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May 31, 2006

Introducing Guest Chick Caridad Ferrer!!

or, as we call her, "Barb"

We ADORE Barb/Caridad, having known her since she was a teensy little writer struggling to make a living selling stuffed armadillos to tourists on the streets in Texas . . .

No, wait. Wrong story.

Barb/Caridad Ferrer is a first generation, bilingual Cuban-American, born in Manhattan and raised in Miami, all of which she realizes pretty much makes her a walking cliché. However, it also means she speaks Spanish reasonably fluently, at least enough to be able to employ all the good words in her writing. (You know the ones, right? If you don’t— just ask , she’ll tell you.)

She is an AMAZINGLY talented writer and ASTONISHINGLY musically gifted. Plus, she's drop-dead gorgeous and has this Latina Sydney Bristow from ALIAS thing going on, so she can kick your ass if you disagree with me. Not that you would, but I'm just saying.

Despite many, many, MANY years of music training and a deep desire to be the Next Big Thing on Broadway, Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth beat her to it, the witches. This doesn’t mean she hasn’t achieved success in the musical arena— it just means she did it in a bass-ackwards sort of way, perfectly in keeping with her personality.

See, her first book, Adiós to My Old Life, is set in the crazed world of a televised music talent show with a Latin American twist and is being published by MTV Books. Yes. That MTV.

Imagine the shock and wonder at the discovery that there were commercials. On MTV. With her book cover. Hittin’ the big time, baby!

Adiós to My Old Life is, according to one author, FANTASTIC (hee!): ""This brilliant debut resonates with the sparkling rhythm of Ali's talent. Her path to independence via reality show madness makes us cheer for her every step of the way . . . because all a girl really needs is love, laughter, and a rocking guitar."

Plus, talented Chica Lit author Mary Castillo just named Adiós to My Old Life as one of her Top Five Summer Reads, as quoted in the Orange County news at Squeeze OC! Finally, you can find her at MySpace, where are the cool kids hang!
And what could be cooler than that?? So stay tuned for musical madness, living La Vida Ferrer! (We here at the LC are hoping her "cool" factor rubs off on us . . .)

Oh, and as always, keep your eyes open for news of the LC and Caridad's contest to win a copy of the book!! Because it's brilliant. So you might want to, you know, preorder it now. Just in case. So you can be cool, too.

Adiós!
Alesia

Posted by Alesia at 6:00 AM | Comments (5)

May 30, 2006

Spring News at the LC

Another holiday weekend, and guess who is left here at the office to clean up the mess from the barbecue?? That's right, me, Jonathan “Jazz” Terlicki, the Literary Chicks’ office manager, wardrobe coordinator, and general genius-of-all-trades. (Whitney INSISTS upon leaving her sticky margarita glasses EVERYWHERE!!!)

Right now I’m sitting on the garden/terrace here at the LC offices, surrounded by yet another mess to clean up. Let’s just say that a little break to "clean up" the last of the tequila and send out this short note about what my darling Lit Chicks are up to these days is a great way to break up my underappreciated day . . .

Okay, enough about moi. On to the FAB news of each of our brilliant and beautiful authors:

The lovely Lani’s hot news is the BESTSELLER LIST!! Her marvelous new release - THE COMEBACK KISS, hit the Barnes and Noble bestseller list at Number 15!!! Also, her rocking romantic comedy from 2005, MAYBE BABY, finalled in the Madcap Awards for best romantic comedy of 2005!! We here at the LC are totally unsurprised - and did I mention that Lani's hunky heroes never, EVER wear red pants with yellow shirts? (I mean, Fish. DUDE. 'Nuff said.) Please visit our Lovely Lani at her website!!

The amazing Whitney is busy working on a book that many of our LC readers should relate to - THE MOMMY WARS . She also has a super-secret deal in the works - stay tuned!! Also, in between an awful lot of telling Sam the amazing hurricane child NO, she is gearing up for the release of TESTING KATE,which will be out in October. Please check out Whitney's book project and other news at her website!

Beth, the token badass Lit Chick (oh, geez, I giggle when I say that!) is crazy busy and pretending she doesn't have much going on. She's ONLY in the midst of writing the third "310" book (out March 2007); gearing up for the release of the second in August 2006; finishing copyedits for NEARLYWEDS, her holiday-themed marital comedy (November 2006), and watching COMMERCIALS ABOUT HER BOOK ON FREAKING MTV!!!! (But does she invite ME to the MTV parties??? Does Jazz get to meet Mariah Carey, my idol??? NOOOOOOOO. I'm just saying. BETH.) Please visit the brilliant Beth online at her website for details!!

Our enchanting Michelle – the official LC European jetsetter – is gearing up for yet another European mini-tour and shepherding Teen #1 and Teen #2 through exams and the end of college. She's freshly back from an appearance in the States with Lani and will soon be packing to meet us all in Atlanta!! (Yes, they're going to drag me along to that one to carry their bookmarks and whatnot.) Michelle is also in the process of her own super secret project – deets soon!! – and wanted to remind us about the upcoming book about the rocking TV show DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES!! Welcome to Wisteria Lane! Please visit Michelle online at her site for all the details - she's busy trying to translate the copies of the Indonesian version of 32AA!!!!

The marvelous Eileen is pleased as punch to announce that BALANCING IN HIGH HEELS is a finalist for the Beacon Award, an award for published authors given by the First Coast Romance Writers, in the Chick Lit category and that it also took first place in the Mainstream with Strong Romantic Elements category in the Lories, an award given by the From the Heart Romance Writers.

Her latest release, UN-BRIDALED, got a sentence and a half in People Magazine and she is still basking in the glory of being in the same magazine as Julia Roberts.

She has also gone another week without strangling either of her adorable wonderful and yet ever-so-adolescent children. Perhaps that doesn't seem like a big accomplishment to others, but to her it is a very big deal right now. Please see all of Eileen's's news and appearances at her website!!

Our wounded Alesia (yes, she broke her toe at the pool, sliced half her thumb off getting ready for a barbecue, got burned with a pan and smacked in the head with a lawn chair cusion - do these holiday weekends TAKE THEIR TOLL or what???) is worn out from all of her travels over the past two months, but she had a TOTAL BLAST! Now she's gearing up for the release of SEVEN WAYS TO LOSE YOUR LOVER, which just got a FOUR AND A HALF STAR REVIEW from Romantic Times BookClub! They said: "Holliday does it again! The reader won't be able to put down this uproariously funny story filled with colorful and heartwarming characters."

Well, enough about them. Let’s talk about ME. I’m writing a TELL-ALL EXPOSE about the secret lives of the LC, and . . . oh, crap. That’s the phone. I promised to drive Alesia to the ER and get that toe taped. Well, CIAO for now!! And be sure to stay tuned for news of our ROCKING SPECIAL GUEST FOR JUNE!! -- Oh, and a special guest star week - THE MEN OF THE LC. Yep, you heard it here first. Now back to that expose . . . .
Smooches,
Jazz

Posted by Alesia at 2:36 PM | Comments (3)

May 28, 2006

Summertime

and the livin' is literary...

How many of you have to work this weekend? Raise your hands. Me, too! Due to somewhat tight deadlines and egregiously poor time-management skills, I’m stuck spending this holiday weekend indoors with only my sharpened red pencil and a mountain of copyedits to keep me company. (Mr. Tall is also working. But the dogs say they may fire up the barbecue and make a pitcher of margaritas later. Traitors.) So I’m daydreaming about what I’ll do when I have more free and the answer, of course, is read.

Here’s what’s on my to-be-read list. Please feel free to make additional suggestions:

Labyrinth by Kate Mosse. No, not THAT Kate Moss. (I think.) This book comes highly recommended by a librarian friend, and it’s supposed to be chock full of twists and turns and scandal and mystery, paralleled through time, with one heroine living in present day and the other living 800 years ago, protecting the Grail in France. Sort of a female DaVinci Code.

The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova. Another epic novel that spans centuries, continents, and ten pounds of intrigue in a one pound bag. Castles, crypts, and Dracula figure heavily into the plot. Nothin’ wrong with that! This was the “it” book last summer, and I missed it, so it’s top of my list this year. Don’t tell anyone I’m behind the trend.

Honeymoon With My Brother by Franz Wisner. I see these guys every year at the L.A. times Book Festival, and they’re always funny and adorable. This is the true story of how one of them got left at the altar by his bride-to-be, and since he had non-refundable tickets for his honeymoon in Costa Rica, he ended up taking the trip with (you guessed it) his brother. And then they both ended up quitting their jobs and traveling the globe for two years. Men. This memoir has been sitting on my to-be-read pile for ages, but its time has finally come! If the narrative is half as engaging as the authors, it’ll be a gem.

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert. Somehow, I never got around to reading this, even though I was an English major in college. But after reading Whitney’s juicy summary, how can I resist?

Shadow Divers by Robert Kurson. The true story of two scuba divers who discover a German U-Boat sunk off the coast of…New Jersey??? Everyone said they were crazy, including the government. But after an elite diving team confirms the find, the obsession begins and the mysteries start to unravel. I’m not much into diving or WWII, but everyone who's read it gushed that they couldn’t put the book down, so I’m going to see for myself.

Make Him Look Good by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez. I recently attended one of Alisa’s signings and she hooked me after reading one scene from this novel. It’s smart, funny, and is rumored to be inspired by the behind-the-scenes antics of a certain Latino superstar. Count me in.

Devil’s Teeth by Susan Casey. A non-fiction account about two biologists toughing it out in really, really inhospitable terrain to study really, really vicious sharks with really, really sharp teeth who will kill you as soon as look at you. Sold!

