Killer Fiction

The Charm of a Bad Boy

2008-10-07T04:03:00.000-07:00

Do you guys remember my book Divorced, Desperate and Delicious? Lacy took a singing fish to Chase’s head when he took her hostage in her own home. Remember she let him eat a cat-food sandwich? Of course that was to get even with him for handcuffing her to the bed. Ah, they were a fun couple to write about. Quirky and crazy. I got quite a bit of fan mail on that book.

But oddly enough, one name that appeared in many of those fan letters was that of Chase’s best buddy. Everyone loved the bad boy, the player, and the no-good womanizing hunk of a man named Jason Dodd.

Okay, I admit it, I kind of had a soft spot for Jason, too. It’s that bad boy charm—the devilish twinkle in their eyes, their hard bodies, their come-here baby smiles. Ahh, but it’s more than just their drop-dead sexiness. For me, and I think for most of us, it’s the challenge. The challenge to tame a bad boy. And it’s also their wounded souls. Most bad boys are bad because they’ve been hurt. They wear their free spirits, their love-me-and-leave smiles, as armor. And what woman doesn’t crave to tear down that armor and make the old haunts disappear into a blissful future. Oh, yeah, my readers loved Jason.

But as we all know, it takes a special girl to tame a bad boy—a special girl to get past the armor and into the heart of a wounded soul. And I had just the right woman. Remember Sue? She was Lacy’s best friend in the first DD&D book. After one glimpse of bad-boy Jason Dodd, Sue was questioning her no-date, no-men, no-sex lifestyle. Yup, Sue had a thing for Jason even in Divorced, Desperate and Delicious. But “her thing” gets taken to whole new level in their very own book.

In Divorced, Desperate and Dating, released November 25th, Sue and Jason go toe-to-toe. Or rather, lips to lips. Jason wants Sue. Sue wants love. And a stalker wants Sue dead. Jason is determined to seduce Sue while he plays the role of body guard. Jason’s theory: We might as well have fun. Sue is determined not to become just another of his conquests. Sue’s theory: She’s not playing poker with her heart. After chapters of laughter, sexual tension, tapping into each other’s emotional pasts, and catching a stalker before someone ends up toast, Sue manages to do what every girl dreams: She tames and catches her very own bad boy. Below is the back cover blurb for Divorced, Desperate and Dating.

GOOD COP
Sue Finley murdered people…on paper. As a mystery writer, she knew all the angles, who did what and why. The only thing she couldn’t explain was…well, men. Dating was like diving into a box of chocolates: sometimes the sweetest-looking specimens were candy-coated poison. After a breakup with a bank robber and a divorce from a cross dresser, she gave it up for good. Then came Detective Jason Dodd.

BAD BOY
Raised in foster homes, Jason swore never to need anyone as much as the parent who abandoned him. That was why he failed to follow up after experiencing the best kiss of his life: real passion was addictive. But when Sue Finley started getting death threats, all bets were off. The blonde spitfire was everything he’d ever wanted—and she needed him. And though this novel situation had a quirky cast of characters and an unquestionable bad guy, he was going to make sure it had a happy ending.

So there you have it: My next release about a bad boy and the heroine who tamed him. And here’s what I want to hear from you: what is it that makes you fall for a bad boy? Come on, tell me what it is. I’m getting ready to start a new book, and I’m looking for some new bad boy traits that will make my new heroine melt right into her panties.

And to one lucky poster, I’m giving a way a pack of note cards, and either a copy of Divorced, Desperate and Delicious or Weddings Can Be Murder. So . . . come on, tell me what it is about bad boys that makes your heart go flutter.

Crime Scene Christie

Miss Kitty

2008-10-05T20:08:00.000-07:00

Where I'm from in Louisiana, there was a bar called Miss Kitty's. It was a popular place and big with the younger set. Lot's of beer, country music, and the occasional fist fight in the parking lot...your basic redneck attraction. Miss Kitty's was owned by a very large, woman with big hair and lots of makeup and jewelry who believe it or not, was called Miss Kitty. And Miss Kitty was a character straight out of a work of fiction.

