Okay - first the good stuff . . . my next cover:

I’m really proud of myself.  My faux umbilical cord (my kid is adopted and almost 11) stretched all the way from Hobe Sound to Tallahassee.  I made it through my daughter’s first 3-day school trip with lots of Xanax but only a few tears.  Actually those tears were mostly the result of the medical procedure I had on Monday, but we can discuss (or not) that little Medieval treatment later.  The Xanax was great but I actually have a writing/reading related purpose for coming out of bloglessness . . . the only time she called was to have my husband read to her at bedtime. 

 

As a working writer, I do get concerned by the lack of interest young people seem to have in reading.  Selfishly, I want them to grow up and be consumers.  I want to be employed ten, fifteen, twenty years from now.  Okay, so maybe twenty is pushing it, I don’t want to die at my desk.

 

Enough about her being back, now I’ll rant about my own back.  After doing absolutely nothing out of the ordinary – I twisted t get out of my car and lifted some luggage – stuff I do quite often.  Then I folded like a cheap suit, barely able to stand erect.  That was March 9^th.  Me being me, I waited about a week, and then went to the doctor.  Got what I expected – probably pulled something.  No biggie.  Only it didn’t get better, it got worse.  Had this sharp pain running down my leg.  It got so bad that I – a person loathe to seeking medical attention – went to the ER.  Got a nifty shot of Demerol and a referral to a back specialist.  Go see the back specialist and he sends me for MRIs and CT scans and PT.  (In my world PT does not stand for physical therapy, it stands for Pissing away time).  My take on PT was confirmed when the first (and only as far as I’m concerned) session consisted of me lying on an ice pack for 20 minutes, then lying on a heating pad for twenty minutes.  I’m sure Blue Cross/Blue Shield will be billed hundreds for that not-even-an-hour.  And the chitchat from the therapist . . . he knows a healer in Alabama who can lay hands on and has had some success with back patients.  Um, huh????  Check please!

 

So I go back to specialist who gives me the results of all the tests – seems my sciatic nerve is pinched under a staple that was left (intentionally) in my spine in the mid 1990s.  Oh, and I have some minor arthritis in my spine and a disintegrating disc and another disc that’s bulging.  So he uses the S word.   I’ve already had surgery on my foot and on my leg and it’s only April, so I immediately nix the whole surgical approach.  So then, he tells me the next option is a lumbar injection to numb the nerve.  Says it isn’t a big deal.  Only takes a few minutes.  Pain relief can last from days to months.  Great – I’m good to go.  So my hubby and I arrive at this surgical center and low and behold, we run into friends.  Seems she’s having the same thing I’m having.  She goes in first.  She comes out crying and says it was the worst pain she’s ever endured.

 

Me?  I have a seriously high threshold for pain, so I’m thinking this woman just wimped out.  So I’m optimistic as I crawl up on to the gurney and they do all the prep stuff.  Pet Peeve – doctor comes in after I’m strapped down, face down on the table.  If you’re going to jab something into my body, I really prefer a face-to-face hello first.

 

Needle one – this will numb the area around your spine.  Needle two – apparently needle one didn’t do its job.  Not only do I feel this thing poking between my vertebrae, I can see it on the screens set up around the room.  I curse.  Loudly.  Needle number three – I instantly learned - was the reason for the restraints.  Worse than kidney stones, worse than childbirth.  Felt like he was shoving a hot poker straight through me.

 

“All done,” he says in a cherry voice.

 

“Me too,” I say through my tears.

 

Then he tells me it will take a series of three of these.  Um, not just no but HELL NO! 

 

My back is now worse than when I started and I’ve decided to change doctors.

 

So, my kid is home safe and sound but I still walk like Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein.

 

So, how’ve you been?

I'm really excited and more than a little stunned to learn I won the bronze medal for popular fiction in the Florida Book Awards.  It's really nice to know that I'm not the only one who likes Finley.  The thing about writing is it's often done in a vacuum, so we don't get feedback until, in the case of KNOCK OFF, nearly two years afterit was written.  So, as my hubby often jokes, today is one of the few days I get to feel special, 'cause tomorrow I go back to just being me.

Happy Writing,

Rhonda

 

The good is Demerol, though I may need a Brittany-esque quickie through rehab to wean myself off them.  (I feel Catholic here)  It’s been 13 hour since I popped my last Demerol and I probably have a good 3-4 hours left in me before I cave to the pain.

