedroom was directly under their bedroom for years. I had to listen to them go at it all the time.”

Middle child. “Yeah, well now my bedroom is below theirs and I hear them all the time. I need a shrink!”

Youngest. “Well my room is right across from theirs and I hear them the loudest. No wonder I’m messed up.”

Oh, for pity sake! What can a person to do to get laid when their kids are grown up?

Fear not! There are ways.

Wait until the kids head off to school or work then hurry your butt to the bedroom, or sofa or anywhere else you desire to do it.

If you have a detached garage, why not sneak out of the house and have a quickie on the hood of the car.

Tell the kids you’re heading out for a walk then find a spot in the backyard where you won’t be seen or heard and act like teenagers.

While those are all well and good and will probably add some excitement to your sex life, there is nothing like making love in your own bed, then cuddling up beside your mate and enjoy the afterglow. So how do you manage to do the deed without getting complaints from the kids. Share your thoughts and ideas with me and one commenter could win a free copy of my newest release, Horsing Around.

Horsing Around: Bk 1 in the Carnal Desires series

Available at Breathless Press

Shiela’s website:

Carnal Desires website:


Carnal Desire’s: We've got a match for all your sexual pleasures.

Sara Miller needs a real man. One who can give her what she desires in and out of the bed. So far, none have met her expectations. She’s hoping all that will change after submitting her application to Carnal Desire’s Web dating service.

The owner of several prize-winning horses, more money than he knows what to do with, Andy McDonald has it all. Except for the love a good woman. He’s sick of flighty bimbos wanting only his money and not satisfying his sexual desires. After a friend pressures him into looking on line for a woman, Andy gives in and submits his application.

Sex takes on a new twist when Sara and Andy get together and nothing is taboo.


Sara’s heart was beating so hard, she was sure Mistress Bella could hear it. She could very well turn tail and run. Why did she need a man in her life right now, let alone someone she might consider for the long haul?

Then the door opened. Before her stood the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen.

He wore nothing more than a towel around his hips, dipping low enough to reveal a thin line of hair from his navel down. His chest was glistening with moisture from the shower he’d obviously just stepped out of and was firm and muscular. His sandy blond hair was damp and messed up. He had a bit of stubble on his face, which made the ruggedness even more prominent. And when he smiled, those big blue eyes twinkled. He was definitely yummy. His picture didn’t do him justice by any means. Sara nearly swallowed her tongue.

Then he spoke.

"Well howdy, ladies."

Her heart calmed. His slight Southern drawl, with its deep resonance, was soothing and somewhat relaxing. And very arousing. She loved a man with an accent, and even though Andy’s was faint, it was still enough to turn her on. Between her legs, her flesh began to swell and moisten.

"Good afternoon, Andy. Looks like we caught you in the middle of your shower."

He stroked the damp sandy-blond hair from his face and Sara nearly swooned. "I just stepped out. I’m running a bit behind, I’m afraid." He turned his attention to Sara and her pulse pounded in her ears. "Pleasure to meet you in person, Sara."

She took the hand he held out to her; he completely surprised her when he turned her hand over and brushed his lips across her knuckles. "Pleasure’s mine." Like tiny electrical charges zapping every sensitive nerve in her body, he had her quivering with that one simple gesture.

"Well, come on in and make yourself comfortable while I go change."

He stepped aside to let them in and as Sara walked past him, the scent of the woods after a light rain shower wafted off of him, like fresh, aromatic greenery touched by a kiss of sunlight. She was going to have no problem at all being with this man.

She and Bella headed to the sitting area of the suite while Andy headed to the bedroom. It was spacious, and came complete with a mini kitchen, sitting area, TV and plush sofa and chair. Almost identical to her own suite.

"Pretty easy on the eyes, isn’t he?"

Sara smiled at Bella’s comment, taking a seat on the sofa. "I’m not having any trouble looking at him."

"And what better first meeting than to see him practically naked." Bella winked and beamed a huge grin. "Well, I’ll leave the two of you to get acquainted now. If you need anything, you know where to find me."

"Thank you so much, Mistress Bella."

"I love making people happy. I’m heading out, Andy," she shouted at the bedroom door.

"Catch you later, sugar." He stepped out of the bedroom, dressed in jeans and a dark blue t-shirt just as Bella left the suite. "Looks like it’s just you and me now, doll."

God, he was going to make her come, just by speaking. "Looks like.” She got to her feet. “So…how should we start this?"

"Let’s start with this as an opener."

He swung his arm around her waist and she gasped when he yanked her against his chest.

Thursday, 24 February 2011

Foods you can't just eat one of

So, one of the neighbor kids is a Girl Scout, and, as most of you probably know by now, it's that time of year again. Girl Scout cookies. (sigh) These are truly evil. Why? Because you can't eat just one. No. You can vow that you'll eat just one, but you know it won't happen. No sooner do you open that bag than the entire thing is gone. (sigh) And that is what happened just a few minutes ago. It did. I did. I ate half a box of Do-si-dos in under 5 minutes. In the immortal words of Daffy Duck, "Mine! Mine! All mine!" Or if you are more of a Lord of the Rings fan, "My precioussss!"

It's unfair that they make them this good. Truly. But they aren't the only food like this. No, there are other foods that take over, possess my brain, and make my hand move from bag/tray/plate to mouth, and there is nothing I can do to stop it from happening, short of chopping off my arms, tying myself up (that could be interesting with the right person--oh, that's a different blog post entirely), or sewing my mouth shut. Not all of them are evil. Some of them are good for you, but most of them aren't. These are my top ten "can't stop at one" foods:

  1. Roasted peanuts in a shell. There is something about shelling the peanuts and eating them that is very addictive.
  2. Potato chips, but only if it's with sour cream and onion dip.
  3. Squirt cheese on Ritz crackers or Triskets (sounds disgusting, but God it's good!)
  4. Girl Scout Do-si-dos
  5. Home made cookies/brownies--just about any kind that isn't out of a box, but particularly oatmeal raisin with walnuts. This is why I rarely bake.
  6. Ripe, juicy watermelon on a hot day.
  7. A good rib-eye steak cooked to medium rare--if someone gave me only one bite of this and there was more, they may not survive long. (g)
  8. Bruschetta from Novecento. This is a local Italian restaurant that makes the best bruschetta. It has fresh basil, raw garlic, tomatoes, and Mont Chevre goat cheese on buttered, grilled bread. It's decadent. Truly, one slice is not enough.
  9. A ripe peach where the juice dribbles down your chin when you bite into it.
  10. Chocolate. Can there ever be too much chocolate?

So, what's on your "can't eat just one" list? Do you share any of mine?

Wednesday, 23 February 2011

I Know What Boys Like

Many years ago, right out of college, I was a bit of a femme fatale. I didn't think of myself as one, but I seemed to go through men just because I could. I had a "flavor of the week" because, well, my first relationship lasted five years, and, in retrospect, it seemed like I was trying to make up for all the flavors I'd "missed out on" in high school and most of college. This flavor of the week attitude could get me in pretty hairy situations. Well, not "hairy," although I didn't shave my legs (nor did I wear make up or do my hair at that time, so I'm not sure how I attracted them if you go by what the media projects as sexy), yet I still attracted men if not in droves at least enough to keep me in a new man a week if I wanted. (g) And I kind of wanted, you know. So many flavors after all. (g) I didn't sleep with all of them. Many of them didn't make it past the first or second date, but I digress.