One afternoon, I was at a jewelry store with a friend who was having her engagement ring adjusted. Miss Kitty was there picking up a piece of custom jewelry she'd had made. We got to talking about jewelry and engagement rings, etc. while we were waiting and Miss Kitty told us this story. She said her daughter had been married once before but it didn't last very long...one of those high school sweetheart things. So the daughter was remarrying but she still had her engagement ring from her first marriage and it contained a really nice diamond. So the daughter suggested that she could have the diamond removed and set into another piece of jewelry for herself. Her new husband-to-be balked at the thought of his wife wearing the "tainted" diamond and forbid her to wear it in any form.

Well, Miss Kitty thought that was bullshit and so did the daughter, but rather than cause a ruckus the daughter just gave the ring to Miss Kitty and told her to make something for herself. About that time the jeweler came out from the back with Miss Kitty's package. I asked, "So did you make it into something nice for yourself?"

Miss Kitty smiled and winked, then said, "No, I had it made into a tie tack for him."

My friend and I were still rolling laughing when she pulled out of the parking lot in her big yellow Cadillac. If there's ever a Steel Magnolia's II, I think Miss Kitty should have a role.

Deadly DeLeon

Jenyfer Matthews does the Women's Fiction Festival

2008-10-04T03:00:00.000-07:00

Every year the Women’s Fiction Festival takes place in Matera, Italy. And, every year I spend a week being completely jealous of everyone who gets to go. This time around, author Jenyfer Matthews, was the focus of my jealousy, but she was kind enough to give an awesome recap when she got back so we can all live vicariously through her fabulous experience.

Picture it: a wildly talented but largely unknown romance author attends her first writers conference, hoping to snag an agent and better yet a book deal for her latest project on the strength of a face to face pitch. She arrives in Rome, exhausted and travel worn after a red eye flight, only to run into another author (YA) and online friend in the airport. YA author friend introduces romance author to her traveling companions: two literary agents, a romance editor, and a Hollywood producer / screenwriter and his lovely wife. Romance author spends the rest of the short flight to the conference town regretting her travel attire and lack of mascara.

Romance author ends up being adopted by the glam group. She ends up pitching her book to one agent over dinner her first night, shopping with the second agent and romance editor another morning - finding the perfect Italian leather shoes for the closing gala for only 10 euro - and tossing around ideas with the movie producer during happy hour. Romance author stays in a quaint cave-like hotel in the historic area of town, requiring her to walk home alone late at night through twisting cobblestone streets, following signs to The Museum of Torture to find her way, often after consuming large amounts of fantastic food and wine. (Insert great potential here for pratfalls and other physical comedy here) By end of conference, romance author is invited to submit her full manuscript for consideration by all with whom she has spoken. She sells the book and the movie rights for a huge advance and lives happily ever after.

Sounds like the premise for a kooky chick-lit book doesn't it? (The only thing missing from this above scenario is an affair with a sexy Italian man - and that was on offer too, only I didn't think my husband would approve.) Aside from the thus far fictitious HEA ending (though some might also quibble with the opening), the above is actually a summary of my experiences this weekend while attending the Women's Fiction Festival in Matera, Italy.

This was my first experience attending a writer's conference and I have to say I think I've been spoiled for all future conferences. The location was definitely a draw for me - not only is it a relatively quick flight from my home in Cairo, Egypt but Matera is a World Heritage Site and has been the backdrop for several films, most notably The Passion of Christ. When we weren't attending workshops, we were plied with food and drink - I hardly had time to work up an appetite between coffee break and happy hour buffets. But just in case you did still find yourself feeling peckish, the town was also having a food festival where you could sample and purchase local products. (I wasn't the only one who bought chunks of stinky cheese!)

The most amazing part of this conference however was the opportunity to speak to industry professionals in such a friendly atmosphere. I had arranged appointments with the agents and editors before arriving but in the end I really didn't need the appointments because there were so many opportunities to talk to people otherwise. The size of the conference - less than a hundred attendees at a guess - was what made that level of casual interaction possible.

If spending time socializing with authors, agents, and editors in such lovely surroundings isn't convincing enough, here is another good reason to go to Matera - Italian designer leather goods. Need I say more?