 

This weaves nicely into the bad.  Two operations in less than a month is not my idea of fun.  But, both were ‘nothing’ procedures.  The first was to repair and replace my titanium toe joint with a hinge joint.  All went well, until the infection came along.  I swear I’m some sort of Mersa Mary when it comes to health stuff.  Stuck in that recoup were both the hubby and the kid getting strep.  I’m thinking of hoarding Z-Packs for the future.  I don’t think an actual meal has been cooked in this house since before January 19^th.  Also smack dab in the middle of that was the continuing saga of my house being up for sale.  One day I actually dragged my ass out into my car in the garage and reclined the seat to sleep while some realtor marched his (obviously) disinterested couple through the house – either that or they thought I was a corpse and were put off by the prospect of owning a home that had a dead woman lying in the Honda. 

 

In order to have my toe job, I had to turn the power off on my IPG.  Quickie explanation – it’s a unit the size of a cookie inside my thigh with leads and electrodes that go to both my spine and down my right leg to treat a form of nerve dystrophy.  So after the toe job I go to turn it back on and nothing.  Nada.  Shit.  So I go visit the Medtronic rep at the doctor’s office and it turns out that coincidentally, the batteries on the IPG need to be replaced.  Not great news but not anything I haven’t done before.  It’s a quick procedure, they pop out the cookie, put in a new battery pack, a few staples to close and voilá – done.  I had to cancel Birmingham (felt terrible doing that to them) and arranged for the 15 minute procedure.  Hummmmmm, didn’t exactly work out that way.  An hour and a half later, I had my new implant but apparently it didn’t like the lead junctions from the old system so instead of 1 little incision, I have 3 with 32 staples holding my leg together.  But this new system is rechargeable.  I was a little high when she was explaining how to recharge it, so I’m amusing myself with the image of plugging my leg into the cigarette lighter of my car.

 

Now that I have Franken-leg, I realize that I’ll be in Seattle Washington when the staples have to be removed.  God Bless Cherry Adair, she found a surgeon willing to remove them.  Now . . . how to get through airport security?  I’m thinking a copy of the operative notes and tears should do it.

 

So, for those of you wondering where I’ve been over at Babesinbookland.com and/or have had your emails or calls ignored, sorry.  And with over 1,000 emails stacked in my inbox, I may never be heard from again.

 

Rhonda

 

Thank God I am a generally ODC person any way, if not the last 24 hours would have sent me running and screaming down my own driveway.  Last night, while screeching at the 10 year old to finish her homework before dance, the phone rings and it’s the realtor.  A couple would like to see my house.

 

In ten minutes. 

 

So we raced around making the place look presentable and then bolted for the dance studio.  Potential buyers do not want the homeowner present as they wander through the house.  Fine with me except for one minor detail – we came home an hour and a half later to the sound of the shrill beep coming from the fridge.  The realtor and/or her clients had failed to close my fridge door properly. 

 

Oh, and there was a phone message that a couple is coming today at noon; another couple is coming at 3:30 and yet another couple is coming Friday.  Either people just like walking through homes or the real estate market in south Florida isn’t as grim as I’d thought.

 

On to other stuff . . . If you’re going to be in the Birmingham area this weekend I will be too.  Murder on the Menu sounds like it will be a great weekend featuring a bevy of authors from all over the country.  Here’s the link with all the info: http://www.wetumpkalibrary.com/Default.asp?ID=357&pg=Murder+on+the+Menu+2008

 

I’m really excited.  Not only will I get the chance to hook up with some friends but also I’m going to spend three glorious days in the land of cheese grits.  I love cheese grits.  Love them plain or with shrimp.  Cheese grits are a comfort food.  My grandmother used to make big pots full of them and I’d battle my way through my 35 cousins to make it to the head of the line.  Being the youngest, nobody was allowed to toss my greedy little fanny to the side. 

 

I did a little guest blogging this week as well.  The great people over at Fresh Fiction asked me to share, so I did.  Here’s that link http://freshfiction.com/page.php?id=762  just scroll down for my take on why I am nothing like the main character in my books.  The folks at Fresh Fiction also let me do an Author’s tip article for them – it’s on crime, criminals and pacing – here’s the link for that bit of info: http://freshfiction.com/page.php?id=744.  

 

So, in addition to my surgery – and its friend the infection – kid and hubby getting strep – I’ve actually made some great progress on the next Finley mystery.  Have I mentioned that I adore my new agent Donna Bagdasarian and my new editor at Pocket, Maggie Crawford?  FAT CHANCE (no more ‘knock’ titles) is coming along nicely.  I’ll be taking some sporadic time away from writing to promote the release of the second Finley book – KNOCK ‘EM DEAD (due out 2/27) as well as the paperback reissue of KNOCK OFF (out now!!!!).  So it’s going to be a busy month, culminating with a great trip to speak at the Whidbey Island Writer’s Conference.

