Four Strong Women

The Eleventh of February…

2012-02-11T09:07:00.000-08:00

by Kate Richards

Eleven years ago today I was approached online by a crazy guy by the name of Brewmiester. I tried to ignore him but he was so persistent and had such a smooooth line, that we’ve been together ever since.

Eleven years ago online dating was pretty new and my family thought he was an ax murderer and ordered my brother not to let him out of his sight the day he arrived.

Now…February 11^th is three days before Valentine’s Day and I happened to be single at the time, which may have made me susceptible to his charms, but for whatever reason we found one another, three thousand miles apart, and without the internet, that wouldn’t have happened!

So …without further ado (love that phrase) I make the following suggestions for finding just the perfect guy for that first date—how’s that for pressure?—Valentine’s Day.

1. Your mother is sure to know the sons of friends who would love to go out with you! They’re thirty or so, live at home, so she can reach them, and he has already been naked with you, remember? In the bathtub when you were five? So there’s no need to be shy!

2. TV reality show matchmaker. As long as you don’t mind a camera following you around, you may have the opportunity to go out with a billionaire who has such personality issues he needs a matchmaker to get a date!

3. The gym. Where you can meet guys who are there to work out and ogle the instructors. So unless you have the body of bikini model… ’Nuff said.

4. Square dancing. That’s what my mother tried to get me to do before I met the DH, I understand it is a virtual dating mecca for the over 60 crowd. If…that fits you. Being under that age group, and not feeling like a bloomers and petticoats kinda gal, I never took her up on it! But if it works for you, I’d love to hear about it. I think nightclubs fall under the same basic heading…but for the under 60 set.

5. And my favorite… Internet dating sites. Since I don’t recommend meeting complete strangers without any screening, do as I say, not as I did! There is a plethora (want credit for that word!) of sites available for singles on the lookout for a new and special guy. I particularly recommend Madame Eve’s 1Night Stand. Unlike most of the big sites I researched, Madame has not had any lawsuits filed against her, she does not believe she knows “God’s Plan for you” and she doesn’t judge you for being gay, straight, or a werewolf.

Whatever you do for Valentine’s Day, I hope it’s with someone special who appreciates you for all your wonderful qualities and makes it the most romantic and awesome day of the year. And if you don’t have a date, do something special for yourself…or even better yourself and a bestie who is also single at the moment! You deserve it!

Gale Force Passion:

A Madame Eve Success Story

What to do when your fiancé dumps you for a bimbo, right before a vacation of a lifetime to a luxurious Bahamas couples resort? If you’re lucky, like Terese, the reservations clerk can refer you to another resort, even nicer, and suggests you contact the fabulous Madame Eve at 1Night Stand—for a replacement date!

David is Terese’s date. Very tall, ebony dark and handsome, he’s also starting to yearn for more connection than career has allowed. After years of working at various resorts, he can settle in and enjoy his position as Castillo Resorts’ newest manager right in his native Bahamas.

Add in a hurricane with a sudden change in course, and David and Terese may have a more exciting date than either of them planned. In more ways than one.

When the Cat’s Away…

2012-02-09T08:57:00.000-08:00

by Valerie Mann

Remember when you were a kid and your parents left you at home alone? I do, and my motto was Let the Fun Begin. Important fun like staying up all night watching the shows on HBO that they never let me watch because they’d warp my brain and morals. Ha. Little did they know. Eating crap they never kept in the house, but a quick dash to the store took care of that. High on my list were Ding Dongs. My mom didn’t believe in sugar. It would warp my health. Ding Dongs took care of that in a hurry. Having friends over that they didn’t approve of. Playing my music as loud as I wanted. I liked (and still do) loud, heavy rock music. I’ll be a rockin’ granny, let me tell you!

Fast forward to adulthood. My husband is away on business. And while I miss him, the old motto still stands. Plans must be made to assure maximum satisfaction to do things I can’t do when he’s here. But those things have changed. Here’s my grown-up list of Let the Fun Begin:

1. Watch as many DVRd episodes of House as possible. Husband doesn’t get Dr. House. So he feels compelled to talk to me when I’m trying to appreciate the fine nuances of Gregory’s snark.

2. Read in bed with the lights on for as long as I want. Sweet Jesus, if you can’t sleep with the light on, put a pillow over your head. It’s what I’d do.

3. Eat crap food. Okay, so some things never change.

4. Sleep in past the time his alarm goes off. I’ve never felt so rested.

5. Make the kids fix their own dinner. They’re teenagers. They’ll figure it out.

6. Rinse and Repeat

Am I getting old or what? Not a party in sight. I’m enjoying a quiet house with no loud music to interfere. I’ve been looking at quilting magazines, thinking about starting a new project. And the “crap” I’ve been eating is actually leftover spaghetti for breakfast and chips and salsa for lunch. What has happened to me??

Give me a short list of your dream “vacation” without your

significant other having a say! One commenter will win an Amazon gift card. Leave your email address in your comment!

The Perils of a Write-At-Home Mom

2012-02-03T06:00:00.000-08:00

Please help us welcome S.J. Drum.

Being a mother is kind of like living inside an asylum. I love my children, but no matter the time of day, someone's crying, someone's yelling, someone's drooling, and it isn't out of the question to walk into a room and find shit smeared on the wall.

Contrary to popular belief, taking "me time" for a stay-at-home mom does not translate into taking time to scrub dirty dishes, mop floors or fold laundry while a toddler screams at you because the thousand toys inside his room aren't enough to keep him occupied for thirty minutes. Nothing makes being on your knees cleaning a smelly toilet more fun than having to do it while two little people are crying and making more messes on the other side of the hallway.

You think being a writer while also holding the title of stay-at-home mom sounds like fun? Well, it is. But-- and there's always a 'but'--it also takes an insane amount of dedication that borders on obsession. Don't believe me? Here's a little story on the perils of a writing mother ...

One afternoon, after my children had been fed, cleaned and played with until I couldn't take one more round of build-the-blocks-and-knock-them-down, I put the baby down for a nap (which she thankfully accepted) and put the toddler in his room for some quiet time so I could slip into another room and get a few words written.

After thirty minutes of complete silence, I was riding high. I was thinking things like "My kids are being so good. I can't believe how quiet my toddler is being. He's never this quiet for this long."

And then I shot up out of my seat. My toddler is NEVER that quiet for that long unless it's the middle of the night. Something was amiss.

I dashed to his room and before I even got close, I smelled it. Shit. Literally.

My child had silently removed all of his clothes, taken a huge dump, and proceeded to paint his wall, his baby gate, his door, his toys, and every freaking inch of his carpet with poop. Why? Because I took thirty minutes to do some work.

Was the work I accomplished in those thirty minutes worth the gag-inducing mess that took an hour to clean up? Or the hour it took me to drive to my parents' house and borrow their carpet cleaner? Or the two showers and a bath it took to get my poop covered toddler clean?

No. No, it wasn't.

So, I've adapted. If I must do work while my children are awake, I will never again be outside of seeing (or smelling) distance.

Do you have a stay-at-home mom / write-at-home mom horror story? Let's hear it!

Buy A LIFE BEYOND YESTERDAY, written under my pen-name Clara LaVeaux, and enter to win a FREE Kindle Fire! Check my blog on the release day, February 7th , for Contest Rules and Entry Info. Happy Reading!

~ ~ ~

Blurb:

"Young mother and recent widow, Amelia Gauge, moves cross-country with her son in search of a new life in A Life Beyond Yesterday. She soon realizes life outside of the Rural Midwest is filled with deceit, danger and, too rarely, kindness. Between falling in love and fighting for her life, how will Amelia find the strength to keep her son safe and survive this new, complicated world?"

A LIFE BEYOND YESTERDAY, written under the name Clara LaVeaux, will be released by Eternal Press on February 7th, 2012.

Oh Nos! Girlie bits! Run!

2012-02-02T10:06:00.001-08:00

Today it's time for a rant from me. I don't rant much, and almost never about actual writing issues, but today....

I guess, this is about reading, more than writing, really. I'm talking about genre snobbery. What is that, you ask? Just this: the outcry that goes up should a writer introduce lovers into a m/m book, no matter how small the part they play, where one or more partner doesn't have a penis. I mean...what is that about? Seriously, look around you. Go visit all those so called 'gay ghettos' and imagine what it would really be like if there was not a single hetero couple around anywhere.

It's unrealistic, people.

Yes, I will concede it is possible (not likely, or remotely accurate, but maybe, in a stretch, plausible) that gay guys might tend to form friendship circles in which everyone is gay.

But come on. Really? No girls allowed? What century do we even live in? I'll give you two examples off the top of my head...no, three, in which the women in the books are as important or more than the men, no matter what kind f relationship any of them are in:

Partnership in Blood, by Ariel Tachna. I love so many characters in this series, and two of my very favorite are Angelique, a vampire with some really definite ideas of where her men fit into her life, and Adel, a wizard who embarks on a huge self-learning curve when she realizes she's falling for another woman. There is nothing weak or lacking in these women and the relationships they have are as compelling as any of the gay matches in the books.

And Ms. Tachna doesn't hold back on the love scenes, either. If you ask me, Angelique's love scenes are some of the best ones in the books. Her relationship with David is a rocky one, and the sex between them is a reflection of their growth as people and as a couple. And it's beautiful. The books would not be the same without them. As for Adel, she's prickly and impatient and a dictator and her first partnership with Jude is beyond rocky. It's a landslide disaster. Again, no holding back on the sex, on the anger, or the force both Jude and Adele bring to the bed. A hard contrast to the tender love scenes between Adele and her later partner Pascale. The contrast is important. the relationships are important to the story line, and the characters involved? All amazing creations with incredible depth. And look! They don't all have dicks. Because in life, I know it's crazy, but not everyone has a gay-for-you dick. Go figure. (Adele happens to have a gay-for -you-pussy, when she meets Pascale, and more power to her, I say, though there is much more to her than just that.)

The Dark World series by Lex Valentin, specifically Unbreak Me. If that woman isn't strong and resilient and deserving of a love story, no one, anywhere is. And Lex manages to make all her female characters fun, funny, tough and more than able to hold their own against the men in their lives, whether it be standing up to the villians, partnering their Significant Others or kicking sense into their gay brothers/friends/whoever, these women are worth reading about.

Mercedes Lackey and her Harold Mage universe: There ares some very, very tough women in that 'verse. Some of them sleep together, some of them sleep with men, sometimes their love lives never get talked about. Always, the women are integral parts of the fabric of the stories and of the male characters, lives, no matter what role they take on for the males.

Lets face it, folks, we live our lives in a world where male and female interact. If all you write about are the men and their gayness, you're not only segmenting them off from a whole half of the world that matters, but you're doing a disservice to them. You're making them into creatures who live for one thing: love and sex, in the best possible vision of it. Sex, if you get down to brass tacks.

Gay men might, indeed, be gay. That isn't all they are, and damnit, if you refuse to mention that they know girls, love their sisters, fight with their mothers and get annoyed at their bestie girl-friends, maybe even have *gasp!andshock!* have slept with a couple of the fairer sex, I might just refuse to read your books. et's just get over it and be real and treat the guys we're writing about like actual men with actual rounded and full lives, shall we? hmm?

What books have you read that had women in them as part and parcel to the gay guys featured? If you're one of those readers who just cant stand the mention of girrlie bits in your gay romance, why is that? Help me understand.

Short...sweet? Definitely Sassy

2012-02-01T04:43:00.000-08:00

Kids think they're smarter than grown ups. Did you know? Check it out.

My son today figures he's going to take his dinner of peanutbutter toast to the tv and eat In front of the tv. (in an open concept house all of twenty-seven feet from end to end. Not like he can't see the tv from, well, pretty much anywhere)

So I tell him to take his plate to the table.

Boy: "What table?"
Me: "The dining table, kiddo. Where civilized people sit to eat."
Boy: "I'm sorry" *innocent* "I don't know what civilized means."

This from the kid who has used "delectable", "oppressed", and 'deviant behavior' in sentences correctly.

Me: "civilized parents send their kids to bed early for being precocious. How's that?"
Boy: "I am not precocious. I'm a smart ass."

Not sure who came out on top in that conversation, but he was finished his toast by the time it was over.... Good thing he's cute.

Batteries and Toys

2012-01-30T01:01:00.000-08:00

Ever since Christmas, I have been replacing batteries like crazy in multiple kids’ toys and even my computer. Even with rechargeable batteries, I’m still taking out dead ones and putting in new AAs and AAAs at least every other day. It’s crazy!

Is there some kind of conspiracy with toy and battery companies to make parents spend more and more money? And most of the toys don’t even come with batteries anymore, not even the cheap trial ones.

So there we were on Christmas day, stealing batteries out of remotes (which did come with batteries – huh!), just so the kids could at least play with one new toy.

Yet when I went to the adult toy store, the toy I bought (on recommendation from another author) came already charged. Didn’t have to wait around, plug it in, or anything. Therefore, my husband and I had to get through a day of searching for and charging batteries for the kids before we could play with our own toy that came ready to use. Does that make any sense?

Toys companies should take note. With the amount of money people drop on kids’ toys, you’d think they could at least include batteries. Really!

Never Gonna Let You Go Blurb

Caught in a tangle of lies, Calla Jacobs must sort through the truth to discover where she truly belongs. A biologist for Planet Core, she finds herself ensnared in a web of deceit. Sent to Airondelle, she must work with a team to prepare the newly discovered planet for colonists from Earth. But the mission does not go as she expected. Her former lover, Erik Edwards, shuns her, sending Calla into the arms of Melina Holloway, their commander, for the attention she craves and more. A confrontation among the trio leaves her with a broken heart, and fleeing from the two people she trusted most.

Attempting to break free from the lies that bind her, she discovers Planet Core has deceived everyone. And when she returns to Earth, Calla learns just how far Planet Core’s control reaches.

Available from Decadent Publishing and other ebook retailers.
Buy Links here: http://www.markofthestars.com/wp/?page_id=7889

Book Trailer: http://youtu.be/I8hN8O4bVo4

Bio:
Jessica Subject started writing to encourage her daughter to read. Now she writes to keep herself grounded. Although she reads many genres, she enjoys writing Science Fiction Romance the most and believes everyone in the universe deserves a happily ever after. She lives Southwestern Ontario, Canada with her husband and two kids and loves to hear from anyone who has enjoyed her stories. Her debut novella, Celestial Seduction is available from Decadent Publishing.

Website/Blog: http://www.markofthestars.com
Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/jsubject
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jessica-E-Subject-author/205759796126370

A Special Kind of Hell

2012-01-24T06:00:00.000-08:00

Every Christmas and birthday, Lily receives a gift. You know the gift. That one that keeps on giving and giving and giving until you are ready to kill somebody. The noise makers that become the child's favorite toy and the parent's nightmare. This year it was the Merry-Okee. What pray tell, you ask, is a Merry-Okee. It is a device designed to make your eardrums bleed, or a karaoke microphone with four buttons: one for playing pre-recorded Christmas carols, one for turning the singer's voice into a high-pitch, squeaky elf-like voice, one to sing without the elf voice, and the on-off button.

At first glance, this sounds like fun. Trust me, it's only fun for the child singing at the top of their lungs. As she screeches into the microphone, there is that sound you get when a speaker is being blown out combined with the high-pitched elf voice and the completely off-key child voice. Tone deaf or perfect pitch, your ears are sure to bleed. After a few minutes of this, the long suffering parent (that would be me) is ready to start a witch hunt for the creators of this torture device. Or just snatch that damn thing out of the child's hand and throw it under a Euk tire. Darn! Smashed to smithereens. Of course, I don't, but it's so tempting.

When she was younger, I just waited until she was asleep or out of the house and removed the batteries. Now she's too smart for that. She just asks me to replace the batteries. Since she knows where we keep them, I can't say that we don't have any. Hm... unless I hide them. But if I do that, I am likely to forget where they are when I need them.

For her birthday, one of her friends got her a robotic pterodactyl that spits its food (thankfully, not real food, but a plastic projectile) and screeches. It also snaps its mouth shut. O.o The young boy who bought it for her knows that she loves dinosaurs, so it was a very thoughtful gift... for her. For me, not so much. She pulled it out again the other day and played with it. It was...special. (g)

One of the worst toys, though, that someone gave her was a singing Pinkie Pie. God, how I hate My Little Ponies with their stupid stereotype crap that girls are supposed to like. (Ponies wearing dresses. Really?) But to have to listen to that annoying voice sing one of three insipid songs every day for four hours out of the day is enough to send someone around the bend. Just. Kill. Me. Now. Seriously, instead of water boarding, they should make prisoners listen to Pinkie Pie sing. They'd crack quicker than a peanut in a nutcracker.

You know, there must be a special kind of hell for the people who make these toys. If there's not, there is no justice in this world.

Bartering, Bitching, and Contracts

2012-01-23T01:01:00.000-08:00

So this might be totally not what you expected but I need a catalyst and there is really nowhere that compares more than 4SW. So here goes.

I am an author and literary strategist. When I first started out I did a lot of work for trade. Trade for editing, book covers, social media marketing, blog building, blog posts, content reads. You name it and I had a talent for it and I worked out a deal.

However, I don’t do that as much. There are several reasons why the number one being is the temporal needs of my family. But that isn’t the point of this rant. The real point is (and this can pertain to any industry) I want to share a few things about bartering.

1. Bartering has been around since man was created. No matter where you think we came from the realization is that bartering has been here since Adam and Eve. There was no overall way to recognize monetary value so the barterer and the barteree negotiated a deal of what they felt was an equal trade for goods or services. Now the point of the history lesson is the terms are set out in the beginning. That doesn’t mean later if things circumstances change you can throw a fit and break the deal. Nevertheless, renegotiation is always an option.

2. Terms need to be spelled out clearly in the beginning. This is one I suffer from. Meaning if you do a trade of services—find out how much those services are and figure out an hourly amount of time and rate or whatever so that it’s equal for both parties at the beginning. For example this one time I offered to stage a home for a client (back in my Realtor days) in exchange for some print work. The print work was about $300.00. After talking over what they wanted done initially I figured it would be an equal deal and take me about 10 hours to come up with a plan, present it to them, and they could go from there. Wrong! It was more like 100 contentious hours later I was literally hurting financially from the amount of time on the project. Because I had not spelled out what I was doing from the beginning, they misunderstood me and assumed I would be spearheading and following through with the entire staging of the home. So after prayer and speaking with my husband I approached them and expressed how sorry I was about not communicating fully. I also said this is how many hours I’ve put into this, this is how much I usually charge an hour, and I can’t afford to do anymore under the terms of our agreement. They were embarrassed and sad that I had done more. We renegotiated a deal and I was paid some money. I didn’t make a profit. In fact, I barely broke even but I learned and the relationship was still at a great place. On the latter I did the same thing with another person they had a fit and ended up bitching about it to any and every person they could. In the end, this hurt them more than it did me. If you do find yourself on the bad end of a barter accept what part is your fault learn and move on. Don’t be a baby about it.

3. Sometimes free is worth more than a dollar amount. I probably spend more time doing free stuff from consultations, speaking, workshops, and blogging than I do writing as an author or making money as a consultant. However, I almost make enough money for my family. When I started in this business, I sat down and said “How will I measure my success?” And I decided that a certain dollar amount made monthly was my ultimate goal. I’m ¾ of the way there in the first year. I couldn’t be more thrilled. I attribute this to the fact all my consulting business is done by referral. I am always happy to refer someone out some business if I am too busy to handle it. Or to just simply sit and brainstorm about their platform. It’s in this I learn and I serve and I’m very happy to do it.

4. It is not ok to take advantage of the novice. Too many times, I’ve seen people who have been around the block a long time or who are very shrewd take advantage of someone just starting because they see a lot of talent and not as much confidence. It is not ok to take advantage of that. If you have a deal from the beginning while it may not be the industry standard it still does not need to be for pennies or a crappy trade. While I can’t sit here and draw up a list of acceptable trades just keep that in mind. It hurts us all when good talent is burned and leaves.

5. Word of mouth contracts are still contracts. In Tennessee word of mouth contracts are not consider legal under real estate law. It’s like that in most states. However, for myself as a person who likes to think of honor and character I still do my utmost to honor verbal contracts as well as print. With that in mind, I also do majority of my work with written contracts now. Mainly so I know exactly what’s expected.

So that was my little rant. Thanks for letting me get it out. And if you could be so kind as to share with me any of your own experiences or ideas.

Bri Clark

Literary Strategist/Consultant/Author/Speaker

bri@belleconsult.com

www.belleconsult.com

Excuse Me...Would You Like to Borrow My Lawn Mower?

2012-01-20T06:00:00.000-08:00

by Valerie Mann

Since we seem to be having a run of blogs lately about body grossness, I wanted to jump in and discuss one of my pet peeves: hairy backs.

MEN: Hairy backs belong on primates in the wild or behind a restraining fence at the zoo. They do not belong on someone who shares my bed or the seat next to me on public transportation. And for crying out loud, the last thing I want to see is your hairy back for my viewing pleasure on a public beach.

While we’re at it, let’s add a big N-O to hair sticking out of nostrils and ears. Seriously, there are grooming appliances for such nastiness. Email me privately and I’ll hook you up with a buy link.

Hair on human males belongs on heads, chests, groins and legs. Some hair on fingers and toes is optional and, in moderation, can enhance manliness. Moderation being the key word here, guys.

Hirsutism can be the result of an illness. If you go from smooth to Magilla overnight, get thee to the doctor. I’m not talking about King-Kong-itis here. I’m talking puberty-induced hairyness, treatable with a sharp razor, copious amounts of shaving cream and a willing volunteer to wield these items behind you. Preferably out of doors where you can hose off afterward.

Guys, do you honestly think pubic hair on a your back will attract the chicks? It won't. Really. Trust me on this. If you still think so after reading this, there is no hope for you. If you're having an epiphany at this moment, I have the solution...

Manscaping. Landscaping for the male body. Once primarily confined to porn stars, it's now common for many men to manscape their entire bodies. In some cases, it's downright essential if the guy ever wants to get laid. But if you can't stand the thought of waxing your chest or shaving your junk, at least 'scape the back!

Examples of manscaping

Don't do this.

Manscaping is not the time to demonstrate

either razor sharp artistic ability, or your team allegiance.