Of course, I’ll also be reading my fellow literary chicks’ and all my author friends’ books-- that goes without saying. But none of them write about bloodthirsty sharks (yet), so sometime you have to expand your horizons. So what about you guys? What books are you dying to dive into?

Posted by Beth at 2:46 PM | Comments (3)

May 27, 2006

The N-Word

Just Say No

There’s a debate within Mommy Circles that I just don’t get. It involves the n-word.

The n-word? you ask, shocked that there would be any question at all about the use of pejorative terms around the Sesame Street set.

But I’m not talking about that n-word . . . it’s the other one.

No.

That’s right: no. No is a big no-no. (Hee!) It’s very fashionable among crunchy parental units to call an ix-nay on the word. I’m not exactly sure why – something about self-esteem or re-directing energy, or excessive negativism. Frankly, I’m too busy screaming “no!” at Sam four-hundred times a day to be bothered to find out. Redirecting is all well and good . . . right up until your toddler runs headlong into traffic. And then the n-word is quite a useful tool to keep in your parenting kit.

In fact, here’s a sampling of our day today:

While George is teetering on top of a ladder, installing our new drapes, Sam decides to imitate Daddy and climb up the ladder after him.

Me: Sam! No!

* * * * * * *

Sam performs a headstand on top of our glass coffee table, bracing his feet precariously against the couch.

Me: SAM! NO! N-O! I mean it!

* * * * * * *

While out at dinner, Sam stands up on the vinyl-seated booth, and begins to jump up and down, as though he’s on a trampoline.

Me: SAMUEL FINN GASKELL! I SAID NO!

George: Uh-oh, buddy. She used your whole name. You’re in trouble now.

* * * * * * *

Are you sensing a trend?

Where would I be without no? I can tell you where: stuttering and searching for a word that will stop the Blonde Tornado in his tracks before he does something so breathtakingly stupid and/or dangerous it will land us in the Emergency Room for the rest of the weekend.

So, I’m keeping the word no, thank you very much. In fact, maybe I’ll even buy a Reagan-era t-shirt, one that reads: JUST SAY NO. That'll show the Mother Superiors.

Posted by Whitney at 7:59 PM | Comments (13)

May 26, 2006

Back to Life.

Back to Reality.

I'm back from RT 2006. I am no longer an RT Virgin. (Hmmm. Maybe I should have used Madonna lyrics instead of En Vogue). This is no longer the view from my window.

And yet, I'm still happy to be home.

Maybe it was the extended game of What's That Smell? that I got to play almost immediately upon walking in the door. Maybe it was scheduling that Mother-Daughter Mammogram I'll be having soon. Maybe it was addressing envelopes for the high school football team's fundraiser or the Field Marshal training I went through for the soccer tournament this upcoming weekend (please remember to click your heels together and salute when I come into the room) or being immediately thrust into intense menu negotiations between Sissy #1 and Sissy #2 as we wrestle over what we're serving at my mother's 80th birthday party.

Aw, heck, maybe it was just being back with my guys, in my house, in my bed, in my life.

I would love to be the glittery Tooth Fairy from Alesia's pictures all the time, but it just ain't me. It was incredible fun to pretend for a week that I was a shiny party girl or a fishnet-stockinged daredevil and dance until midnight every night (and then get up the next morning and go sit up in front of a room of people and try to string cogent sentences together), but to be honest, the shoes pinched and some of the dresses didn't fit so well.

There really is no place in my regular life where I can wear fishnet stockings or glittery light-up high heels. In fact, most days I end up having to remind myself to go get out of my jammies. They certainly are comfy though.

In some ways, coming home was the best part of the week. Being away made me appreciate being here a little more. So as I shove those dresses into the drycleaning bag and hang the fishnets up to dry, it's with only a little regret.

Of course, Nationals are only two months away . . . maybe I can haul this outfit again.

Posted by Eileen at 11:04 AM | Comments (7)

May 25, 2006

A picture's worth a thousand words

or at least some blackmail money

Okay, not to name any names, but Marianne as the Goth Fairy and Cindy as Legolas were just TOO CUTE!!! And, yes, finally the picture of me with RED hair. What do you think??

And may I say that at least Fish gets to WEAR clothes with color - Navy Guy pretty much wears the same thing day after day after day after . . . well, you get the point.

And EILEEN . . .

was apparently the Tooth Fairy.

But it gets BETTER . . . a rocking good time was had by all. And I really, REALLY wish you were all there!!!

hugs,
Alesia, still recovering

Posted by Alesia at 8:47 PM | Comments (11)

May 24, 2006

On Keyboards...

..and the power of four!

So, while I am sitting here right now, Oh Patient One is in the kitchen plotting The Downfall Of Humanity, Teenager #1 (who is, yay!, staying with us for the summer) is watching an X Men DVD with a dictionary balanced on her head, and Teenager #2 is lecturing me about Dead Faeries. I, on the other hand, am mentally debating why it takes four trips to the electronics store to purchase a finger operated input device for this computer...

Before I get started on my rant, let me explain that Oh Patient One is also a writer, therefore his Downfall Of Humanity is a science fantasy kind of downfall. Teenager #1 is not training to become either an actor or a model (she's also a writer and is testing the book on head thing for some whimsical plot detail - don't ask). And Teenager #2 , who is not really a Faerie murderer, but IS also - you guessed - a writer, is currently half-way through his current work in progress, entitled Dead Faeries.

Yes, Michelle, but what does all of this have to do with the price of bread, I hear you cry?

Absolutely nothing, LOL. So, back to my input device issues...

A few weeks ago the keyboard for this computer finally had to go when the serial port malfunctioned. It was a good little keyboard. It had survived multitudes of people pounding the keys, the indignity of crumbs of cheese and other assorted snacks wedged between its keys, and various drinks spilled on it (including Shiraz wine), and being dropped on the floor and jumped on by various frustrated persons, but we won't go into that right now...

So we packed off Good Little Keyboard to keyboard heaven (we ceremoniously placed it in the trash can and said a few encouraging words. I cried...).

It was time to go and buy a new, state of the art keyboard. But when Oh Patient One and I got to the electronics store, we were just completely overwhelmed by the choice. Wall to wall keyboards of every color and style! (Well, black, white or gray, anyway.) The choice, the choice! Who knew? But in the end we settled on a mid-range, wireless keyboard, because less wires and no USB or serial port is easier, right? It sounded absolutely fabulous according to the blurb, I mean, this thing would get up on the table and dance naked for us! (Although keyboards don't technically need clothes. And the fabulousness explanation WAS in Dutch).

Not so fabulous, inexplicably, for us.

It worked for about two weeks, and then kept freezing up (due to lack of clothes?), and we got impatient, so we trekked back to the electronics store. This time we bought a mid-range USB keyboard, and it was fine until we had to reboot this bloody computer because...

Every time you reboot this bloody computer, you get an error message along the lines of, "This computer's hard disk will self-destruct in ten seconds unless you hit the F2 key right now." We're not worried about this, the computer's been telling us this for at least two years, and it's been a crappy computer from the word go, and we're just waiting for it to finally die so that we can buy a new one. But, back to the F2 issue. See, we can't do anything with this bloody computer unless we can get through the F2 issue. And apparently, the new USB keyboard had its function keys reconfigured for something or other, so pressing F2 didn't do what it was supposed to do (it didn't even get up on the table and dance naked!). We couldn't work out how to get to the "real" F2 because the instructions were, of course, like every electronics device we buy here, in every language except English, and our technical Duch isn't quite up to par.

Back to the computer store for a third time...

We got another USB keyboard, this time with the assurance of a sales person that it wasn't preprogrammed and the F2 key would definitely do what it was supposed to do and stop this computer from self-destructing in ten seconds...plus, it didn't dance on the table naked, which was fine by us.

Guess what? The keyboard is perfect! It is sublime! It even looks cute!

At least it was until last night, when somebody accidentally spilled a drink on it, and it had a nervous breakdown, never to work again!

So, guess where I went today, and guess what I bought?

Michelle

Posted by Michelle at 2:06 PM | Comments (10)

May 23, 2006

Husbands Dressing Badly

Remember as you read this that Fish asked me to do this...

Well, good morning, Chicklets! Before we get started today, I wanted to send a big cyber-smooch from the L.C. to our guest this month, Kayla Perrin! Kayla, it's been great having you here - thanks for joining us! And everyone else - be sure to check out Kayla's latest release, Getting Even!

In more mundane news, it's been another wild and adventurous week here in Casa Rich. Every single one of us got our own personal variety of hacking cough this week, and it's been loads of fun. Buy stock in Robitussin. That's all I'm saying.

So. I thought it might be a good idea, as we move into wedding season, to give some seasoned advice to all the younguns out there about to get hitched. I have no advice on the actual wedding, because I went to Vegas. My wedding, bouquet and all, cost $254. So, when it comes to weddings, I got nothing.

When it comes to husbands, however...

... well, that's another story. This is my advice.

Don't let him dress himself.

That's pretty much it. I mean, the rest of it you really have to negotiate for yourself. Whether you let him walk all over you or make him tow your line is really between you guys. (I recommend somewhere in the middle, but to each their own.) But how he presents himself in public does reflect on you, and if he doesn't know the very basics of how to dress himself (or your children, but that's a different blog altogether) things can get... tense.

For example...

Fish has seriously, in all earnest, requested that I put this up here in response to the request for a more up-to-date picture of him, because he thinks it's totally insane that I will not let him out of the house wearing this getup. He thinks this is some sharp dressing. And no, before you ask, he's not colorblind.