 

Happy Writing,

Rhonda

 

Men are like....

1. Men are like ..Laxatives ..... They irritate the crap out of you.

2. Men are like.Bananas .. The older they get, the less firm they are.

3. Men are like Weather .. Nothing can be done to change them.

4. Men are like .Blenders You need One, but you're not quite sure why.

5. Men are like .Chocolate Bars .... Sweet, smooth, & they usually head right for your hips.

6. Men are like ... Commercials ....... You can't believe a word they say.

7. Men are like Department Stores . Their clothes are always 1/2 off!

8. Men are like ..Government Bonds .... They take soooooooo long to mature.

9. Men are like .....Mascara .. They usually run at the first sign of emotion.

10. Men are like Popcorn ...... They satisfy you, but only for a little while.

11. Men are like Snowstorms ..... You never know when they're coming, how many inches you'll get or how long it will last.

12. Men are like Lava Lamps ... Fun to look at, but not very bright.

13. Men are like Parking Spots All the good ones are taken, the rest are handicapped.

Yes, I understand they are necessary – especially in this market.  South Florida – like much of the country, is in a serious slump.  So why am I selling my house?  Two Reasons – 1 – to get my kid into a different middle school next year, and 2- to downsize a bit. 

I like my realtor, he’s a decent guy.  He dropped in last night – 40 minutes late, a serious pet peeve of mine – to go over what he thinks needs to be done to make the house more saleable.  Touch up paint – makes sense; unclutter the garage – I’ve been after my hubby to do this for years so, um, yeah; resurface the pool – trying, the guy we had all lined up isn’t returning phone calls, got a name for someone who might actually show up to do the job?; power wash the roof and driveway – did that last week (Oh, okay he says); shampoo the rugs and steam the grout – did that last week and remember, this was the model house 12 years ago, the previous owners had big dogs and grandchildren and the carpet needs replacing – something the new owners can do (another Oh, okay); power wash the lanai – did that 2 weeks ago (another Oh, okay);  We’ll paint the lanai as soon as the pool is resurfaced, how’s that?  He thought that was okay so long as we didn’t use white.  Then it turned ugly . . .

Could I box up everything in my office and put it in storage?  Um, hell no, I actually need my reference books to write and the promo stuff has to be at my fingertips since I have not 1 but 2 books out in the next 35 days.  Could I take everything off my bathroom vanity?  Um, hell no again.  I’m happy to stick stuff under the sink if/when he shows the house but no, I will not pretend that no one lives here.  Would I move the lingerie cabinet out?  Um, hell no part 3 – call me selfish but I’d like my undies and jammies accessible. Could we box up my daughter’s toys and books?  Gee, she’s 10 and call me silly but I think she’d like to have toys and books.  And my personal favorite – could I get rid of some of my shoes? 

And I thought the most painful part of yesterday was having the stitches removed from my foot . . .

Just thought I'd share . . .
Jack decided to go skiing with his buddy, Bob. So they loaded up Jack's minivan and headed north. After driving for a few hours, they got caught in a terrible blizzard. So they pulled into a nearby farm and asked the attractive lady who answered the door if they could spend the night.
"I realize it's terrible weather out there and I have this huge house all to myself, but I'm recently widowed," she explained. "I'm afraid the neighbors will talk if I let you stay in my house."
"Don't worry," Jack said. "We'll be happy to sleep in the barn.  And if the weather breaks, we'll be gone at first light." The lady agreed, and the two men found their way to the barn and settled in for the night. Come morning, the weather had cleared, and they got on their way. They enjoyed a great weekend of skiing.
But about nine months later, Jack got an unexpected letter from an attorney. It took him a few minutes to figure it out, but he finally determined that it was from the attorney of that attractive widow he had met on the ski weekend.
He dropped in on his friend Bob and asked, "Bob, do you remember that good-looking widow from the farm we stayed at on our ski holiday up north about 9 months ago?"
"Yes, I do" Said Bob.
"Did you, uh, happen to get up in the middle of the night, go up to the house and pay her a visit?"
"Well, um, yes," Bob said, a little embarrassed about being found out, "I have to admit that I did."
"And did you happen to give her my name instead of telling her your name?"
Bob's face turned beet red and he said, "Yeah, look, I'm sorry, buddy.  I'm afraid I did. Why do you ask?"
"She just died and left me everything."
(And you thought the ending would be different, didn't you?...  you know you smiled... now keep that smile for the rest of the day!) 