Do this...

Not a back hair in sight. I'll bet the girl fishies jump right into that net!

So tell me, ladies ~ is it just me or do you not mind the Magilla Gorilla look?

Disclaimer: All manner of manscaping should be done by a trained professional under proper hygienic conditions.

Straightlaced and Erotic

2012-01-18T11:33:00.001-08:00

About fifteen years ago, a creative writing instructor and friend sent me some material to give me an idea of how to write erotic fiction, primarily stories for men’s magazines. He also passed along some editors’ names for me to contact. Until then, I’d been selling the occasional story to semi-pro magazines, both online and print, for several years. I had scored acceptances in genres from YA Christian fiction to fantasy to even several poetry magazines--even a rejection letter from Marion Zimmer Bradley herself that was full of so much praise I framed it. However, I had yet to make my first really BIG fiction sale; that one sale that arrives in a pristine white envelope and, when you open it, there’s a contract and a lovely business check with two zeros or more before the decimal.

Well, I took my friend’s advice and wrote a story that followed his guidelines and suggestions. Two weeks later, I sold my first story for big bucks to a well-known sex magazine: Gent, Home of the “D” Cups. This led to four years of a semi-steady paycheck with Gent, plus repeat sales to other erotic fiction markets.

When I opened that envelope and withdrew the letter and contract, discovering my first check that fell out of it, I nearly fainted. Actually, thinking back, I sat down and cried.

But a very sobering thought struck me: What would my father think? For those of you who don’t know, I grew up as a minister’s daughter in the very straight-laced, Church of Christ. Still, I was a grown woman with children, so why should I worry about what my dad thought about my lucrative sale?

The answer was a no-brainer. One, I respected my parents and didn’t want them to think poorly of me, and two, for years I’d had a specific mindset drilled into my head by the church people. As a result, it created a lot of internal turmoil within me, so that’s how Feathers of Silver was written—exorcising personal demons and a bit of hostility. Check it out because the book will surprise you!

I fretted about the sale. I worried about Dad’s response to my sexually oriented story—and a quite graphic one at that! My mother is more liberal, so she was ecstatic about my fiction sale.

“But what will Dad say?” I asked her.

“I think you underestimate your dad,” Mom replied.

When I mentioned my sale to my dad, I warned him that the story had some sex scenes. He didn’t say much—so I worried that was a bad sign—but he asked if I made any money this time. I told him the amount I earned, and he smiled.

“Good,” Dad said. “It’s about time someone recognized your talent as a writer.”

Heh. Correction: my talent as an erotic fiction writer.

However, his reaction stunned me. It also taught me a lot about my dad. He didn’t possess as strict of a mindset as I thought.

One day, my dad noticed a glossy, sexy magazine sitting on a shelf. He took it down, quietly eyeing a nearly nude and very buxom woman on the cover.

“What’s this?” Dad asked.

Dread pooled in my stomach. I said, “It’s the magazine that published my story.”

He pulled out a chair and sat down. “What’s it called?”

I told him the title and the page number.

“Who’s Molly Diamond?” he asked without looking up.

“That’s my pen name.”

Minutes later, Dad handed the magazine to me. “Although very graphic, it’s a great story. And writing this stuff pays well, right? So you’re supporting your family.” He grinned, crossing his arms. “Good job.”

In shock, I put the magazine away, wondering who was sitting at my kitchen table because it couldn’t be my father.

Now, sseveral years later, my dad is one of my most devoted fans.

Yeah, even for the sexy stuff—oh my!

And my Mom? Well, she reads all my material, even the scorching-lava stuff such as Ruby, the White King and Marilyn Monroe and my Molly Diamond and Azura Ice titles. I’ve been blessed with incredibly special parents and I love them with all my heart.

Lace, Lightning & Multiple Orgasms

Explosive Meltdowns

2012-01-17T04:00:00.000-08:00

I’m sure everyone has a meltdown from time to time, but my guess is that women have them more often than men do. My reasoning for this is that women *usually* do most of the child rearing, they work, too, whether it’s out of the home or an in-home business, and women are typically the ones who handle everything else that involves a household such as buying groceries, paying bills, attending school meetings, volunteering, addressing family problems, and so on.

It’s stressful and it’s VERY difficult to find time for oneself so you can relax and create a peaceful state of mind.

Peaceful state of mind? I can’t believe I just typed that. HAHAHAHA!!! In my home, that state doesn’t exist.

Point in case:

I have two children still relatively young under my roof and two grown children who have moved out. One is married with a family. The other is single, has recently moved out of his roommate’s place and is now in a nice li’l rental of his own, and makes excellent money, and a gf who is… GRR! Quick! Subject change!

Anyway, I’m the hub of the family. I’m the one everyone goes to for help whether it’s my kids or my parents. I’m the one who is supposed to leap the tallest buildings in a single bound.

Mom, Mom, Mom, ring, ring, ring….

However, when I’m sick, I’m still expected to kill the Kraken, slay the Cyclops, beat up the Wicked Witch of the West and fend off the vampires.

Add the recent holiday pandemonium, including financial worries, and a couple of publishing deadlines to this and my stress level kept poking holes in the ceiling tiles.

Then it happened. The meltdown AKA Faith loses her mind.

A phone call came in. Mom is needed to run to the rescue. Can you do it? Well, I was put in a position where I had no choice so I blew up. Not because I didn’t want to help my child but because it was just one thing too much on top of the ever-growing pile of chaos that has been my life the past three months.

And wow did I ever have a meltdown. My office is now wounded. It lies in shambles from my fit. I am now without a calculator because it was in a fine shower of plastic splinters across the room. I broke a big, heavy-duty cardboard filing box. A piece of furniture landed on its side on the opposite side of the office.

And then the tears started—but I couldn’t shut them off!

I screamed.

I cursed.

I cried some more.

Then a few days later the monsters came into my home to play. As a result, I had to activate my calm-down button so I could slay the beasts with some quiet verbal spears and daggers that created blessed silence. But all of this drained me, put me way behind in my work, and it was twice as difficult to recouperate after being ill. Did it matter? No. Mom, mom, mom....

Thank God for a wonderful husband, tho. He stood guard at the door, answered calls for a couple days after, and even did the dishes and put supper stuff away three nights in a row. Just those li'l things helped me immensely and showed me someone does care how I feel and what I contend with. Honey, you're a true gem and I love you!

The past couple of weeks it has been relatively quiet. Well, honestly after the past few weeks, it doesn't take much to set me off so I still have my moments of tears and snark that can slice the hide off a Gila monster--dripping sarcasm is often my defense mechanism, but I'm working on curbing it. I’ve realized I do not play well others when I’m stressed. However, those *others* now know I can turn into a bigger monster when enough is enough.

So, dear readers, what was your worse meltdown moment?

MOOBS

2012-01-12T21:40:00.000-08:00

By Olivia Starke

Today I want to blog on Moobs.Urban dictionary defines Moobs as Man boobs, or disgustingly large titties on a man.

(Think of moobs as the COMPLETE OPPOSITE of this.)

Apparently small towns breed men who have an inherent predisposition to moobliness (or at least the small town where I live.) And I’m not talking about those sweet, wonderful, cuddly guys we know and love who have good jobs and basic common decency—no I’m talking about those other type of, ahem, men. The ones who’ve managed to beer drink (among other things) their way to a nice sized rack.

First off, we have the thin guys with worn Budweiser t-shirts expertly cut out to expose their perky As and giant man nipples. Usually accompanied by homemade tats and a questionable smell you can’t quite place, they seem to think they are God’s gift to women and will be quick to wink and call you “Babe” or “Honey.” The fact you can’t stop staring at their freaky nips only confirms in their mind your interest, and they will be quick to shed that Bud Light shirt at the first opportunity to give you the whole show. Of course, this is about the same time you feel your uterus shrivel completely away, leaving you sterile for life.

Next, we’ll jump straight to the gentleman who can give my own Ds a run for the money. These are the proud carriers of a matching “toolshed” or huge gut that hangs below their belts, attesting to their years of hard drinkin’ and hard livin’ Larry the Cable Guy style. For the most part not as cocksure as the boys mentioned above, they often reek of beer and lost dreams. Walking around with a button up shirt three fourths the way unbuttoned, you’ll wonder, Why, for the love of God, can’t they just spare us and hit those last few buttons! But no, they really can’t be bothered since they are much too busy finding reasons to cuss vehemently about everything.

Unfortunately, every summer we are subjected to these men and you have to ponder why it’s legal that they can show it all, but a woman with a decent set can’t? I personally know which I’d prefer to see as a straight woman desperately trying to avoid the asexual life.

(Comment with an email for your chance to win Sweets & Swag! US only, sorry, it’s a customs thing.)

~ Olivia Starke

“Adding a Little Kink to Your Bedtime Story”

www.authoroliviastarke.com http://romancingthepentoday.blogspot.com

Familiar Desires

Blurb: Ashley Adams signed up with the 1Night Stand service in hopes of stirring up some cougar passion in her lackluster life. When she meets tall, dark, and oh-so-sexy Justin, the sparks fly. But something deeper lies in their magical connection, something she isn’t prepared for. Will a casual one-night stand change her life forever?

Excerpt:
“You’re more beautiful than your picture.” He reached past her shoulder and hit the emergency stop. Her breath caught in her throat when the elevator jolted to a halt.

“What are you doing?” She darted a glance up at the security camera.

The way his mouth curved at the corners made her knees knock. “Your profile said you liked to be adventurous.” The tip of his tongue stroked over his bottom lip as he watched her through heavy-lidded eyes.

“I—I meant trekking through the wilds of Africa, sky diving, that sort of thing.” Her heart beat so loudly, surely he had to hear it. He stepped forward—his finger traced her jaw line before he tipped her chin up. She swallowed.

“Skydiving?Can’t say I’d have the guts to try that, though I’d love the chance to kiss a pretty girl in an elevator.”

A corny come-on line if she’d ever heard one, but spoken with a whiskey-smooth Kentucky drawl—damn, it works for me. That’s what she’d come for, to have an unforgettable night with a hot hunk to stir up her humdrum life. After all, she’d dished out the funds for the flight, half the price of the hotel room, and the 1Night Stand fee.

He moved in close, and a wonderful, heady mix of musk and spice filled her nose. Her insides somersaulted in anticipation, wicked intent written all over his perfectly chiseled face. They could be kicked out of the hotel, or worse—arrested and appear on one of those dumbest criminals shows. The elevator wall pressed into her back, but when he leaned forward and touched his lips to hers, all the reasons they shouldn’t be doing this in the elevator evaporated.

Piggy Love

2012-01-11T03:01:00.000-08:00

by Valerie Mann

I love to see something that can surprise me so fast and hard, I bark out loud. I’m not talking about a mere funny that makes me laugh. Or even makes me LOL. I’m talking about the things that make me ROTFLMAO…those are the keepers. And if it can keep me laughing, even after a dozen or more views...even better!

Absurd interpretation is perfection.

But sometimes, what I think is belly-busting funny, irritates the living hell out of the people around me. The Geico insurance commercials are classics. They either crack you up or piss off everyone around you. Usually because you're making an idiot of yourself laughing at something they don't get. Either way, whichever ad agency Geico contracted has total geniuses on staff.

Hipster Cavemen with attitude? Check!

Adorable Southern Belle pothole? Check!

But, the most genius of all is Maxwell the Pig.

When he wee, wee, wees all the way home, I completely crack up. My family hates it. To add insult to injury, it's my cell phone ringtone (it was free. Geico is friendly that way). My co-workers think there's a baby crying in my purse when my phone rings. Their disgust only adds to my hilarity.

Cute-as-hell Pig guaranteed to piss off family and friends? Check, check!!

So what makes YOU laugh, but annoys the hell out of everyone else around you?

The Secret Life of an Intergalactic Princess

2012-01-09T06:00:00.000-08:00

Please help us welcome, Jenna McCormick.

Being an intergalactic princess isn't easy, especially when you do it in secret. No matter how much I want to whine about not doing the carpool, making dinner, vacuuming the dog hair off the stairs, I shut up and do them. I'd love to raise one eye brow, a skill I have yet to master, and tell the chores to go stuff themselves, well, I can't. Why? Because being an intergalactic princess is a responsibility with a really shitty benefits package.

Okay, so the IP can conquer worlds in her head, vaporize an entire star system with a single thought and look great in a kick ass pair of fuck-me boots. The conquering often gets sidetracked by a ringing phone, the vaporizing gives me a guilt complex and my feet end up with blisters.

Shouldn't an intergalactic princess have minions? Underlings to see to the day to day necessities so they don't weigh on her royal mind? Unfortunately the royal coffers are empty and my last minion is a beagle mix that sleeps twenty two hours a day, so I'm stuck getting my own slippers, wine and chicken salad sandwhiches.

Believe you me, I'd love to whip out my laser pistol and plant a bolt right between the eyes of that prune-faced gorgon at the school's front office when she gives me crap. An intergalactic princess should not have to take crap! But the intergalactic princess can't smite at her will because then her alter ego would go to jail. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.00.

So what's the point in being an intergalactic princess? Writing some steamy books, of course! And in them her creations live and die, love and war as she sees fit. In No Limits, the intergalactic princess commanded "Let there be a world where germs are no longer a problem!" and BAM! In the future she created people are fitted with personal health guards to stop the spread of disease.

Then she commanded, "Let prostitution become as easy as ordering a pizza!" and BAM! We have a world full of eligible manwhores just a phone call away.

Oh yes, it is good to be the intergalactic princess because even if I have to do crummy jobs and take crap, well at least I don't have to do it all the time.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Blurb:

Coming January 1 from Kensington Aphrodisia

All Genevieve Luzon wants is to be loved by one man, a seemingly impossible task in New-New York City at the start of the twenty second century. Sure, she can buy sex as easily as order a pizza on a Friday night, but finding a forever kind of love among her self-centered peers is no easy feat for the unemployed off-world vacation coordinator. When an old friend offers her the position of secret shopper to test out the male prostitutes, Gen can't think of a good reason to refuse. Hell, if she can't find Mr. Right, she might as well try on a sampler of Mr. Right Nows.

Yet the perks of her new position don't compare to the strange attraction she has, not for one of the prostitutes, but a candle that seems to warm places of her she never knew existed. When a man appears out of the flame, Gen is sure she's found the one. Rhys is an empath, made a slave by the Illustra Corporation and he's everything Gen could ever want. Except available. Because Rhys is on a mission. One that might claim his life. He must try to free his people, consequences be damned. Now, Gen must choose between turning her back on the only man she's ever loved and the monumental task he has set for himself. Should she risk her life fighting a war hidden from polite society against those who wish to control us all?

Is love really worth fighting for?

So do you lead a double life? I'd love to hear about it! And please visit the intergalactic princess at www.authorjennamac.com and sign up for my newsletter.

Let's Play...

2012-01-06T06:00:00.000-08:00

Let's play the "what Is..." game. I give you the answer, and you give me the question. Well. I suppose, technically, I'll give you both, but it'll be fun for you to guess as we go along.

So, first up: Worth it's weight in Gold.

...Answer: What is a block of sharp cheese? Well. Yes, but not was I was going for. I was going to say, a husband who not only gets this headline and why I might care...

But actually brings the magazine home from the theater so he can show me and we can grin over it together. That's Twu Wuv....

Next: Not the Droid you're looking for.

Answer: What are any of the half dozen or so found in the bottom of son's Lego box, because he's after a specific one that came with a specific set...which he never actually received, so how he thinks he has it, I have no idea. But then, I'm just a weak-minded fool apparently susceptible to the most basic of mini-Jedi mind control tricks. (Oh. Here's something interesting. My computer knows how to spell Jedi better than I do. Huh.) And, I am also easily distracted. SQUIRREL!!!!

And finally: Worth every penny they get paid and then some.

Answer: Who are cover artists. And I'll tell you why. Better yet, I'll show you. First, Anne Cain's work on my first Dreamspinner novel. "Better" and next, the head of the Art Department over at Total E-Bound her work on the co-authored book "Tools of Justice"

Conversations

2012-01-02T10:01:00.001-08:00

Son: "I can't put my clean laundry away. There's no more room in my dresser."
Me: "Toss all the jeans with the holes in the knees, and the rest will fit."
Son: "They aren't holes. It's a *style*
Me: *face palm* Leaves*
Some things just are not worth arguing with an eight yr old over. Trust me on this. In fact, so much of what goes on in a kid's head is beyond me, despite the fact I once was one.

For instance, just this morning, my daughter sat a the table and told me....Told Me....to get her a bowl of cereal. O.o Really. Where does she get that? And of course immediately on the heels of asking myself that, I realize the answer. Me. Damn. I did that to her. Do you know how long it's going to take to train that out of her now? And worse, now I can't use her as my fetch and carrier, either, because that's a double standard she will never, ever allow to be forced on her. Kid's too smart for my own good.....

Now, of course, I didn't get cereal for her. Her (adult) cousin made her grilled cheese less than ten minutes later. Sigh. There is no winning, really.

Ode to Chin Hair

2011-12-28T06:00:00.000-08:00

This poem was inspired by my chin hair. It seems to perpetually grow and sprout at the most inopportune moments. (Or, at least, I realize it's there at the most inopportune moments. LOL)

Ode to Chin Hair

Oh, chin hair, how you sprout!
No matter how often I pull you out.
Bristly and white
You arrive overnight
Rearing your head in the morning light.

And sometimes at midday, you appear
When my tweezers are no where near.

How truly evil you are.
Sometimes, you go too far!

Why must you race along my chin
As if chased by the wind?
Surely, you can find
Another chin more designed
For coarse, white hair than mine.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

For examples of chins much more designed for chin hair, please visit this site.

Unfashionable, Sensible, Warm Clothes

2011-12-26T06:00:00.000-08:00

Common sense. Where did common sense in fashion go? Did it ever exist? Or am I the only one baffled by the stupidity we call fashion?

This all started up at my mother's at Thanksgiving...

Actually, I take that back. This has been going on for several years, probably predating Lily's birth, but I wasn't aware of it until I started shopping for her. Every year, I go to different stores looking for cute Christmas dresses for Lily to wear. And every year, regardless of whether I am in the Central Valley or in Los Angeles, none of these "Christmas" dresses have sleeves. O.o

Yes, adorable, but freezing.

Okay. I get it. To someone in the Midwest, California seems warm, even in winter. (Unless you are in the mountains, of course.) However, those of us who live here year around, 30-40 degrees Fahrenheit is cold. Even 50 degrees is cold. And, at the end of December, we wear long sleeve shirts, jeans, and bundle up with jackets. So, I ask you, why would anyone think we want to dress our daughters in a dress sure to give her pneumonia?

But I digress... This isn't about previous years. This is about this year's fashion stupidity. And this year has some doozies.

Back to my story:

My mother picked Lily up some Hello Kitty pajamas at Walmart. Except the pajamas were missing one small component: a top. Lily, being female, obviously doesn't need a top. I mean, women don't wear tops, surely. O.o So, Mom had to buy her a shirt separately (thin because, you know, it's winter after all, and it's warm outside.) Not that I have anything against these pajamas. I'm just baffled as to why the tops are missing.

By the way, I have noticed that Target is also selling pajama bottoms, just pajama bottoms, for women. No tops. Um, okay.

Now the tops my mother bought are so thin you might as well be wearing muslin. Wait! Muslin is thicker than these tops. So, Lily's legs and bottom are warm, but her core, which is the part of her that needs to be warm the most, is not. Of course, these PJ's are Lily's favorites. (sigh) Perhaps this is China's way of getting rid of all of us.

Now, the pajama tops aren't the only shirts that are paper thin because now all the rage is layering. Layering paper thin tops. Paper thin tops that cost $25 a piece. (Ka-ching went the manufacturers.) You must buy another top to wear underneath because you can see through the original one. The spaghetti strap top that goes underneath is only $6 and as thick as a top should be. The paper thin tops will last maybe a few washing before you have to shell out another $25 to buy a new one. That one you paid $6 for to go underneath? That one will last you 5-10 years. (g)

The other day, while at a kid's birthday party, I saw a mother wearing this fashion. We were at an ice skating rink. She was freezing. I was so surprised.

Now, I don't care what other people wear (within reason...some things should not be seen.) However, when fashion fads affect my wardrobe, I am less than pleased. And this year I happen to need new turtlenecks. (I told you I'm no fashion maven. I'm practical and like to be warm.) A few of mine are from college and are in desperate need of replacing. So, I asked Mom for some for Christmas, but due to this stupid fashion trend, the turtleneck I want might as well be available only on the moon. It's not going to keep me warm, unless I layer. Well, I do layer. If it's really cold, I'll wear long johns, a turtleneck, a sweater, and a jacket. But it's not that cold out here most of the time, and I want practical shirts, ones that will last me another (cough, cough) ten years (or more) and ones where I don't have to layer three together to be half as warm as I want to be.

Common sense. It seems as if no one has it anymore. Can someone please tell me where it went? And who are these idiots designing clothes? While they run around in their fur coats, we freeze in their designs. I want my unfashionable, sensible, warm clothes back. And if a designer can't create exciting clothes while keeping temperature in mind, perhaps they aren't that good of a designer after all!

A Christmas Miracle

2011-12-24T09:22:00.000-08:00

Last Monday, Charlie, Lily, and I decided to have dinner at a local mall. What? Were we insane? Well, honestly, I wasn't thinking nor was Charlie, or we wouldn't have gone there. But by the time we thought about what we were doing, we were already in line to enter the parking lot (yes, in line), and it was too late as Lily was nearly foaming at the mouth hungry and only wanted the promised meal. (sigh) And there was no way to turn around. We were a bit stuck.

So, we see this huge line in front of us. At the front the stop sign 20 or so cars ahead is a security person waving a glow stick directing traffic. Five or ten minutes later (although it did seem longer with the moaning, I'm-going-to-die-if-I-don't-eat-now child in the backseat), we turn into the parking lot behind a couple of others. We are routed to the right down an aisle behind several other cars. The person in front of us is anxious and zooms ahead. We do not, and, lo and behold (insert heavenly music here), there in front of us a car is pulling out. Not just one car, but two. Both parking spots are close to the entrance we want to go into.