Now, I'll be the first to admit. I'm no fashionista. I'm just barely able to dress myself well enough to leave the house. But this? Even I know this is just insane. So, we've been fighting over this for a few weeks - he still hasn't left the house wearing this, a point for Team Sanity - and when someone asked for an up-to-date picture of him, this was actually his idea. He wanted to throw it out to the Chicklets. So, dear Chicklets... go ahead and tell us what you really think of this outfit. Fish wants to know.

Me, on other hand? I think I need another shot of Robitussin.

Posted by Lani at 7:03 AM | Comments (33)

May 22, 2006

Hot Bods, Hot Rods, and Eileen's Shoes

Cyber chocolate for those of you who missed RT

Ah, the Romantic Times Convention. I can't believe another year has come and gone! And what a fabulous convention it was!

First of all, the guys were really HOT. The hottest bodies I've seen since . . . well, since last year's RT convention when the Ellora's Cave models got down and dirty on the dance floor with hundreds of excited women. One of those hot models, Rodney Chatham, was a contestant this year. I was smitten with him last year, impressed that he was married and let everyone know it while they relentlessly fondled his rock hard abs. (Admission here: I fondled those magnificent arms of his--hot man, sexy smile--how could I resist?)

Anyway, Rodney was an absolute sweetheart, and I was happy to see him as one of this year's entrants. Well, maybe I was just happy to see him with his shirt off again. (A single girl MUST get her thrills somewhere, after all). Regardless, Rodney clearly impressed many others, as he was crowned this year's Mr. Romance!

Okay, so the pageant is a little cheezy, but it's all FUN. That's what matters most, isn't it? Not taking yourself too seriously. I had a lot of fun this year at the convention, but I'm afraid I can't reveal any scandalous details...what happens at RT stays at RT, ha ha! You'll just have to come next year if you missed this one.

And now I want to brag a little. If you were at the convention, then you got to know one of the cover model contestants, Michael Ward. He won the Reader's Choice award, and it was no surprise that he was a reader favorite. Totally charming, utterly gorgeous, and a killer smile to boot... Well, the reason I want to brag is because *I* was the one who got him to enter! Three years ago, I met him by chance at the RT convention in Kansas City. He was dressed in his Army attire, looked hopelessly bored by whatever function he was there for, so a friend and I snatched him up to party with us. We had a blast. For the past two and a half years, I encouraged him to enter the cover model pageant (part of that 'don't take yourself too seriously' mantra). Well, he finally entered and he did me proud. I even got to ride in his Porshe, and then he let me take it for a spin. Talk about a hot car for a hot guy!

Last night, being the final night of the RT convention for most, was a night many of us "let loose." Alesia and Eileen were definitely getting down on the dance floor. But here's the thing--I read Eileen's blog about all the shoes she brought for all her outfits, yet when I saw her, she was sans shoes, ladies. She brought ALL those shoes, only to hang out barefoot half the time. And I should know. The woman was stalking me during most of the convention.

As for why, you'll have to ask her. Because you know the deal...what happens at RT stays at RT!

Thanks, Kayla! It's been great having you here! Now it's time to announce the winners of your Getting Even Giveaway! They are...

Maureen Emmons, from Yardley, Pennsylvania
Dee Clancy, from Woodford, Virginia
and
Karen Craig, from Saugus, Massachusetts!

Congratulations, winners! Kayla will be sending out your signed copies soon!

Posted by at 7:44 AM | Comments (7)

May 21, 2006

Fear and Loathing at the Dentist's Office

Is there a 12-step program for this?

I just finished a fascinating book called Ask the Pilot, which addresses every question you could ever have about commercial air travel. (What does a co-pilot actually do? Why do planes take off and land into the wind? Can turbulence really bring down a plane?) If you’re a nervous flier, or like me, enjoy getting a vicarious taste of other careers without having to do any of the actual work, I highly recommend it. The author gets down to the nitty gritty of weather delays, lost luggage, airport security and the mechanics and physics of flight. And he has a sly sense of humor, which is always a plus.

So now my only question is, when is Ask the Dentist coming out? Because I could really use some help in that department.

I’m due to go in for a routine cleaning. Overdue, actually--my dayplanner had a stern, red-inked note several weeks back reading, “MAKE DENTIST APPOINTMENT. FOR REAL.”

And yet, here I sit, my teeth unclean, my appointment unscheduled. Because I have a crippling phobia of the dentist’s office. The mere sound of a whirring dentist’s drill is enough to incite hyperventilation. The smell of the pasty mint fluoride trays makes my knees wobble. I am such a baby that I actually call my doctor before each dental appointment and bully her into prescribing me an actual sedative so I don’t burst into tears at the first sight of the hygienist’s collection of tools. (I wish I was exaggerating.)

It wasn’t always this way. I was once a cheerful, biddable patient, able to withstand the scaling and gum scraping and flossing lecture without flinching. Ten years of intensive orthodontia (again, I wish I was exaggerating) had left me with a high pain threshold and a seemingly unbreakable spirit. There was a time when, watching torture scenes on Alias where the evil nemesis du jour pries Sydney Bristow’s teeth right out of her head, I could raise my fist in solidarity and know that I, too, could withstand such an ordeal.

Then I met The Dentist Who Shall Live in Infamy (T.D.W.S.L.I.I.). I will spare you the details, except to say that there was one particular visit that involved an exposed nerve, a carelessly wielded plaque scraper, several cavities, and insufficient Novocain. At my follow-up visit, he gravely informed me that I needed a root canal, and after I dissolved into a weepy, mucus-y mess in his receptionist’s arms, I took the advice of a wise friend and demanded a referral to an endodontist, who concluded that I didn’t need any work done at all. No wonder T.D.W.S.L.I.I. always had a shiny new Benz parked outside his office.

So now I’m gun shy. And ashamed of my pansy-ass ways. But not ashamed enough to actually suck it up and call the dentist.

At least I’m not the only one. I have a friend who swears she would rather get her wisdom teeth removed than go to the gynecologist. I think she’s crazy. She thinks I’m crazy. We’re both right. So what about you guys? Come on, spill your bizarre phobias. Give me something entertaining to read while I’m procrastinating re: calling the dentist.

Posted by Beth at 3:01 AM | Comments (6)

May 20, 2006

Confession Time

On fame, babies and the popstar princess.

The internet is all abuzz with the story of how Britney tripped and nearly dropped baby Sean while out and about in NYC.

I guess it’s a good thing I’m not famous, because I once tripped and actually did drop my son. Whoops. Good thing he bounces.

And now I have a confession to make: I don’t hate Britney Spears.

I know. I’m supposed to hate her. Everyone does. The quickie Vegas marriages, the quick procession of babies, the car seat blunders, and – worse of all – that sleazeball guy she ended up with. Not to mention the carefully constructed jailbait image, the bubblegum music, the too-quick, too-young success. It would be easy to root against her.

And yet, I don’t hate her. Mostly I feel sorry for her. Being a new mom is tough. Because no matter how hard you try to be perfect, you screw up. You end up bonking your kid on the head when getting him out of the car seat, or plopping her in a too-warm bath, or forgetting a snack. It happens. And normally, it happens without an audience.

It must be even harder to be a young new mother, and harder still to be famous young mother constantly hounded by the paparazzi. The hormonal outbursts, the stretch marks, the weight gain (or not-fast-enough weight loss) all being recorded for the world to see and jeer at.

So I can’t bring myself to hate her. She seems like a nice enough kid. And yes, she’s enjoyed incredible success . . . but, at the same time, she’s paid a price. Coming of age is hard enough . . . coming of age while everyone’s watching (and rejoicing when you screw up) must be nothing short of agony.

So what person that everyone loves to hate do you sort of like? (And please don’t say Brangelina. Because I really can’t stand them.)

Posted by Whitney at 3:31 PM | Comments (5)

May 19, 2006

Switched at birth . . .

. . . but with whom?

I am packing to go to the fabulous Romantic Times Convention in Daytona Beach, Florida. Actually, by the time you read this, I'll have been there for a few days. Being somewhat computer impaired while on the road, I'm writing this in advance while I'm packing.

My point is, that with my clothing all laid out on the bed waiting to be folded into a suitcase, I have nine pairs of shoes.

Even to me, that seems excessive. I do not consider myself to be a Carrie Bradshaw-esque shoe person. I would never in a million years pay $350 for a pair of shoes. (Please don't jump all over me here. I'm not saying YOU shouldn't buy expensive shoes. I'm just saying that I don't.) Still, I like for my shoes to go with my outfit.

And I'm packin' a lot of outfits.

There are parties every night. Theme parties! Pirate Parties! Faerie Balls! Luaus! I have a dress for each one and each dress has a pair of shoes. Then there are the daytime workshops and panel discussions. I have an outfit for each day and each outfit has . . . a pair of shoes. Plus, I need my running shoes and some comfy travelling shoes.

It adds up to nine.

So, the switched at birth thing. I called my mother to say good-bye and told her about the nine pairs of shoes. Her response? "I think you should pare it down to two pairs. One black and one brown."

I laughed. "I can't do that. I need the red shoes with the red dress. I need the turquoise and pink ones to go with the black halter dress with the turquoise trim. I need the strappy silver sandals with the light-up heels to go with the pearly white dress and that's just the evening wear."

She said, "Why?"

Clearly, I could not be of the same biological stock as this woman. Why? What kind of question is that? Obviously, I was switched at birth. It would explain why in photos of my family I always look like I've been cut out of another photo and pasted into theirs. I'm always bigger and browner than anybody else there.

It would also explain why I'm the only one not fascinated with other people's wounds or their various biological functions. It would explain why I am the only one who thinks detailed accounts of medical procedures are not dinner conversation. It would explain why I won't leave the house without mascara on while my mother considers putting on lipstick to be heavy make-up application.