 

 

I’m still anxiously waiting the unveiling of my new toe.  It’s still hidden beneath a few hundred yards of gauze.  The first inkling I had that the post-op Gods weren’t smiling on me was the raging fever I developed 24 hours after surgery.  But hey, that’s what antibiotics are for.  Me?  I’m more bummed over the nail I chipped navigating my trusty walker around the room.  The antibiotics knocked out the fever, only to have it replaced by the other kind of fever – cabin fever. 

 

I think I’m getting a little squirrelly being housebound.  And just to keep me on my toes (9 out of the 10, of course), my daughter has strep.  My dh has stepped up to the plate, foregoing softball to wait on us – a huge sacrifice for him. 

 

Oh, and on top of that, my house went on the market this week.  The poor realtor had to wait patiently for me to shuffle from room to room so she could take photos.  This isn’t the greatest time to sell a house in south Florida, so I’m not stocking up on boxes and packing tape.  My only hope is that we can relocate before the kidlette starts middle school.  Not that we’re relocating very far – 11 miles north to be exact. 

 

I don’t like moving.  Probably because I haven’t had much practice.  Excluding college, I’ve moved exactly 3 times in my adult life – 5 times if we go back to birth.  Obviously, I like putting down roots and am reluctant to move unless and until it becomes necessary.  I’ll miss my office.  Not only is it exactly what I’ve always wanted, in the correct colors and swimming in flamingos (bad metaphor since flamingos aren’t big swimmers), I have killer views of the sunset over the lake. 

 

But as I’ve dipped my toes (9 out of 10) into what’s out there, I’ve decided that it won’t be too hard to find a house with an office I can learn to love.  It does remind me of the old days of space sharing.  The first seven years I was published when my office was also the guest room, the store-it room, and the stuff-we-can’t-find-anyplace-else-to-put room.  I won’t be doing that again, but there’s a uniquely Florida thing when it comes to house design. 

 

The formal living and dining rooms.  One of the reasons to live in Florida is the casual lifestyle.  So why, I keep asking, would I want a formal anything?  When we entertain, it’s always a casual half-in, half-out affair.  When it’s in the low 80s in February, why would you want to eat anywhere other than on the lanai?  So we have two rooms that we basically walk through to get to the rooms we use.  I did see a model house where they’d turned the formal dining room into an office.  You walked into the foyer and smack into the middle of the neat as a pin office.  Fine in a model, hardly practical.  When I’m deep into a book, my office isn’t tidy.  I can’t imagine having everyone traipse through my office to get to the kitchen.  I’d probably start thinking percussion mines – at least discourage some of the foot traffic.

 

The Demerol is kicking in, so I’ll stop droning about house hunting.  Oh, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you to zip over to Romance Novel TV (http://www.romancenovel.tv/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=4)  to see Beth Coitta and myself at the NJRWA Conference.

 

Have a great day!

Rhonda

A new toe.  Technically a new toe joint, but new toe just sounds better.  At 9:45 this morning, I’m getting said new toe.  Why?  Well I got this wild hair after getting new toe #1 that I would turn over a new leaf and exercise.  But what kind of exercise?  After reviewing my options, I figured a jazz class would be fun and serve the cardio improvement concept.

 

Paint a big ‘A” for ass on my forehead.  Just 3 weeks into said jazz class, I broke the bone holding toe #1’s implant in place.  So I’ve been hobbling and abusing Tylenol for months.  I wanted to get through the holidays without gauze dressings and crutches.  So today is the day.

 

And of course when you are on deadline and fully aware of the fact that for the next few weeks you’ll be in bed, foot elevated, tethered to your laptop, and a tad loopy from the meds, it’s a great idea to decide to put your house up for sale.  Yep, made that decision this week, too.  Maybe I was under the influence of Tylenol, but it has to be done.  Don’t get me wrong, I like my house.  I don’t like the middle school my daughter is slated to attend next year.  And I’m not big on the private school options.  Affordable faith based or $20k for the only other private school in the area. 

 

But the toe and the house decision aren’t the things I’ll remember from this week.  No, in a couple of months I’ll look back and recall that on January 17, 2008, my daughter put on pointe shoes for the very first time.  It may sound like a small, insignificant thing but it’s a big deal.  She’s worked toward this for more than five years and to see the concentration on her face as she stood at that ballet barre in her shiny satin toe shoes is indelibly etched in my brain.

 

So what do you get a woman who has almost everything?  A treasured memory.