It's a miracle! Not just any miracle, but a Christmas miracle. (g) Charlie cannot believe it happened. I, on the other hand, have no problems believing. (g) When it comes to parking lots, I am heaven blessed... most of the time, but especially that night. :)

So, the lesson here is...

1. believe in miracles
2. or avoid malls during Christmas?

I'd say both.

Have a very Merry Christmas, Blessed Yule, Happy Hanukkah (although that ends on the 27th), and so on, and I'll "see" you next week.

Laugh with Me

2011-12-22T12:19:00.000-08:00

My apologies for dropping the ball here this week, but with it being the last week before Christmas and a looming deadline, I've been hard pressed to find an extra minute here and there.

Today I want to discuss and sort of rant a li'l bit about humor in books.

I’m all for reality—as long as it’s not reality TV because I lived that insanity in high school—but sometimes it can be taken too far. Reality
must be a part of all fiction regardless of the genre. I write several
different genres from paranormal romance to science fiction to mainstream and I always include one special aspect of reality in my work: humor.

Not long ago I found a thread where readers were discussing their
dislike of humor in romantic fiction. Their point? They couldn’t take the plot or the characters seriously if humor was involved.

Huh? Laughter is a part of real life

Isn’t life and romantic relationships difficult enough as it is? Ever meet someone who lacked a sense of humor? You spout off something that
has others around you cracking up, but there’s that one person who stares at you like he just found something gooey and stinky on the bottom of his shoe. Then you hear someone mutter, “Sheesh, dude, you’re a major stick in the mud.” (I bet it wasn’t mud he found on his shoe!)

I’m not talking about slapstick humor but legitimate, spontaneous laughter created by circumstances or someone’s unique viewpoint or retort. Comic relief eases tension in a scene. Whether it’s a movie, a TV program, a play, or a book, humor lightens the mood.

In my latest book release, Ruby, the White King and Marilyn Monroe, Ruby Nutter has a high-stress life. Her father blames her for the death of her mother, she’s cursed with unusual powers that surface whenever she’s upset, making her dangerous to those around her (just ask the neighborhood bully who landed upside down in a chimney), men dump her the moment they notice she’s different, and everyone fears her too much to befriend her.

How does Ruby handle everything? Through her rapier wit and sarcasm, and oh how she wields them like deadly weapons.

The novel runs on high octane, propelling the reader from Ruby setting her boss’ bra on fire to running from beautiful yet malevolent bikers who ride demonic motorcycles. She uses her humor and cynicism as a
protection device, too. Even when she’s battling evil incarnate, she can’t seem to control her mouth.

So, the reader is on the proverbial edge of the seat fearful the biker leader will finally catch Ruby, wondering how she’ll get out of yet
another sticky situation (no, not the stuff on the guy’s shoe! Forget that
already!) only to come across an unexpected line that generates laughter. Even ditzy Maureen, the Marilyn Monroe look-alike, can surprise her with a bit of humor.

Does this comedic tool take away from the plot and characters? Absolutely not! It only makes the characters richer and more lifelike.

How many times have you been in church or some sort of formal ceremony when it’s so quiet you can hear a pin drop then someone’s kid
rips off a massive fart that rattles the windows? Mmm, hmm. Don’t tell me you have no idea what I’m talking about because I’ve raised enough children to know how it plays out. You try not to laugh when all you want to do is fall into the aisle clutching your midsection. Others start chuckling, and then you hear a few whispered “Gah! I told you not to eat those burritos last night!” Everyone is ready to explode into hysterical laughter.

How about harmless pranks you see on TV or YouTube? People
crack up at the reactions of those being scared or fooled. How many times have you laughed at someone who trips on thin air? Maybe you’ve been in class and the professor was so tired he said something backward, causing everyone to crack up. That’s life. It’s real, it happens, and regardless if it’s paranormal romance, mainstream fiction or horror, true-to-life humor is in my books.

Join Ruby on her journey, laugh with her, and then maybe share her gift of laughter with a friend, too.

Reincarnated over the centuries. Stuck with a ditzy Marilyn Monroe lookalike. Falling for a rich albino guy. It’s just Ruby’s luck for Hell’s “real” angels to ride into this life and screw it all up.

Amazon link for print and Kindle: http://amzn.to/rTuIPl

Here's an excerpt for your enjoyment.

“Is he gone?” I asked.

Solomon peeped through the curtains. “I don’t see anyone. After all that noise, it probably won’t be long before the motel manager tells us to leave too.” He let the curtain fall and looked over at me. “You know more about this strange stuff than you’ve been letting on.”

“I didn’t want to scare anyone unnecessarily, and I didn’t want you to think...to think...” I gritted my teeth and ordered the tears not to fall.

“To think you’re a freak?” he supplied. “To treat you like shit because you’re different, or that you’re not what people consider normal?”

“No,” I lied, “it’s just that—” The sob ripped free of me before I could squelch it.

Solomon crossed the room and folded me in his arms, holding me so close I heard his heartbeat. Now was the time he was supposed to go crazy with fear, yell obscenities, call me names, and then leave so fast his shoes caught on fire.

“Why?” he said.

Sobs still spilled from my mouth, but I managed to squeak, “Why what?”

He leaned back and peered deeply into my eyes. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That.”

I pushed against his chest, but he held me still.

“Why do you clam up or run away whenever someone asks you something personal?”

I sniffed and tried to avoid his penetrating gaze. “Maybe because it’s none of your business?”

“Look, I’m not asking you to tell me all the deep dark secrets you might have.” He let me go and crossed his arms over his chest. “The fact that something unnatural is going on aside, I’d like to know a little more about the women I’m traveling with, that’s all.”

He had me there. Hadn’t I gone through the same thing with Maureen last night?

“For starters,” he said, “I’d like to know more about the incredible things you do.”

“I honestly don’t know how I do them.” I risked looking at him and wished I hadn’t. The expression on that man’s face said he was determined to find out more. “Can we discuss this another time?” I turned away, needing some space. Most of all I needed time to process the fact he wasn’t already packing his bags. “I promise I’ll answer a couple of your questions if we can do it some other time.”

“Fair enough.” He sighed. “So you really think that guy is tied to the hunters who murdered Gabriella?”

“Yes.”

“Come to think of it, the men who attacked my sister and me were really big too. I can’t remember many details about them now other than their yellow eyes and the smell of booze.”

“Solomon, you’re in danger if you travel with me. You should go home.”

“No. I refuse to leave you, Ruby. You might be able to ignore the chemistry and feelings between us, but I can’t.”

That was the last thing I’d expected out of him. For a moment I said nothing. I couldn’t let Solomon know how much I cared for him, how much I wanted him. If I did, there was no doubt it would all come crashing down. At least for now he was still with me.

No Parking for YOU!

2011-12-16T01:42:00.000-08:00

No, I don’t mean the kind at the mall. I personally avoid those like the plague unless I’m going there to have hairs on my body dealt with. You know, I go to the same place to get pampered by my favorite hair fairy and to chat with a nice lady while she rips “other” hairs from my nether regions using hot wax. Otherwise, you can keep your mall shopping.

I’m talking about jerks of a different ilk. The sort who should be good neighbors, but aren’t.

You see, I own a bar. Well, I own a brewery, with a “beer bar” (Tap Room) attached. I have plenty of free parking because I chose the location away from the crazed downtown madness of very-much-not-free parking. My business is located in a former appliance warehouse, behind a store that sells and repairs bicycles. Herein lies my problem.

The bike shop has about 25 parking spots and is open most nights until 8 p.m. I have about 60 spots and open at 4 or noon depending on the day. My business has been, in a word, successful. We have many times more than 60-cars’ worth of folks inside drinking my brewer’s amazing concoctions, playing foosball, throwing darts, watching sports or whatever.

Like that night last week when I had one of those “Oh, dear Lord please do not let the fire marshal show up tonight” sort of night. I was hosting a public radio forum on K-12 education in Michigan. Ann Arbor is lousy with teachers so they packed the place. It was moderated by a well-known political correspondent. I am a huge fan grrl and was loving it AND the fact that I could look around and see something like 75% new faces in my establishment.

And my “neighbors” call and complain that my patrons are in their parking lot and the tow truck has been called. They did the same thing when I threw a hugely well attended 1^st anniversary party. A**holes. So I had the moderator make an announcement, about 10 folks came out, and I stood in the snow, apologized, got them situated in the empty bank lot next to the bike shop. The bank that has welcomed my after hours parking, no problem. This bike shop at most has 2 cars in its gigantic lot at any given time. Seriously.

This being “Ann Arbor” (read: over educated, underemployed and vocal—oh and HUGE bike riders) 90% of the nice people who came out of the bar, missed a solid 20 minutes of discussion to move their cars from a nearly empty lot took the time to stick their heads in the door of said bike shop to remind those folks that they would be taking their over-priced bike buying dollars elsewhere. I love the power of the consumer.

Bike shop owner called to apologize. Too late. Damage done. I blog as The A2 Beer Wench and have a huge reach and issued a teensy little PSA on my blog the next day reminding folks that they really should never, ever park in the bike shop lot. For any reason. The implication of course being: Even to buy a bike.

Don’t know whom they were messing with, did they?

And so you can see why I’m even ON this fine blog today, I’ll make the connection for you. I have a series of stories and one novel based in the craft beer industry. The Brewing Passion Series with Breathless Press includes:

The Rookie

XXXMas Ale

The Tap Room (a Choose Your Romance Ending novel)

SpecificGravity

They chronicle the lives and loves of the 3 owners of the fictional Winter Street Brewing Company with a lot of heat, heart and humor—oh, and hops.

Check ‘em out. You won’t be disappointed.

If you’re in the Ann Arbor area, come by the Wolverine State Brewing Co. and ask for the Wench. But do NOT park in that damn bike shop lot, ok?

BIO:

Microbrewery owner, beer blogger and journalist, mom of three teenagers, and soccer fan, Liz lives in the great middle west, in a Major College Town. Years of experience in sales and fund raising, plus an eight-year stint as an ex-pat-trailing spouse, plus making her way in a world of men (i.e. the beer industry) has prepped her for life as erotic romance author. When she isn't sweating beer inventory, sales figures or promotional efforts for her latest publication, doing pounds of laundry for her sweaty athletic children, watching La Liga on the Fox Soccer Channel, or trying to figure out what to order in for dinner, she can be found walking her standard poodles or doing Bikram Yoga. Liz loves her Foo Fighters Pandora station, and watching reruns of Deadwood, when there isn't any decent European football on the telly. If you want a beer education follow her: www.a2beerwench.com. For writing related stuff, including her backlist, go to: www.brewingpassion.com.

Christmas is Coming…

2011-12-15T07:38:00.000-08:00

I know…duh. But, it’s coming, ready or not, this lovely, festive occasion meant to celebrate with family, friends, neighbors and even the occasional stranger. I love this time of year!

Not that you’d ever guess it though. I’m an utter Scrooge. I hate to decorate more than anything else in the world. My tree is a very sad Charlie Brown Christmas Tree that I bought on Amazon. It came in a box, my son assembled it, and it plays the Charlie Brown Christmas theme. Easy peasy for Ms. Scrooge. Plus, it makes a statement. Don’t ask me to decorate. It just ain’t gonna happen.

I don’t send out cards except to a few friends (usually with a gift card tucked inside, which was the excuse to send the card in the first place). My mother and husband’s parents do get special cards because I’d be a chump if I didn’t send them one. But you know, I think I’ve started a trend, because we don’t get many cards anymore, either. Or maybe it’s because we pissed everyone off and they struck us from their lists? Whatever.

I hate to shop. As in, there’s-not-a-snowball’s-chance-in-hell-you’ll-find-me-near-a-mall-in-December, hate it. I got a free month of Amazon Prime a month ago when I activated my new Kindlefire. I get free two-day shipping? I’m so there. The UPS guy and I are on a first-name basis now. I may even send him one of my rare Christmas cards, we’re that close. Option to renew for an annual Prime membership is tomorrow…I renewed it last week, just to be on the safe side that there’d be no interruption in service.

On the flip side…

I do adore Christmas music, doesn’t matter what kind, I’ve got it playing all day long. And Christmas-themed movies? Don’t get me started…the Hallmark and Lifetime channels are my best friends in December. It makes the men in my house want to barf. But I don’t care how cute or cliché these cinematic jewels are, I watch them. The 12 Men of Christmas is one of my favorites. Think Calendar Girls, but with men. Yay!

Cooking and baking are big deals for me. Lots of Christmas goodies in my house this month! It can be dangerous, but I did join a gym last week so that I can eat what I make, without so much guilt. I haven’t gone to said gym yet, but I’m hoping the damned monthly membership fee will tip the weight scale in my favor. I’m a big believer in miracles, even when undeserved.

No matter how you celebrate (or don’t celebrate) it. Try to have a happy holiday season. We call it Christmas in our house, but whatever holiday you celebrate, I hope it’s a joyous and safe time with all you hold dear!

Stressed Out!

2011-12-09T21:15:00.000-08:00

You know what? I usually try not to rant. I really do. But today? Y'all just have to deal with it, because here's the list:

laundry to fold (5 loads) and four more to wash. Has no one ever heard of nudist colonies?

Replace the bathroom tap so the water comes out at more than a trickle. If I can find the plumbing wrench. And if I can actually figure out how to do it.

Paint the girl's bedroom, which she had been promised would happen last Christmas...

Christmas tree to put up. Should be an enjoyable family activity. For crazy people, or the happy get along gang, maybe. Not for any normal family I've ever met.

House to decorate. Same as above.

Replace the front on the kitchen drawer someone slammed so hard (likely in a fit of rage. Possibly me) that it came off.

35K story to edit. I'm so seriously sick of this story I used to love it makes me want to cry.

And speaking of crying, a website to figure out why it's gone haywire, because the suckage that is a pathetic 0-4 hits a day my stats tell me I'm getting sure aren't sucking up much bandwidth! But my web host doesn't seem to care and I even offered to pay someone to help me with this and she gave me a pointer or two and pretty much told me to do it myself. Seriously. You people have no idea how much technology reaches down my throat and tries to strangle me with my own entrails. It hates me that much. I'm not exaggerating.

And instead of doing any of that fun stuff, I get to spend the weekend in the company of the most aggressively controlling and selfish person in my life. And help put up her Christmas tree. Huzzah.

Who wants to be me for a day or two? I'll trade ya! Do you clean fish guts for a living? Or hotel toilets where the rooms are to let by the hour? I'll do that. Muck raking? I could use the exercise, and probably the stress relief. Anything, just please someone make this all go away, just for a day.

Oh, and to top it off, I started reading First Watch by Peter...somebody. Sir, I'm so sorry I forget your last name. Let me just say, in the mood I'm in, I had to put the book down because of the potential for Dire Things seemingly about to happen to the protag, and I just couldn't stand it. I'll get back to it when I'm feeling a little more bullet proof and a little less like the proverbial ticking time bomb of hormonal insanity. Sorry. (Incidentally, that's good writing, if I actually care what's happening to the fictional guy so much I can't read the bad stuff unless I psyche myself up for it. Just sayin').

So yeah. Merry Christmas, everyone. I'll wander on back when I remember the whole love and joy part, promise. Look for me in mid February or so...

What do all of you do to get past this shit? There must be a trick I'm missing, because I'm a little....ranty.

Dear Reader:

2011-12-08T08:42:00.000-08:00

Stop telling me how to write my characters!

More specifically, how to describe them. Because I usually don't. In fact, in some stories, my characters don't even get names. This is not my fault. If they don't tell me what their names are, how can I tell you?

Sometimes, I have no real idea what they look like. Sometimes, I know perfectly what they look like, and I don't really want to know if my character is not what you envisioned when you read the story. (Well, a certain someone told me the main character in my latest WIP reminded her of Jude Law, until I finally got to his description, and then she was tossed out of the story on her ass, so, well, no. He's not Jude Law. Not even a little bit, and I will fix that my friend, ASAP!)

But if you think my character has long flowing locks of curly black hair and I describe him as having a a shaved head, well, no, annoying person, I am not wrong about my character. A person, especially a guy, who grows hair to his waist is a fundamentally different person than one who shaves his head. Think about that. Long hair, for a guy, is a trophy, a rebellion, a statement that no one owns you or your choices to step out of that gender box. Shaved hair is a symbol of all things military, and conforming. Not really the same type of person, my friend. (Just for fun, think about that same dynamics in a girl, and what the hair to the waist and the shaved head mean, and maybe it will make more sense.)

Dear, dear reader, I am not an idiot. Neither are you, of course, but maybe, read the book again, and imagine what might have to change about a guy who shaves his head to get him to grow it out to his waist. There might even be a really good story in that change, but do think about it, okay?

Also, another reason I don't describe my characters is this:

I watched this video, and OMG, I want to make a character that is this adorable, this sweet, and this happy. Well, until I break him , and then put him back together, that is, because, well, that's what I do. I mean, just watch the video. This kid just exudes joy all over the place. But if I commit to this particular configuration of physical characteristics in my head, what if I get it wrong in description? That's the time when I'll feel like I didn't succeed. (Like the Jude Law incident. Just...no. lol!)

So what do other writers do? I know some have very specific ideas of what their characters look like. Right down to having an actor/model/musician whatever representation to draw from in their descriptions. That just feels so...restricting to me. Are there any other writers like me out there who just, well, wing it? And what if, as a reader, that writer description isn't anything like what you imagine the characters to be? Do you just ignore the writer? (I do! lol!)

Wow. I read this over and the use of the word 'well' is shameful. This, readers, is what editors do for me. But. I decided to leave them, and do a little contest. Spur of the moment. I'll give away a few copies of and old story, "Muses's Vacation" (because the sub in this story is one of my more adorable characters, I think) to three people who play editor and tell me how many times I over-used the word 'well' in this post :D

Blurb: Patrick is pretty new to the idea of having a Dom. When Leo gets trapped in that endless cycle of word-lock, and the inspiration just doesn't come for his writer Dom, Patrick decides discretion is better than taking his needs and frustration to Leo and asking for what he wants. Leo is not pleased to find his sub trying to satisfy his own desires, but even giving Pat what he needs doesn't break through the block, and Patrick knows drastic measures are in order. He has to drag Leo half way around the world before the writer realizes it's time to put his muse, and his sub, in their places.

Apartment Living

2011-12-06T06:00:00.000-08:00

Please help us give L.J. LaBarthe a warm welcome.

When I first put fingers to keyboard for this post, I was going to rant about medical specialist waiting rooms. I feel I'm quite an aficionado of the waiting room, and so my rant was going to be about the bland decor, the muzak, the somnolent effect of the too-warm air-conditioning. And then I went outside of my apartment to put out my garbage and something happened to me that made me rethink my position on the waiting room rant.

I speak, dear friends, of the joys that are apartment block living.

I live in a small block of apartments. It's a great block, six apartments in total and our landlady is honestly the best landlady I have ever had. I've lived here ten years now, and I've had some wonderful times and some terrible, traumatic times here. I've also had some truly hilarious times, times that can only be summed up – and often are – by the phrase, "L.J., this would only happen to you!"

So, to return to the incident that decided me on changing the subject of my rant. As I said, I was outdoors, putting out my garbage. It was a Friday night, just after 10pm. I was, as most people who live in apartment blocks and go into communal areas, fully clothed. Okay, so maybe not in my silk evening gown and diamonds, but still. I was dressed. And this is important.

Anyway, as I had paused by my front door, one of my upstairs neighbours came bouncing down the stairs, also to put his garbage out. I made a face much like that of a stunned goldfish when he appeared, for lo, his state of dress was remarkably less than mine.

Never have I looked up at the sky so fast.

Now, I applaud him being comfortable in his own skin. All power to him. However, wandering around the communal areas of the apartment block, wearing naught but tighty whities and a t-shirt, with everything God gave you outlined by cotton fabric is, I think, taking it just a little bit too far. Especially as this isn't a nudist apartment block and the communal areas open out onto a fairly busy road.

This isn't the first out of the ordinary thing that I've experienced here. It is, perhaps, the only one involving exposed flesh, but in the aggregate, not even remotely peculiar. I love this apartment block – it gives me so many ideas for things to put in my books – as much as I get irritated at being kept awake so often! Which brings me to the next thing that is the bane of the apartment block resident. Noise late at night.

This same exposure friendly neighbour is also given to practising his guitar. Not a problem. Except that he decides it's going to happen at midnight or later and I tend to like my sleep. I feel like the crazy cat lady who bangs on the ceiling with a broom, squawking "SHUT UP!"

If it's not him, then it's his neighbours, who are a young couple and very lovely people. I was reading in bed one night a few months ago, something that's pretty regular for me, and I heard a strange sound above my head.

"What are they doing?" I asked my cat. The cat, alas, had no answer. So I strained to listen harder, and was utterly confused – it sounded as if my upstairs neighbours were sawing planks of wood. Who saws planks of wood at 11pm? Or, in fact, in their inner suburban apartment at all?

It wasn't until I heard the screams of passion, that I realised there was an entirely different kind of wood involved and suddenly decided that listening to my iPod would be a much better choice of soundtrack to my book.

My bedroom wall is a shared wall with next door's living room, and my ceiling is the floor of Confidently Exposing Himself To All And Sundry neighbour. I'd always thought these walls were pretty thick, but they aren't as thick as I thought they were. So, the Lumberjack Couple, every time that tell-tale sawing planks noise starts up, make me reach for my iPod. I sometimes wonder who else in the block can hear them, but it's not the sort of thing you bring up in the polite small talk with the rest of the neighbours. I don't have the courage, really, to say, "So, just wondering, can you hear our upstairs neighbours bonking at all hours? No? Just me then, righto." I'm blunt, but not that blunt!

Strangely enough, my living room wall is shared by a stair well and the communal laundry, wherein our landlady kindly provides us with a washing machine and dryer. This side of the apartment is much less noisy than my bedroom side. I sometimes wonder how that works, given that a washing machine isn't a very quiet appliance, and it's an industrial one designed for big loads and frequent use. Plus, the stairs are made of steel, so sometimes people going up and down them, depending on their shoes, sounds like a herd of galloping elephants. Still quieter than my bedroom!

I've had some scary experiences here, too. Several years ago, there was a gang war in the communal drive way, by the carport. I never got the full story, and I think I'm quite glad of that, but the upshot was that the police were called, our local version of CSI were here and it was, essentially, my own live action police drama in the front of the apartments.