I'm really wondering if somewhere out there is another forty-four-year-old woman who is looking on in stunned amazement at her mother and sister's shaved legs and plucked eyebrows and piles of shoes and wondering with whom she was switched.

Posted by Eileen at 8:00 AM | Comments (11)

May 18, 2006

Play that funky music, white boy

It's raining men

Prepare to DIE of jealousy: I'm sitting on the beach in Daytona Beach, watching the sun rise as I drink my coffee (and, yes, I already worked out at 6, to have that "I lifted a car" feeling). I'm at the RT convention and, as happens every year, having a FREAKING FABULOUS TIME!!!!

Let me just say that Eileen and I are representing the LC in true LC style - we are having an insanely great time. The lovely Eileen, the fabulous Barb Ferrer, and the utterly gorgeous Cindy Holby and I danced until midnight and then -- I know, brace yourself, this will be unexpected -- ended up back in the bar. (See, you're jealous already, aren't you??)

Last night was the Ellora's Cave Fantasy party, and I'm not going to dish - what happens at RT stays at RT - but let's just say you should ask Eileen about the FISHNET STOCKINGS.

If anybody, anywhere, anytime, could carry off fishnet stockings? It would be Eileen. Seriously.

And then, I'm sitting on the beach after my run, talking on the phone to Lani (who is insanely jealous and whom we miss DESPERATELY) and who but Eileen walks up from her own run? Then we head over to Starbucks and find Barb, fresh from the gym.

You see?? We're not only DANCING FOOLS, we're healthy dancing fools.

Or, at least, we're sweating off the ENORMOUS QUANTITY of drinking we did last night . . .

But I can't linger here. I have a date to watch cover models play beach volleyball. Which, we're all hoping, will be just as insanely cheesy as it sounds. Stay tuned for pics when I get home and find the cord that connects the camera to the laptop.

hugs,
Alesia, who IS (if any IRS agent reads this) working really hard. Seriously. Working.

Posted by Alesia at 9:57 AM | Comments (12)

May 17, 2006

Serendipitously Yours

It's a little mixed bag from me today because...

...although my body clock has readjusted to Central European Time since my arrival back in the Netherlands yesterday morning, therefore six hours later than Eastern Standard Time, my brain is still somewhere in between zones over the Atlantic Ocean.

I'm happy to report, though, that my trip was amazingly free of either transport strikes, or tram redevelopment issues, or standby tickets, or any major disaster, and I got to hang with our Lovely Lani and the fabulous Stephanie Lehmann. Plus I got to eat real American burgers. Lots of. But I did get searched quite, um, thoroughly by a female officer at Amsterdam's Schiphol airport on the way out of the Netherlands. When I say thoroughly, it wasn't an actual strip search, it was a pat down search. In public. And WOW did that rep get her hands everywhere, and I mean EVERYWHERE. I blushed, and I don't do that much these days. I've come to the conclusion that I obviously look like some kind of dangerous hardened criminal, or drug smuggler, or similar :-)

Anyway, back to those serendipitously hit-and-miss thoughts...

Dutch Adverts Revisited

So, a little while ago today (about a half hour ago at 6.15pm - I checked) there was this sexy advert on TV. It featured a really hot couple having really hot sex, and although their sensitive bits were covered with a sheet, they were really going for it with all the appropriate groans, moans and, well, you know the score. I thought it was another of those condom adverts, but I couldn't be more wrong. Because after they both experienced completely wild orgasms, they got out of bed, did a lot of heavy we-had-such-hot-athletic-sex-we're-totally-exhausted breathing, then headed for the refrigerator. And then they tucked into their favorite yoghurt, because apparently it is great for energy and stamina. It's on my list for my next visit to the supermarket. Well, wouldn't YOU buy that yoghurt?

The Airplane Thing

Although I had no problems this time around (she says, knocking on wood just in case), something a bit nasty, indeed, happened on my flight back to the Netherlands. I was sitting in the mid section of the penultimate row of the plane. The guy next to me across the aisle very innocently put his seat back to have a nap (it was the redeye, after all) and the guy behind him in the last row straight away growled very, very loudly and obnoxiously, "Put your seat back up immediately. I have no room back here." Well, it is true that economy seating is limited in space, and it is also true that the seats in the last row of the plane do not have a reclining facility, but that was just rude. Anyway, the poor embarrassed guy in front of Obnoxious Guy just put his seat back in the upright position after apologizing. The thing is, the plane was not full. Why couldn't Obnoxious Guy just relocate his nasty self to an empty row, or something, therefore he, too, would have a reclining seat! I guess that would just have been too easy...

The Weather

Farenheit and Celcius. Having moved around quite a bit I discovered that different countries report the weather using different systems of measurement, so I when I listen to a weather report I can never bloody well work out if 32 degrees is hot or cold or whatnot. In Farenheit, water freezes at 32 degrees, but boils at 212 degrees. In Celcius water freezes at 0 degrees and boils at 100 degrees. Now if only I can remember which scale I am supposed to be doing at the moment...

Weight

Another result of having moved around so much is that just when I have gotten used to stones, I have to switch to pounds, and then just when I have got used to pounds, I then have to switch to kilos. One stone equals 16 pounds. One kilo equals 2.2 pounds. Go figure! Except I DO like kilos the best because when you get on the scales the number is always smaller...

Michelle, who also prefers miles to kilometers, because a mile is longer than a kilometer, therefore when I see a sign telling me I only have 5 miles to go, it somehow feels better than its 8 kilometer counterpart

Posted by Michelle at 11:33 AM | Comments (4)

May 16, 2006

Answer: Underkläder

Question: How do you say "underwear" in Swedish?

Okay, ladies. You asked for it. You're getting it. I promise. There will be a picture of my hunky Swedish underwear model of a husband in this post. But first, I wanted to announce the winner of a signed copy of The Comeback Kiss from last week's post.

I have to say, it was a tough call, with such things as legwarmers and tan M&Ms in the running. But in the end, forced to choose the one thing I think should absolutely make a comeback, I went with...

... Hope, for the letter writing! Yes, Hope, I agree 100%. Letter writing - actual, real, hand-to-paper letter writing - should absolutely make a comeback. Do you remember what it was like to go out to your mailbox and get a thick letter from a friend or relative you actually liked? The excitement as you rushed inside to find your most comfortable reading spot, as you absorbed every word? And then the fun as you sat down to your stationery to compose your own letter, going through drafts to make it as funny or touching or whatever as the one you received? Ah, I remember those days fondly.

However, after all these years of composing and writing on the computer, I doubt I'll be the one charging the revolution. I can't write longhand. My hand starts to hurt after a few sentences. I've been on laptops since 1997. There's just no hope for me. No pun intended.

But Hope, email me at lani at literarychicks.com with your full name and address, and you'll get a signed copy of The Comeback Kiss for your own personal collection. Or, you know, to sell on eBay. Whatever.

And now, for the moment you've all been waiting for. As you remember from blogs past, I have talked about how pretty Fish was when we first met, and how I wasn't interested because of said prettiness. I even went so far as to compare him to a Swedish underwear model. Putting my money where my mouth is (this is a "then" picture, by the way; I'm no cradle robber) here you go:

Told ya.

Posted by Lani at 8:43 AM | Comments (8)

May 15, 2006

The Comeback Of Good TV

I so need to get over reality shows.

Okay, so maybe I’m a little jaded right now, and that’s causing me to yearn for good, decent TV shows. Comedies, dramas—I don’t care. I just want something else on Monday nights at 9, Tuesday nights at 8, Wednesdays at 8, and Thursdays at 8 as well. Because after last night’s season finale of Survivor Exile Island, I’m not sure I can take any more reality TV.

I didn’t become a Survivor fanatic until about 3 seasons ago, when I had to understand what my mother could find so intriguing that if I called her at 8 p.m. on Thursdays, she’d all but hang up.

She would mumble a “call me at 9,” and then she was gone. So I started watching Survivor to see what had my mother hooked. And quickly got sucked into all the drama that is reality TV.

But I didn’t just get sucked in—I got invested. Invested as in I chose a favorite and desperately wanted that person to win. Wanted it so badly, you’d think I knew the person. That I’d personally benefit if this person won a million bucks.

On this year’s season of Survivor, I really, really, reeeeeeaaaaaalllllly wanted to see Terry win.

In the seasons of Survivor I’ve watched, I’ve never seen a player as great as Terry. He totally rocked in every way. Then, when it comes to the final immunity challenge, they come up with one that will totally give the smallest person the edge. In this case, that person was Danielle (and if you watched the show, you know she didn’t deserve to go as far as she did. And if you ask me, the show did this on purpose, to make things interesting, since Terry was such a strong player). So suddenly, Danielle’s going to the Final 2, and she doesn’t choose Terry (who totally deserved it), but chooses Aras who threatens and manipulates her into taking him (sheesh, what a nice guy), which guarantees him at least one hundred grand, and a shot at a million bucks.

Can you tell I’m perturbed?

My guy didn’t win. He didn’t come second. Yet he is one of the best players to ever play the game.

I won’t be getting a good night’s sleep tonight, and heck, I don’t even know the guy.

Then there’s American Idol. I should have known that this would be a painful season painful to watch when Mandisa got voted off. And I was crushed when the old couple on The Amazing Race came in last and were eliminated. Oh, and let’s not forget UNANIMOUS, the show that was like an evil lab experiment with humans. There was something sick about the show (watching how low people could go), and yet I still watched. And let’s face it, by now I should have had enough of Trump and his bad hair, but I still tune in on Monday nights.

What’s wrong with me?

I’m addicted. Totally and hopelessly addicted to reality TV.