I'm long past those days--left them behind by the age of 23--but I can still look back at that time and laugh at some of those situations. One in particular was, um, shall we say interesting. Something you'd expect to see in a movie or sitcom, but never in real life. (g)

You see, right after college, I really didn't know what I wanted to do. Yeah, I wanted to be a famous actress/singer, but I wasn't quite ready to start that path, so I took my backpack and my meager savings ($3000) and went to Europe for five and a half months. (This is when it was still safe for a young woman to travel alone through Europe.)

I stayed in youth hostels, with friends of friends of the family, exes of friends of the family, and so on. It was fun.

Because I went alone, I met some pretty interesting people. I got hit on...a lot, not all of them welcome either. There was this one creepy dude in the Zurich train station who tried to convince me that the European way of saying goodbye to perfect strangers was to kiss them on both cheeks. Well, I didn't care. He was a creepy dude, and I wasn't allowing any creepy dude to get that close to me. I managed to ditch him quick.

Believe it or not, most of the people I met were nice and harmless. I did some stupid shit while there, too, like hitchhiking and hiking alone in remote places, so my guardian angel was working overtime. (g) However, if that little voice told me to do something, I always did it. Always. Thank you, little voice. (g)

While over there, I met a few different men, two of which are the subject of this particular tale. Marc was a sweet young man from the French part of Switzerland, and Peter was a French Canadian visiting France. I met them a month or so apart. Both were sweet, and both liked me. They liked me a lot. More than a lot, I later found out. I liked them a lot, too. One could even say I loved them... in a fashion.

I was young. And I wasn't really ready for the permanent kind of love. Heck, I'd only been out of a long-term relationship for less than a year. They were an interesting flavor to explore, although I didn't at that point. (Perhaps that's why they were all hot and heavy to see me again. LOL) Upon parting with both of them, I, being the friendly and open kind of gal that I am, invited them to come visit...any time.

Yeah, uh, just a word of advice, don't do that. Or, at least, be specific about when they can come to visit. If you don't, don't say I didn't warn you.

So, several months after I've returned to the States and I'm settled in Los Angeles, Peter, the French Canadian, and I have been chatting a lot via the phone, and he's coming out to visit me for a week. I'm excited. By this time, I'm in love...

Until I get a letter from Marc. Marc, who only speaks French, is coming to visit a few days before Peter's visit ends. My plan was to drop Peter off at the airport and have a friend keep Marc occupied for a few days with neither being the wiser. (g) As she spoke French, it wasn't a problem.

Well, that was the plan, except--of course, there was an except--Peter and I were driving down from San Francisco, and we missed his plane and he couldn't get another flight out for a couple of days. He didn't really want to go back right then anyway, but me? Me, I was thinking, "Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!"

And while they were from two different countries, both spoke French.

Double shit!

I didn't really have any options. I had to take Peter back with me to my place. My tiny, little guesthouse where Marc waited for


That guesthouse consisted of a room (just large enough for a queen-size bed, an armoire, and a chair), a small kitchenette (half fridge, a hot plate, a toaster oven, and cupboards), and a three-quarter bath. There was enough room in the main room for someone to sleep on the floor. So, who do you think will sleep there?

No one.

That's right. The three of us slept in that bed (with me in the middle) for the next two nights. Nothing happened. It didn't occur to me to do anything. And, honestly, I don't think either of them would have wanted that. (g)

It was awkward, to say the least.


And because I didn't want to leave the two of them alone any longer than I had to, I even took them with me to my acting class one day.


My acting teacher and classmates never viewed me the same way again.


I'm sorry. It still makes me laugh.

So, um, do you have any youthful indiscretions that make you laugh?

Tuesday, 22 February 2011

You want how much for that?

Recently, it has come to my attention that I need new clothes. Those T-shirts and turtlenecks I bought over 10 years ago in grad school (and--cough, cough--earlier) are looking a little, um, sad. They are starting to get holey, are a bit faded (you mean, that turtleneck is supposed to be black and not charcoal gray?), and hang on me. Not because I have lost weight, but just from use. And so, after Charlie pointed out that I spend a lot of time working out and staying in shape to look good (um, yeah, that's why I do it ;)), I should have a wardrobe that shows off my figure--or at least one that doesn't add 20 lbs. to my frame. (g)

Like Faith, I have issues with a lot of the clothes made now. It's not just about the poor fit or poor quality. No, it's about, "You want me to pay how much for that?" This happens particularly when I look at where the piece was made. I've been to China. I've seen the conditions these women work in. It's not pretty, and they make pennies a day for what they do. I know the material costs money, but I will not pay $50 for a T-shirt made in China. If that T-shirt is made in the States (and not a sweatshop in the States), I'll consider it, but not for one made in China.

A few years ago, I decided to splurge and buy myself a pair of nice designer boots. They weren't Jimmy Choo boots (does he even make them?), but they were purportedly designer. I was at a warehouse that sells designer clothes/shoes "cheap." There were these knee-high, 3-inch leather boots that I fell in love with. I'd wanted some nice boots, although preferably flat, for some time. I'd looked everywhere for a pair that fit me. These were great and forty percent off. It was my birthday. For once I was going to go crazy.

So, I bought them for $180 (and didn't buy anything else for myself for another two years. LOL) For that price, you'd think they were made in Italy, right? Imagine my disgust when I found India on the "made in" tag.

Wait a minute! I just paid $180 for a pair of leather boots that retailed for $300, and these were made in India? You have got to be fucking kidding me! If they are going to charge that amount for something, it had better be made in the States, Italy, Great Britain, Germany, Canada, or one of these countries. Certainly, not India. Nothing against Indians or their products, but to price something that high when it's made in a country with such a low wage is robbery.

It soured my taste for designer clothes. Remember the scandals of companies like Ann Taylor, Gap, J. Crew, Nike, and so on for their sweatshop labor? Have they cleaned up their acts? Hm... I don't know. It's hard to find this information.

Gucci at least makes their handbags in Italy. (What do they pay their employees, I wonder.) While I am unlikely to purchase a Gucci handbag (I can't see spending that much money on a purse), if I ever decided I wanted one, I'd go here and gladly pay for a product made in Italy. (Again, provided they aren't sweatshop.)

So, in my quest for new clothes, I stopped by Old Navy. Um, yeah, they have cheap clothes. Yeah, they do. $5.99 for a T-shirt... on sale. It's normally priced at $9.99. That's a bargain. It is. Of course, the material for the T-shirt is so thin that if I don't wear a bra, you'll see the color of my nipples. You'll also see the tan lines from swimming through the shirt. Oh, wait! I'm supposed to layer this with another one? Um, why? That's the fashion, you say? Okay, but I don't want to layer my shirts. I want a shirt that is thicker than a chemise. In short, I want a shirt that will last longer than a few washes, doesn't need hand washing to keep it from falling apart, and doesn't require a second shirt over it.

We wandered off to JC Penny's. For a couple of dollars more (I happen to hit big sales), I found some nice T-shirts for $10 or less. I picked up five new shirts for about $46, including tax. They were made in Bangladesh, India, or China or someplace like that, but the prices were what they should be for pieces made in these countries.