Because I need to share these things, and it wasn't too late in the evening, I picked up my phone and called my friend Min and sat, whispering to her a running commentary of everything that was going on, while sitting in the dark. I peered through a crack in the door, because I didn't want to be seen, and Min laughed and laughed in between my statements of, "Oh my god, someone's running away from the cops!" and "Oh my god, CSI are here!"

Apartment living is never dull! But oh, sometimes I wish it was. If only because I really, really like my sleep.

Oh, and Dude Who Parks His Tractor In The Front Yard, I have one question for you. Just one.

That question is this. WHY?!

***

L. J. LaBarthe is a South Australian woman living in the city of Adelaide with her cat, Castiel, in an apartment block that provides endless entertainment. She writes to get the bunnies out of her head, and can be found at her website or her blog or her twitter @brbsiberia. Her latest release is the Christmas themed novella set in Darwin, Australia, called Long Road Back, and is available here at Dreamspinner Press. Her full length novel, No Quarter, about Archangels in love, will be available in the first quarter of 2012, also with Dreamspinner Press.

Excerpt:

Yoo Lee Shin had great hopes for his new life studying engineering in Australia, but nothing could have prepared him for the wonder of falling in love. His roommate’s brother, Craig, is beautiful, kind, and brave—and, very shortly after they meet, he’s deployed. As Christmas nears, can Shin keep hope for a happy ending bright enough to guide Craig to him on the long road back?

In a Writer's Mind

2011-11-29T06:00:00.000-08:00

Not to sound too much like a needy, whiny ingrate in need of therapy, but my kids don't understand me. They have no idea why I'm so tired by the end of the day, since I "don't anything all day" while they're at school. I try to explain what I do all day, but about four words in, their eyes glaze over and they stop paying attention--these are the same children who beg me to come to school on Career Day to talk to their class about life as a writer (well, the younger child does; the older one cringes at the thought of my even acknowledging my relation to her, much less having me talk about writing romance books!). If you're a mom (or a dad), you can probably relate to this (even if you don't write romance). I don't know about your schedule, but mine looks something like this:

6:50: Crap, the alarm went off again! Try to make retain some nuggets from the dream that might turn itself into a good story. Get up, stagger downstairs to make breakfast and lunch for Grumpy Child #1. Convince GC#1 that yes, she has to go to school, no, I can't drive her, and yes, she has to let me give her a hug goodbye (in the privacy of my kitchen away from sight of anyone that might see) and that she has to also say goodbye to her father and sister. In between staggering and hugging, provide fashion advice when asked, but duck when she dislikes what I say.

7:15: Somehow manage to say goodbye to Grumpy Child #1 and good morning to Slightly Less Grumpy Child #2. Make breakfast and lunch for SLGC#2, convince her that yes, she has to go to school, no, she can't watch TV or play on the iPad until she's dressed, packed and ready for school. Get dressed while de-itchifying SLGC #2's clothes, convincing her that yes, these are the same clothes she was dying to have me buy at the store and fix her hair after she declares she hates it. Fantasize about "perfect life" of story characters.

8:00: Walk SLGC#2 to the bus, with the dog. Hug and kiss child, while trying not to feel badly that the dog gets a bigger farewell than I do. Plan revenge scene for next book.

8:07: Meet dog's boyfriend for a walk around the lake. Watch as dog's boyfriend tries to stick my dog's head in his mouth and pray it doesn't swallow. Race around lake in attempt to keep up with dog's boyfriend's owner, whose legs are much longer than mine. Refuse to climb hills. Hope the adrenaline will translate into really good writing.

9:15-3:00: Attempt to do multiple errands (while dodging endless construction and following detours created by city planners on crack), Bat Mitzvah planning, school volunteering, Temple volunteering, laundry, housecleaning. Oh, and find time to write. Preferably the sex scenes that are impossible to do with the children around. Market books, write blogs, respond to others' blogs so that they'll read mine. Realize that about half of what needs to get done today will not actually get done today. Add to tomorrow's list (which won't get done either).

3:00: Grumpy Child #1 returns from school, transformed into Moody Child #1. Attempt to keep up with mood swings while listening to her day, feeding her a snack and getting her organized for homework. Realize this is why I don't write YA.

3:20: Slightly Less Grumpy Child #2 returns from school. Not really transformed. Oy. But very hyper. Attempt to follow her around the house without getting motion sick while feeding her a snack, listening to her day and convincing her that homework must get done before TV, iPad or anything else.

4:00-7:00 (on most days): Shuttle any number of children to after school activities, while making sure those who are at home (if any) do homework. Try, unsuccessfully, to get left-at-home child to walk the dog (only to be told they have homework to do). Sigh as phone rings and talk to people who, by all that is holy, should know better than to call during these three hours of chaos. Hang up on telemarketers who have managed to avoid the Do Not Call List. Attempt to make dinner, amid calls of "Ew, I don't want that!"

7:00-9:30: Eat dinner while trying to maintain enough brain power to follow and engage in conversations with children and husband. Try not to explode when kids ask why I'm so tired. Deep breathing exercises during requests to stay up late, watch TV, not shower or skip remainder of homework, music practice or Bat Mitzvah practice (Lamaze comes in handy here).

9:30-11:00: Try to stay awake long enough to talk to husband, watch TV and find some semblance of self before crashing into bed and repeating the process the next day.

Someday, my children are going to find someone to marry and have kids of their own. I'm going to show them this schedule and ask what THEY do all day! And then I'm going to write a book and dedicate it to them, my inspiration. ;)

Blurb

The last thing Valerie needs, after escaping an abusive marriage to an alcoholic and rebuilding her life, is a broody, secretive, standoffish man. But that's exactly what she gets when she becomes a makeup artist on the set of a hit sitcom and draws the attention of the series' star.

John Samuels hides a terrible past--a life of abuse and neglect. A successful acting career and the affection and support of cast, crew and friends, does nothing to convince him that he is anything other than an unlovable monster.

Will he learn that the life he's been living has been built on a lie or will he be doomed to repeat the sins of his father?

Excerpt:

The square, plastic bottle crashed to the floor, the white cap skittered under a cabinet, and bisque-colored foundation splattered across the tile floor, where it made a Rorschach pattern within the large white squares. With a groan and a roll of her eyes, Valerie searched under the makeup table, found the errant cap, replaced it on the bottle, and returned the foundation to the tray. She grabbed a damp rag and wiped up the mess.

She looked at the shooting schedule and smiled as she ran her fingers down the smooth laminated page. Only three weeks into this job, she loved working as assistant make-up artist on "Oddballs," a Top-10 weekly TV sitcom. She double-checked her kit for the supplies she'd need that day. So engrossed in her work, she didn't notice her boss' purple-spiked head in the door of the make-up trailer, or the ever-present smell of hair gel that hovered around her, until Michelle called her name.

"Hey, Valerie, a bunch of us are going out after work. Wanna come?"

Flashes from her past competed with images from the present at the sudden voice and Valerie stiffened. She shook her head to clear the jumble of images.

"Where are you going?" She wiped the remains of the foundation on the short cotton apron over her turquoise shirt and faded denim jeans. Eyes closed, she inhaled. The thick weave of rough fabric scraped her fingers and anchored her in the present, despite her body's momentary lapse.

"Tico's for some drinks. There's about eight of us going. It'll be fun and you can meet some of the crew."

Valerie's hands shook and knocked into the plastic bottles on the tray. They clinked together as the tubes slid into the scissors and destroyed their recent orderliness. She kept her face down, eyes averted, as her cheeks heated and her palms became sweaty. She had dreaded this moment. If they'd been going anywhere but a bar, she'd have joined them, but she couldn't bring herself to go there. So, she had to perform a delicate bal-acing act. Somehow, she had to refuse this invitation, but leave open the possibility for others. Despite their different personal styles, she and Michelle had formed an instant bond. The last thing she wanted was to hurt their new friendship.

"I can't tonight. Thanks for asking though. Maybe another time." She took a deep breath and pasted on a smile.

"Hot date?" Michelle raised a perfectly plucked black eyebrow and grinned. Valerie grinned back. "Just with my laundry."

"You're turning me down for laundry? Come on, you can do that tomorrow."

Valerie shook her head. "I really can't tonight, Michelle. Next time."

Michelle muttered under her breath as she left. Valerie sighed as the door banged shut and left her alone with her memories.

* * * *

That night, after all the scenes had been shot, Valerie waited for everyone to leave. She didn't want to answer questions or receive pity.

She arranged and rearranged drawers and tools. The trailer contained three stations, each with its own make-up chair. A long table ran down one wall, with plenty of drawers for storage space. Well-lit mirrors hung above the table. Un-able to find anything else to do, and convinced by the silence that everyone had to have left, she took out her keys to lock up. She jumped as a knock sounded at the door, the trailer rattled, and a head peeked in.

"Valerie?"

"Oh, hi, John." She expelled a deep breath and willed her heart to slow its frantic beat. "Do you need something?"

"No." He entered and stood by the door. John Samuels played the lead. At almost six-foot three, he dwarfed the trailer and had to tip his head to fit. He folded his muscular arms across his chest and spread his feet apart. "Michelle told me you were not joining us tonight. I thought I would see if I could change your mind."

Valerie rolled her eyes. "She is persistent."

"You noticed." John's dark eyes twinkled. His mouth widened with a ghost of a smile. Valerie tried not to gasp.

He reminded her of a rugged cowboy--broad-shouldered, with a prominent brow, dark piercing eyes, high cheekbones, and a cleft chin. When he smiled, even a slight trace of one, his eyes looked like liquid velvet and his dimples twinkled like stars in the night sky. A five-o'clock shadow covered his cheeks. Her fingers itched to brush against their rough texture, to tease his mouth into a full-blown grin.

"So, what can I say to make you join us?"

As he leaned against the wall in well-fitting jeans and a T-shirt that left nothing to the imagination, Valerie's mind said, "Sleep with me." Heat crept up her neck, over her cheeks, and continued to the roots of her hair. A thin sheen of sweat dampened the space between her breasts. She felt the sudden urge to fan herself, like a damsel in distress in an old B-movie. Instead, she ignored her traitorous thoughts. Her balled fist pressed into her tight stomach.

"Tonight, not even chocolate will change my mind."

She didn't exactly lie. She had no intention of going to the bar, or of sleeping with him, no matter how her thoughts might try to sabotage her good intentions. She'd been fooled by surface finery before, and it had almost killed her. She wouldn't let it happen again.

"I will remember that," he promised. "But next time you will not get off so easy." His eyes bored into hers for a moment, and then he turned on his heel and left.

* * * *

True to his word, John arrived the following day pre-pared for battle. With a cursory knock on the door, he dangled a bag of M&Ms inside the trailer, but snatched it back be-fore she could grab them. "We are going out for pizza. I will pick you up in ten minutes." Before she could answer, he walked out.

Valerie shrugged as she finished her work. The new Val-eerie never allowed other people to make decisions for her, but she'd practically handed John a permission slip. And, he had M&M's. How could she refuse?

Ten minutes later, he returned, ushered her out the door and down the steps. Although he didn't touch her, she could imagine the warmth of his hand on the small of her back, and feel the gentle puff of his breath against her hair. The angle of his body steered her toward the others in the parking lot as if he had taken her by the hand and dragged her with him. An invisible electric charge pulled her. Or maybe it was his Dial-soap scent. That scent--soap and man--made her stomach flip flop. Her uncontrollable reaction to him disturbed her, especially since he appeared unaffected.

He remained silent, strode toward their meeting place, and studied his surroundings as if he expected someone to pop out of the shadows and yell, "Boo!"

Then she saw the brown bag of M&Ms sticking out of his white shirt pocket. Before he could stop her, she reached around and grabbed them, opened the bag and popped three in her mouth.

"Hey, those are mine!" He reached for the bag, but not fast enough to retrieve them.

"Not anymore." As she danced away from him, she stuck another handful in her mouth.

He brought his hand up to his heart, as if she had wounded him deeply, but the twinkle in his eye gave him away. Valerie had all she could do not to burst out laughing.

"You did not have to take them, you know. I was plan-nine to give them to you later." He pouted and his dark hair fell across his brow, but not before Valerie saw a flash of a smile turn the corners of his mouth up.

"Oh really? When?"

"After dinner, of course. I would not want to spoil your appetite."

As if that were possible. Valerie laughed again and John grunted, a deep hoarse sound that climbed from the pit of his stomach and thrust its way out his mouth.

"What's so funny?" Lara, from editing, asked as they joined the group of friends clustered outside the lot. All other conversation stopped as everyone waited for the answer.

John looked at Valerie and his ghost of a smile disappeared. He remained silent and backed up a pace, as if need-in to put distance between them now that there were others around. Lara rolled her eyes and walked on ahead as Valerie bent over and massaged the stitch in her side. She watched his feet walk away from her, listened to the crunch of gravel be-Neath his shoes as the warm, funny man disappeared.

"What, no laundry tonight?" taunted Michelle when Val-eerie looked up. She smirked and headed down the street with the rest of them as she stared at the broad expanse of John's back up ahead and wondered about John's sudden coldness. The connection she'd started to feel between them disappeared. He walked a pace or two in front of her, his back stiff, his arms held at his sides. With a shrug, she joined in the conversation around her and put John's odd behavior out of her mind.

Three blocks later, they approached a dark, noisy pub. Valerie's stomach clenched as the door opened and the smell of beer floated outside. Spots floated in front of her eyes and for a moment, she thought she would faint. Her throat con-stricter and she paused as she clamped her mouth shut against the bile that rose in her throat. She leaned against the cool brick wall and willed herself to breathe, even as the rough surface dug into her back. Her gaze darted down the crowded street, but before she had the chance to flee, John towered behind her.

"Don't back out on me now," he whispered. "I already gave you the M&Ms." His warm breath blew against her shoulder and she took a jagged breath.

She turned, grateful for the distraction, and stared at his massive chest. Rock-hard muscles confronted her beneath his black T-shirt and for a moment, the clink of glasses on the bar and the grainy smell of beer faded away. All she could see was his immense body; all she could smell was his fresh, soapy scent; all she could feel was his solid chest in her imagination. Imagination wasn't enough.

She lifted a trembling hand to touch him and he backed up just out of her reach. Blue eyes met gray and held for a moment. She swallowed, the gulp audible, and the spell broke. The sights, sounds, and smells rushed back to her. She ran her tongue across her lips, tasted the waxy flavor of her lipstick, and closed her eyes as she swayed.

John frowned and placed himself between her and the crowd at the bar. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him nod to one or two people who smiled in recognition, but he remained at her side. Together, they walked across the sticky floor and past the loud band up front to their table in the back. He pulled out her chair and sat next to her, and she released a pent-up breath. She felt safe with him close to her. It's not a bar, she told herself. It's a restaurant that happens to serve drinks. She'd be fine.

John turned to her and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He clasped his large hands together and looked into her eyes. He held her gaze and as she stared into his thunder-head-colored eyes, she relaxed. "So, how do you like things so far, Valerie?"

"Here?"

"Well, I actually meant at work, but here too."

Valerie blushed as she tried to focus on his words. "Oh, well, I love working on the show. I was a huge fan before I got the job, so it's amazing to be a part of it now." I sound like a babbling idiot.

John smiled. "What may I order for you?" He flagged down a big-bosomed, tight-shirted waitress with bright orange fingernails. She walked over, pen and pad ready. Every-one ordered beers. Valerie ordered a diet soda.

"Not ready to let loose yet, huh, Valerie?" asked Miguel, one of the crew, with a soft chuckle. Valerie smiled, but her cheeks felt as if they would crack and she looked away. John caught her eye and smiled at her. His unexpected warmth re-assured her almost as much as an arm around her shoulders.

She sat back and listened to the conversation at the table. All around her were people from work--Harry, the first AD; Ken, from production; Lara, and Tony, from wardrobe. Tina and Jeremy, John's costars, had joined them as well. She crossed her fingers and joined in.

The waitress returned with their drinks and took their orders. Her ballpoint pen scratched across her pad as each person ordered a personal pizza, but changed the sauce, type of crust, and combination of toppings.

When the waitress turned to her, Valerie ordered a mushroom pie and a house salad.

The waitress paused, expectantly. As the silence continued, she raised an overly tweezed eyebrow.

"Is that it?"

"Yes," Valerie answered.

"Are you sure?"

Valerie furrowed her brow. "Of course." With a shake of her head, the waitress turned to John. She asked for his autograph and after he scrawled his name across a napkin, gave her his order, also simple but large--two personal pepperoni pizzas. During the course of the evening, John kept an eye on Valerie, made sure her drink never ran out, and that she par-tic pated in the conversation. When talk turned to something unfamiliar, he filled her in.

When they finally left, the muggy night air wrapped around Valerie like a cocoon and muffled the smells and sounds from inside. She stretched her spine and threw her shoulders back as she inhaled deeply for the first time all evening. John fell into step next to her and offered to walk her back to her car.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" she asked, as they crossed the street.

"No one should walk by themselves at night."

"Thanks, that's really nice of you." Although they walked next to each other, John left plenty of space between them. In spite of that, his size made her feel smaller than her five foot six frame. He didn't intimidate her, and she peered sideways at him as she considered her lack of fear. Maybe because of the physical distance he maintained around her--he couldn't hurt her if he were far away--or maybe his manners and the careful way he spoke put her at ease. Whatever the reason, she felt as comfortable walking with him as she would have with Michelle.

"Here's my car." She pointed to a blue Honda Civic parked under a lamp. "Thanks again for walking me out."

"See you tomorrow." He waited, hands deep in his pockets, feet spread apart, while she started the engine. He watched her wave and pull away. Something about her intrigued him--more than just her mysterious nerves or her simple pizza order, although those things contributed to it. She didn't behave like the typical LA actor crowd who usually surrounded him. Her vulnerability aroused his protective nature. Not that she'd asked for his protection. She'd never ask him to take care of her, no one would. But still...

Bio:

When I was a little girl and couldn't fall asleep, my mother would tell me to make up a story. Pretty soon, my head was filled with these stories and the characters that populated them. Each character had a specific personality, a list of likes and dislikes, and sometimes, even a specific accent or dialect. Even as an adult, I think about the characters and stories at night before I fall asleep, or in the car on my way to or from one of my daughters' numerous activities (hey, anything that will drown out their music is a good thing).

One day, I started writing them down (it was either that or checking into the local mental hospital--the computer was way less scary) and five years later, I've gotten two book contracts from Whiskey Creek Press. A Heart of Little Faith came out in June; Skin Deep is coming out in November.

In the real world, I'm the mother of two amazing daughters and wife of one of the smartest men I know. I enjoy spending time with my family and friends, reading, traveling and watching TV. In between chauffeuring my daughters to after-school activities that require an Excel spreadsheet to be kept straight, I serve on our Temple Board, train the dog we adopted from a local shelter, and cook dinners that fit the needs of four very different appetites. I also write freelance articles for magazines, newspapers, and edit newsletters.

When all of that gets overwhelming, I retreat to my computer, where I write stories that let me escape from reality. In my made-up world, the heroines are always smart, sassy and independent. The heroes are handsome and strong with just a touch of vulnerability. If I don't like a character, I can delete him or her; if something doesn't work, I can rewrite it. It's very satisfying to be in control of at least one part of my life. My inspiration comes from watching the people around me and fantasizing about how I'd do things differently.

I can be reached at www.jenniferwilck.com or http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jennifer-Wilck/201342863240160. My blog (Fried Oreos) is jenniferwilck.wordpress.com and I contribute to Heroines With Hearts at heroineswithhearts.blogspot.com. My books can be purchased through Whiskey Creek Press www.whiskeycreekpress.com or via Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

The Too Big, The Too Little, and the "Aahh" Just Right

2011-11-28T06:00:00.000-08:00

The other day, I ran across a link to a blog on Twitter about the average size of penises around the world. (I don't remember the blog nor the person who tweeted it, but I found the map again.) I had to check it out because, well, this could only be amusing, right? And it is. There are some places where I might avoid having intercourse with a native. Er, or, armed with this information, I would choose not to were I single. I am not, so I don't have to worry about making that decision. (g) That being said, this is rather enlightening and kind of funny.

Before you go off half-cocked (pun intended), remember when you are looking at the color chart it is in centimeters, not inches. Were it inches, I'd never visit some of those places without wearing a chastity belt, 'cause that thing isn't getting anywhere near me. (g)

Americans are closer to the smaller end of the spectrum. Lowering, but logical. I mean, we have a lot of immigrants from all over the world, right? (g) That's bound to bring the average size down...maybe. If it makes the men feel better, we can say that. Some claim dicks are shorter after circumcision. That is possible. (g)

The Asians (as in continent, including India) have the smallest. (South Korea "weighing" in at 3.8".) The largest? You can find that out for yourself. (g)

In case you missed it, here is the link again: http://www.targetmap.com/viewer.aspx?reportId=3073

When I first saw this compilation, I was a bit surprised. I don't know why. I mean, men are so fascinated with all things penis and a bit fixated on the size of their penises, that it's not that surprising there have been numerous studies conducted all over the world and someone then took the time to compile all of that information to create this map for our entertainment, er, edification. You have to wonder how many penises were measured to get what they considered enough to term "average." I could probably dig deeper to find out, but do I care that much? No.(g) If you do, please do the research and let us know. (g)

To be fair, some of the data is old, so it's possible the average sizes have changed (up or down). It also doesn't state whether this is at attention or flaccid. (If it's flaccid, God help those women in the 8" areas. Eep!) Or if measured during the summer or winter, as temperature certainly affects size.

Now, this got me to wondering if any studies had been done to find out about the average depth of a woman's pleasure palace. This would be a bit more difficult to do, as we are innies instead of outies, and I don't know very many women who'd agree to having a ruler stuck up there, myself included. (g) Not surprisingly, I couldn't find one, but I did find something else. What could it be? Hm... what else are men fascinated with? Women's breasts. (I have had men tell me that if they had breasts, they would play with them all day. O.o It's a good thing women have them then, isn't it. g) Apparently, American women fare better than their male counterparts when it comes to size. The average cup size is D. I, obviously, was skipped and am part of the group that keeps the US from having the largest breast size. (g)

For the entire "study" on breast size around the world, here's the link: http://www.geekologie.com/image.php?path=/2011/03/25/breast-map-full.jpg

I wonder how many women don't wear bras at all because they can't find any that fit. Now, that would be a useful study.