When you’re watching fictional shows on television, yes, you get invested in the characters, but you know it’s fiction, so you don’t take it personally. With reality TV, it’s hard not to take it personally. You judge people for who they seem to be on the screen, which might not be representative of who they are in real life.

Reality TV is like bad wine offered to you at a party. You know it will leave a bad taste in your mouth, but you indulge nonetheless.

I almost rushed back to the hotel from South Beach last week when The Amazing Race was on, but somehow I managed to remind myself that I needed to experience life too, not just watch people living out exciting lives on the small screen.

I hate to say it, but reality television has taken a serious hold of my life. I plan my schedule around it—even when I’m out of town.

I am more than ready for the comeback of some really decent shows on TV. I love CSI, and I do watch 24, and Desperate Housewives is a favorite…but I need something else for the other days of the week when I get my reality fix.

Or, perhaps, what I need is a cold turkey cure for my addiction.

Yes, that’s exactly what I need. I need to stop watching altogether, and finally reclaim my life.

You know the saying—there’s no time like the present.

Except that this is season finale week for a lot of shows, and I’m already a little upset because this hotel in Daytona Beach doesn’t have a VCR that records, and if I’m going to cut reality TV out of my life, I should do it when it’s least painful, like once the season is finished. That makes sense, doesn’t it? I’m not sure I could live with the suspense otherwise.

So if someone out there is as much of an addict as I am, maybe you could tape The Apprentice for me tomorrow night. Because I’m going to be tuning in to 24. In fact, you could tape it, and if you’re coming to the Romantic Times convention, you can always deliver it to me in Daytona!

Hey, a girl can hope!

This blog was brought to you by The Comeback Kiss, Lani’s latest romantic comedy about first love, second chances, and the kind of trouble you can only get into when trying to do the right thing.

Posted by at 6:50 AM | Comments (7)

May 13, 2006

Comes Back To Bite You On The Ass

When I was a kid, my mother was fond of telling me, “Some day when you grow up, I hope you have a daughter just like you.”

And she didn’t mean it in a nice way.

So I showed her: I turned around and had a son.

But . . . well. It turns out Sam is alarmingly like me.

Although I’m fond of saying that Sam inherited George’s stubborn streak and my joie de vivre, the truth is, I’m a bit mulish myself. So much so that my parents claim I drove them crazy as a child. Whatever. I like to think of it as being goal oriented, a useful trait that spurs me to finish books and meet deadlines. But still . . . when this single-minded determination if fused with the energy of a two-year-old, I have to admit it does get tiresome.

“Sam, don’t go near the water,” I say for the two-zillionth time in less than an hour.

We’re attending a party at the fountain park, which is, like, the coolest little kid park ever. Giant fountains erupt up out of the ground, and the kids run around like mad things, dodging in and out of the water.

Unfortunately, the park also has a beach (or maybe you consider this fortunate, if you enjoy breathtaking water views, and you don’t have a toddler with you). And yesterday, Sam was obsessed with wading into the water.

Me? Didn’t want to swim, largely because I wasn’t wearing a bathing suit, and I didn’t fancy the idea of diving into the water fully dressed.

“Look at the fountains! Wee! Fountains!” I enthuse, trying to pep Sam into giving up his quest to swim to England.

But Sam just looks at me, and then makes yet another attempt to run for the water. He tries the direct route. He tries the through-the-trees route. He tries the I’m-going-to-pretend- to-go-in-the-fountains-but-head-for-the-water-as-soon- as-her-back-is-turned route.

This went on for two hours. And at no time during that two hour period – not even when the clown performed, or the piñata was bludgeoned, or after I'd said no for the three-zillionth time – did Sam’s enthusiasm for going for a swim flag.

So, yes, payback can be a bitch. But, at least in this case, it’s also pretty damned cute.

Happy Mother’s Day everyone!

This blog was brought to you by The Comeback Kiss, Lani’s latest romantic comedy about first love, second chances, and the kind of trouble you can only get into when trying to do the right thing.

Posted by Whitney at 3:23 PM | Comments (6)

May 12, 2006

Comebacks

Of the witty, snappy and sassy variety

Ah, those bon mots! That snappy dialogue! Those witty remarks that leave your verbal opponent stunned by both your rapier wit and your oh-so-very-rightness.

They all have one thing in common. I don't got 'em. Nope. I would be the verbal deer-in-the-headlight kind of girl. I would be the one who comes up with the perfect thing to say three hours, three days, heck, sometimes three months or three years after the appropriate moment.

In the moment, I tend to come up with things like, "you're a big poopyhead." Not exactly in that whole Dorothy Parker/Oscar Wilde sphere that I'd like to inhabit.

I think it might part of why I became a writer. I have some time to come up with witty, snappy, sassy stuff for my heroines to say. My heroines also tend to be thinner and braver than me, too. Yep. Total fantasty time.

I've also surrounded myself with witty people who have snappy comebacks rolling off their tongues. There's my buddy who actually put a quarter down in front of someone at a meeting and told him it was a downpayment on a clue. There's my girlfriend who, when informed that I got bumped from a local talk show for a paid placement, burst out with "the slutty douchebags!" without a second's hesitation. They are my heroes!

My lack of verbal sparring skills has gotten me an undeserved reputation for sweetness. People think I'm being gracious, forgiving and understanding when really I'm just too embarassed to say "you're a big poopyhead" out loud in front of witnesses so I suppose that's a plus.

What about you? Are you the kind of person who always has the perfect comeback? Or do you find yourself sitting up in bed in the middle of the night with the perfect answer to someone's snarky question or remark?

This blog was brought to you by The Comeback Kiss, Lani’s latest romantic comedy about first love, second chances, and the kind of trouble you can only get into when trying to do the right thing.

Posted by Eileen at 10:36 AM | Comments (13)

May 11, 2006

The comeback body

I lifted 9,204 pounds today

Okay, here it is, the ugly truth: The metabolism slooooooows way down when you are, as I am, way past the dark side of thirty. And when you sit on your rapidly-spreading butt for much of the day, at a computer, staring at the screen trying to make the words come, it doesn’t do much good for the heart rate.

Except for when you’re in fear of missing a deadline. But we’ll talk about that another time.

So, inspired by the lovely and talented Barbara/Caridad Ferrer, who lost more than ONE HUNDRED POUNDS and now looks like a fashionista crossed with Sidney Bristow from ALIAS, and by Navy Guy who – with the scary three nine birthday approaching – has been on a workout regimen for months and nearly has 6-pack abs (Frankly, I’m too old and cynical to be married to somebody with 6-pack abs. A 6-pack of beer, yes. Abs, not so much), I have started working out again.

(Also, in a truly inspired bit of bad writing, that paragraph was all one sentence. Holy cow!)

I’ve been doing cardio and free weights for a couple of months, and I decided my comeback body was ready to try the weight machine circuit. Enter the lovely and majorly in shape personal trainer Susan, who happens to have the same birthday as me.

Even down to the year.

This could have been massively depressing, considering the fact that she looks like she should be on the cover of SHAPE magazine, and I . . . well . . . don’t.

Yet.

However, I chose to see it as an inspiration, especially since she is so nice and helpful and charming and, seriously, how can you hate somebody with that charming Virginia accent? It’s impossible.

This whole weight thing is totally high-tech since the last time I made an attempt to do it. I enter my code, and each machine tells me important things:

Machine: Set the seat at S-6
Me: Okay.
Machine: Set the weights at 84 lbs.
Me: Got it.
Machine: Your thighs are looking a little flabby, better go for 96 lbs. next time.
Me: !!

Then the system records what I’ve done and gives me a progress report when I’m finished. Thus, I know for a fact that today I lifted nine THOUSAND, two HUNDRED, and four pounds. Which, I think, is more than my car weighs.

Now I know why people work out all the time. I mean, yeah, there are the health benefits, the losing weight, building muscle, blah blah blah. But, secretly, it’s the superiority factor. I mean, how many people am I going to run into today who can lift their car?

Tell me what kind of health comeback you’ve made recently or are planning to make, and I’LL randomly pick a number and send that commenter a copy of Lani’s FABULOUS new book. Because, #1, it TOTALLY ROCKS, and, #2, I totally lifted a car today.

Hugs,
Alesia

This blog was brought to you by The Comeback Kiss, Lani’s latest romantic comedy about first love, second chances, and the kind of trouble you can only get into when trying to do the right thing.

Posted by Alesia at 10:26 AM | Comments (25)

May 10, 2006

Come Back And Kiss Me

It's a little short one from me today because as we speak I am getting ready to head to the airport to come to America!

Let's hope there are no cows on the train line, or public transport strikes, or silly nonsense about being put on standby for my flight, but I am knocking on wood because you know how jinxed I can be when it comes to travelling.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch. Several years ago Oh Patient One went to Sydney, Australia, on a business trip, and when he arrived home this is what happened...

Oh Patient One (very enthusiastically): "Michelle, you would LOVE Australia, it's completely WONDERFUL, it's totally FABULOUS, it's amazingly AMAZING, it's...oh, you'd completely ADORE it. And so would the kids."

Me (not so enthusiastically because I am now suspicious): "Okay, I get the picture."

Oh Patient One: "You know, there's a post coming up in the Sydney office. I could apply for it..."

Me (with a steely glint in my eye): "The kids and I have only just followed you here to America and you are talking about moving, again? We are living in temporary accomodation. All our worldly belongings are currently packed into a container and are currently somewhere on a ship on the Atlantic ocean. We have travelled over three thousand miles and we're still jetlagged, and you want to MOVE AGAIN? And besides, I'm sure I read somewhere that out of the twenty most poisonous creatures in the world, NINETEEN of them live in Australia."

Oh Patient One: "Well, it was only an idea. But it wouldn't be hard to get the container diverted to Australia."