Now, yesterday, I shopped at Kohl's. Armed with a $50 gift card and a 30% off coupon, I went looking for some new shirts. A couple are a little on the thin side, but they have beautiful prints on them and I can wear them without a bra and not worry about showing it all to the world. They were made in Pakistan, I think. (By the way, the minimum wage in Pakistan is 7000 PKR/month or $82.02/month. I imagine the women sewing and making these shirts are making minimum wage. How many of these shirts do you think they produced in a month? It would explain why I could purchase one for $12. However, I saw many other shirts made in Pakistan, Jordan, China, or India priced at $40, $50, even $60.)

So you know, Daisy Fuentes and Vera Wang labels are made in Jordan ($300/month minimum wage)... or was it Pakistan? Still, you get my point. Vera Wang had interesting pieces (I didn't buy any--they were too expensive at $40/shirt), but Daisy Fuentes? All I can say is, "Ew!" Perhaps they look better on, but you'd have to hold down my screaming corpse to put any of the pieces I saw yesterday on me. If you like them, more power to you, but they aren't for me.

There were a couple of other shirts with prints I really liked, but, alas, they weren't cut right for my body. I have a body that belongs in a size small, but shoulders that require medium for that particular label. I was sad, but what can I do? If I want to look like I'm wearing a muumuu (and, yes, there was that much space in the medium for me and I'm not a petite woman), I might as well keep my old, ratty shirts.

So, what's your price point for items made in India, China, Pakistan, Mexico, etc? Would you pay more for something made in the US? And are you like me when you look at clothes, thinking, "You want how much for that and it's made where?"

Monday, 21 February 2011

Can't I just be Alone?

This past week was a huge challenge for me. You see, my daughter was been sick--sick enough to have to stay home from school... for the entire week. I wasn't able to go swimming, which honestly makes me a raving bitch if allowed to go on too long, go shopping, or really get much work done. By the end of the day, I was grouchy and done. Because, you see, not only do I need my swimming three or four days a week to regulate my mood, I need alone time. And I wasn't getting that alone time... not even in the bathroom.

I suppose it's my fault, really. When she was a baby, I left the door open because I stayed home with her and I wanted to be sure I could hear her and/or she knew where I was and wouldn't start to cry. Now, if only the family is in the house, I still don't close the door. To some of you, that might gross you out, but the only reason I'd be in there for a long time is to a) attempt to have some alone time or b) I'm sick.

I say "attempt" because I'm fair game in the bathroom. Not only will my daughter come in (she comes in, pulls up her step stool, hands me a book, and says, "Mommy, can you please read this to me." sigh Really? I can't pee in peace?), my husband will follow me in and start talking about his day (He, by the way, closes the door when he goes in, which when all is said and done is really for the best.), and the cats will follow me in because, well, they have learned I will pet them. So, they will race in to see who can get to me first. LOL

But there are times I just want to be completely alone, you know.

One particular week, our cat Snowball was all over me. It was sweet, but got old fast. When I sat and worked with the laptop, she'd lay across my arms, purr, and gaze at me adoringly. (It's hard to move a purring cat.) My arms would eventually get tired, and she'd eventually get tired of my arms moving. The final straw came in the bathroom, though. With only me in the house, there was no point in closing the door. She sauntered in, didn't like the fact that I wasn't petting her as much as she thought I should, and jumped up onto my bare lap! Um, no. Ew! Seriously, I'll pet you, but my lap is off limits when I'm going potty. (I used the word "potty." Can you tell I'm a mom?)

I only close the door when company is in the house. Of course, when I do, the daughter will come to the door and ask, "Mommy, why do you have the door closed?"

"Because we have company." The doorknob jiggles. Rapid fire images of our company seeing me with my pants down flit through my mind, and I panic. "No! Don't open the door!"

She leaves, and I breathe a sigh of relief. It's one thing for the family to see you on the toilet. It's a whole other can of worms to be sharing that with others, including the mother-in-law.

Even when I'm feeling poorly or tired, they follow me. I don't mind the cats coming in and lying at my feet when I'm tired, but when the family does it, I'm a bit peeved. They don't just come in and lay at my feet. (If only!) No, the daughter will come in, bring a book for me to read, and want to snuggle. Snuggling is nice, but reading when I'm tired or sick, not so much. And if I'm tired enough to lie down at 4 pm, that usually means I'm not wanting to snuggle either. At that point, I'm done and want to be alone.

This is so rare that, when I do, my husband will come in and ask: "What are you doing?"

In my head, I'm thinking, "Okay. Just a few minutes ago I told you I was tired and done. So, um, what do you think I'm doing?" That smartass answer stays in my head... most of the time. (g)

I suppose that there will be plenty of time for me to be alone. I might even regret these feelings when the daughter moves away, and should I outlive my husband. At that point, I might turn into the cat lady (Betty White's version on SNL). Of course, since I've vowed to never have indoor cats again, I don't know. (g)

Until then, I'm sure that alone time will be a figment of my imagination.

So, do you crave alone time, too? Or am I alone in this... for once? ;)

Today is One of Those Days...AGAIN!

Hi, It's Sarah. Blogger won't let me put up my little picture. Arsehole. I’m running late with this post. Reason:

It’s half term. School’s out, my house isn’t silent, and already today I’ve put up two reviews, been food shopping, done some laundry, dumped the ingredients for a curry in my gorilla-sized slow cooker—which, incidentally, I forgot to switch on; I’m glad I spotted that because if I’d have gone to dish that food up later and it was still RAW I’d have flipped my bloody lid—other household things, put the groceries away and had a moment of wondering if I was finally going to go off my rocker.

Yes, every so often I get that horrible spiralling feeling that I’m out of control and losing my grip. It only lasts a moment or two and is what would be called feeling swamped.

Shopping wasn’t too bad, although I saw my fave washing detergent and fabric softener on sale so doubled up on the largest sizes, forgetting I had to carry this shit back home. My arms felt like they were going to drop off. Thankfully, the main groceries are delivered by the shop, but when the knock came, which I didn’t hear, I was in the kitchen fielding one son into putting the dishes away (he does this to earn cash to go ice skating), a daughter doing paint by numbers at the table, and me trying to get some semblance of order into my kitchen that looked, and still looks, like a bomb site.

Eldest son—dubbed the laziest person in the house because he won’t do anything at all unless asked or if there’s something in it for him (and then it’s like you’ve asked him to eat your freshly squeezed-out shit)—brings in some grocery bags from the delivery guy and tries to get dish-boy, already doing his job, to help him. I sent Eldest off to get the rest of the groceries and you’d think I’d told him to climb Mt. Everest and bring back a gold nugget from wherever the hell you find gold these days on his travels back.

You know what? I thought: God, you’re a selfish bunch of bleeders. Said it before, it’s mainly my fault because I’m soft as shit, but fucking hell. Sometimes the offer of help would be so welcome compared to me asking, which I rarely do.

I just wanted to moan that I appear to be the only person who knows where everything is in this house, the only one who gets things sorted, the only one who does most things, as well as working full time. Yep, I work from home, but I still have a bloody job to do as well as the other crap.

I have some more reviews to put up, and I enjoy reading them when they come in—makes my heart feel good—and also a couple of covers. Also laundry, which, and I’m not joking, currently covers the whole of my staircase where I threw it down from the laundry bin—and that’s just the dark loads. The whites are at the top of the stairs.

So that feeling of being out of my depth came and went, as it always does, and now I’m about to post this, write a to-do list because lately my mind is full of mush, and get things done.