 

There’s a reason I hate being a homeowner – stuff breaks.  And I’m married to a man with very few man skills.  We even have to hire an electrician to change the florescent bulbs – my dh can’t set the tubes into place.  Personally, I think he suffers from homeowner performance anxiety.  This week it’s the pool pump motor.  It went something like this:

 

Friday:

“Honey, do you hear the pump?”

“Yeah, it doesn’t usually sound like that.”

“Why don’t you go turn it off?”

“I don’t know how.”

(In a seriously pissy tone)  “Fine, I’ll do it.”  – BTW, it requires opening a small box mounted on the outside wall above said rattling pump and flipping the switch to ‘off.’  I return with my clothing damp from having brushed up against the hedging hiding the pool heater and parts (and occasionally a VERY big black snake).  “Honey, go call the pool guy and tell him about the noise.”

DH, “Naw, I’m sure it will be fine if we just let it rest for a day.”

Rest?  It’s a flipping pool motor, not a rump roast, though by this time I was mentally thinking my husband was a rump hole.

 

Saturday:

Pool motor comes on, sound is worse.

Me:  “Go turn it off.”

DH: “I don’t know how.”  (See above for the rest of the conversation).

 

Sunday:

Pool motor grinds to life.

DH:  “Maybe we should call the pool guy.”

Me: “It’s Sunday, I’m not haunting him on a Sunday.  I’ll turn it off, want to come with me so you can learn how to do this in case I die or something?”

“Naw, you’re really good at it.”

 

Monday:

Pool motor sounds really, really bad.  I bypass the pointless conversation with my dh and go to turn it off.  It’s stuck, so I improvise and change the automatic timer to trick the ailing motor into thinking it’s done for the day.  I call the pool guy.  He’ll come out at the end of the day.  Yeah – the cavalry is coming!

But the pool motor cops an attitude and turns itself back on.  I curse, go back out and turn it off manually, then tell my husband to go into the garage and cut the circuit breaker for the pool equipment.

DH: “How do I do that?”

“Um, open the panel and find the pool equipment label and flip it to the off position.  Surely a man with an MBA can do that, right?”

A few hours later, on come the rumbling, grumbling pool motor.  Me:  “Didn’t you flip the breaker?”

“Yes.”

So I go check and turns out girlie man shut off the pool lights.

 

In my next life, I’m marrying a handy guy.

 

Over at www.Babesinbookland.com this week we’re talking about making resolutions – pros and cons – as well as strategies to be more organized – in writing and life – and we’ve even gotten a great challenge from Leanne Banks!

So, planning on a fresh 2008?  Head on over and don’t forget this site: http://www.onlineorganizing.com/ExpertAdviceToolbox.asp it has some great tips for being all you can be!

Happy 2008, Rhonda

‘Tis the season of over-commitment.  At least it is for me.  There’s decorating, baking, shopping, wrapping, the dreaded Christmas Letter, Christmas Cards, hosting Christmas Eve dinner for 45, my daughter’s Nutcracker practices and performances, nagging my husband to do a few things that I usually end up doing when I get tired of waiting on his happy butt to get into gear (for example – did he swing by to get the stands from the caterer so I can set-up the buffet?  Nope, he painted the front walkway that no one will see on Christmas Eve because it will be dark when they arrive), parties to attend and the last minute stuff that just slipped through my normally over-organized lists.

One of said last minute things is holiday tipping.  Thank God for Holidaytipping.com, a great site to figure out how much to tip the pool guy, and the gardener, hair stylists, nail techs, and the maid, etc.  I’ve made several trips to the ATM in the last few days since I forgot that very few of these folks will be working next week because of the holidays.

Another opps moment – school party.  It’s now called the winter party because we don’t want to offend anyone.  I’m getting used to the new name just as I got used to the fact that we have to tell the children to sit crisscross applesauce instead of Indian style.  Hey – I can be retrained.  I received a note on Monday that I was responsible for sending in 2 dozen cookies on Thursday for said winter party.  And again, unlike the old days when I was in school (many, many moons ago), all baked goods must come from a store, be sealed and have an ingredient list affixed to the packaging.  This is for the nut allergy kids.  Some other parent was assigned the lactose-free milk – that’s for the lactose intolerant kids.  Another parent was assigned hand sanitizer – I guess that’s for all the kids.  I don’t ever remember hand sanitizer being part of a holiday party but then again I don’t remember kids having the plethora of allergies and dietary intolerances either. 