Me (Crossing my arms in a huffy manner): " Watch out for the spiders and snakes. I'll miss you. Write often."

And then Oh Patient One winked at me, and I realized that he was pulling my leg. And then he crossed the room and kissed me. And then we both burst out laughing.

Michelle

This blog was brought to you by The Comeback Kiss, Lani’s latest romantic comedy about first love, second chances, and the kind of trouble you can only get into when trying to do the right thing.

Posted by Michelle at 2:06 AM | Comments (5)

May 9, 2006

It's Comeback Time

Like Hammer Time? Only with comebacks? Right? Does that work? No? Hmmmm...

Okay, before we get started today, I have two things I'd like to announce.

1. My newest romantic comedy, The Comeback Kiss, has officially hit the shelves! It's the continuation of Finn's story (the bird thief from Maybe Baby, who was just starting to kinda maybe think about reforming - a little - at the end of that book.) At the beginning of The Comeback Kiss, he's still kinda maybe thinking about it, but then a telepathic dog, a series of suspicious fires, and the girl he could never forget all conspire to get him to walk the straight and narrow. Kinda maybe.

2. I got a Smart Bitch title! If you haven't been regularly visiting Smart Bitches Who Read Trashy Books, you absolutely must go immediately and bookmark. These girls are bright, fun and they don't let anyone get away with anything. I love them. Anyway, I won a contest there recently and they dubbed me...

My mother, she is so proud.

If you don't know what "avaleuse" means, well, neither did I. My advice? Don't look it up on the web. It will take you to very, very bad French places and I don't think you want to go there. After screaming "MY EYES! MY EYES!" and clicking the home button on my computer, I ended up getting a very tame definition from a French-English dictionary. If you really MUST know, go to the Smart Bitches and check out the comments under my coronation entry. And don't say I didn't warn ya...

And now that that's out of the way...

... in honor of The Comeback Kiss, our theme here at the L.C. this week is...

... drum roll, please...

... okay, fine, or not, whatever...

... comebacks!

Okay. So it's not terribly original, but it gets the point across. And in honor of our theme week, I'm going to go with the Top Ten Things I'd Like to See Make a Comeback.

The baggy, hide-your-body-in-shame styles of the eighties. Not necessarily for me, and not necessarily right now, but sometime between now and when my daughters stop letting me buy their clothes. The little baby slutlet clothes that are out there now in the girls section are scaring me.

Totally outrageous, completely unbelievable detective/romantic comedy shows. Okay, the storytelling was... lacking... but who doesn't miss Dave and Maddie? The Scarecrow and Mrs. King? Remington and what's-her-name? We need an updating on that opposites-attract-and-solve-mysteries thing.

Reasonable gas prices. Heh heh heh... Bastards.

Black. Or, rather, I'd like for people to stop saying, "X is the new black." Because you know what? It's not the new black. Black is the only black. Stop, already.

Hare Krishnas at the airports. For all the "Hare Krishna at the airport" jokes I've seen on television and in movies, I've never even once actually seen one. But I think they'd be fun to see, in their brightly-colored attire and banging their tambourines. And they'd get my mind off the fact that I'm about to step into a tremendous machine that's being held up in the air by... what, exactly? It's not natural, I'm telling you.

Dr. Scholl's.Weren't they cool? Once? Like, in the seventies? Maybe? I don't know. But I remember wearing them all summer long and they were really comfy. I mean, I like my Tevas as much as the next girl, but... I'm sighing for some Scholl's.

Good movies. Remember the days before Hollywood started focus-grouping the hell out of everything? When the movies were actually good? Yeah, that was something, wasn't it? Note to Hollywood: If one screenwriter can't do it, twelve will not-do-it worse.

Joss Whedon. Okay, so Joss never really went anywhere. He went from TV to movies, though, and I want him to come back to TV. It's where all the good stuff is happening, and quite frankly, I need a weekly Joss fix. I'm starting to get the shakes.

Fedoras. For my money, there isn't a man in the land who can't be made sexier with a fedora.

Oh... crap. That's only nine things. And I have to go. So, fine - gimme number 10. I'll pick the best one, and that person will win a signed copy of The Comeback Kiss. Sounds like a win/win to me! Leave your suggestion in the comments; I'll announce the winner in my blog here next Tuesday.

This blog was brought to you by The Comeback Kiss, Lani’s latest romantic comedy about first love, second chances, and the kind of trouble you can only get into when trying to do the right thing.

Posted by Lani at 12:09 PM | Comments (20)

May 8, 2006

Fun in the Sunshine State

Meanies, kids and cellulite

It started when I arrived at the border in Detroit on Friday. Now, I expect to be asked a lot of questions at the border, even if I've gotten used to the "Oh, you're an author. That's so cool!" response. But this time, I don't think that telling the hard-edged guy that I write romances for a living and proudly showing him a coverflat was going to help me at all.

For the first time in my life, I came across a border control guy who was mean. Not thorough--which I expect--but mean. The kind of mean where if you looked up the word in the dictionary, you'd find his picture. I'd driven with my family 3 hours at this point when I reached the border, only to get a guy who got off on power tripping. The kind of guy who would love it if he could find a reason to turn you back and make you drive another 3 hours home just to get some form of something to prove you weren't secretly hoping to sneak into the US, never to come back.

I travel to the US often. I have for years. I even lived in Florida for a short time. Everything on my record comes up squeaky clean. Yet for the first time, I had a border control officer tell me that I HAD to bring pay stubs with me, or my mortgage title to prove that I wouldn't be staying in the States once I crossed the border. (Now, if I really was a scary person, would those items really make a difference?) I smiled politely and told him that no one had ever mentioned that to me, that I usually cross in Buffalo versus Detroit, and he responded, "Well, Buffalo is where most of the criminals cross over."

Huh?

Me, a criminal? That's laughable. I was married to a cop for many years, thank you very much. Okay, maybe he wasn't saying he thought I was a criminal, but the reference was a little...well, a little strong. I found myself feeling a little like Bridget Jones, about to be whisked away to an overcrowded prison in another country. Though I wouldn't have the savvy lawyer boyfriend to come rescue me, although I could call the cop ex-husband.

I smiled and was polite in all my answers, and this guy still threatened to send me back home--all the while saying that he didn't understand how Canadians just "couldn't understand" what he was saying. I wanted to interject, "Um, sir...you aren't very clear in what you're saying. And if you lost that awful scowl, well, maybe people wouldn't shudder under your menacing stare." But I can imagine how fast he would have boomeranged me back around, and all would have been for naught. No, I sat there biting my tongue and smiling, wondering why my feminine charm completely failed to impress him.

It wasn't hard to come to the realization that it was just him. I mean, nice people usually respond warmly when people are being nice to them. My best guess...it's been a long time since that guy has gotten any.

Anyway, enough about that. Just thinking about how long he had me there (literally about 10 minutes--the guy liked to lecture) gives me the heebie jeebies. Of course, he let me through--making me understand he was doing me a favor. Oh, and when he asked what I did for a living and I told him I was a writer, he asked me two more times. He then asked how I made my living, and I repeated that I write books for a living. He couldn't get it. I think I'll reserve my comment about who's the dense one!

Now, onto nicer things. Like the 22 hour drive with a three year old in the car. My brother and his family traveled with us, and they have 3 kids under 9. Needless to say, a long road trip with the kids isn't what we want to do again! From the endless "Are we there yets?" to the "I want to get out" (of the car seat) to the crying fits--well, you can imagine the joy. If I had a million dollars, I'd ditch my car here and hop a plane back home. Seriously. I can only hope that at the end of the trip, my little one is so tired out from all the fun that she'll sleep the entire car ride home.

You can stop laughing now. :-)

At least we arrived safely and can now let our hair down. Now's the time to drink some margaritas, hit the pool...

Now *I'm* the one who's laughing. Fun at the pool? Am I insane??? Maybe as long as I'm in a snowsuit, I can have some fun, because cold, hard reality hit me yesterday: I look better with my clothes on! Seriously, I put on my one piece, looked in the mirror, and nearly had heart failure. Maybe it's the mirror at the resort, but I swear, the cellulite reflected on my legs...Oh. My. God. Maybe I'm being hard on myself. Or maybe I've just discovered the reason I'm still single!

Okay, I'll stop whining. (But hey, what are Monday mornings for?) I don't have internet access at the hotel, which is almost as bad as having a border control officer glower at you for 10 minutes. Or the reality that my legs aren't sexy, and I can't exactly wear a scuba diving outfit in the pool (though imagine the weight I'd lose in this heat?).

I hope you all enjoy your week. I am determined to finally get to the "fun" part of my vacation, which I'm sure will start soon. Actually, it started when my daughter woke up in the car, and asked, "Is this Florida?" And when I said yes, she smiled.

Posted by at 2:47 PM | Comments (8)

May 7, 2006

Love bites. (And barks. And picks your pocket.)

woof

“Hmm. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

Not what you want to hear from your vet clinic’s orthopedic specialist. But that’s what happens when you adopt a scruffy little street dog with a limp, who, when you x-ray him, turns out to have a pelvis shattered like a jigsaw puzzle. Murphy looks like a smaller, blonde version of Walt Disney’s Tramp and has been a medical anomaly since his first vet visit in January 2004. Since then, we have ponied up roughly the price of a used car in surgery, pain medication, holistic remedies, and grain-free food (may reduce joint inflammation), and endured countless well-meaning comments to the effect of: “Why would you waste so much time and trouble on a DOG? He’s not even purebred.”