I love being busy, but those manic moments scare the shit out of me these days. Oh, and I have bags under my eyes AGAIN. Arghghhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

And just for kicks, fate decided to piss me off further. I went to sign into Blogger to post this, and it says the site is temporarily unavailable. People ask me why I don’t give up smoking. I tell you, for the safety of myself and others, I CAN’T!

Friday, 18 February 2011

Too short, too Tight, too Much Butt Crack!

Forgive me for missing a couple days here during my week to blog. My youngest son came down with a horrible virus, then yesterday a family matter came up, so I took my daughter out to see her grandparents. While we were out, we had breakfast and then the three of us took the baby and did some shopping.

Now my daughter isn’t a typical teen. She’s eighteen and wears clothes until they practically fall apart instead of begging for the latest new style. Since her jeans are all in dire need of replacement, we concentrated on buying news ones and getting other odds and ends she needed such as undies and a new bathing suit for warm weather, which is right around the corner (I hope!).

I noticed something while shopping. Why is it that a woman can find all sorts of lovely panties, bras and other under garments, but today’s bathing suits are hideous?

As my daughter and I combed through three big, round racks of bikinis, I looked over at her and asked, “What is it with the crappy patterns and designs that make your eyes cry for mercy? These colors and patterns look like someone ate a box of crayons and yakked them up.”

“Oh, Mom, they’re not that bad,” she replied.

I held one up and gave her “the look.”

“Well,” she said, “maybe that one is.”

“No, they ALL are!”

And whatever happened to bikinis that use good elastic in them so that the swimsuit molds to the figure and compliments it? Every swimsuit I saw yesterday was all about strings tying at the hips, strings threaded through where the elastic should be, and strings through the tops just like the bottoms.

My daughter has such a bikini that someone gave her last summer. Every time she wore it I was thankful I hadn’t wasted money buying such a suit because when wet, the bikini sags across the bottom and droops around the bust line.

I didn’t like the style of the late 70s when I was entering my pre-teen years and I don’t like it that the style seems to be here again and lingering. Granted, this is just my opinion, but I heard moms and teens talking in various department stores about this style issue, not to mention the mom’s complaining about how short many of the prom dresses were on the racks.

Whatever happened to young girls looking feminine? Whatever happened to women being able to find clothes that flatter their bodies instead of what fashion “thinks” is feminine or sensual?

Give me the styles that compliment a woman’s figure instead of shouting ‘look at my boobs and ass!’ Give me feminine, stylish. Put away the droopy drawers, gaping tops.

Not long ago, the dau and I were over at St. C's mall at a store called Gabriel Brothers. We were both looking for jeans. My dau isn't nearly as tall as I am, but she has the same shape as her mommy. She has boobs, a waist, and hips. She started yanking jeans off the racks in irritation then slamming them back on them again. A woman nearby kept giving us odd looks as she moved toward us. Finally, she came around the rack I was sorting through and asked, "Is it just me or are all jeans made for stick figures, board asses, and short legs?"

"No, it's not just you. We're having trouble finding jeans that fit too."

"I tell ya," she said, "I've been to nearly every store in town, and no one carries decent jeans. And I don't want relaxed-fit jeans unless I'm outside working. I hate ordering stuff online when I need it now, and online stores ream me on the shipping and handling."

I knew exactly what she was talking about. Relaxed-fit jeans fit me around the waist and through the legs re length, but they always look like they're three or four sizes too big no matter if I wear my size or try dropping down a size.

I get so tired of seeing every young woman's or girl's ass crack in the nation popping up to say "howdy-do!" when I go out to shop or turn in a restaurant and see three inches of bare ass three feet away. It's cute on a baby, yanno? But not on a full-grown body. I'm sick of seeing guys wearing jeans so that the crotch is down around their knees so it looks like a load of shit is pulling them down, and I'm sick of pencil jeans that look like they've been spray-painted on.

The fashion industry needs to wake up. People come in all shapes and sizes. We're not all runway models whose ribs are showing like starved dogs.

And when the hell was a size 9 considered plus size????????????????

What’s your pet peeve about today’s styles?

Tuesday, 15 February 2011

When Does it Stop?

This post is a bit ranty, but not in the humorous or the pissed off way. See that li'l squiggle above? Well, the last three weeks have been horrible stress-wise, and that squiggle up there represents how I feel.

I'm not whining, but I am going to ask an honest question--when does it all stop? And part of this post is probably due to yet another night of interrupted sleep.

Granted it will be mostly moms who can relate to this (although there are stay-at-home dads), but again, when does the constant aggravation and stress stop? Does it every stop? If it doesn't, then just lie to me, K?

Every school year, it's one illness after another. My son has always been healthy as a horse--until he started kindergarten. Since early September, I am running him to the doctor about twice a month. Although I'm a firm believer in letting a body fight off an illness, I do exercise common sense and watch for strange fevers, odd things a body fighting a virus doesn't normally do (like excessive vomiting or bizarre rashes), and the reason I believe in letting the body fight invisible invaders is because too much medication, too many antibiotics, causes the immune system to become weak.

The problem is that these conditions my son has had are things like ear infections (and he was breastfed for a year, so statistics show that breast-fed children for a year or more seldom have ear infections), the onset of pneumonia, upper respiratory infections, etc . The odd thing is that I'm hearing other parents say the same things about their young children too. When normally healthy kids are suddenly sick all the time, it really makes me uneasy.

But all that aside, it seems like when I get one matter addressed and resolved, I sit back a day or two, and WHAM! I got another kid sick, or another issue crops up.

Last night, the boy woke me and said, "Mommy, I'm sick. I just threw up all over my bed."


He was and still is running a fever, and the dr. office can't get him in until 6 PM tonight. I'm certain he has the flu (the Ohio Valley has had a terrible stomach flu that has been ravaging the schools, apt complexes, etc the past month or so), so there's nothing to really be done but make him comfortable and let it run its course. The problem is that if I don't get him in to see his doctor, the school will mark the absences as unexcused and then force us to go to court. Yeah, isn't government grand? I love how it runs our lives...NOT!

And what's worse, since I'm his caregiver, I'll be the one with the flu next. Lovely.

Does it ever stop? Is it possible to go more than a week with quiet and absolutely no upset?

I'm seriously beginning to wonder.

Now that I've vented a bit, I'm going to do a little shameless plugging for one of my titles that came out in print a coupla weeks ago. This book in print is stunning, really. And as I always do, I challenge potential readers to see if they can solve the mystery that runs throughout this romance.

Elizabeth "Lizzy" Shaw has had a rough life. Chased out of town years ago by one of the community's leaders, Lizzy has finally returned. However, living with her virtuous grandmother exercises Lizzy's patience, especially when Lizzy's mother, who was an aspiring actress, tarnished her reputation by changing boyfriends as frequently as her nail polish.

Regardless, Daniel Rivers, the love she left behind, wants Lizzy back. He demands to know why she left town and why she never replied to any of his letters. Lizzy can't let Daniel know her secret, but she can't resist his crooked smile and warm, brown eyes either. Sparks fly between the couple, but Lizzy is determined not to make the same mistake with Daniel. However, when Lizzy is kidnapped by one of her mother's old boyfriends, it puts life in a different perspective for Lizzy and she realizes she must tell Daniel about his son. Can Lizzy resist the lure of Daniel's touch, the way her body responds to him every time he glances her way? Or will the truth about Daniel's son tear them apart a second time?