Now that I have armed you with this information, are there any countries you might consider visiting more or less? Or does it make a difference? If you do visit the country, will you be staring at the men's crotch wondering if their package is average?

I will refrain from asking you which "country" appeals to you the most, as that is private information. However, you can certainly decide which one would be the best "fit" for you without sharing. (g) I know I have. (g)

Addendum: Apparently, there are studies out there about the average depth of a woman's vagina, but there is none as not only do they vary from woman to woman, but also the size changes with experience and other factors. So, as is typical for women, it's much more complicated than measure a man's penis.

Thanksgiving with a Twist

2011-11-23T20:51:00.000-08:00

by Valerie Mann

I'll admit it...I'm always looking for the funny and romantic in my day-to-day dealings, because I write romantic fiction and need fodder for Ms. Muse. I also edit erotic romance and let me tell you, some of the stuff I edit curls my hair, right along with my toes. I found out just how much I've learned about the erotic world we live in when I recently had to edumacate my niece on the difference between menage and polyamory relationships. I don't think she understood the distinction, nor did she truly care since she's expecting a proposal and a big, fat diamond very soon from a super-hunky former Marine. Sharing him with anyone else is so not on her radar. But I digress...
Today is Thanksgiving here in the United States. For you readers not of the US American persuasion, Thanksgiving is a holiday where we use history as an excuse for gluttony in its many forms...food, sports and shopping. Turkey being the main food ingredient, American football the sport ingredient and Best Buy (at least for me) being the shopping ingredient. Add salt and pepper to taste. M-m-m good.
So...I'd like to bring some humor into our Thanksgiving tradition, putting an erotic twist on the translation. Hopefully, these pictures will give you a lift and keep the stress away. Or maybe this blog will help the turkey and stuffing put you into a cozy stupor for a much-needed rest before you hit the stores on Black Friday.

See you at Best Buy!

~A BDSM Thanksgiving Dinner~
Bondage style

~GLBT Thanksgiving Romance ~
Tom Turkey crushes on Peter Pilgrim

~Sci-Fi Thanksgiving Romance~
Alien Poultry

~A Rubenesque Thanksgiving Romance~

~Military Thanksgiving Romance~
(featuring Captain Tom Turkey )

~An Interracial Thanksgiving Romance~

Have a wonderful, Romantic Thanksgiving Day,
no matter how you choose to celebrate it!

Racing the Clock...& the Holiday!

2011-11-22T10:54:00.000-08:00

This is my week to blog, but I have a big deadline looming in a few short days and I'm hosting Thanksgiving in my home for up to twelve people. The hubby is baking the turkey, but I have the rest of the dinner to plan/make and I still have to meet that deadline and clean the house.

One of the other 4SW might post this week, so please stop back.

Until next I snark, quip, or rant here, I leave you a cute cartoon and an easy contest for the avid reader.

I wish everyone who observes the U.S. Thanksgiving a beautiful holiday and many blessings!

Contest: http://faithbicknell.com/?p=130

When Cougars Attack: Acknowledging & Adapting to Limits

2011-11-17T03:01:00.000-08:00

Hi all, please allow me to introduce myself before I get too far into this. I’m Becca Dale, and I write and edit steamy to erotic romance. My children (22 and almost 21) are aware Mom writes romance, but they are blissfully ignorant of the heat level as they have no interest in the genre, which is fine by me. I really don’t want them to know the things that flirt, bump, or grind through their mother’s mind. However, they seem to have no problem sharing things with me. Which brings me to today’s topic. I have read some pretty hot cougar romances and have even written one; however, a recent conversation with my son has brought a question to mind: are erotic authors creating fantasies that real women should be cautious in fulfilling?

I’m all for fun in whatever package it arrives. As long as it is consensual, go for it. However, at twenty-two my son, an attractive, dark-haired man with a preference for dress clothes over jeans, tends to attract older women. Now, by this I do not mean those five to fifteen years his senior, though he gets attention from them, as well. I mean double to triple his age. Last Saturday he was hit on by five different women ranging in age from mid forties to early eighties. I tried to tell him they just thought he was cute—like a son or grandson—until he shared the things they said.

Nope—no motherly or grandmotherly feelings there.

The poor kid was at a loss on how to react. He has always been taught to be respectful of his elders, but what should he say when someone his mother’s age offers to teach him things he has only imagined? Or a woman older than his nana asks if he’d like her to demonstrate how flexible she still is? He was downtown with several other young people, so not quite sure how he wound up talking to these women, but his friends’ explicit ribbing confirmed he had not imagined the situation after a few too many beers.

Despite how heartwarming it was to hear he had been polite and sweet and even a little flirty to save their feelings, images I did not want flooded my head and made me generally concerned for these women. What if he had taken them up on the deal? So here is a chart on how to address and adjust to very real issues for anyone engaging in a cougarish situation with a young man barely over the age of majority.

Age	Acknowledge	Adapt

40's	You do not want to be pregnant and afraid.	Buy condoms in bulk. Recovery time may be shorter than you remember.
50's	Massage Therapy is expensive.	Stretch well before playing.
60's	Your granddaughter may have dated the target.	Consider hunting in a different state or country - I hear Frenchmen are Fabulous!
70's	Your knees may not hold out.	Avoid Doggie Style.
80's	Certain positions could break a hip.	DO NOT - under any circumstances - allow the kitten to throw your legs over his shoulders.

Remember, Medicare is not designed to pay for sexual injuries, ladies, so approach kittens with caution. However, if you Acknowledge your potential limitations and Adapt accordingly, you should be fine. On a more personal note, if you succeed in seducing my son, I don’t want to know about it.

Born and raised in rural South Dakota, Becca Dale represents the girl next door personified. The open prairies and quiet, pine-covered hills of the Upper Midwest feed her creativity and keep her work grounded in reality while the stoic can-do attitude and twisted sarcasm of her family and friends provide endless inspiration. A farmer’s daughter, an engineer’s wife, and a high school teacher, she brings a hint of the common woman to her writing. Although her characters, especially the paranormal ones, sometimes reflect the ordinary on steroids, there remains a sense of reality.

As a multi-published author Becca strives to walk the line of romantic erotica—venturing into the wild while never forgetting that the main focus should always be love. Her work has received top reviews world wide, and she loves to hear from fans and critics alike. Contact her on Facebook or Twitter or visit her blog at http://beccadale.blogspot.com

Dating….The Second Time Around

2011-11-16T03:01:00.000-08:00

My name is Katie Harper and I am a widow. My husband died almost five years ago on Christmas Day when I was twenty seven. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Feel bad for me. Are you done? No. Well get over it!! I have. After almost five years of having only a pillow to sleep with, I have decided to venture into the treacherous waters of dating. I hated dating before I got married. Now, I’d like to kill it, roast it, and serve it for Sunday dinner.

I’m not big on going to a bar and trolling for a date. You have to like, take a shower and get dressed and act like you’re interested in Mr. Dirty Martini’s night elf druid World of Warcraft avatar. So I joined an online dating site. You can date in your pajamas! And if you don’t like someone you can just not respond to their “flirt”. There is no pressure! But, there’s a downside to the whole online dating thing. People are comfortable hiding behind their computer, eating Cheet-os in their underwear. A little too comfortable. A guy who, in a traditional dating scenario, wouldn’t have the balls to hold your hand on the first date, is totally OK whipping out his wenis to give you a taste of what’s to come. How do you not laugh when that happens? I laughed. I pointed and laughed. We haven’t chatted since. Oh well, trust me, it was no big loss.

You also have to be very careful of what you believe on these sites. According to most of the profiles I’ve read, the world is populated with men who are 6’4”, 220 lbs, well built, active billionaires who have gotten tired of the endless parade of women running through their bed and are really looking for that one woman they can take to Paris for a romantic dinner. They like to spend their time taking care of the elderly and desperately want a family. They are independently wealthy and need someone to travel the world with.

Let me translate this profile for you: Mr. Right is 6’4” when he straps on his six inch heels. He’s 220 well-built pounds of spare tire and man boobs. He actively plays multiple online, role-playing games where he is the well-respected billionaire prince of his very own kingdom. The parade of women running through his bed are all stashed under his mattress. Their names are Miss January, Miss February, Miss March, etc. He likes French cuisine--French fries and French toast are staples in his diet. He lives in his elderly mother’s basement and only wants children so he’ll have someone to hand his mint condition Star Wars action figure collection down to. “Independently wealthy” is code for “hasn’t worked in four years, but makes enough money to support his Little Debbie habit by mowing his neighbor’s lawn”. And yes, he is looking for someone to travel the world with. He just needs someone to pay for his ticket in to every Comicon on the planet. And just in case his profile didn’t entice you, he whips out his junk live via webcam.

Another pitfall of the online dating world is that you can say things in an email or chat that you’d never say in real life. The guy who has a hard time asking you if he can kiss you good night on a real date is the same guy who’s telling you he’d like to tie you up and eat Jell-O salad off your stomach in a chat. He’d never ask you to wear a maid’s costume on that ever important third date, but on your second chat he’s asking you to lick chocolate syrup off your breasts and describe the sensations of your “tongue on your fun bags” (direct quote). And when you say hell to the no, they act like you’re the prude. It’s not that you have dignity or are just not comfortable sending something out into the electronic universe that might embarrass you at a future parent teacher conference. In their opinion, you’re sexually repressed and they have been sent to you by the fates to pry open your chastity belt. And to prove it, they whip out their manhood.

Dating sucks. It sucks hard. And dating online seems to be the hardest. Maybe I’m not looking at this in the right light. Maybe I need to change my view of dating and my view of myself. Maybe I need to “embellish” my profile. “Former Victoria’s Secret super model looking for love. I am 5’10”, 110 lbs, 38-26-36, long blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, and flawless skin. I enjoy spending my Saturdays in front of the TV cheering on your favorite team. I like to clean and I hold a degree from the Culinary Institute of America. I enjoy long nights playing Halo with your friends and my greatest wish in life is to attend a Stars Wars convention dressed in Princes Leia’s bronze bikini. I look forward to meeting you. ;)” That little wink at the end is to tell everyone my profile is complete bullshit. Do you think it will help?

Katie Harper started writing when two people showed up in her head and wouldn't leave until she told their story. They had a party. Invited a few friends over. Now she spends her days doing the bidding of imaginary people. She lives in a city made for sin on the edge of a desert with her daughter, no pets, and enough lemon bundt cake to feed a refuge camp.

http://katieharperwrites.blogspot.com/

Happy Birthday to me...

2011-11-14T03:01:00.000-08:00

My birthday is this week.

I will be forty-nine years old.

A couple of years ago (okay, about 40 years ago), having birthdays was fun, and I looked forward to them with great anticipation and planning. My mom always made a big fuss, including letting me have a party with all of my besties and even a few girls I didn’t like, but who always brought cool presents. Plus—make that a BIG plus when it came to holidays, anyway—my mother had remarried. I had nine grandparents as a result, between grandparents, great-grandparents, step-grandparents and great-grandparents. Holy crap, it was a veritable gift bonanza! Why wouldn’t I relish celebrating my birth??

Nine years young and dig that cool Barbie cake.

Now, I’m staring another November 16^th in the face and wondering where the hell the years went and how the hell did I get on the way wrong effing side of forty-five? Seriously, that’s freaking old. At least that’s what my kids think. I’m a mother of five and everyone keeps telling me kids will keep you young.

Liars.

Time has continued to march on, and will continue to do so. Result? My right knee hurts and the left one is considering joining the Arthur club. I think about my bowels more (TMI? Sorry). I have chin whiskers, or as one of my author friends calls them, chin pubes. I have decided chiropractors are necessary, instead of the snake oil salesmen my college anatomy and physiology professor warned us of. I don’t have many gray hairs (at least not where you can see them. ‘Nuff said). Classic rock is now 80s music. So what does that make 70s rock? Oldies, but goodies? OMG, just shoot me now. But wait! There's more...

I got an invitation to join AARP.

Holy. Shit.

No, I really DON'T want to join, thanks, though.

But moving on and finding the silver (albeit tarnished) lining to this old cloud?

*I can shave my legs. Or not. My choice.

*I never get asked for ID anymore. Ever. Take that for what it’s worth.

*I can claim forgetfulness. And people believe me.

*When I’m too hot, I can blame it on menopause. And people believe me.

*When I’m a bitch, I can blame it on menopause. And people really believe me.

*I am wiser. I really am. And I’m less judgmental and think that no matter who you are or what you believe in (well, almost anything), I don’t really care as long as you’re a good person and follow the golden rule.

*I can do what I want to do now, with less fear of what others think. I want to cut my day job hours and make half of what I was making so I can follow my dream and work in the publishing business? Go, me.

*I write erotic romance, but others think I write porn? Whatever. They’re just ignorant idiots. (Hey, I said I’m wiser and less judgmental…but I can still have opinions!)

Yes, with age come changes. But most of them are good ones, once I wrap my brain around them (except that damned AARP thing). I like myself better than I ever have, I’ve surrounded myself with people I like and I’m doing what makes me happy.

Happy Birthday to me.

There's Always Something...

2011-11-11T13:56:00.000-08:00

So many rants, so little time...

So to pick one out of the hat, let's talk today about how one thing or another always seems to come into play to make life difficult. You know, that whole, just when you think you've crested the hill and coast down the other side, you see that there's just more uphill in front of you?

Mostly, it's about finding time to write. Now a long time ago, we (my family and I) made the decision that I would be the wage earner and Hubs would be the primary care giver. I am in no way regretting that decision. The kids have reached an age (and frankly, I think so have I) where i can no longer effectively home school them.The arrangement works tolerably well. More than tolerably, actually.

I like my day job. I work part time making sandwiches for business men and cheerfully taking their money. It's a fun job, not very taxing, and it has actually got me moving enough I've lost a bit of weight. WOOT!

I don't hate my other day job, working occasional full time for the government. Lots of aspects of the way the government handles their workers, I take exception to, but that is not something I can publicly rant about :D The people are nice, the job itself is not terrible. 'Nuff said.

There is also the matter of the 'volunteer' work I do for my daughter's dance studio so she can take all teh dance classes she wants to do. I don't mind any of that. Mostly, it's pretty fun, and stuff that's desperately in need of getting done.

What irks me are all the little inconvenient happenings that screw up the schedule. Like a writing conference I would not have missed for the world, that was piles of fun and a wonderful time. And kept me from writing for about three weeks with any sort of consistency as I prepared, made swag, traveled, decompressed afterward... And there are the small issues of hubs health messing with what he's capable of doing. So totally not his fault. But kids still need to get to lessons, the house still needs to be cleaned etc, etc, and while I'm doing his job, his job is getting done. Mine is not.

So when I get a royalty check, and it's smaller than I had hoped and he says why haven't you had a release lately, I want to...yes. I'll say it. I want to rip his arm off and beat him with the bloody stump. Only then he'd have another injury he wouldn't be able to work around....

P.S. don't get me wrong. I'm not blaming him for anything, and more than I am saying I would have forgone GayRomLit so I could stay home and get more writing done. He can't help it. He does the best he can, and I have so very many things to be grateful for where he is concerned. I just wish, for a little while, nothing would "come up" that interferes with MY TIME. damnit!

I Am the Addams Family

2011-11-08T13:20:00.000-08:00

Not kidding.

Usually, I'm a nice, affable, happy-go-lucky kind of gal, just like old Gomez. Would that I was also independently wealthy like him, but hey, we can't all have everything, right? I do have the two kids, the adoring spouse (most of the time) and the unfailing belief that the world is a good and decent place, and the people in it are good and decent people (despite all that pesky evidence to the contrary). I'd even be willing to bet that on some days, my girl has a little bit of Wednesday's 'sisterly love' brewing away in her clever, pretty little head. And my boy? If it looks fun, he'll go along with it, never suspecting...

Then there are the other days, when I fee a little more like Morticia: aloof, slightly mysterious, perfectly safe until you piss me off, then better not come too close. I haven't yet cut the heads off any of my roses, but you don't want to be taking any chances. Now, if only I had a head of hair like that woman! I've always envied those long, black tresses.

Sadly, most mornings especially, far from the elegant, graceful matriarch I'd like to declare myself, I'm pretty much a cross between Lurch and Cousin Itt. All shambling, grumbly-voiced, piss-poor attitude curtained with a mop of waist-length, every-which-way hair. Not. Pretty.

So, my pretties, what fictional character (or multiple characters) are you? DO share!

So, You Really Want Me 2 Follow You?

2011-11-07T05:07:00.000-08:00

Please help us welcome author Lynn Crain.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When I sat down at my computer today, trying to think exactly what I wanted to vent about, I had to give myself some boundaries. See, there is so much in my life to vent about, a major move to a foreign country, a husband who is so attentive he's driving me crazy, a new puppy who we call piranha boy because of his puppy teeth but so many of you would see those things as living the fairy tale that I decided to do one that should be nearer and dearer to our author hearts. But I get ahead of myself here as introductions are definitely in order.

My name's Lynn Crain and I write hot, sexy romances for the over eighteen crowd. Right now I'm living in Vienna, Austria with my husband of thirty some years who is following his dream to work internationally. Notice, I said his dream but that's another story and a whole other rant. None of our children or our pets came with us for various reasons: the oldest has his own family, the youngest is in college and the animals couldn't successfully travel the ocean so they are stuck at home with said kids. This is why we have piranha boy, a Parson Russell Terrier the breeder named Harry Potter that turns fourteen weeks old today. Because of this move and the tribulations it brought me I haven't had a book published in a while but that's going to change real soon as I expect to have about ten or so within the next coming year. The first one is a re-issue of a story called, A Lover for Rachel, and it's got one hot cover. It's schedule to be released between November 27 to December 3rd, 2011.

Now back to the meat of this blog ~ I don't know about you but I do daily research on the internet for various projects. Now those who know me well would say that I'm just cruising about looking for the best time possible but really I'm not. Part of that time is spent looking for like minded individuals who I can share blog space with, toss out a comment on twitter and generally share good news and happenings. To be honest, that's how I found this wonderful gem of a blog and I've recommended it to a lot of people and plan to do so even more. Networking is how many books are sold and it's a very important aspect to one's writing career.

It's taken me years to develop this tack on just who I want to follow be it on twitter, a blog or sharing a link on another's website. Too many places and you'll over-saturate those you want to admire you and your work, too little and they will never know your name. I have heard there are many ways to do this. Only follow those who are like minded ~ what does that mean? Only re-tweet those things that will bring you more followers ~ no, really, what does that mean? Never follow those whose background pictures you like ~ why not? Come on now, it's a really cute setup! Some people have even gone so far to tell me that I must maintain a professional attitude one-hundred percent of the time ~ how fun is that?

One is supposed to have fun in their career and if you can't what is the point? Live, love, laugh ~ that's my philosophy and I'm sticking to it. Therefore, when I peruse the net looking for new followers and those I can follow, new places to blog or just new people to hang out yet, I expect the kind courteous response that I would give them. But in the last few months, I've hit a stumbling block or two or maybe it's fifteen as right now I'm so irritated, I could bust a gut.

It's been my habit to follow a few new faces on twitter weekly and to add a blog or two to my list of ones to follow if they're lucky. I choose my victims - er - friends through a careful search and by looking at their tweets or blogs and websites to make sure they are people I want to be around. Doesn't everyone? First, I have to feel I have a genuine connection to them and then I have to want to give my time to them as it is a precious commodity to me as well as to them.

I take great joy in finding new authors and people to follow. It amazing me that there are others out there that think in a somewhat similar mode as I do. I want to be with those people, I want to see what they are saying, learn about what they are reading and I want to share my goals, aspirations, listening and reading habits with them. After all, we may share a common bond and never know it unless we can connect somewhere. The internet is a perfect way to connect to like minds, to those who are in the same struggles, are writing the same genres or reading the same authors. It truly is a reach-out-and-touch-someone moment when you find another like mind on the internet. You can share writing snippets, trade blogs posts and links, talk family, kids, marketing and a host of other important topics.

Imagine my surprise when recently I've run into validation services for everything imaginable. Are you kidding? The one true way to turn off readers, followers, bloggers, reviewers and whoever I haven't named, is to say you don't trust them right off the bat. Sure, I can understand if they have come from a questionable IP address or they have a questionable name as some do but to send the person an email, a tweet, a comment with a link and say, "Hey, if you want to follow me via twitter, my blog, my website or whatever, you have to pass this test! Aren't you happy to do it?"

Sorry, I'm not happy to do it and got carried away there. Frankly, I don't have time for validation services. I can understand the ones where you have a quick email back that says you're a real person but to send someone to an outside vendor and make them answer all sorts of questions about themselves and why they want to follow you, well, you've made an enemy for life and you can be word will get around. After all, I'm writing this blog, aren't I? If I am, there are others out there not venting about their not liking validation services.

Now, if you were a Nora Roberts-type person, I can understand it...after all, you have thousands upon thousands of followers and probably don't need me anyway. If you are just starting out, honey, I would rethink your stradegy as there is no quicker way to piss someone off than to tout your sense of importance. Yes, you are important but some am I...and it makes me wonder...just why am I wasting my time on you again? Those people who you are trying to validate are asking themselves the same questions and trust me, if they can't justify following you in whatever manner they've tried, they just won't answer you back. If you send them something asking why, they will ignore you. Who knows what they're saying to their friends? Are they giving you a good name or a bad one?

As for me, I'll continue to slog through the people who follow me wherever and ban those who are truly bad. I don't know about you but I can spot them a mile away...after all...just how many of them can be on twitter or blog for over a year and not know how to add a picture? Not many. Trust me.

Lynn Crain bio:

I'm a writer of sexy romance. I live in the hot southwest where I weave my tales for various publishers in the sci-fi, fantasy and paranormal genres. I have one husband, two sons, one daughter-in-law, two grandkids, two dogs, three cats and I've gotten rid of the snakes. I love hearing from all of you at lynncrain@cox.net. UPDATE: Wait - if you've read any of this blog recently you'll see that obviously, I'm not in the beautiful southwest right now. I'm on the adventure of a lifetime in Vienna, Austria. An adventure with issues...yup...that's me!