Yes, he is a dog. A dog who lies beneath my desk all day while I work, who curls up in the crook of my knees while I sleep, who dissolves into paroxysms of glee every time I walk through the front door. He rides shotgun when we go to PetCo (if you ask him, he should be driving), he stays up late with me when I’m on deadline, he climbs into my lap to snuggle every time there’s a thunderstorm or I break down in tears during a particularly poignant episode of Alias (shut up; I had PMS and Sydney was having her baby and sobbing about her dead fiancé, who actually turned out to still be alive, but it was still sad at the time)

He’s a dog who had a very rough start in life—besides the shattered pelvis, he had a hematoma in each ear, a stumpy tail (probably docked at home by an amateur with a rubber band), a deep-rooted phobia of broomsticks and rakes, and the lifelong obsession with food that comes from scrambling for scraps on the streets of South Central L.A. When my husband takes Murphy to our local café for breakfast, Murphy will stare at the plates of bacon, trembling and drooling like a crack addict going into withdrawal, until a soft-hearted diner breaks down and gives him some. He is our own little Artful Dodger, known for pickpocketing treat-laden fanny packs at the dog park. I once caught him sneaking a five dollar bill from my husband’s dress pants; we’re reasonably sure he planned to buy some pig ears on the sly. Or he was planning to bribe one of the other dogs to do it for him and let them take the blame. He’s smart, sassy, and possessed of the infamous “terrier temperament”—if he were a person, he’d be Napoleon.

On Friday, I schlepped him to yet another orthopedic specialist, the best in our area, for a final opinion on the state of his hips. The orthopedist studied the x-rays, studied Murphy’s gimpy, stutter-stepping gait, and said that nothing more could be done for him. Hopefully, he’ll have a few more good years before crippling arthritis and fragmenting bones extinguish the crafty gleam in his eye. At this stage in the game, pain management is all we can hope for. So I continue what I know is ultimately a futile quest for a magic bullet—a dietary supplement or a physical therapy that can somehow make him whole again, or at least delay the inevitable day when I look at him and know it’s time to put him out of his pain. I know he’s just a pet and that it was folly to give my heart to an animal who’s had the odds stacked against him since day one, but as lifelong animal lover (not to mention a Chicago Cubs fan), I have this thing about rooting for the underdog.

This blog was brought to you by Getting Even, Kayla Perrin's sexy new novel about what happens when Mr. Right messes with the wrong girl...

Posted by Beth at 4:45 PM | Comments (5)

May 6, 2006

Crazy Little Thing Called Love

Never say never . . .

The day George and I married, just moments before walking down the aisle (we eloped, so not only did I see my groom before the wedding, we drove to the chapel together . . . if it’s true what they say about that being bad luck, we’re pretty much screwed), I turned to him, and said, “Before we get married, I need you to promise me two things: (1) that you’ll never ask me to go camping, and (2) you’ll never ask me to move to Texas.”

George is from Texas. Born and bred. He even, for a time, had one of those “Don’t Mess With Texas” t-shirts, before I accidentally sent it through the wash with two cups of bleach.

Me, not a fan of the state. And if this offends any of the two bazillion Texans out there, I’m sorry, but here’s the cold truth: your state sucks. It’s big and hot and full of people who think I talk fast, just because I can spit out a simple sentence in under ten minutes. As Dave Sedaris has pointed out, the word pen is not supposed to have two syllables.

And just moments before pledging our wedding vows, George looked at me, his eyes shining with love, and said, “I promise.”

So imagine my surprise when, a scant two years after our wedding day, I found myself crammed into a U-Haul truck with George, our two dogs and all of our belongings, driving to our new home in San Antonio.

Somewhere around Texarkana, George turned to me and said, “I really promise I’ll never make you go camping.”

“Two things,” I said indignantly. “And they weren’t even hard promises to keep, like salary requirements or bans on adultery. Although, now that I mention it, adultery is out, too.”

“That goes without saying,” George said breezily.

So that’s the craziest thing I ever did for love: I moved to Texas. And then, three years later, we moved away. Mostly because I spent every day for three years, saying something along the lines of, “Texas! The one place I didn’t want to move to!” until George tired of hearing me say it, and agreed to move to Florida. (Which is also big and hot and full of people who walk very slowly, but it’s near the ocean, which makes me happy.)

Come to think of it, that move, the one to Florida, might be the craziest thing George has ever done for love. So now we're even.

This blog was brought to you by Getting Even, Kayla Perrin's sexy new novel about what happens when Mr. Right messes with the wrong girl...

Posted by Whitney at 6:00 AM | Comments (6)

May 5, 2006

The Things We Do For Love

But sometimes it's the little things in life...

Back in our early days, before we were officially a couple, Oh Patient One sang to me. In those days we wore a lot of black leather with studs in because we thought we were totally cool, so his music of choice to woo me was Alice Cooper's Welcome to my Nightmare album. I thought it was totally romantic (and, obviously, totally cool).

Only thing is Oh Patient One is tone deaf and cannot hold a key.

I still let him sing to me, though, because he so loves to sing. These days it is The White Stripes, but I still think it's romantic (and, of course, we both delude ourselves with the notion that we are still totally cool, even if The Teenagers mock us).

I talk through movies. Especially ones where The Plot Has Holes In It, And How I Would Have Done It Differently Had I Only Been The Screenwriter. Oh Patient One puts up with my running commentary because he is kind, and knows that I put up with his singing. (Plus, he obviously knows that I'm right about the holes in the plot.)

Oh Patient snores to raise the dead. Really. I hog the duvet and fidget and talk muchly in my sleep (although when I ask Oh Patient One what I talk about he smiles enigmatically).

Oh Patient One doesn't clean, he tidies. I clean, but leave the tidying to him.

Oh Patient One doesn't buy me expensive jewellery because I wouldn't really wear it, and I'd lose it, so he buys me DVDs, instead (all the more movies for me to chat through). I don't buy him expensive jewellery because he wouldn't wear it, and he prefers CDs, so I buy him music, instead (all the more music for him to sing to me).

Several years ago I heard from a friend about an acquaintance with an ageing cat facing imminent doom. She lived in her owners' basement, and the owners were moving to a house without a basement. Plus, their new kitty and dog were not compatible with the poor old ageing kitty in the basement. And she might need expensive medical attention. So her owner's were going to have her put to sleep.

I told Oh Patient One the moment I got off the phone with my friend, and as soon as I finished the woeful tale of the kitty's impending doom, and blah blah blah, he just said, "Michelle, go get that kitty."

So I did. Dolly owned us for four happy years until she went to kitty heaven. She was the best present ever.

And what I'd like to know is this. What is the best thing someone has done for you that shows you they love you?

Michelle

This blog was brought to you by Getting Even, Kayla Perrin's sexy new novel about what happens when Mr. Right messes with the wrong girl...

Posted by Michelle at 2:32 PM | Comments (5)

May 4, 2006

Whiplash and other sucky things

FREAKING tired of people RAMMING into me with their FREAKING CARS

I'm sitting here with a sore neck, because last night - for the TENTH FREAKING TIME IN MY LIFE - somebody rearended me with their car.

Surely, I've used up my share of the universe's auto accident quota. Surely, it's time for the gods of BAD FREAKING DRIVERS to give me a break.

Please.

Luckily, nobody was hurt (except for what I hope is a minor sore neck issue). Luckily, I'd talked Navy Guy into driving us around for errands/out to dinner so we were in the big Ford truck instead of my little car. The 2 cars that hit us were smushed (those drivers were also uninjured; we checked on them first thing). My little car would have been smushed, which means my KIDS might have been smushed.

But we're all fine, in spite of FREAKING BAD DRIVERS. (The girl who caused it all? She said the car in front of her -- the one she rammed into us -- "stopped too fast." At a - gasp! - red light, a car stopped. AARGHHH!!)

And how, you ask, does this tie into "the things we do for love"?

Glad you asked. Because looking around at my unhurt family made me realize yet again just how unimportant the little annoyances in life are.

And how it's not only the things we do for love, but the things others do for the love of us. My son sat down next to me at my autographing session in Chicago (at the wonderful Spring Fling conference!) and started pasting "autographed copy" stickers on books to "help Mommy."

My husband once drove from San Antonio to Pensacola, Florida and then back over the course of two days just so he could see me for a few hours.

My daughter sits on my lap and snuggles and tells me I'm the "best Mommy in the whole world."

And these are the people I love best in the world, and I'm lucky enough that they were all unhurt last night. We'd driven by another accident about 10 minutes before ours happened. The ambulances were out in full force, and from the looks of the cars, I'm betting that people were hurt pretty badly.

So what would I do for love? For my family? Damn near anything.

Alesia, feeling a little sniffly

This blog was brought to you by Getting Even, Kayla Perrin's sexy new novel about what happens when Mr. Right messes with the wrong girl...

Posted by Alesia at 9:51 AM | Comments (5)

May 3, 2006

Kickin' Butt and Takin' Names

But only in my dreams

Despite recent newspaper reports, I am not Xena. Or Dark Angel. Or Witch Blade. Or Sydney Bristow. I just so wish I was. Yes, I wish I was an action heroine. I wish I was the kind of woman who stands up, steely-eyed before those who have done her wrong and exacts justice rather than the kind of woman who can't even trust her voice not to wobble into some sort of munchkin imitation when telling a waiter to take back food when it's not what I ordered.

This is why I adore the premise behind Kayla's new novel and cannot wait to read it. Maybe if I read it and live it vicariously, I'll be able to be like that. Even those triumphant moments when I chase down people who aren't picking up after their own dogs, (bad Whitney!), my heart races with my own audacity and I'm near panic.

It also pleases my sense of justice. There are so many times that we see wrong being done in the world and so few times we get to see the wrong-doers punished (maybe that's why I wanted to serve on that jury, too, hmmm).