Get print and ebook HERE

Monday, 14 February 2011


One of the many reasons we were desperate to move out of our old house was because our landlord did nothing to fix the house. I. Mean. Nothing.

So it was old. It was falling apart. And it had a lot of visitors that everyone except the Adams Family would force to leave.

Regardless, I was terrified of going into the basement, especially after we discovered a copperhead lying next to the washing machine. Ever see anyone pole vault without using a pole?

Our shower cubicle was in the basement, so you can see what a dilemma this presents.

I had the hubby sit on the stairs and watch the floor as I showered. Well...he said he was watching the floor, but somehow I don't believe him. {grin}

Even my kids would go downstairs and shower, but not me. Nope. Not unless someone perches on the stairs with a .22. I'd rather take a ricochet bullet than to deal with an accidental "tourist" in my basement, especially in my shower cubicle.

One day I finally got enough ass behind me {looks behind self...yup, there's enough there} to wash clothes. I took the oldest dau downstairs and we began the arduous task of fighting with the wringer washer. I looked over and spotted the biggest damn spider I've seen in a long, long time.

Now, mind you I'm not afraid of bugs...well, save for bees because I'm allergic to them, but spiders, freaky looking things with antenna and other appendages don't bother me (unless they look slithery, then I squeal. No, scratch that...I shriek like a fire siren and pole vault without a pole). My dau, Jade, on the other hand is the type to poke a snake but will shoot to the moon over a spider. {heh, what can I say, we're a neurotic family} I point out the spider and she---


Uhm, okay, so I decided to kill it.

So, I take off one of my hubby's big steel-toed boots... All right, wait a minute. I have to paint this picture for you: Daisy Duke shorts, oversized tee shirt, and huge black boots that lace up (but are left untied) and that feel like they weigh twenty pounds apiece. Hey, what can I say? I was prepared for something creepy-crawly on the floor, not something boasting eight legs with fuzz and wearing a spiked collar that said: Don’t Mess with the Arachnid Bitch.

Anyway, I raised the boot, and as I did, I took a closer look at the spider.

Hold the phone. That sucker's got a body. No, I mean a REAL body. One with meat and taters on its bones.

"Here, Jade. You kill it." And I walked away.


"I don't do meat and taters. That sucker might slap me back."

I gotta say the girl's got gonads. She took my boot and aimed...aimed...aimed again, hesitated, aimed...

"Oh hell, Jade. Just whack the shit outta it."

She then started laughing. "You're telling me to whack the shit out of it and you chickened out?"

"Damn straight. I'm a coward—and I admit it."

She handed me the boot, walked across the basement to the woodstove and picked up the ash shovel. She returned and whacked the hell out of the wall. CLANG! She missed the the spider, but the wall will never move again.

"You missed."

"I got it!"

"You missed that sucker."

"I saw legs go squish!"

I shook my head. "Nope. You missed."

"I didn't...I hit it!"

I crossed my arms. "Well, then wedge your ass in between the wall and the washer and produce a corpse."

She started feeding clothes into the rinse tub, and I returned to feeding clothes through the press. Reaching into the water for more clothes, I produced a broken, wriggly rubber band.

I went apeshit.

After I stopped screeching, Jade looked at me and said, "Only you, Mom, and over a stupid rubber band."

"Hey, I'm still traumatized," I said.

Now, however, we have a nice home. However, I’m still on the lookout for anything that wiggles, slithers, or skitters whenever I’m in the laundry room.

Friday, 11 February 2011

Something to laugh about

After my downer rant on Wednesday (Was it Wednesday? I've lost track of time as my daughter has had the flu for the past couple of days. It seems to have cleared.), when Faith suggested I post this after I forwarded it to her via email, I agreed. This came from my aunt Ar. It gave me a much needed laugh. I hope it does the same for you. :)

If you yelled for 8 years, 7 months and 6 days you would have produced enough sound energy to heat one cup of coffee. (Hardly seems worth it.)

If you farted consistently for 6 years and 9 months, enough gas is produced to create the energy of an atomic bomb. (Now that's more like it!) Marci comment: And I'm sure that some people's farts (not mine, of course--grin) could create enough gas for this sooner. (g)

The human heart creates enough pressure to squirt blood 30 feet when it pumps out to the body. (O.M.G.!)

A pig's orgasm lasts 30 minutes. (In my next life, I want to be a pig.)

A cockroach will live nine days without its head before it starves to death. (Creepy.) (I'm still not over the pig.)

Banging your head against a wall uses 150 calories an hour. (Don't try this at home; maybe at work.)

The male praying mantis cannot copulate while its head is attached to its body. The female initiates sex by ripping the male's head off. (Honey, I'm home. What the...?)

The flea can jump 350 times its body length. It's like a human jumping the length of a football field. (30 minutes. Lucky pig! Can you imagine?)

The catfish has over 27,000 taste buds. (What could be so tasty on the bottom of a pond?)

Some lions mate over 50 times a day. (I still want to be a pig in my next life...quality over quantity.)

Butterflies taste with their feet. (Something I always wanted to know.)

The strongest muscle in the body is the tongue. (Hmmmmmm.......)

Right-handed people live, on average, nine years longer than left-handed people. (If you're ambidextrous, do you split the difference?)

Elephants are the only animals that cannot jump. (Okay, so that would be a good thing.)

A cat's urine glows under a black light. (I wonder how much the government paid to figure that out.)

An ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain. (I know some people like that.)

Starfish have no brains. (I know some people like that, too.)

Polar bears are left-handed. (If they switch, they'll live a lot longer.)

Humans and dolphins are the only species that have sex for pleasure. (What about that pig? Do the dolphins know about the pig?)

Wednesday, 9 February 2011

Momma Said There'd be Days Like This

Yeah, yesterday was one of those days. It didn't start out that way, but it just seemed to snowball out of control so that, by the end of the day, I was bawling my eyes out in bed. I don't know if it's hormones (mine seem to be going nuts), something in the air, or just a build up of things that exploded into, well, a forty-five minute cry.

Looking back now, I think it was more of a build up. For the past couple of days, I've been feeling dissatisfied. It's been a long time since I've been in a funk, disappointed that I never became the famous movie star/singer that I'd dreamed of being as a kid, the one I moved to Los Angeles to be. Not that I don't love publishing. I do, but (and, yes, there is a "but") my first dream was acting/singing, and then I was going to conquer the publishing world. I was going to be a household name. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Sorry. I couldn't help myself.

Maybe the explosion was building since the morning when my daughter's teacher scolded me for not having my daughter in line in the morning instead of waiting for the kids to walk to class. (The school makes the kids line up on the black top and wait to go into the classroom. I totally disagree with this. What the purpose is to make them stand for 10 minutes before going into class is, I have no idea. But, most mornings, we are lucky to make it before the kids file into class. And... this is another rant. The stupidity of some of the shit they do at school.) Anyway, I watched my daughter do her presentation for her class. She's sweet. She's smart. She's beautiful. She's... shy. (sigh) Not that she'll admit to being shy, but she is. (That gene comes from her father because not one of my family members is shy.) So, while her presentation was sweet and cute and perfect for her, she tripped over her words, and I just wanted her to be a little more comfortable in front of people. And it's hard for me because I want to see her do well, be confident and unafraid.