I also donated 2 hours of my life on the annual mall Santa photo.  That’s changed too.  Gone is the quickie Polaroid.  Now you have two options – the candid shots or the posed portraits.  That means they take roughly 20 pictures of each child, then you got to a separate counter where you can purchase anything from a set of wallet-sized prints to a full CD of all the photos.  For an additional $25.00, they’ll send the CD overnight to your home so you don’t have to return to the mall 3 days later to pick up said CD.  What you can’t do is get a single picture.  Nope – packages only.  Luckily, I went with a friend and we took turns standing in line with our daughters.  I did get a bit of last minute shopping in during the long wait.  Props to the DS people – the girls played their handheld games for almost the entire waiting period. 

On Monday, all the prep stuff that seemed so important was put into perspective when we received word that our friend John Colucco died.  John was a great, gregarious guy who’d been battling cancer for a long time.  He played Santa at our annual Christmas Eve party for the last few years.  While his death wasn’t unexpected, it was a sobering reminder that all the stuff I’d been stressing over wasn’t really that important.  So, as you race around trying to get everything done, don’t forget to give the most important gift of all – tell the people in your life how much you love and value them.

Happy Holidays, Rhon

Let’s get the bad out of the way . . . I thought I was done holiday shopping.  Given that I LOATHE shopping, this was a major coup for me.  I’d even mailed ½ of the out-of-towners.  I was on top of the whole Christmas thing and feeling kinda smug as I listened to my friends lament the fact that they hadn’t yet braved the hoards cramming the malls.  But no.  My dh begged for help with his assigned list.  My retired, only plays softball dh.  I caved, so off to the mall I go . . . Again. 

The good . . . Great actually.  My Finley Anderson Tanner mystery series was picked up by Scribner/Pocket.  It’s a 3-book deal and a very tidy one at that!  The hardcovers will be released by Scribner, followed by mass market editions from Pocket.  I’m over the moon excited and looking very forward to working with uber editor Maggie Crawford.  And less than a week later, my new, fabu agent Donna Bagdasarian negotiated a deal with Intrigue for a 3-book deal.  The books are a re-launch of the Rose Tattoo series I began back in <gulp> 1994.  Wow, does that make me feel old.  So, Kelsey Roberts has risen from the ashes and I’m really thrilled.

So how does one celebrate 6 sales in 8 days?  Why diamonds, of course.  I was standing at the jewelry store at 10 AM after getting the news.  Note to fellow writers: Don’t ever forget to reward yourself – the great stuff doesn’t happen all that often.

The pointe?  Yes, I can spell.  Pointe as in ballet.  Apparently, the ballet teacher thinks my daughter is ready to go up on pointe.  Am I proud of her – of course, she works hard and dances 6 days a week.  However . . . those shoes are expensive and apparently have the shelf life of bananas.  This is my first foray into the world of dance and who knew pointe shoes break down after 6 weeks of wear?  Or that 3 pairs of pointe shoes = 1 pair of Coach shoes.  Too bad Coach doesn’t make pointe shoes . . .

Happy shopping!

Rhon

Forgive me, it has been forever since my last blog . . . it’s the holiday season and all the extra stuff coupled with some deadlines, etc. 

Not that anyone cares, but I am stick a fork in me done Christmas shopping.  Yes, I write a continuing character who loves to shop but I definitely didn’t base her on my own life.  I loathe shopping, always have.  If I could do absolutely everything online, I would but alas, some things you just have to go and hunt down in that large cavernous, crowded hell known as the mall.  I don’t do the Black Friday thing but I wonder what bran trust came up with the idea of holding early bird specials at 4 AM.  Forget that – the better question is why do people line up to be the first ones in the door at 4 AM? 

Oh, I skipped a recap of Thanksgiving.  Right off, one of my fave holidays – it’s all about food.  We’ve always spent the day with friends.  Relaxed, kick back kinda day.  This year (thanks to my husband falling under the devious spell cast by my mother), we ended up in a church rectory doing the bring a dish special.  The meal was followed by gray-head Karaoke.  Many numbers began with “You remember when the Andrews Sisters did this one . . .” Um, no.

Post Thanksgiving comes holiday frenzy.  I made the huge mistake 25 years ago of creating a Christmas craft for our Christmas Eve party guests.  Now it’s an expectation.  It’s also done.  I’d show a photo but some of my buds read this, so I won’t ruin the surprise.  Then there’s the ‘get ready’ stuff – purge from closets and drawers and toy boxes in anticipation of new stuff arriving on 12/25.  I think I have Christmas OCD. 

So, I turned to my old friend and whined.  Cherry Adair and I go way back.  See . . .

 

*Rhonda

My niece and her hubby welcomed their first child yesterday – a healthy baby boy.  Yes, that’s wonderful in and of itself, but the fun part is that it makes my sister a grandmother.  Let the mocking and teasing begin!  She’s only 2 years older than I am and since my daughter is only 10, I’m already thinking of snide, little sister digs.  Hey – what are little sisters for if not to mock mercilessly? 