You can find her on her blog at www.awriterinvienna.blogspot.com on any given day as she tells you about her adventures abroad.

Foot-in-Mouth Syndrome

2011-11-04T06:00:00.000-07:00

Please help us welcome Nicola E. Sheridan.

~ ~ ~ ~

Foot-in-Mouth Syndrome:[fʊt-ɪn-maʊɵ sɪndrəʊm] a socially crippling condition in which the sufferer regularly says inappropriate things at inappropriate times and causes offense or unintended embarrassment to themselves or others.

Embarrassing situations, they happen all the time and I personally love to read about them. They make me laugh and as long as they haven't happened to me, I find them highly entertaining. One of most common causes of embarrassment is due to 'foot-in-mouth syndrome. I'm sure you've all met someone who has it, or you may have it yourself. Sometimes an inappropriate word or thought slips out and causes offense or embarrassment and you're left thinking "Why on earth did I say that?!"

I'm fairly lucky and can quite honestly say I do not suffer this condition. However, I know several people who do.

I have a female relation, who for the sake of this blog I will call *Gloria. Gloria is a wonderful person. She's caring, kind, creative and an all round good woman. However, Gloria has a dreadful case of 'foot-in-mouth'.

One amusing example of Gloria's foot-in-mouth, was actually at my house. We were having a mother's day lunch with everyone coming. My sister-in-law unexpectedly invited a single friend to join us, as she had nowhere else to be on this particular Mother's Day.

When *Lisa entered, the family was surprised. No one other than my sister-in-law had ever met her before, but it didn't matter. I like to think we're a welcoming family, and if she had nowhere else to be, she was more than welcome to join us.

Lisa was a very large girl, to this day I have never seen breasts larger than hers. She loved cats, and even had one on her t-shirt. The lunch was delicious and food and conversation flowed freely. After we'd eaten, I noticed with some trepidation Gloria deep in conversation with Lisa. Apparently they were having a discussion about being 'single'. Soon however, Lisa decided it was time to leave. As I walked Lisa out, Gloria followed, along with several other family members. As we all called our farewells to our new friend, Gloria shouts out above all "Good-bye, Lisa, enjoy your solitary life!"

What?! Did she really just say that to this motherless, lonely, cat-loving single lady?

"Gloria!" I hiss, as Lisa hurries into the car with a worried glance back. We smile cheerfully, hoping she doesn't think we are rude freaks out to torment her.

"What?" Gloria replies, still waving and smiling benignly as Lisa roared out of our lives forever.

To this day, Gloria swears she said nothing wrong. "She likes being single!" Gloria still insists.

There are many types of foot-in-mouth and Gloria's is always unintentional, which makes it funny. However, I have another friend whose foot-in-mouth syndrome is at times quite intentional. This makes for insanely awkward situations, which sometimes result in amusing but permanent changes of opinion.

Here's an example. My friend *Nova, was chiding her husband about their non-existent sex life - in front of me and two other friends. Why you'd do this is still beyond me, but there you have it.

Imagine the scene if you will:

We're all sitting around the coffee table and Nova is enthusiastically, but bitterly lamenting her lack of rumpy-pumpy.

"I could be in my sexy lingerie, doing a lap dance and he'll roll over and tell me to go to sleep." Nova complains.

*Jose looks stony faced, crosses his muscular arms and stares into his coffee. "I'm tired," he grunts. "I work hard."

My other two friends give weak embarrassed laughs.

I am struck mute. I'd always presumed Jose to be a red hot-latin-lover sort, and now all I can imagine is a tiny dysfunctional penis and a man as frigid as England. Unfortunate isn't it? Yet, Nova doesn't stop there, oh no. She waxes lyrical about her high, but neglected libido, and praises the Lord for her secret (now not so secret) drawer of 'goodies' that satisfy her because her husband (still sitting there) apparently won't. It was one of the most cringe-worthy conversations I've ever had the misfortune of being involved in.

Had Nova decided to have this conversation away from Jose, it could have been funny and although I'd still have left the conversation thinking Jose harbours a soggy jellybean in his jocks, we wouldn't of had the awkwardness. In hindsight, I wondered why Jose didn't defend his masculinity, his libido, anything. A grunt explaining his tiredness wasn't sufficient! Perhaps he couldn't defend himself without looking like a bastard. I don't know. What I do know however is that I will not sit opposite Jose and Nova around a coffee table again. Not without a light and witty response poised on my lips at any rate.

A witty response is the only remedy for an awkward situation (other than running screaming). If you, like me, find yourself regularly in the presence of an awkward moment due to your friends 'foot-in-mouth' syndrome, the only real cure is a sound repertoire of witty rebukes and comments. Alas, retrieving said witty rebuke is notoriously difficult during a time of awkwardness. So while the awkward moment ticks by in complete lip chewing silence, here are a few easy comments to remember:

"OK then... Someday, we'll look back on this moment, laugh nervously and change the subject..."

"Hmm, you've got a point there, keep your hat on and it won't show."

"Be careful, that halo may slip and choke you..."

"That's a bit rich from someone who collects Metallica figurines."

"The next time you speak to me, I'm going to have to insist you do not eat shit sandwiches."

*names and relationships have been changed to protect the embarrassed.

Thanks for having me ladies, and remember, everyone is someone else's weirdo, and if you don't have anything nice to say about somebody... come and sit with me!

Nicola E. Sheridan is a West Australian author of paranormal/fantasy romance with a humorous/quirky edge.

You can find her:

Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

2011-11-03T11:05:00.001-07:00

It's been one of those weeks. Who am I kidding? This started about two weeks ago, although I didn't suspect those next two weeks would basically be in the toilet. Oh, there've been some summits that have kept me sane, but the nadirs... Yeah, they've been pretty good. It could be worse, of course.

So, it started with quarterly reports. I wanted to complete them a week ago Monday, and I have this fabulous accounting program that cuts the time down by nearly two weeks. It's just that I have a knack for finding all of the bugs in this program. It seems every time I use it, I break it. (It's a gift, truly.) This time, I accidentally put in a date when importing some data that made the program crash. (See, I told you I'm good.) They knew about this bug, but no one in the history of the program had found it until...me. (g) I had to send my database to the programmers to fix. Luckily, they work fast. However, this, and a few other things, put me back a day.

I suppose this should have been an omen of sorts for these next two weeks. It wasn't. I mean, I'm used to screwing up the program. (g) It was par for the course, and all was well until Saturday night.

That night Lily came down with a really nasty cold and a fever so high she burned to the touch. This was particularly scary as Lily has had seizures. For two days, sleep did not exist.

It's been up and down from there on out with too many troughs and not enough summits that it's almost funny.

I managed to finish quarterly reports and send them all out a week ago Tuesday, nearly a week in advance. That was a first. Yay me! But Wednesday saw me cleaning the biohazard of a front shower as Mom and Jan, a family friend I haven't seen for 7 years, were coming to stay with us on Friday. If I didn't clean it, Mom would, and I'd be embarrassed to let anyone use it.

Mind you, sleep had still eluded me even though Lily's cold had improved to just a cough. With each successive day, I was growing more exhausted and grumpier. They were scheduled to arrive Friday. They did, but not until midnight. Mom had a key, but couldn't get it to work so she called me. I was sleeping, and despite being exhausted, I pulled my ass out of bed and sat up for another hour. I could sleep in in the morning, right?

Hahahahaha

Um, no. Lily was so excited that Grandma was here, she was up, which meant I was up because she had to come into our bedroom first and wake me. (I love her, but sometimes... ;))

My Saturday plans were shot to hell because Jan wanted to go to Malibu and spend the day on the beach. Lucky for him, we had a beautiful day. Besides seeing them, this was one of the bright spots of the past two weeks. I played with Lily, and we built a sand castle. Of course, I ended the day with a migraine. O.o

Note: From here down, my original blog post was eaten by Google mail. This is why the original post was only partially uploaded by Valerie. (Thank you, Valerie!) Because I wrote it on my iPhone, I do not have a copy, so I am having to rewrite this section. Somehow, I don't think it will be quite the same, but it's what I've got. End Note

Things managed to be okay until Monday night. Around 11 pm, I wandered into the bedroom to grab my night clothes and shower. I opened the underwear drawer and...what was that? Something scurried across my skivvies. Oh, my God, it was a baby cockroach. Seriously?

(sigh)

A cockroach had taken up residence in my underwear drawer. A black cloud quickly formed around me. Although few words slipped through my lips, a virulent stream of obscenities swirled in my mind. The drawer came out, and I took it outside where I searched for the little fucker (Never found it, but it's not in there anymore.), sterilized the drawer after getting all of the cockroach turds out of the back (yes, I know. I know. It was disgusting. Even now, my mouth turns down in a moue of distaste, and I shudder.), and threw all of the underwear into the wash.

That done, I peered into the dresser for no particular reason and saw another baby hiding in a groove. Crap! Now the entire dresser had to be torn apart, the cockroach killed, and the cause of the infestation discovered. )They liked my sock drawer, too, but stayed out of the others. Thank all of the powers that be!)

The cause? One of the dresser feet was wet from a shower leak. Yay! Something else. How exciting! (Insert more swear words here.) However, I was taking a shower despite all of that and going to bed.

But, wait! I don't have any clean underwear. (Head to wall) Since I wasn't going to continue wearing my dirty underwear and I wouldn't turn it inside out, it was commando. While I don't mind going commando on occasion, I want the choice. That night, I had no choice, and this just added to my ire.

And then, the final straw came yesterday when my laptop turned off for no apparent reason. It was plugged in, it should have been working, but it just turned off. Frantic, I called my husband Charlie the computer god. Of course, there's nothing he could do from work. So, I tried plugging it in again and turning it on. Voilà, we were in business again for the time being. A few hours later, it died again and wouldn't turn back on.

Charlie came home and pulled out one of the spare laptops we have lying around. One that someone gave him because it was broken, but he magically fixed it. (I have long since stopped trying to figure out how he does that. Truly, he's a magician.) They no longer wanted it and gave it to him. (This does happen on occasion. It's an occupational hazard of being an IT professional.) It's four years old, but runs. I'm happy and love my husband. (g)

Although we'd decided it was just a bad battery, he'd decided to transfer my data to the "new" laptop anyway. I'd be without my laptop that evening. As I'd planned on working after Lily went to bed, this was not good. But I could give up a few hours if it meant having a newer laptop, right? Except, there was an issue with my old laptop's disk, and the data wouldn't transfer properly. And because he has to go to work, I could be without a laptop for several days.

HAHAHAHAHAHA (breath) HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA (breath) HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

I am blessed. Truly, I am. (The only reason I am able to amend this post is because I am able to use the "new" laptop.) I know this, but, oh... if one more thing happens, I might need a straight jacket.

Um... I'm a Guy

2011-11-01T08:14:00.000-07:00

Please help us welcome author and cop James Greer.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"I was pissed, but I got over it," she growled.

I write suspense novels. Sometimes there's a romantic quality, sometimes a sinister villain bent on mayhem. One theme knits them all together. The lead character is always a woman police officer.

You may ask yourself - I thought the first rule of writing was to stick with what you know.

I've heard that too. For the most part, I write about cop stuff. Actually being a police officer, of course, helps. Certainly, twenty-five plus years of meddling in others' misfortune (and being the occasional cause) has provided vivid characters, multiple WTF situations and not a few projectile-vomiting moments. Need a humorous dismemberment story to enliven a chapter? A castration attempt gone horribly wrong (that isn't redundant - trust me) or perhaps an illustration why drunk people should not manipulate loaded firearms? Got enough for all of us.

I have no overriding interest in focusing on policemen, beyond their utility in telling the story. I am a policeman. We tend to be Peter Pan-esque about things, your basic "growing old, not up." We've been sort of done to death as a genre, anyway. But, women.... Always interesting, never dull. More than enough variety to populate several novels.

Ask ten women why they became cops, what they get out of police work ("money" is too easy) and I get ten different answers. Most women are circumspect about the profession and their place in it. Some of them are painfully candid about what the whole lousy business has done to them and their relationships. Find a woman who trusts me enough to open not just her head but to permit occasional peaks into her heart and I'm totally in business. To a writer, she's the gold standard.

But for pete's sake.... It infuriates me when I ask a question like, well, would having a child change a woman's perspective on risk-taking and I get "(sniff, errrr) Would you ever ask a man that question?"

NO! I already know that answer and it's boring (generally, male risk takers...take risks). Not to put too fine a point on it, I'm asking because my main character IS A WOMAN! She's a SWAT sergeant, she's a mom, and a crazy SOB is holding her work partner at gunpoint. I'm thinking (go ahead, call me a sentimental fool) that she's given the subject of risk a wee bit of thought, weighed all of the ramifications of leaving behind a devastated husband and motherless child. Maybe she's imagined her dying moments, the unbearable sadness she might feel at abandoning her child. I'm thinking my readers would want us to explore this together.

Of course I don't get it. Much of the time, I don't get you. Um - guy! My friend's thoughtful response included, among other things, a discussion about what it means to accept responsibility, both as a mother and as a professional. As usual, I couldn't write fast enough to take it all in.

Describing male cops (and their lack of introspection, for the most part), I have my own experiences to fall back on. Ninety-five percent of my police friends are guys and we've carefully avoided ever betraying an emotional attachment to anything besides sports or drinking. Most of us are horribly predictable, anyway. Last week, for example, an especially attractive, especially well-endowed woman drove right through our car crash scene. Were we angry? Not really - a bit ashamed of ourselves that we forgave her so easily, that's all. But, I digress.

Huffing about questions that focus on a woman's perceptions sets up a substantial barrier, too, even if we eventually get down to business. The damn boundaries are a moving target? Fabulous. Now every question is loaded. "I got over it?" What the hell is that supposed to mean? I'm a married man - when a woman says she got over it.... Really? REALLY? When? Is that why Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus sold a bazillion copies?

I'm looking for good lines, insight and the ultimate compliment - sales. If I admit I'm ignorant and I need help, do I seem vulnerable enough to let me off the hook, from time to time, because I think like a guy? I'm a little old for puppy dog eyes, and a little worldly to need another mother.

I ask questions because I don't have the answers. Now...got a minute?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Bio:

James Greer is the author of the romantic suspense novel Out of Ideas and the short story with the same female protagonist A Parasol in a Hurricane. You can also more of his rants and thoughts at Bike Cop Blog.

Blurb:

Deputy Karen O'Neil is a California girl, shedding the abusive husband who'd ripped her from a sun-drenched, stimulating life as a San Diego cop to isolation in rural Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. Talented, attractive, and cut off from everything she wants, her rock-bottom self-esteem lunges at the mysterious airplane crash as though a life line, a chance to escape the doldrums of perceived failure in every other aspect of her life.

National Transportation Safety Board investigator Adam Phlatt has his own issues. His career is going nowhere. His love life smolders in ruin after he horribly misplayed his heart, something he swears he'll avoid forever.The accident investigation is a no brainer, a simple case of too much airplane and not enough pilot. The easy inquiry over, he plans his return to Chicago and the safety of his own loneliness, yet he somehow entangles himself with Deputy O'Neil's complex personality.

Karen refuses to let go of the case, or of Adam. When she discovers the pilot's life is a lie, it's a whole new ball game. Thrust from one perplexing clue to the next, they tumble headlong onto a group of criminals, intent on protecting a lucrative shadow business with violence, if necessary.

Karen and Adam face an impossible confrontation, even as hope triumphs over experience, and they fall in love. Their first intimate encounter as lovers is interrupted by the disappearance of a friend under sinister circumstances.

A killer targets Karen, and Adam must regain what he once was--a man tough enough to save the woman he loves.

Her attention focused on a smoking hole containing the remains of a wrecked airplane and its equally wrecked pilot, will Karen O'Neil notice salvation walking up behind her?

Buy now.

Boom Chicka Wow... Ew!

2011-10-31T10:19:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, my husband Charlie picked up a Roku box. This is a device you connect to your TV that gives you access to online TV programming (some free, some not). It's a cool device. It's very techy. It suits my husband to a T. Personally, I didn't see the need, but, eh, whatever.

Like any man with a new toy, he insisted that I take a look at it with him...right before we were going to sleep. (sigh) LOL I was tired. I wasn't really interested. I just wanted to go to sleep, but I didn't.

Instead, he starts flipping through the channels as I lay there yearning for sleep. (He's excited, and I don't want to rain on his parade.) There are easily a hundred "stations." Many "stations" contains several channels within it. It's almost overwhelming there is so much choice. Most likely, this will one day be how you watch TV.

So, we are flipping through the stations and run across porn. (Of course, what would access to the Internet be without porn?) It is free. I haven't watched porn in 20 years, and then I only saw one movie for about 15 minutes, or less. And, as you could probably guess, it doesn't do much for me. LOL But, since it had been such a long time, I stupidly told Charlie, "Sure, let's check it out. Perhaps it's not as bad as I remember it to be."

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

It's worse. It's so far beyond worse than I remember that I am shocked that I didn't remember just how bad it was. Or maybe not. Maybe I had, after 20 years, managed to wipe the images from my mind. I hope it doesn't take another 20 this time around.

Now, mind you, I am not a prude. I publish erotica. I don't have any issues with sex whatsoever, except that I think the US is too uptight about it, but that's another post. I don't have problems with people having sex because they feel like it. They don't have to be married. As long as both are consenting adults, alive, and human (as in not animal--ETs are a different story, although I imagine that would be weird. Not that I've ever encountered one, but I'm just saying.), I really don't care one way or the other.

Then why do I have an issue with porn? They are consenting adults (at least the ones I saw). They are human and alive. So what's my problem? Hm...

Perhaps it's the total lack of lust involved. Or maybe it's the no-hair-anywhere syndrome. (That, in and of itself, disgusts me. I like hair. It's supposed to be there.) Or maybe it's that the sex goes on and on and on and on and on, and it's all faked excitement. Or it could be that the man, to keep going, has to beat his dick on the woman to get it hard again. Or that, in order to make the woman wet, the guy will spit in her. Spit in her. (Ew! Ew! Ew!) As Charlie so eloquently put it: "It's just bodily fluids, Marci."

Yeah, well, uh, well, hm... (g) That may be true, but, um, yeah. Let's just say it doesn't do it for me...at all!

I looked at Charlie and asked, "How can anyone find this remotely titillating?"

"Marce, it's to get off quick. You've read too many romance novels."

"Hm... Yeah, I don't think that's the only reason. It just doesn't do it for me. No wonder it's been 20 years."

And now I must wipe the images from my mind once again. (sigh)

Any suggestions?

Everything is ok….I’m a professional.

2011-10-27T03:15:00.000-07:00

***Welcome author, Bri Clark, with us today. Grab your coffee, sit back, read, relax and enjoy a few great chuckles.***

Have you ever written a blog post, cracked a joke, shared a status update and received a message later that “they” were offend?

Yeah me too! I hate they.

Only I’m a professional offender. And there is nothing that raises my hackles more than someone becoming offended and making a fuss about it in a public format. Especially if I hadn’t planned it.

Wait?! You can actually plan to offend someone?

Yes…yes you can. Remember I’m a professional.

How does one become a professional offender? Well it’s not like there are any workshops or college courses that I’m aware of. So I can only share how I honed my art. Raised by my grandparents in the south, I was hanging out at the church functions, women’s clubs and VFW halls from infancy. In these establishments gossips, scandal, and offense are as plentiful as sweet tea and twangy accents.

And since I was with the older matriarchs of society I learned the subtle “Bless your heart method.” This is where your intended victim doesn’t even realize they’ve been offended until well after the job had been executed. The Bless Your Heart method is a true art. In order to properly use it the professional offender either has to have a plan

plotted and wait for the chance. Or is so confident and witty that they can use it at a moment’s notice.

I can do both.

In fact, it’s almost like a natural reaction to use the Bless Your Heart Method. Over the years, I’ve become so good at it I don’t even have to use the phrase. But tend to just for kicks.

For me personally there are key elements that provoke my internal offense system.

· Anyone messing with my children. From schoolteacher, principal, peer, or clergy. Yes I have Bless Your Hearted a Sunday school teacher before. Crazy, southern mother here.

· Sluts as a whole. If I could overcome so can you.

· Anyone disrespecting any military service individual, spouse or child. Or the services as a whole. Army brat here!

· Ninny hammers that persecute someone because of their religion. Mormon here!

· Anyone using the term bastard instead of in its proper use. Bastard here!

For these reasons and many more, I will not join PTA or volunteer at any things my children are doing. Someone somewhere will piss me off and once the system is ignited, it does not detour.

Now I’ll try to create for you an example of The Bless Your Heart method in action.

Imagine a group of

women is hanging out after school waiting for their children at the bus stop. The newest mother in the neighborhood, Gina, is approaching. Over the last few weeks, she comes to the bus stop dressed in extremely immodest clothing. Clothing that would make the dancers in a rap video blush immodest. Lately she’s been complaining that her significant other doesn’t trust her. And of course I’m one of the mothers in the group. Now watch.

“Hey what’s youse doing?” Gina says, popping her bubble gum then using her acrylic nail to scrape it off her lip. Bri and the other mom, Lisa, share a look.

“Just waiting for the bus,” Bri replies. Lisa’s eyes bulge as Gina pulls her tube top up over her gravity-attracted bosom.

“Well youse remember how I told you that Don went through my text messages.” Gina doesn’t wait for an answer. “Well the bastard activated the family map tracker on my iPhone. I’ve never done anything to make him not trust me. All I ever do is eat, sleep, shop, and pick up his kids at the bus stop. I mean yea, I hang out at the sports bar but they only open the dance floor up on Friday and Saturdays. It’s sports not a club.” She rolls her eyes and tries to dig something out of her three-inch nails.

Bri’s always wondered how any woman keeps her nails that long, wipe themselves, and manages cleanliness. Lisa is once again bug eyed from Gina’s comments. It’s a common facial expression for her around Gina.