The day progressed somewhat okay, I suppose, but we had a neighbor kid over for dinner. My daughter is a very picky eater. She's had some health challenges that have caused that. That fact doesn't make it any easier. Even when I know I need to mellow out about it, it's hard, especially as I watch the neighbor girl chow down on salad. (My daughter won't touch salad.) And that feeling of being a failure is building. You know that "I'm a bad mother, I've done something wrong, this is all my fault" kind of feeling that I think all mothers experience at some point.

The feeling of failure and depression is increasing, but I am still ahead of the curve at this point. Not to the breaking point, but it looms just around that corner.

To avoid that, I retreat into the back bathroom. (Mother Nature is calling, after all.) You need to know a little bit about the back bathroom, and the back room in general. It was an add-on (already there when Charlie bought the house), connected to the house, but not actually a part of the house until we made it part of it by inserting a door in a shared wall. We turned the back room into our bedroom. As a result, there is no heat back there. Fortunately, we live in Southern California and, while it does get cold, it's not unbearable. A space heater in the bathroom will do the trick when you're in there.

Our back bathroom is a three-quarter bath and tiny. There's just enough room for a toilet, sink, a shower, and space for two people to stand shoulder-to-shoulder without moving. (Where we live, a second bathroom, even a small one, is a luxury because the houses are small and were built in the 40s.)

Okay, now that the scene's set, I can continue.

So, I go in, turn the heater on, and sit down. A few minutes later, a two-inch cockroach races across the floor maybe a foot from where I am sitting. It scales the small space heater, stands on top, turns toward me, and checks me out. (Truly. It's facing me, and it's antennae are moving as if thinking about pouncing.) While it's doing this, I am screaming bloody murder for Charlie.

I am in a very vulnerable position here. My pants are down, you know, because, well, that's how it is in the bathroom. I stand up. It's still looking at me like it might jump at me. I am still screaming Charlie's name. I pull my pants up, and it flies (flies! AAAHHHHHH)... and lands on the wall. I am looking around for something to kill this thing. I am not letting that disgusting, and too intelligent, cockroach run around in my bedroom. There is nothing to kill it with... but my booted foot. I don't like the crunch sound it makes when you step on them, but there is no fucking way I am not letting that thing run loose in my fucking house. In my head, I'm screaming, "Die! Die! Die!" as I smash it with my boot. Another bloodcurdling scream rips from my throat when it flops on its back to the floor dead.

Needless to say, this morning, I am calling the exterminator... again. We've had an ongoing, on-again off-again battle with these damn things since the city had sewer problems and thousands of them streamed out of the manhole and scurried to our garage door, which just happens to be right in front of our garage, about four years ago. We had a problem for six months, and we finally got them--or so we thought. It started up again about three months ago, and no matter how much we clean, spray, and everything else, they are still here.

I thought they were gone. We hadn't seen any for a couple of weeks, and now this. (sigh) You know, I am afraid to open that small cabinet in the back bathroom (that bathroom is where we've had a lot of issues) because I'm afraid a horde of cockroaches will come streaming out and attack me. Perhaps not a realistic nightmare, but it scares me shitless.

Last night, I was ready to move. I'm tired of that, too. Moving isn't going to happen, though. (sigh)

Anyway, I go back out to the living area. Charlie disposes of the dead cockroach. It's time for the neighbor girl to go home. The daughter is throwing a tantrum, and Mommy is done. I am so done if you poke me with a fork, I might just explode.

But I don't. Instead, I sit silently, trying to break out of the funk. I can't. It's not working. By 10:30 when I go to bed, it's all over. I am angry, depressed, and crying. Charlie doesn't know what to say to me, but is trying. I am not being helpful. I need to vent...and vent...and vent, although most of the venting is going on in my head because some of what I'm thinking is best left unsaid and only intensifies the crying.

Finally around 11:30 (so it was an hour or so), I stop. I don't really feel any better, but I'm not crying and am too spent to do anything but stare into the darkness, trying not to think about the cockroaches. If I just go to sleep, they'll go away, right? I am being delusional, but I have to cope some how. I know I need sleep. Sleep will make things look better, right? Right?

This morning, I am much better. Tired, but better--and hopeful I won't have a repeat of last night.

Addendum: It's not that I'm ungrateful for what I have. I am grateful. It's just that life isn't exactly how I envisioned it at, oh, say, 18--which may be a good thing. :)

Tuesday, 8 February 2011

The Morning Hustle

The Morning Hustle

I get up at five each morning even though I don’t have to get anyone else up until six-fifteen. I do this because I need to orient myself to the world. I know when I give the cock-a-doodle-doo there is going to be massive chaos in my house, and I need the extra time to wake up and just generally brace myself.

Only two of my kids live with me full time. One is living with her boyfriend. The other girl, the oldest, tried semi-living with hers but he’s broke and has no car and so she was in and out of my house for food and money. And then…her grades came in for this past semester. So, she got this ultimatum: Either you are at home each night that you must attend school the next day or you will need to pack your clothes and go live with him and come visit me for Sunday lunch only.

Yeah, I was serious. And her grades are now excellent. Boyfriend is pissed. But who cares? I sure as hell don’t.

The downside of all this is that she’s not a morning person. Now she knows that every morning I am going to wake her up at six-fifteen in order to shower, dress, do make-up, eat breakfast and get to an eight o’clock class. But every morning this is what I get:

“OMG! I hate my life! I have not slept all night long. The dogs drove me crazy. I’m not going to my eight o’clock.” And all of this is said to the TOP of her lungs. The house vibrates with her yelling.

How can a person wake up yelling? She does it EVERY single morning.

My reply to her is always the same. “Then you’ll have plenty of time to pack your bags and get them dropped off at your boyfriend’s house before the ten o’clock class.” Yep, I’m serious.

By the way, boyfriend lives with his mama.

Then there is the boy to deal with. He’s fourteen, six feet tall, 210 lbs. He’s a big one. And trust me, he’s a solid wall. He is the exact opposite of her. While she is running around screaming—damning the dogs and life in general—he is still in bed with the covers over his head. I have to call his name thirty or forty times, shake him, in order to get him to groan. To get him ready it requires me steadily telling him what to do and when to do it.

Most mornings I find him sitting in a chair with one sock and shoe on and the other set sitting in his lap with his head leaned back in the chair, eyes closed and mouth wide open. Yep, he’ll fall back to sleep in a heartbeat if you don’t stay after him.

But when he and his sister cross paths? The world doesn’t really need to worry about Iran or Korea having nuclear weapons. I’ve got ‘em right here. Mushroom cloud every single morning.

Inevitably they stray into each other’s path or one says something the other takes exception to. This morning the boy told the girl that her hair was sticking up in back. Now had I told her that she would have gone straight to the bathroom and dealt with it. But since it was him? Oh no. She took that as him making fun of her hair. So she whirled on him.

“You need to mind your own damn business!”

“Well you need to comb your hair!”

“If I go to school bald it’s none of your damn business!”

“If you’re bald, your boyfriend will break up with you. He probably wants to anyway ‘cause you’re such a bitch!.”

“Well at least I can get someone to love me. You don’t even HAVE a girlfriend!”

Now he stands up and gets in her face, towering over her. “I could if I want to but I’m scared she’ll be too much like you!”

“Not with that big damn pimple on your chin!”

Rutro…he shoves her. Rutro…she shoves him back. Rutro…Tess jumps between them. OUCH!
Rutro…Tess is on her ass. And it’s flat. Remember yesterday’s post? No padding to speak of.

Things got quiet.