Mocking aside, I’m actually a tad jealous.  My sister had her kids young and I, um, didn’t.  So she has an empty nest and a life while I’m driving car pool and attending dance recitals.  Assuming my daughter follows the household rule and doesn’t marry before she’s 30, I’ll be in my very late 60s.  There’s a sobering thought, eh????? 

So since getting the news about baby Josh’s arrival, I’ve been pondering. I don’t feel middle aged, but I am, unless 100 is an option and since I’ve watched my grandmother and several other family members live to that milestone, I find it really unattractive.  Why?  None of them made it with their faculties in tact.  I don’t really want to spend the final decade of my life sitting in a wheelchair at a nursing home staring at my crotch and drooling on myself. 

I was at a signing yesterday – thank you Altamonte Springs Barnes & Noble and CFRWA! – and in chatting with another author, we talked about how much time we have left to write.  Are we going to be 80 and sitting at our computers?  Will we want to? Or will we want to retire from this very competitive industry and just sit and enjoy a less stressful life?  Neither of us seemed to have an answer. 

I guess I’ll know when enough is enough . . . until then I’ll just have to content myself with the notion that my sister will be lugging around a Grandma’s Brag book . . .

*R

KNOCK OFF was a finalist in the USA Book Awards in the Women’s Literature and Fiction – Chick Lit category and my essay in SPECIAL GIFTS was also named a finalist in the Non-fiction: Parenting category.

And a heartfelt shout out to my bud Cherry Adair . . . WHITE HEAT won in the Women’s Fiction and Literature: Romance category.

'Ode' to be a Babe Contest on www.Babesinbookland.com . . . The Babes are thrilled to announce the ODE TO BE A BABE Contest.  We're giving away an Amazon gift card ($50.00) and some cute Babes Gear from our Babes store, but hey, the stuff was a little pricey, so we wanted to make people work for it AND have some fun in the process.  Then we remembered Babe Mary Stella sharing an 'Ode to the Penis' she'd written just for fun.  It was a hoot and a half, so we decided to base the contest on the Ode. 'Ode,' but I'd love to be a Babe Contest   As the contest requests, we're looking for odes To celebrate princes, transformed from big toads Or pregnant fair ladies, with secrets they've hid Those amnesiac men don't know it's their kid!  Compose a cute poem of terms that are silly Euphemisms and such, describing the willy.  A ditty of heroines -- TSTL Don't name authors names or we'll all roast in hell. Submit your entry to our email addy The Babes will vote on the goody and baddy The seven best odes we'll post for the masses Two weeks of voting by all lads and lasses If you're in the running, invite those you know. To vote for your ode in the comments, just so. One vote per person, no cheats, if you please Or we'll pull those votes with the greatest of ease. So what do you get for creating an Ode? A treasure trove BabesinBookland mother-lode. An Amazon gift card -- $50 bucks in the till. Plus autographed books and Babes goods -- What a thrill! Get working, get writing, start on your rhyming. Entering this contest requires good timing. Submit your Ode by November seven And you might win BabesinBookLand Gift Heaven. Contest Rules . . . All entries must be sent to babesinbookland@bellsouth.net in the body of the email – no attachments. If selected, you are encouraged to forward the link to your ode on www.Babesinbookland.com, not the actual content. By submitting, you represent that the work is original and that you are the author – co-authored materials must clearly state all names with the submission. You agree to hold Babesinbookland.com, all associates, contributors and affiliates harmless and further agree that you accept the terms as stated herein by submitting an ode for the contest. So put on your creativity, the contest will run from  The top 7 Odes will be posted and people can vote for their favorite (hint – wake the neighbors, tell your friends) from 11/7/07 until voting closes on 11/14.  The winner will be announced on 11/15/07. Good luck!  The Babes

‘Ode’ to be a Babe Contest on www.Babesinbookland.com . . .

The Babes are thrilled to announce the ODE TO BE A BABE Contest.  We’re giving away an Amazon gift card ($50.00) and some cute Babes Gear from our Babes store, but hey, the stuff was a little pricey, so we wanted to make people work for it AND have some fun in the process.  Then we remembered Babe Mary Stella sharing an ‘Ode to the Penis’ she’d written just for fun.  It was a hoot and a half, so we decided to base the contest on the Ode.  So . . . here’s Mary’s Ode:

Ode to the Throbbing, Pulsing, Bulging Manhood   

In the years of written romance

Nothing else has gained such fame

As a certain male sex organ

Which has more than just one name.