Bri shakes her head and catches Gina’s eye. She can feel the thickness of her southern accent actually coating her throat from what she’s about to say. “Bless your heart, you poor dear.” Lisa now turns her frogeyes on Bri. “I can’t imagine how you put up with so much.” Gina nods her head and tries to look innocent, forcing her bottom lip in a pout. “I

mean, you really don’t do anything at all, do ya. And I bet he buys those clothes for you just to add to his case,” Bri finishes. Gina quits nodding her head and replays Bri’s words. Lisa’s eyes go normal; she covers her mouth and turns her back. The bus comes with their children, ending all conversation. Gina never comes back to the bus stop in a tube top.

That’s just one example. And it’s so much sweeter when you really experience it. Anyways, the rant I needed to get out. If I’m going to offend you believe me I’ll know it. You just won’t…until later.

So tell me, dear readers, do you have any particular methods for getting your point across?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Scent of a Witch

Maeve da Paer has lived her life free from the restrictions of the world of sorcery and the Board of Witchery hidden behind the combined protection of her grandparents powerful clan magic—and a lie. Although her life has not been worry free, it is when all that desperation and grief cause her to cast her most powerful spell ever…a spell that will end the pain before it begins on the powerful All Hallows Eve.

Fionn Hughes, an immortal tracker, former heir to a powerful clan of time warlocks is on a mission to restore his honor—instead he finds Maeve da Paer. Following the scent of Gardenias and Honey Suckle, he discovers the last Scent Witch. It’s only after she almost takes off his ear that something more stirs, eventually changing his mission from one of duty to one of need.

What will Fionn do when he finds out Maeve plans to cancel out her own existence? Will he be strong enough to stop her?

CLICK TO BUY

Bri Clark The Belle of Boise Blog

Belle Consulting

Christmas BEFORE Halloween? Seriously?

2011-10-26T06:27:00.000-07:00

Has this world gone insane? It's bad enough when people have to deal with the holiday rush from the day after Thanksgiving until midnight Christmas Eve, but I began seeing decorations last week alongside the Halloween stuff! The TV stations are already running holiday commercials such as Christmas lay-a-way at Walmart and K-Mart

I don’t want to see anything even remotely related to Christmas until maybe mid-November. Sure, I’ve always been known as a Mrs. Scrooge in the sense that I just don’t like the holiday, but I’m getting better about it. Mellowing out. Since moving into this new house, we were able to have room for a real tree and to put up decorations. I enjoyed last year’s Christmas for the first time since I was a kid.

But for crying out loud, retailers need to let shoppers get over the candy-induced hangover of Halloween before slapping them in the face with Christmas lay-a-way ads and more.

My biggest peeves with Christmas boils down to three things.

A) Christmas should be about caring for one another and not having to buy or make a damn present for everyone from your significant other to Aunt Gertrude’s gerbil.
B) People turn into jackasses during the holiday season. It irks me to no end. Why? Refer to point A.
C) And lastly, I hate, hate, hate going out into the herd of jackasses. Why? Refer to point B.

Granted not everyone turns into raving lunatics, but it sure seems like most do. And talk about rude! Christmas time makes food stamp and SSI day at Walmart look like a church picnic.

As a result, most of my Christmas shopping is done online. And I make a lot of my gifts too. This year, however, there will be lots of goodie boxes full of fudge—chocolate, pb, cherry, spiced, mint, banana, etc.—cookies, fudgie cakes and melt-in-mouth holiday treats. With all the writing and deadlines I’ve had this year, no crocheted hats, blankets, etc. will be wrapped up. (sigh) I’ve missed that because it helps calm me when I’m stressed.

Anyway, I don’t want to see commercials about a sale on green-and-red Christmas cookies at Kroger’s because by the time I’d fight my way through the riots there’d be nothing left ‘cept some colored sugar crystals. And I don’t give a rat’s ass about a sale on dolls that poop their pants in Technicolor brilliance at Walmart. With this economy no one can afford to buy much anyway. It’s all some folks can do to keep food on the table and gas in their vehicles, yanno?

Besides, if someone wants such a doll, I can loan ‘em my grandson after he’s ate too many fruit snacks. BOOM! Now *that’s* a brilliant, Technicolor diapie.

Oh, here’s another thing that irks me about too-soon Christmas displays and ads: wrapping paper. What’s the point of even buying the damn stuff? If you even breathe on a sheet of it there’s a gaping hole staring back at you—and you pay upwards of $8 to $10 a roll for the good stuff! The catch? Less paper because it’s the stuff that actually wraps something.

“Here, honey. Take this brown shipping paper and crayons and doodle Christmas stuff. Mommy needs some wrapping paper.”

Gah.

No, keep the Christmas stuff out of my sight unto mid-November. Oh, and here’s a suggestion I should stuff in every store’s suggestion box: don’t start playing Bing Crosby’s White Christmas until after Thanksgiving. Hearing it while I’m buying last-minute Halloween candy creates nervous ticks that are often irreversible.

On another note, visit me over at Ramblings of A Chaotic Mind. Here’s the link http://bit.ly/rOJK6T and make sure you scroll all the way to the bottom so you don't miss the entire post.

Duh Syndrome Is My Friend

2011-10-21T03:49:00.000-07:00

Not duh as in lacking intelligence or doing drugs. Oh, no. It’s the duh that happens when I’ve stared at a computer screen for a minimum of six hours a day, usually longer. The duh that occurs when I sit with my laptop too long and finish just one more blog, interview, edit, revision, or new chapter and never make it outside to stretch my legs.

There are many definite signs when Duh Syndrome is really bad, but here are a few off the top of my head.

*The hubby or one of the kids tells me something with me
looking him or her directly in the eyes, and I realize five minutes after they've left I have no freaking clue what he or she just said to me.

*I get up to go to the bathroom and forget where I’m going halfway to Wherever Land.

*My mother or oldest dau calls me on the cell and I zone out. “FAITH! Are you there? Did the call drop?” or “MOM! Did you go to sleep?” Gah.

*The hubby tells me about his workday and I find myself dozing off with my eyes open. And no, I’m not kidding! Eyes are open!

*The cat jumps on my lap and lies on my hands stretched across the keyboard and I keep typing! Buy hey, it’s great exercise. One, lift cat! Two, lift cat! Three, lift cat!

*Duh Syndrome is really bad when I look at the clock and realize it’s 2 PM and I’ve not had anything to eat or drink all day except for several cups of b-b-b-b-b-b-black c-c-c-c-c-coffee.

*Bizarre words unexpectedly pop out of my mouth when I’m talking. Example: “I’m tired. I’m going to go watch pudding before I go to sleep." Or I type something like that in an email to a pal and they reply with “WTF are you talking about?” Yeah, baby. Makes me feel intelligent!

This fuzzy state of mind often happens when I have a new release. Promotion adds to the amount of things I have to accomplish in a specific time period. It boggles my mind how many blogs and interviews I write and/or fill out during these blocks of time. Not to mention researching what sites and newsletters have the best bang for the buck when it comes to advertising--talk about time consuming!

Oh, let’s not forget research. Although many authors hate research and therefore keep their stories based on topics they’re familiar with, I’m a glutton for punishment. Combine that with my insatiable curiosity and I inadvertently create more work for myself. (Actually, I wrote an article this month on easy ways to research for new paranormal creature ideas HERE if you’d like to check it out.)

I get so wrapped up in research that I’m stunned at how much time passes when I finally come to my duh-veiled senses and realize I need a bathroom break, food, and m-m-m-m-more c-c-c-c-coffee. Actually, whenever I would go to night courses and study for exams, I would be drained like this, too.

Historical stuff and paranormal/mythological research is what sucks me in the most. The amount of information on both the web and in print format is phenomenal. I gotta read it all, I gotta know what this is and what that is and…and…

Ahem.

Sorry. Had a li’l melt down. I was wondering why I kept seeing sparks pop out of my ears.

Anyway, when I do get everything done and emailed/mailed, I always realize just how hungry I've become. Seriously, it's like I've worked for three days straight digging ditches with only bread and water to sustain me. In fact, I get so hungry the cat takes one look at me and runs like hell for the nearest exit, hitting mach 10 as his tail bursts into flames. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that mental work doesn’t burn calories because it does! I’m not talking about wanting junk food. Oh, no. Give me a damn prime rib and make it snappy. And if I've been really stressed, I want a glass of wine or maybe something stouter, and a meal that would make a king go, “Whoa, baby. I might not be able to eat it all, but I’m sure as hell gonna try.”

Later, sated and having had a good night’s sleep, I’m ready to tackle the next list of writing projects.

With all that said, I’ll hope you take a look at my newest release. It’s a full novel that sweepsthe reader from Columbus, Ohio to Key West--and it is available today in paperback! However, if you have an e-reader, you can get "RUBY" at most e-book distributors, but the links to several dif ones are posted below. This novel has transformed over the last eight years, so it’s very special to me.

Ruby, the White King and Marilyn Monroe is a paranormal romance that takes off full throttle as demonic motorcycles and their beautiful riders chase Ruby to the rocky shores of Key West for a battle of epic proportions.

Are they angels, demons, or something else entirely? Ruby must send them back to a hell unlike anything the world has ever imagined. But will she allow herself to love the White King who has found her again over one thousand years later?

Blurb:
Reincarnated over the centuries. Stuck with a ditzy Marilyn Monroe lookalike. Falling for a rich albino guy. It’s just Ruby’s luck for Hell’s “real” angels to ride into this life and screw it all up.

A quote from author Maddie James:

Packed with action, each scene moving forward at a clip-clop pace, don’t blink your eyes once or miss a single paragraph of Ruby, the White King, and Marilyn Monroe. For if you do, you are sure to miss a piece of this literary puzzle!

One serendipitous meeting after another takes Ruby, her white king, and her quirky, hitchhiker friend Maureen on a frightening quest to get to Key West. With paranormal elements throughout, the sexual tension high, and the edge-of-the-seat factor not to be ignored, I could not stop reading until I reached the very end.—Maddie James, Romance Author www.maddiejames.net

You can read an excerpt at any of the following buy links:

TMP: http://bit.ly/oOhD3Y
ARe: http://bit.ly/rrlPTU
Kindle: http://amzn.to/rpvrA8
Bookstrand: http://bit.ly/rfTlsX

And here's the current paperback link but the book will appear at Amazon and BandN in a few days (scroll to bottom for print): http://bit.ly/oOhD3Y

Canadian, eh?

2011-10-20T04:50:00.000-07:00

So it's well established, I think, that I was in New Orleans this past week. I was attending the first annual Gay Romantic Literature Retreat, and it was a blast. I fully intend to attend the next one, being held in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

My husband is trying to talk me into a different sort of vacation.

He wants sand, sun, beaches and heat. And lots of them. Now, I'm not much of a swimmer, and I don't like to sit in the sun, getting hot and sweaty while it bakes me. That just isn't my thing. I told him I'm not interested in a vacation where it's constantly 30C and I'm always sticky and sweaty. This, of course prompted him to look up the weather we would have in New Orleans while I was there and promptly laugh his ass off. It was sunny and hot the entire time, of course.

But that was different. It was New Orleans. My friends were there.

I'm guessing, though I haven't looked, that Albuquerque in October isn't going to be exactly gloves and toque weather...

But this aversion to hot weather leads me to wonder just how Canadian (with a Fin heritage, no less) I really am. As I sit here contemplating the walk to the bus stop through the cold, October Northern Ontario rain, I'm thinking i'm missing a gene somewhere. I don't like hot weather whenever i can get it, and I hate the snow.

How un-Canadian of me...

Just a few questions from a mind that’s a little left of center

2011-10-19T03:25:00.000-07:00

***Today welcome author Rachel Cron to 4SW.***

I saw a bumper sticker the other day that said “Are you a believer or a fan of Jesus?” What does that even mean? My first thought was that it depended on which row you were sitting in and if you had a backstage pass or not. If you got backstage what would you say? “Sign my wing?”

What’s up with the Jersey Shore? When did vanity, ignorance and spray tan become cool? You can’t tell me that Snooki wrote that book!

Why is it called common sense? I think they called it that hoping it would catch on and become more common…Epic fail on that one! If you don’t believe me just come on down to Florida for season and watch the circus that ensues.

Why are people offended by the Oreo fudge creme’s commercial? I understand what “Shut the front door” is in place of…but they said “shut the front door” Are you seriously going to waste precious brain space on this issue? If so than I say…”Shut the front door!”

When did accountability become an option?

Why? Out of nowhere do I find a stray piece of glitter lying around or worse stuck to me? I always thought glitter was like ants or girls in the bathroom…you never just find one. It makes me wonder if I was fondled by a stripper or vampire when I was napping.

Why are people so angry with gay people for being gay? They should be angry at straight people…They are the ones who keep having gay babies!

And finally…Why are some people so easily offended? I can’t count the times I’ve said something and heard, “Well I never!” Maybe if they did they would be more open-minded about things. If I’m offended by something that’s my fault I pull up my big girl panties and I deal with it.

Visit Rachel and check out her books at the following links:

http://www.facebook.com/rachel.cron1
http://www.siren-bookstrand.com
http://rachelcronauthor.blogspot.com/
rachelcron@rocketmail.com

http://www.amazon.com/Warrior-Siren-Publishing-Classic-ebook/dp/B004VA9V3C/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1317608562&sr=8-2

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/punk-rox-warrior-rachel-cron/1102291086?ean=9781610345071&itm=1&usri=punk%2brox%2bwarrior

The Mysterious Mystery of the Elusive P-O-O-P

2011-10-17T09:23:00.000-07:00

Help us welcome S.J. Drum today.

~ ~ ~ ~

Romance Authors have accomplished a feat the likes of which the real world cannot ever hope to achieve. I’m writing, of course, about the complete and utter eradication of Poop.

Am I the only person who, while reading romances, thinks about poop?

A common occurrence of “the Elusive Poop” is a story in which the heroine is handcuffed to a cot for two weeks and there is no mention of where she did number two or what happened to it after the evil deed was done. Even if she was nearly starved, sometime in those fourteen days she had to take a deuce.

If this situation occurred in real life, would the hero stumble over a bucket full of feces while attempting to rescue the heroine? I think I might be so mortified by the thought of a sexy warrior witnessing the aftermath of tainted water and non-existent restroom facilities that I would be wishing against rescue …

While I completely appreciate the need for brushing aside the unpleasant details of human body functions, I still find myself wondering about them while reading. I too write romances. I have not, and do not, intend to ever include the subtle nuances of uncontrollable, stress-induced, ass-blasting diarrhea.

Still, I find myself contemplating the pooping situation in nearly every book I read. In historical romances, where the hero and heroine often travel together for days and days at a time, I ask you … When did they poop? Was there a discussion? “Och, Lass. Doona mind the sounds. Me needs to leave a growler in yon bushes …”

I also think about poop whenever anal sex is introduced into a story. While I admit that I’m not experienced in the ways of anal sex, I believe if I were approached with the proposition, poop would be my very first thought. Yet, no one seems concerned with this when the impromptu butt-loving is initiated.

Am I to believe that the untried, inexperienced heroine isn’t worried about what the hero will find when he dips his stick in her dark tunnel? Am I to believe that the perpetrator of this act, the hero, has not one single moment of hesitation when he wonders if there’s a double-decker knocking at the other side of his woman’s round door? Has this ever happened? Has a penis ever been denied entry to the Exclusive Anal Club by reason of “full occupancy”? I do not know. Perhaps someone could enlighten me.

Do not misunderstand, I have no wish to write a scene which includes such details nor do I want to read a scene that includes them. I’m merely pointing out the lack of poop in the fictional world of romance as an object of consideration. Am I alone in noticing? Do you question when, where, and how pooping is accomplished?

If only reality could be more like fiction. Without poop, the world would be a peaceful place, devoid of cart-filling, bank draining bundles of 4ply toilet-paper and smelly gas station restrooms. If life could eliminate poop, no wife would have to endure being asked, “So, you wanna do it?” Directly after hearing the harmonic sounds of her husband laying a log cabin in the thin-walled bathroom. Stomach cramps would never attack on a first date, rendering a woman incapable of a graceful exit. Without poop, all the adventurous lads and ladies out there could enjoy unplanned anal sex without fear of encountering the much lamented brown roadblock.

*Sigh* If only life were like fiction …

I’d like to thank Four Strong Women for inviting me to Guest Blog and also extend an invitation for everyone to stop by my personal blog, Supernaturally Challenged. If you like quirky rants about everything from publishing to parenting, you’ll love my blog.

I am currently working on an Urban Fantasy series, SURPRISINGLY SUPERNATURAL, under the name SJ Drum. I also have a Women’s Fiction novel set to be released through Eternal Press in February 2012 entitled A LIFE BEYOND YESTERDAY , written under the pen name Clara LaVeaux.

Bra Shopping with Men

2011-10-14T05:21:00.001-07:00

Hi, my name is Janice Seagraves. I’m a romance author. I want to thank Faith for allowing me this opportunity to post on the 4SW blog.

The other day my daughter and I went bra shopping with my husband and her boyfriend in tow. For women readers, I’m sure you’re very familiar with bra shopping. Have you ever gone shopping with the man in your life?

Yeah, that’s an experience, isn’t it?

My hubby usually vacates the area, fast. He says he’ll shop for manly things like jockeys, while I’m occupied with my feminine stuff. This time he did the usual, and you could hear him peeling out as his shoes made black marks on the tile at J.C. Penny’s.

After raising an eyebrow at her father’s quick exit, my daughter asked what she could get.

I pointed out the sale sign. Buy one bra and get the second one for half off. “Get two.”

My daughter found two bras.

“Try them on.”

She sighed.

“You still might have changed since then. After all, you did just lose weight,” I told her.d. “But these are the same ones I got last time.”

Daughter returned from the changing room, only to put the bras back. “I got bigger.” She hung her head.

I stared at her a moment. My daughter is the only woman I know who can simultaneously lose weight and get bigger boobs. How is that even possible?

“Then find the next size,” I said as I continued the search for my bra size.

I glanced at daughter’s BF. He kept his face impassive, but his eyes danced.

“I’m surprised you’re not doing cartwheels right through the middle of this store,” I told him.

BF grinned. “Oh, I keep that sort of thing to myself. But my inner pervert is doing cartwheels and flips on the monkey bars.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” I s

hook my head. What is it with cup sizes and men?

I made my own selections and went to the changing room. After struggling with my new shirt, which I discovered too late was hard to get off, and found that I had grabbed the wrong size bra. “What the heck. What size am I?” I looked at the tag on my bra from home, 44DD.

Crap.

Redressing, I went back out and looked for a 44DD.

My daughter found the right size bra, tried it on, and came back, but I was still looking.

“These fit. Can I have panties too?” she asked.

“Sure, if there’s a sale.”

“There is.”

“Okay.” I kept looking.

My husband bought his jockeys and came strolling back...and I’m still looking.

I put back yet another bra I can’t wear. By this time I’d reached the end of the bra section and the end of my rope.

“This is so not fair. I find all kinds of 42DDs and even a few of the 42DDDs, but not one single 44DD,” I wailed. Yeah, I’m loud when I’m upset and I don’t care who knows it.

At that moment, a saleswoman showed up as if she sprung out of the floor. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

While I was telling her my problem, loudly, my husband started to smile.

The saleswoman lookd me straight in the eyes and asked, “Are you sure that’s your size? Have you tried a 42DD?”

I gritted my teeth. “I just had on a 42DD and my cup was running over like this.” I mimed my molded over breasts with both hands. I glanced at my hubby and my daughter’s BF. “Sorry guys. I didn’t mean to be so graphic.”

“Oh, no problem at all.” My husband grinned from ear to ear and bounced on the balls of his feet.

My daughter yelled him. “Dad, stop smiling. It’s scary.”

My daughter’s BF whispered, “Your dad’s a pervert.”

Meanwhile the saleslady asked me, “Have you ever tried an extender?”

“Huh?” I stare at her like she had just grown two heads. What good would that do?

“A lot of women wear an extender on their bras. It really helps them,” she plowed on.

Hands on hips, I leaned toward the smaller woman. “Look, lady, if you haven’t noticed I’m a large woman. I need a 44DD, anything smaller just won’t do.” Was the woman even looking at the size of my tits?

The woman didn’t even blink at my outburst. “But an extender would—”

I let out a dramatic sigh. God, I really hate pushy sales people. “No, extender. It just wouldn’t work.”

My daughter reaches past me. “Here’s one. 44DD right?” She handed me a black bra.

“Well, hell. I was standing right next to it.” In the space of a minute we found two more.

I looked one over. “Oh, this is a pretty bra. And it’ll give me lots of support, too.” You don’t always find support and prettiness in the same bra when you’re my size.

My husband looked even happier, if that’s possible. “Support is good.”

BF shook his head. “Dirty old man.”

I went to the changing room and tried on the bra. It fit. It was supportive and pretty. I imagined angels were rejoicing in heaven. Hallelujah.

And then my daughter thrust a bra through the door at me. “Look, I found another one.”

“Yay, now I get the sale rate. Buy one, second half off.” I danced a jig as the angels in heaven launch into another louder chorus—Halle-lu-jah!

At the cash register, while I made small talk with the cashier, my daughter’s BF sidled up to me and whispered in my ear, “I hate to tell you this, but your husband is doing perverted things to the bras.”

“What?” I jerked my head toward my husband. His cheesy grin was still in place as he strolled down the center aisle. “What did he do?”

“He felt up the bras. He told me that you compliment the bra, ‘Silky’, and when your woman was in them, you use both hands, ‘Nice’. BF mimed what my husband did.

“Oh, good grief. The man will be the death of me yet.” Good thing I don’t get embarrassed easy. My mother would have been mortified.

I paid for our things, and my daughter picked up the bag. My husband joined us, and we headed out.

As we passed a manikin wearing a bra-and-panty set that show half its white plastic ass, my husband whipped his hand out, slapping it on the butt.

My mouth dropped open. “What did you just do?”

“It was presenting.” He grinned back at me. “What else was I supposed to do?”

“Uh, not hit the dummy on the ass would have been my choice.”

BF said, “See, he’s a big pervert.”

My daughter muttered, “Maybe you should hit him, mom.”

“Wouldn’t do any good.” I shrugged. “What is it with men and bra shopping anyway?”

“It brings out the inner pervert,” BF said. “That’s my theory, anyway.”

“I think you might be right.” We followed my smug husband back into wilds of the shopping mall.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Janice Seagraves grew up in a small California town. Her home is a hundred year old haunted house (she’s not kidding), where she lives with her husband and daughter, four overly affectionate cats (yeah, they have more), and a pet pigeon that is in love with her husband (also not kidding).