The boy reaches down and lifts me up. I’m 5’2. She’s 5’8 and like I said, he’s 6’0. I’m at a big disadvantage physically speaking but thank god I have a TALL personality. Soooo…this is what they got:

And then… “You both have five minutes to finish dressing and get the hell out of my house.”

He says (He’s always hungry. Can’t fill him up. When he isn’t hungry is how I know he’s sick.):
“But I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“I’ll give ya ten bucks for Bojangles.” And to her, I said: “Don’t let your road rage fling your brother through the windshield this morning.”

And then I stalked into my office and sat down at the comp to vent all my feelings here to all of you. Aren’t ya happy I did that? LOL Ya know...I'm beginning to believe I could sell my life as one of those TV reality shows. Can you picture it?

Erotic romance writer crafts steamy stories of sex and love while dealing with the ordinary day-to-day BULLSHIT.

Writing is where I find my solace and gain my strength. Only four more days until Twelve Days of Love releases. Friday, February 11.

Monday, 7 February 2011

Old Codgers and Poking Pantyhose

PhotobucketValentine’s Day is right around the corner and I’m on a blog tour to celebrate the release of my new book, Twelve Days of Love from Ellora’s Cave. I’m calling the tour the UNValentine’s Day Tour. Why? Because I think we put too much faith in this one day and are often disappointed. We buy into the media hype and our expectations get so high we end up taking a nose dive that can be very frustrating if not downright painful. Making sure your honey knows you love him and vice versa is something that should be a daily part of your routine. But there is just too much emphasis placed on this ONE day. So during the month of love, I’m going to be blogging about the pitfalls of that big red heart-shaped day. Stay tuned. I'll be here at Four Strong Women through Saturday and it's going to be a riot. LOL I'm also over at Three Wicked Writers Plus Two today. You might want to take a look at all the love I'm sharing there too. LOL

On today’s agenda? Old age and love.

So I was sitting at the computer and the words on the screen began to look a bit fuzzy. I squinted and things improved, but then I remembered what that does to my face and how it wasn’t good for smoothing out lines in the forehead or those little crinkles at the edge of the eyes. My face relaxed and the screen became fuzzy again. (Notice I never mentioned the word wrinkle?)

I had to go dashing through the house asking everyone in sight—including the four dogs and two Beta fish—if they’d seen my reading glasses. Yes, I have a pair—actually three pairs and can never find them. They’re cute little things, kinda sexy in a way. Rhinestones embedded in them and adorable little glittery butterflies. Just enough bling to make me feel like I’m in my twenties and help me forget I’m wearing a pair of old people reading glasses. At least I think that’s the intent of the design—making it all easier to swallow.

Well, it’s still hard to swallow which is why I can never find the damn things. Eventually I did locate two pairs of them, and I’m sitting here wearing a pair now. I’m trying to remember to put them on when I’m on the computer, which is a whole helluva lot. Basically, I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that I need these damn things.

Just how old do you have to be to be old? And have you seen a Valentine’s Day commercial directed at OLDER PEOPLE? I guess we don’t deserve love and if we had it wouldn’t know what to do with it. Is that the message we’re getting from the media by not getting our very own commercial?

When my oldest was six, I distinctly remember her saying something along the lines of “old people like you”—referencing me, of course. Well, I damn sure wasn’t old when she said that. But she sure as hell thought I was. I was lamenting over the whole issue a bit last night when I was upset over these damn reading glasses, even if they do freaking sparkle, and said something like: “I’m so freaking old.” She smiled and said, “You’re not that old, just youthfully challenged.”

Was that supposed to make me feel good? I told her about my friend who works as a nurse at a retirement home and the steamy stories of sex that she tells about those youthfully challenged folk. Well that got me a “ewwwwwwwwwwwwww…just ewwwwwwwwwwwwwww” from her. WTF? When I was her age I was drooling over men in their forties. Something isn’t right here for sure. Either she’s off or I am. And I’m betting it’s her. Men with seasoning? That’s where it’s at. Even if the Valentine’s Day industry doesn’t recognize it. That big jewelry store company—Kay’s??? I bet they would triple sales if they went out and hired George Clooney or Sean Connery to do a commercial for them. Hell, I’d go buy myself a damn diamond. Sink ALL my savings into it. LOL

A couple of days ago, I read Sarah Masters’ (aka Natalie Dae) post on tact and telling people to mind their own business and such. All about being honest in what you’d really like to say. Well, this whole aging issue is a place where I think we can just leave the honesty behind. We can add to the list things like: the size of our butts, new hairstyle issues, and just generally anything at all to do with appearance as far as I’m concerned.

It would be different if I were planning on doing something like going on American Idol to sing when I actually have no talent for singing. I’m a big believer that someone should tell you the truth before you do that for sure. Steven Tyler is sexy but not so sexy I’d make a damn fool of myself for him in order to see him up close and personal. And if I decided to try and enter the Miss Hawaiian Tropic Contest, I’d want someone to stop me dead in my tracks. But I really think it’s okay to let me walk out the door with my butt looking a little bigger than it really is in order to spare my feelings and keep me sane because tomorrow I’ll wear the black pants. (Always wear black, ladies. Johnny Cash had the right idea. The color covers a multitude of sins and you always look classy.)

But I digress. I was talking about age. And old people love. sighhh

On a Yahoo group the other day someone brought up boob jobs. If I were to get a boob job it would be for reduction, not pumping them up. And some of you are just sitting there thinking that I was lucky. Well, let me tell you about lucky big-boobed women. As you age, gravity messes with you big time.

Isaac Newton should have minded his own damn business.

So if you’ve got small boobs, it’s a lot less noticeable. But if you’ve got big ones? Honey, those hooters don’t just fall to the sides when you lie flat, they start falling as you lie back and you end up on top of them. Makes me want to sleep in my freaking bra. And if I had a man in bed next to me, I’d do just that. So, guess there is a reason for being unattached after all. I used to tie a ribbon around my hair before I went to bed at night. Now I use that ribbon to lasso my boobs to keep from mashing them. They might be pillowy soft, but it doesn’t feel good when you wake up with one tit asleep and the other just plain damn numb. Maybe that’s why the VD advertisers don’t use senior citizens in their ads. As you know, you have to be big-busted to get any attention from those people anyway. Funny. They love ‘em when you’re young and hate ‘em when you’re old.

Now. Do we want to talk about asses? Yeah, let’s do. I have to admit, as asses go and age, mine isn’t too bad. It’s still pretty firm. Which is damn surprising considering how much time I spend sitting at this freaking computer. But I have noticed it’s not quite as perky as it used to be for sure. You know how it is—they sort of have a little oomph to them. Lift. Well, mine is a bit flatter than it used to be for sure. I gave a fleeting thought to stuffing my panties with tissue but banished it just as quickly as it came. Might work for the boob department but I don’t think it would have the same success with an ass. The one thing I’ve discovered that is a major major no no for flat asses is wearing loose-fitting pants. Once you’ve sat down a few times in those pants, it looks like you could move an entire family in. So my advice is to go for the more snug-fitting ones and just endure the tightness until they loosen just a little. And it also helps to wear a shirt that comes down over your ass a bit too. AND…wear something sparkly up top. Draws attention away from your ass for sure. AND never ever ever walk away from a man if you have ass issues. Sort of side-step yourself away. Know what I mean? Yep, as you go, he’ll be dead eye-balling your flanks—so make an appealing exit. And if you’re dating an old codger—same age as you—chances are he’ll need his glasses too and won’t be wearing them for the same reason as you—VANITY—and about ten feet away he won’t be able to tell if your ass is firm and high or low and squishy.