There have been a few occasions, when I've gotten to see fate dole out a big ole spoonful of justice. While risking schadenfreude poisoning, here are two examples that I've seen or heard about recently that I have to admit I've enjoyed.

• A friend's husband was unjustly accused of wrongdoing at work. Because he is a public servant, this was news. The newspaper reporter on the story did not report the story accurately and pretty much tried and convicted this wonderful ethical man in the press. Six months later, it was found that she had made up sources and stories in a number of her reports on other subjects and has been fired.

• Another friend was on vacation with her worthless why-is-she-still-with-him boyfriend. They were walking on the beach and he was berating her for being 1) too fat, 2) too boring and 3) too slow-walking when a sea gull flew over and pooped on his arm.

What about you? Have you seen the fates exact justice? Did you love it? I'd love to hear about it!

This blog was brought to you by Getting Even, Kayla Perrin's sexy new novel about what happens when Mr. Right messes with the wrong girl...

Posted by Eileen at 10:54 AM | Comments (9)

May 2, 2006

Love in the Land of the Midnight Sun

Is that a halibut in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

I've been sitting here for fifteen minutes trying to think of the craziest thing I ever did for love. I'm having a tough time, actually, because as I look back, I realize that while I've been a risk-taker in every other area of my life, in love... not so much. I usually waited for the guy to make the move, and when he did, I followed along. Although there was this one time, in a fishing cannery in Alaska...

Stop me if you've heard this one...

Here's how the story goes. I was 22. I was broke. I went to Alaska to work in a cannery for a summer with my best friend, Tracy. While at said cannery, I met a dashing young man who looked like a Swedish underwear model. I'm not kidding. Long, blond hair, usually tied back in a ponytail. Bright blue eyes. Cheekbones you could cut glass on. Really, so very, very good-looking.

And I wouldn't give him the time of day. I had lived just long enough to know that a package like that usually comes with a price tag. Either he's full of himself, in which case no thanks, or he's a player, in which case no thanks, or he doesn't know how good-looking he is, in which case he has a very unrealistic self-image, and I was already full of enough unrealistic self-image issues to bring down any fledgling relationship all on my own, thankyouverymuch. And, to be totally honest and fair, while I think I have many wonderful qualities, I was not this guy's equal in the looks department. I was, and still am, very seriously girl-next-door. He was guy-next-door-to-the-OH MY GOD WHO CARES WHAT HE'S NEXT DOOR TO? LOOK AT HIM.

But this guy kept flirting with... me. Now let me tell you what happens at an Alaskan fish cannery. You live in tents. You shower... occasionally. You wear baseball caps, torn jeans, no makeup and when you're working, add on a bright yellow rubber apron and big gloves. It was Homer Simpson, not haute couture. Not to mention that there were local teenage girls with the hair and nails and makeup who got jobs writing down numbers on clipboards on the back dock where they could flirt and not get dirty. Me? I was dipping 200-pound frozen halibut into an iced sugar-water solution with a Mexican guy named Ray whose entire English vocabulary consisted of "yes," "no yes," and "I go high school."

But still, out of all the girls there, this guy kept flirting with me. Before work every day, he'd come up to me and tell me a really bad Rotten Johnny joke. You know those. They start out, "Little Johnny was sooooo rotten..." and only get worse from there. As we worked, he would smile at me as he filled the boxes with salmon, then take his marker and write cute little notes inside for when the box got down the line to me. On breaks, we'd smoke together, and since his family lived nearby, he'd occasionally take me to his house to do laundry. One day in the cannery, The Beatles' "Something in the Way She Moves" was on, and he sang it, keeping eye contact with me as he did.

And I was starting to seriously get annoyed. I had no idea what this guy wanted with me, but I was not up for it. I thought maybe he was after me because I wasn't interested, I was a challenge, or something. I wasn't in the mood to be toyed with. But then, after meeting his brothers and his family who were awesome, very down-to-earth people, I decided maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to flirt back. After all his blatant flirtation, surely all I'd have to do is give a little encouragement and he'd come running, right? So... I gave a little encouragement. Rather than tell him to get out of my face when he told me the Rotten Johnny joke, I giggled like a pathetic teenager.

And nothing changed.

I gave more encouragement. I asked him to hang out with us at our camp after work, and in the mornings, I'd wait in my tent until I saw him ambling down the trail toward the cannery, at which point I'd casually step out as though I hadn't been waiting for him. Then I'd smile and chat and bat my eyelashes at him.

Nothing changed. He still flirted with me shamelessly, but he didn't do anything.

Tick tock. It was late July. I was leaving in August. He was going back to school in Texas, I lived in New York. It was very much shit-or-get-off-the-pot time. Finally, one night after working a 21-hour-shift, I told him to come back to my tent with me after work because we had something to talk about. I don't know if it was the midnight sun or the sleep deprivation, but for the first time in my life, I decided I was going to make the first move.

So, after work, we went back to my tent. I sat him down, and gave him The Big Speech. You know the one. I think everyone has done it at least once. Anyway, I told him the entire story of my attraction to him, how at first I didn't like him because he was too good-looking, but his sweetness and kindness and thoughtfulness won me over. I said that I loved his family, and knew that a guy who comes from stock like that couldn't be too good to be true. I waxed on about his wonderful qualities, how he made me laugh, how I hadn't felt that way about anyone in a long, long time, and how, if he was interested, I'd be... you know... interested.

He sat there, taking it all in, a bright smile on his face. Finally, I stopped talking, and he just looked at me. I tapped my fingers on my kneecaps. He still just sat there, grinning.

I couldn't take it anymore. "Would you say something, please?"

He grinned. "I think you're pretty great, too."

What? I think you're pretty great, too? That's all I get? After I laid my heart out for him on a platter, after a whole summer of what I thought was him pursuing me, I get, I think you're pretty great, too? Was he kidding me? Just as I was about to haul off and hit him, though, he moved over to my side of the tent.

And now, thirteen years later, I call him Fish. And he lets me. Now that's love.

This blog was brought to you by Getting Even, Kayla Perrin's sexy new novel about what happens when Mr. Right messes with the wrong girl...

Posted by Lani at 8:08 AM | Comments (15)

May 1, 2006

Things We Do For Love

Sex, Love, and other dilemmas!

Wow oh wow, I’m HERE!

If you know me, and my ability to figure out anything remotely technical on the web (like getting into chat rooms), then you know this is truly an accomplishment.

And here’s another admission—this is my very first blog entry on the world wide web!

Can you tell I’m excited? So excited I don’t know where to start. First, I’d like to thank The Academy for remembering me and rolling out the red carpet. (Okay, so I’m letting this “guest blog” thing get to my head.) Of course, I’d really like to thank all the great women who run the Literary Chicks blog—Lani, Alesia, Michelle, Eileen, Whitney, and Beth. Thanks so much for considering me and graciously inviting me to participate.

I know you’re all anxiously awaiting my words of wisdom (yeah, right!) so that said, let me get on to my theme for the week. This week’s theme is “Things we do for love.”

Last week, I learned that a friend of mine was considering doing something in the bedroom to please her man—something she would never have considered on her own. If, like me, you’ve noticed the growing trend of “hot chicks getting it on together,” then you know what I’m talking about.

This friend and her beau have a child, and seem to have a very loving relationship. So when I learned that he was pressuring her to live out his fantasy, I was truly confused.

But I was even more confused to learn she is considering doing this to because she “loves her man.”

Because she loves her man???? How about cutting the lawn because you love your man. Or really step out of your comfort zone and iron his underwear. But, "I love you so much I'll get it on with someone else..."??? Am I simply old-fashioned? And am I being obtuse in thinking that he’s asking for a little too much? I mean, if the roles were reversed and she said she wanted to bring another man into the bedroom, wouldn’t he laugh until he couldn’t breathe?

Regardless of what my friend’s boyfriend does or doesn’t want her to do, my biggest issue with the whole topic of pleasing your man is how one-sided it usually is. We, as women, are far more likely to put ourselves and our feelings/dreams/concerns last if we think it will help us get or keep a man.

Not all of us, of course (ha!). But many of us (like, all!). Yet guys don’t tend to feel the same kind of pressure.

This is exactly what my characters go through in GETTING EVEN, my latest novel. Claudia, one of the three heroines, experiences almost exactly what my friend is right now. Before she and her fiancé get married, Adam wants them to experience some taboo sex. Like making out in public places. Like visiting a swinger’s club and having sex with strangers watching. Claudia isn’t interested in doing any of this, but she also doesn’t want to lose her man. Adam is the man of her dreams. And he’s been perfect for four years…until he started getting interested in really kinky sex.

So what does Claudia do? She compromises her own moral code to please her man. And considering the title of the book is GETTING EVEN, you can pretty much figure out what Adam does once he’s satisfied his sexual fantasies with her.

The catalyst for me writing this element into my story was learning that a friend of a friend, a few years ago, went to a swinger’s club with her man under his immense pressure. She totally did things she didn’t want to do—to please her man—and cried for the next two days. Of course, her relationship with that boyfriend didn’t last.

What happened with this person had me wondering why women so often do things we wouldn’t otherwise—all in the name of love.

Look, I’ve been there. (Not the swinger’s clubs, thank you very much ). Whether it’s slowly cutting your friends out of your weekly plans or giving up your monthly pedicure because he thinks you’re spending too much (while he blows thousands on his hobby), most of us have compromised something in the name of love for our man.

So, there you have it. That’s my theme for the week. What have you done in the name of love? And did you live to regret it?

This blog was brought to you by Getting Even, Kayla Perrin's sexy new novel about what happens when Mr. Right messes with the wrong girl...

Posted by at 2:26 PM | Comments (13)