The writing bug hit her late at around twenty. However her art always drew her away from the characters in her head. After being diagnosed with tendonitis she found doing artwork painful, but she could still type and at last she turned her full attention to writing.

Her first book, Windswept Shores, is available through Pink Petal books.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Windswept Shores by Janice Seagraves
Cover Contest Winner
erotic contemporary romance
novel (approx 50K)
price $4.95
Cover Art by Pink Petal Books with assistance from Winterheart Design

BLURB:
The sole survivor of a plane crash, Megan is alone on a deserted island in the Bahamas until she finds a nearly-drowned man washed up on shore. Another survivor, this time from a boat wreck. With only meager survival skills between them, will they survive and can they find love?

Windswept Shores: http://pinkpetalbooks.com/Windswept-Shores-Janice-Seagraves.html

~*~*~

You can find Janice on her website: http://janiceseagraves.org/

And her blog: http://ladyjanice.blogspot.com/

Travel, tattoos and oops!

2011-10-13T06:02:00.001-07:00

So, I figured today I'd have all kinds of rangy things to talk about concerning my first lone trip out of my native Canada. Things to bitch about the airline poised on the brink of strike that flew me here, too-heavy luggage charges, ( turns out I'm just a wimp, and the luggage, despite the books, is not all that heavy), and messed up hotel reservations.

Not so.

While I did spend roughly two hours in various line ups at the airport, the line were constantly moving and every one of a dozen or so airline staff who needed to check my ticket and look at my passport...again...wereall very nice and cheerful. Especially the woman at the xray/scanner thingy when she saw my studded belt, seventeen bangle bracelets, and big-ass, 14 hole Doc Martins. She got a giant kick out of that. -incidentally, note to self: wear the flats on the way home!!!!

The flight got off the ground ten minutes ahead of schedule. Yes. Ahead of schedule. And there were enough empty seats on the itsy-bitsy plane no one had to share. We landed about fifteen minutes early.

The hotel? Gorgeous. Staff is kind and helpful, and everyone at the retreat: Awesome.

Sorry. Not ranty. The worst thing that happened so far was getting lost on the way to the tattoo parlor. But so what. We made it eventually, and my wrist is only mildly throbbing this morning.

Now, I'm off to register and have fun. More a later.

Cats Don't Need Opposable Thumbs...

2011-10-11T08:33:00.000-07:00

...and other common household mathematical facts.

Like, for instance, did you know that a husband's intelligence seems to be directly and inversely related to his ability to run a laundry machine? Meaning that if you marry a rocket scientist, or brain surgeon, don't expect him to wash your skivvies any time soon. Not if you want them to still fit when he's done.... *sigh*

Also, the noise expelled by pre-teen girls increases exponentially to the number of girls in the room. So if one girl creates 10 decibels of noise, two girls create 100 and three girls create 1000. After that, you might better off send them to the mall or sound-proof the family room. *headache*

Next: A young boy who can correctly categorize a hundred Hot Wheels by type and color in the space of ten minutes, (and know if mom put one in the wrong drawer) or sort Lego pieces into minute trays of like-sized bits, has no ability whatsoever to sort laundry into piles of jeans, towels and sport socks. At. All.

The same young boy who can walk over ten kilometers, without tiring, to the movie theater to watch Kungfu Panda cannot manage to walk the ten feet to his bedroom at the end of a movie he watched in his parent's bed. He's too 'wiped out'. Go figure.

Fast facts: (curtesy of boy curiosity)

> One small capful of dish detergent makes much more than one large washer-ful of suds.
> Eighteen feet of beaded Christmas garland is not enough to wrap up three cats

> cats cannot walk on water (even if the water is completely covered in soap suds and you've managed to convince the cat the bubbles are solid)
> The freezer will not reach room temperature if you leave it open all night, but the cats will knock the ice-cube trays on the floor and/or eat the left-over meatloaf. (Out of a sealed tuperware dish from the top shelf of the fridge-high afore-mentioned open freezer. This being why they apparently don't need opposable thumbs, because the dish wasn't broken or damaged in any way. Just open. And empty.) And, you will have tones of fish to eat, fast.

And last, but certainly not least: A mother/wife can lose her temper at speeds faster than light.

ETA: Two siblings who pick and poke and make each other cry daily can and will figure out the physics of how to knock over any playground bully who needs it in order to protect each other. (true story) How's that for weird and wonderful?

Now, I'm off on the drive to the airport hotel so in the morning, I can catch my plane to New Orleans and GayRomLit. my first writer's gathering. So, here is your homework: If the car is travelling at 120 km an hour and the airport is 337 km away, the plane travels at 900km/hr and New Orleans is 2056km away, and I start now, when will this writer arrive in New Orleans?

Answer: NOT BLOODY SOON ENOUGH!!!!! Expect picspam in my next post!!!!

The White-Knuckled Ride

2011-10-10T09:42:00.000-07:00

Please help us welcome Cassie Exline today.

~ ~ ~ ~

Hello to all. My name is Cassie Exline. I write tales of romance and mystery, always with a dash of humor. To those of you who don't know what I do for a living, I work full time for a weekly newspaper. In this day and age of the Internet, it's scary as to how long we'll last in the business. So far, we're hanging in there. The part of the USA I'm from prefers reading a real newspaper before using it to line the cat litter box. lol

Any seminar/lecture I can attend, I go. One never knows what will happen. My first seminar was great. On most loop groups, I'm more of a lurker but at that seminar, I raised my hand and participated. My heart almost jumped out of my chest, but at least I said something.

So recently when the chance came up to go to another seminar in our state capital, I was onboard. I'm not a big city driver but no worries, a coworker volunteered to drive all of us.

The seminar whooped my butt. It was a long day. Actually, truth be told, it was the coworker who drove who wore me down. I'm lucky to be alive, although I may take up drinking.

She's 20 and knows everything (remember that age?). She had a GPS and was going to blaze a trail to the seminar. Except she didn't know the address, which was on the forms we received. Thank god I was a Boy Scout in a previous life and had printed out directions and a map. She programmed in the address, turned the radio full blast and her mouth shifted into gear. That girl talked non-stop. Within minutes she had us barreling down the Interstate -- going the wrong direction.

We got her turned around and she tailgated in the right direction. Be still my heart. I thought my ticker was going to jump out of my chest. Keep in mind, our boss is riding with us in the backseat (the coward). I was riding shotgun, which had had one.

Barb (boss) kept asking, "Aren't we too close to that car?"

To which, Laura would say, "Oh, okay." She'd backed off for a split second and then we're in someone else's trunk.

Luck be a lady and we arrived, shakened and stirred. No open bar to be found, like who cared if it was only 8:45 in the morning! I survived and wanted to celebrate. Bartender!!

Sad to say, the seminar was boring. The speakers were hyping their own books. Yes, I said books! But when one male speaker started dropping the "f-bomb" I woke up. My boss was chewing nails. She has strict rules about behavior. We're not even allowed to smoke, technically she'd prefer if we never spoke, but she can't have everything. lol

But all good things must come to an end and for the return trip, I was the navigator. We were heading in the right direction. Several times that menace tried to get off the Interstate and take the wrong road. We're yelling, "NO!"

Fortunately the traffic was widely spaced so her chances were limited to ride someone's bumper until our exit from the Interstate mere miles from home base.

Even after we got to a small town, which is close to ours, a town she has traveled a lot, Laura tried to turn the wrong direction.

By now it was dusk. Five cars in front of us slowed and stopped, brake lights beamed bright red and we were zooming in for the crunch. At the last minute she slammed on the brakes and said, "Didn't see that. Maybe I should let some space and pay attention." Ya think?

That decision lasted for nano seconds. We were once more stalking a bumper. Never was I so glad to see the office and my car. I leaped out of her car and fought the urge to drop and kiss the pavement.

Did I learn anything from the seminar? Yes, never ever ride with Laura and "f-bombs" are a stimulant.

~ ~ ~ ~

Blurb:

An old college friend begs Sheryl to help find her missing cousin, Opal, who may have been kidnapped by a mysterious mountain man. When all leads are exhausted, Sheryl concocts a dangerous plan—she becomes bait for the kidnapper and alleged murderer.

But will she survive her plan? Or is this Sheryl's last mystery?

Buy.

~ ~ ~ ~

Cassie works for a small town newspaper along the east coast of the United States. Writing has been her passion. She writes romance to melt the heart and mysteries to chill the spine. Her stories have been published at Ruthie's Club, The Erotic Woman, Justus Roux, and Erotic Bookworm. Her three ebooks in the Sheryl Locke Holmes Series, Amber's Mysterious Death, Ruby's Deadly Secret, and Opal's Disappearance can be purchased at Wild Child Publishing. Next book in the Holmes series is Dragon's Pearl. Cassie also has a story, Fire & Ice, published in the anthology Coming Together: With Pride, available in ebook & print at Amazon and All Romance. She's a member of Erotica Author's Association, Erotica Readers & Writers Association and Desdmona's FishTank.

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Zip It...Zip It Good!

2011-10-07T10:09:00.002-07:00

Some days, I wish I could zip another person's mouth, or, at the very least, remind them of the old adage If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all? Well, most people don't live by that, even if they should. I know I don't at times. I know I rant here and say some unkind things about people in general, although rarely one person in particular. So, I do try to be nice (it's a struggle some days), or if I am going to say something not so nice, I'll save it for the bedroom with Charlie where I know it won't go anywhere. Even still, things will slip out at times, but I am getting better at biting my tongue.

However, I am ever amazed at how people seemed to think I care about their opinion, especially when it disagrees with mine. (g) I mean, really, do they honestly think that they can change my mind by insulting me?

For instance, I know a few people whose political viewpoints are diametrically opposed to mine in many ways, yet they insist on talking to me about them. Why? Even if I try to meet them in the middle (and I don't always, because, well, they are wrong after all (grin)), they won't budge. It's their way or the highway.

Eh. That's fine. I feel the same. I'll just listen to them blather on while I search for my escape route. (grin)

People have opinions on everything. Frequently, those opinions diverge from mine. So, um, I spend a lot of time silent. (grin) Something you learned about me today: if I'm not trying to add anything to a conversation, it probably means I don't agree with you. (grin) Aren't you lucky I've held my tongue?

And doesn't it drive you nuts when someone argues with you? It's like running into a brick wall. I've had people spend more than an hour trying to convince me I am wrong, that I must agree with them, that I can't possibly mean what I said.

O.o

No matter how much I try to end the conversation politely, they won't stop. It's like diarrhea of the mouth. If they want to do that, do it somewhere else. I'm so not into it. And arguing with me will only make me more set in my ways, because I'm ornery that way. (grin) I don't like to be told what to do. (grin)

This did happen recently. It pissed me off, but I bit my tongue and bore it. Should it happen again, I'm not sure how polite I will be as I've been there already. Although I had lots of unkind thoughts running through my head, mixed with a good dollop of sarcasm. (grin)

Just because they disagree with me does not make them right. Maybe for them, but not for me.

But it reminded me that I can be just as obnoxious if I'm not careful. I'll certainly be more careful in the future...or not, if you've already irritated me, I may not listen to the angel on my shoulder. (grin)

Braving Breast Implants, or Things my Doctor Didn’t Tell Me

2011-10-05T05:00:00.000-07:00

***Okay, put down the beverages before you read guest author Toni V. Sweeney's blog. You were warned, lol.***

I was one of those women who always envied anyone who had cleavage.) As a size 32AA, I had a right, I felt. When I was in college, there was a British Model named Twiggy, with the remarkable measurements of 21-21-21. Not to remarkable…so did I. Not that I was a famous model or was British or anything like that, but sharing Twiggy’s measurements was kind of a claim to fame. I was one of those poor, deprived girls whose dresses fit everywhere except at the top, whose lingerie drawer was filled with bras that didn’t fit unless they were filled with those abominably embarrassing foam rubber creations called falsies.

Even when I was a dancer, the falsie was a major part of my costume wardrobe. (jpg#1) Not the pasty, which was a teensy little nipple-covering, all sequined and glittered and hiding hardly anything, but a breast-shaped piece to fill the front of my costume and make my bottom and my top symmetrical. Sometimes, if I lost weight, I actually had to double-up and wear two—one inside the other—on each side! My mother, who was a stage mother par excellence and a Mommie Dearest in her own way, always made certain I wore a padded bra when I was measured for my costumes, bringing me up to a 34-A. Otherwise when they were completed and I went to try them on, they would be too large and loose at the top.

With the advent of Jane Russell, Marilyn Monroe, and Jayne Mansfield, all ladies whose acting talents generally were ignored in favor of their well-endowed upper stories, I felt even more slighted. But, I would sigh, what can I do? Big boobs just weren’t in my genetic material. In that day and time, in my neck of the woods, breast enhancement, which would’ve meant silicone injections, just wasn’t done by the ordinary woman in the street. And after the news story of one fatality occurring when the silicone was injected into a lung instead of a breast, I wasn’t certain I’d want to. (That may or may not have been an urban legend.)

Let’s fast-forward a couple of decades.

Now I’m sitting in a doctor’s office, wearing a paper gown and waiting for the awful news. I found a lump. Yup, it’s cancer. Do the biopsy. Have the radation therapy. Hug what’s left of that pitiful little knot and pretend everything’s A-OK. So I did that, but I was also thinking: Nowadays, people who have breast surgery can have breast reconstruction surgery also. Well, I’d had one…so why couldn’t I have the other?

Answer: I could. (Yay! Or not. Let’s proceed…)

So I began the reconstruction process and believe me, it was probably just as painful as the one the South went through right after the War Between the States!

The actual convalescence wasn’t so bad, other than the fact that I couldn’t use my right arm for a while and had to give up swimming. Giving up doing housework wasn’t so bad, however. Now I had the excuse, “I can’t sweep with one hand,” or “How can I wash dishes with just one hand?” or “I need someone to carry in the groceries for me.” Good way to get volunteers all around while I sat there looking helpless and invalid-ish.

It was what came after the convalescence, when the bandages were removed and the stitches came out, and I was dismissed from care. No one had prepared me for what going from 32AA to 38C was going to involve after I was once more pronounced able and fit. And that was the first thing I noticed.

Nothing fit any more.

All my clothes were suddenly too tight in the bosom. To be more precise, I couldn’t even get some of them on because I suddenly had so much up front. It was like trying to cram a Roman legionnary’s breastplate into a skin-tight leotard. Though the skirts of dresses fit, the tops didn’t, so I soon found myself buying new dresses and blouses. A whole new wardrobe. That wasn’t so bad. And bigger bras. But at least now, when I invested in something with a plunging neckline (and I suddenly find myself with a whole closetful of those), there was something there to see.

Then, another problem revealed itself.

No one had bothered to point out that when you have large breasts, they have a tendency to fall against each other when you roll over. I found that out the hard way. By doing it. And you know what? It hurt! There is nothing to describe the pain When Boobs Collide. I solved that problem with pillows. Now, there were three instead of two on the bed. One for me, two for the girls. It became a routine. If I went to turn over, no matter to left or right, I had to wake up, place one pillow under the outside of the breast to be laid on, tuck another between my boobies, then ve-e-r-r-y gentle…roll over. The pain gradually went away as I got accustomed to what I was carrying around up front but for a few months, I didn’t get much sleep.

The third problem also made itself known when I tried to sleep. I had trouble breathing. Whenever I lay flat on my back, I would soon start to do a Big Bad Wolf imitation, huffing and puffing and gasping the longer I lay that way. I tried to ignore it, convinced it would go away. When I went for a check-up, I asked surgeon about the weight of the implants. The average implant weighs 12 ounces, she said. Mine were probably closer to 16. So I had two extra pounds inside my chest wall, putting that much extra weight on my lungs.

Having now abandoned the pillows, I always sleep on my side nowadays.

Doing surgery on the breasts can also involve cutting nerves. At first I thought the numbness in my chest was simply from invasive shock. I soon found out it wasn’t. Even after six months, my entire chest had no feeling. I found this out in an embarrassing way…by wearing a tube top. With no sensation, I had no idea it had slid down around my waist until I passed by a mirror and happen to glance at it. My desensitized boobs were happily bouncing above what appeared to be a red elasticized cummerbund! Hasty grab. Pull it up. Swear from now on to never wear anything that doesn’t have straps.

At this date, ten years after surgery, I now have 50% sensation in my breasts. The day I had that surgery, I lost my second-best erogenous zone. Bummer!

The last problem is a more ridiculous one: Crumbs in the cleavage. I love potato chips, crackers, and all those crispy, crunchy things. BI (Before Implants), if I dropped a piece of chip or bit into a particularly crumbly cracker or cookie, or there was a slip betwixt the cup and the lip, I knew exactly where it was going to fall. Right into my lap. So I’d pick up the chip and finishing eating it, brush off the crumbs, or hope my napkin had caught the soup, coffee, sauce, whatever. AI (After Implants), where does everything fall? You guessed it. Right in the cleavage! I’ve fished out so many fragments of Pringles and Doritos (sometimes with salsa), peanuts, popcorn, pulled my blouse away from my body to shake out crumbs, and mopped up so much sphagetti sauce and other semi-liquids from between the Valley of the Dolls, I’m reminded of the famous “Hunt for the Dumpling” scene from Hello, Dolly! On occasion, if there’s no one else around, I actually tie a dish towel around my neck and let the food fall where it will!

Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t swap these babies for what I used to have, nor would I chose to go back to being a one-and-half boob wonder, nor do I wish to be 32AA again. I just wish someone had warned me about all this, so I could’ve been prepared. It would be nice to have a veteran of the Reconstruction Wars sit down with a would-be candidate and tell her what exactly is what.

I still have to go back for the final phase of reconstruction and I don’t even like the sound of it: nipple re-positioning.

I don’t even want to think what new and adventurous avenues that’s going to open up!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Toni V. Sweeney was born in the South but has lived the past two-score years in the mid-West and the sunny state of California. She’s the author of 30 novels, written in various genres depending on her mood when she sits before the computer. Approximately one-third of those were written before her surgery and the other two-thirds afterward (not that this is an incentive for creativity). Her current offerings are Runaway Brother by her pseudonym Icy Snow Blackstone (Class Act Books, http://www.classactbooks.com/Runaway-Brother-by-Icy-Snow-Blackstone-Trade_p_308.html) and Bride of the Beast under her own name (Smashwords, http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/88085) All joking aside, Toni urges all women to do self breast exams to help detect breast cancer.

Really, It's all in her Head

2011-10-03T06:00:00.000-07:00

I have come to the conclusion that most men view sex as the cure all for whatever ails you. If you are depressed, have sex. It gets your endorphins going, and it will make you feel better. If you are sick, have sex. It gets the blood pumping, and it will make you feel better. If you've broken your leg, have sex. All of the blood will rush somewhere other than your broken leg, and, for that moment in time, you will feel better. If you are angry, have angry sex. It will make you feel better.

Hm... I think this may work better for men than women. Why? Well, while the blood does rush somewhere else, making it difficult for men to concentrate, women can multitask. It's a blessing...and a curse.

While a man might be able to "forget" most everything when he's having sex, for a woman, it's not so easy. Here's a little scene to illustrate the point (Ladies, correct me if I'm wrong and insert whatever your lover, significant other, husband says to convince you otherwise.):

Man: I'm horny.

Woman: It's not a good night, honey. (What she's really thinking: Touch me, and I might incinerate you.)

Man: What's the matter?

Woman: It's been a bad day. I've got a lot on my mind. (You haven't noticed? I've been in a rotten mood all evening. Yeah, so, um, incineration is looking more likely with each passing breath you take.)

Man: I know what will make you feel better.

He makes some lewd movement that at any other time would make the woman laugh. Not that night. She's in a bad mood. It just irritates her more.

Woman: Tonight it won't.

Man: So why are you so upset?

Woman: Work, school stuff for the kids. You wouldn't believe what the school did today.

Man: Isn't that typical, though? Work and kids school? Both are irritating. Just let it slide. Let's enjoy the evening.

Woman looks at man and sighs: It isn't that easy.

It is to him. He reaches out and rubs her arm, a twinkle in his eye. She sighs again and wonders if he is right, if sex would help...just this once. Well, she knows it probably won't, but decides to try it anyway.

Man is getting all excited. All of his sex buttons are being pushed. Woman is trying, but her mind is whirling with all of the crap that's happened that day. She still has to email her co-worker (the one who's been talking smack behind her back) and get him to cooperate; she has to schedule an appointment with the teacher to see if she can resolve the issue with the kid who's been picking on her kid and somehow stay calm while doing it.

In the meantime, the man is saying, "Oh, baby, yes, that's how you do it."

The woman is silent, but thinking, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck them all! And if that John (her co-worker) ruins this project to make me look bad, I'll toast him." The anger is building, but not the excitement. She realizes she needs to focus if she's to get any pleasure, but it's hard. She brings her mind to the matter at hand, so to speak, and attempts to silence the voices in her head. They keep popping in and pointing out something else that damn co-worker did, or what she'll say to the teacher when they finally do meet, or how her jeans don't fit like they use to because, you know, if she's going to be in a bad mood, she might as well fuel it some more. She decides again that if she's going to go through the motions, she might as well get something from it.

However, it's not that easy. If the woman manages to quiet the screaming gremlins in her head about all the stupidity that went on that day and actually have an orgasm, she's lucky. It doesn't always happen. And it doesn't usually relieve her angry mood.

So, while sex may seem like the cure all to men, to women, not so much. We are contrary and complex creatures at times. It's just our make up.

I wonder what would happen if women actually said what was on their mind during sex when they weren't into it. Do you think it would kill the mood? (grin) Would the man think twice about asking the woman if he knew what was really going on in her head? (Men, you don't want to know. ;) )

More importantly, whether a woman wants sex with her lover, husband, or significant other when she's depressed, angry, or sick or not rarely has anything to do with how she feels him/her or if she finds him/her sexy. Really, it's all in her head because, sex, to her, is not the cure all. It's enjoyable, it makes her toes curl at times, it can be an expression of her love, but it doesn't cure what ails her. It just doesn't. You'd need to perform a lobotomy to do that, and even then, I don't think it would work. (grin)