 

To some, it is the manhood

Always jutting, ever proud

To others, it’s a member

In what club is it allowed?

 

Swords of iron, velvet rods

Heat-forged shafts of steel

Has anyone considered

The discomfort they might feel?

 

When wrapped in deep desire

As has always been the fashion

Their hand drifts down, there to find

A pulsing tool of passion?

 

Oft told are we of women

Who find it mesmerizing.

What holds them rapt, I sure don’t know

Cause what the hell’s a “sizing?”

 

I find it vaguely scary

At the least, it could be callous

To gaze with adoration

On a throbbing, bulbous phallus.

 

It’s not the organ I abhor

In fact, this girl’s all for it.

I just yearn for less description

When choosing what to call it

 

Men, we hear, arrived from Mars

We women come from Venus

Perhaps on other planets far

They still call the thing a penis.

-            Mary Stella

 

‘Ode,’ but I’d love to be a Babe Contest

 

As the contest requests, we're looking for odes.

To celebrate princes, transformed from big toads

Or pregnant fair ladies, with secrets they've hid

Those amnesiac men don't know it's their kid! 

 

Compose a cute poem of terms that are silly

Euphemisms and such, describing the willy.

 A ditty of heroines -- TSTL

Don't name authors names or we'll all roast in hell.

 

Submit your entry to our email addy

The Babes will vote on the goody and baddy

The seven best odes we'll post for the masses

Two weeks of voting by all lads and lasses

 

If you're in the running, invite those you know.

To vote for your ode in the comments, just so.

One vote per person, no cheats, if you please

Or we'll pull those votes with the greatest of ease.

 

So what do you get for creating an Ode?

A treasure trove BabesinBookland mother-lode.

An Amazon gift card -- $50 bucks in the till.

Plus autographed books and Babes goods -- What a thrill!

 

Get working, get writing, start on your rhyming.

Entering this contest requires good timing.

Submit your Ode by November seven

And you might win BabesinBookLand Gift Heaven.

 

Contest Rules . . . All entries must be sent to babesinbookland@bellsouth.net in the body of the email – no attachments.

If selected, you are encouraged to forward the link to your ode on www.Babesinbookland.com, not the actual content.

By submitting, you represent that the work is original and that you are the author – co-authored materials must clearly state all names with the submission.

You agree to hold Babesinbookland.com, all associates, contributors and affiliates harmless and further agree that you accept the terms as stated herein by submitting an ode for the contest.

 

 

So put on your creativity, the contest will run from 10/29/07-11/3/07.  The top 7 Odes will be posted and people can vote for their favorite (hint – wake the neighbors, tell your friends) from 11/7/07 until voting closes on 11/14.  The winner will be announced on 11/15/07.

Good luck!  The Babes

‘Ode’ to be a Babe . . .

So my buds over at www.Babesinbookland.com have been mulling over contest ideas.  We knew we wanted to give away an Amazon gift card ($50.00) and some cute Babes Gear from our Babes store, but hey, the stuff was a little pricey, so we wanted to make people work for it AND have some fun in the process.  Then we remembered Babe Mary Stella sharing an ‘Ode to the Penis’ she’d written just for fun.  It was a hoot and a half, so we decided to base the contest on the Ode.  So . . . here’s Mary’s Ode:

Ode to the Throbbing, Pulsing, Bulging Manhood   

 

In the years of written romance

Nothing else has gained such fame

As a certain male sex organ

Which has more than just one name.

 

To some, it is the manhood

Always jutting, ever proud

To others, it’s a member

In what club is it allowed?

 

Swords of iron, velvet rods

Heat-forged shafts of steel

Has anyone considered

The discomfort they might feel?

 

When wrapped in deep desire

As has always been the fashion

Their hand drifts down, there to find

A pulsing tool of passion?

 

Oft told are we of women

Who find it mesmerizing.

What holds them rapt, I sure don’t know

Cause what the hell’s a “sizing?”

 

I find it vaguely scary

At the least, it could be callous

To gaze with adoration

On a throbbing, bulbous phallus.

 

It’s not the organ I abhor

In fact, this girl’s all for it.

I just yearn for less description

When choosing what to call it

 

Men, we hear, arrived from Mars

We women come from Venus

Perhaps on other planets far

They still call the thing a penis.

-            Mary Stella

 

‘Ode,’ but I’d love to be a Babe

 

As the contest requests, we're looking for odes.

To celebrate princes, transformed from big toads

Or pregnant fair ladies, with secrets they've hid

Those amnesiac men don't know it's their kid!