Ever hear this: “There’s always room for Jello”?

Well, no, there’s not. Thighs. I will never ever again wear a swimsuit that doesn’t come without one of those little skirt thingies. Oh hell…who am I kidding? I’ll never ever ever wear another swimsuit. Any old codger wants to see MY inventory, he’ll have to get me drunk and in a blackout room and we’ll still be doing it with my clothes on! What the hell can you do about jiggly thighs? Nothing, that’s what. Oh no, don’t talk to me about some damn thighmaster and some damn health club where you get all sweaty. Besides, who has the freaking time to go to the gym? My time is NOT my own. It belongs to family mostly, then writing and promotions—and don’t get me started on housework and cooking. And I don’t want to exercise either. Walk, yes. But target my thighs just in case some old codger decides to part my legs and I don’t want him feeling anything too jiggly and soft? Uhhhh…no. Like I said, I’ll just keep my clothes on. Maybe I can have my clothes altered in the crotch with a little Velcro opening? Hmmm…Shit. I’ll just wear a dress if I go out with the old codger and he can punch a hole through the pantyhose! That is, if he can still punch.

Older love. It’s complicated. Maybe that’s why the VD advertisers don’t embrace our age group. sighhh

You know…there are a lot of things, situations, and people that piss me off in this world. Growing older is one of them. And since I’ve been getting older, I find that my ability to get pissed off comes much easier than it used to. That’s not to say I have less patience now. I have MORE patience now. I think it has to do with getting smarter and seeing and hearing stupid stuff that just isn’t necessary. Arguing with my kids when they know what I say is law and I’m going to win no matter what they say and how old they are just isn’t necessary. So I get pissed off a lot faster because we’ve been there, done that. Arriving at the mechanic’s shop to pick up my car only to find out it won’t be ready for two more hours is just not necessary. He has a freaking phone. He could have called me. Going to the local Department of Motor Vehicles to have a duplicate drivers license made because I lost the other one and having the examiner look at my new license and hearing her say: “You’ve got the gray covered much better in this shot than the last” somehow deserves a nasty comeback, doesn’t it? Something like…”I hear they’re doing free makeovers all month long at Merle Norman. You should stop by.” YEAH. I DID.

Another thing I’ve discovered with age is that I tend to think faster. You didn’t see that coming now did ya? Well, it’s true. How many times in your life have you thought of the perfect thing to say to some asshole two hours later? I don’t have that problem any longer. Barbs and jibes just sit on the tip of my tongue waiting for someone to piss me off. Why? I’ve decided it’s because with age you simply don’t give a damn. You’ve gotten pretty far in life and at some point you come to realize it’s all a crap shoot. Just a roll of the die—like that damn woman who lives five miles from me who just won big in the freaking lottery. She and her hubby both are local politicians. He was in the State House for a while and opposed the lottery. I didn’t vote for either one of them. Where is the justice in all of that? Why shouldn’t I be pissed off?

Old age simply gives you permission. So while I don’t enjoy the physical changes, age does have its benefits. One of my kids was sitting next to me on the sofa with her lap top. All of a sudden she says, “OH MY GOD.” So I bit. “What?” She says, “One of my FB friends is in the doctor’s office and there is this really old woman in there about eighty or so and she took off her sock and started chewing on it. Her son tried to take it away from her and she called him a MoFo!”

She immediately started typing in a comment. I stopped her. She looked at me kind of funny and I said: “Let me.” She raised a brow but slid the laptop over to me. I tapped on the keys.

Comment entered. Child’s mouth wide open. I felt complete.

Growing old can be fun. So in keeping with the spirit of fun AND since this is the month of love…

By the way. I found out yesterday that the cover for Latin Rhythm is a finalist in the Eppie’s Ariana Awards for Best Cover. So if you’re an Eppie Member and plan on voting, take a look at the cover and If you like it—think it’s the best, as do I, then give it a vote. It’s much appreciated. The cover was created by Winterheart Designs.

Latin Rhythm Small

Three Wicked Writers Plus Two Group:

Sunday, 6 February 2011

The Little Monsters - Author Kat Holmes

Please give a warm welcome to Kat Holmes!

I live in an apartment complex. This place is huge, a city unto itself. I honestly think this place should have its own zip code it’s so large. We even have almost everything we need, a supermarket across the street, a liquor store for those who like to drink—a lot—and even a small post office.

What we didn’t have was a Laundromat within walking distance. We’re not allowed to hang our laundry out to dry. That’s in our leases, so we have to go and do our laundry and dry it at a Laundromat. With rising gas prices on top of having to pay for the machine this was getting expensive. So our complex built a really nice laundry just around the corner from my apartment.

This is a good thing right? Sure it is. Well…it would have been but for one slight, annoying little problem. The place they built the Laundromat is where the local bus stop was located. They could no longer let the little monsters…err I mean darlings, yeah darlings; anyway, they couldn’t let them continue to be picked up there. Nope, they had to move the bus stop. And you get one guess where they moved it. That’s right, the new stop is right outside my window.

Every morning the little you-know-what’s gather first thing, bright and early and begin jabbering. And kids don’t come with a volume control switch. For some reason they think the kid next to them can’t hear them unless they’re shouting at the top of their little lungs. And if that wasn’t bad enough? My apartment is at the end of the street, located right next to a bright red stop sign. The kids love to bang the metal sign and kick the post it stands on.

But afternoons, 2:30 p.m. to be exact, are the worst! The monsters—no, darlings—come home. But when they get off the bus they don’t go home. Oh no, they congregate under a tree just across from my window, and they yell and gab…and curse. I swear the stuff coming out these elementary level students’ mouths are worse than anything I said until I was in high school. It’s a constant litany of “fuck this” and “screw your mama” and “suck my dick”.

Elementary schoolers…kids no older then ten! Can you believe it? And while they’re busy cursing each other, a few adventurous, not mention destructive, little leprechauns decided to climb on parked cars and jump on people’s hoods. People come home from work to find dents in their spare cars and have no idea how they got there but then have to pay for repairs.

So the Laundromat is a good thing. We no longer have to drive far to do our clothes. However, it did create a really bad thing. The monsters—yes, monsters not darlings—now dwell in hungry, feral packs outside my window during the entire school year!


Brent Larkin came to Antarctica to study penguins. He didn’t come looking for either adventure or romance. But when a freak storm blows in and he loses his way, that’s exactly what he gets. Attacked by some bobbing lights, he suddenly finds himself in a wintry forest surrounded by men with swords pointed at him. The next thing he knows he’s in a dungeon and chained to the wall.

Awni is the queen of Artica, a land of eternal winter. The daughter of a god, Awni’s cursed to never know the touch of another. Her icy skin is death for anyone who dares to touch her flesh. But, when a mysterious stranger shows up in her lands, she finds herself drawn to him. Eager to learn about his world, she invites him to spend time with her only to be shocked when he touches her and doesn’t freeze to death.

But Artica is a land ruled by tradition. Though she longs to keep Brent with her, the laws of the land force her to send him home. But without him, both she and the land begin to suffer. Now, Awni is facing the same peril as one of her ancestors. And if she perishes like her ancestor did, all of Artica will pay the price. Can Brent, returned to his own world, somehow find his way back and save her before all is lost?