Jenyfer Matthews
www.jenyfermatthews.com

From the Mouths of Babes

2008-10-03T03:00:00.000-07:00

Inspired by Leslie’s Jack-isms this week, I thought I’d share one of my OMG moments with my little man.

Little Man was about six when this happened. I wasn’t dating a whole lot then, so this was kind of a new concept for him, seeing Mom dressed up and leaving the house without him. So, I was getting ready to go out – doing my hair, make-up, and all that good stuff – when Little Man came into the bathroom.

LM: So, where are you going tonight?

Me: A movie.

LM: (perking up) A cartoon movie?

Me: No.

LM: Oh. (undaunted) But, do you think he likes kids?

Me: I’m sure he does. But this is a grown up night, so you’re going to stay home with grandma.

LM: (pouting) Oh.

Me: I’ll be home by bedtime to tuck you in.

LM: K. So… what’s this guy’s name?

Me: Shane.

LM: That’s a good name. So… are you going to kiss him tonight?

Me: (freezing, mascara wand in hand) What? No! I mean… I don’t know…no!

LM: If you kiss him, are you going to use your tongue?

Me: (poking self in eye with mascara) What?!! Where did you hear about kissing with tongues?

LM: I dunno. TV maybe.

Me: No. I will not… be doing that. We’re just going to a movie, then I’m coming home. That’s all.

LM: Oh. Okay, then. But, Mom?

Me: (exasperated) What?

LM: Are you gonna let him touch your boobs?

Me: (dropping mascara on the floor, making huge black, goopy mess) That’s it. I’m disconnecting the cable.

~Trigger Happy Halliday

Ta Da! What I Did On My Summer Vacation...

2008-10-02T05:44:00.000-07:00

It was a busy summer. One minute I was wiping away tears (joy & sadness) at my trio's high school graduation and the next I was tool belt deep in Bullet Hole's version of Home Improvement in the Heartland. I 'made over' five rooms in my home. The triplets' bedrooms, a room that used to be a formal dining room and the room that used to be the dining room before the formal dining room. Clear as latex caulk, right?

Ah, well. Not to fear. I come bearing pictures of what my family has termed, 'Mom's Magnificent Obsession'. And while we're not quite there yet, I thought I'd share some snapshots of what I've been up to that has kept me from being as active online as I normally am--and what's sent me off to work more mornings than not with paint in my hair. Indigo Batik Blue is SO not my color...

Our HIHT (Home Improvement in the Heartland Tour) begins in one of the triplet's bedrooms. Since they are next to each other, I decided to go with the same color scheme in both rooms. One room was a gun-metal gray while the other's walls were a 'bleah' yellow. The rooms were repainted with a nice off-whitish color on the top and a tan on the bottom. Chair rail (stained and varnished by yours truly) separates the colors. Here is a picture of one of the room's corners so you can get an idea of what I'm talking about.
Didn't know ol' Bullet Hole had it in her, did ya? Next we move to a room just off the kitchen that was added as a formal dining room along with extra bedroom sometime after the house was built to accommodate a growing family. Originally, the dining room had been off the living room (one of those 'L-shaped' numbers) and when we moved to this home, we used the formal dining room as a dining room. The picture below shows what the dining room looked like when we moved in.
However, those of you with teens know that the time spent at the dining table is basically on an 'eat and run' basis and we found we weren't utilizing the space much at all. So, when the rec room downstairs got flooded out for the third time, I decided it was time to reevaluate the situation. Since there was a perfectly good dining area off the living room, I decided that's what I'd use it for again. So, we turned the dining room into a nice, cozy, TV/Video Game room. Here's the end result:

Of course, this meant that the used-to-be-now-once-again dining area had to be updated. Naturally.

So, more paint, more chair rail, and lots of 'blue hair' later, that room was updated. Here's what it looks like now:

And there you have it. What Bullet Hole Bacus did on her summer vacation. I still need to hang pictures in all of the rooms and get knick-knacks in place, but we're getting there.

Now my agent tells me I really need to get back to writing. Uh, don't tell her, but I've got my eye on my kitchen and bathroom next.

Speaking of writing, the reviews for ANCHORS AWEIGH are starting to trickle in and I'll share some of those plus some foreign rights news of my own.

~Bullet Hole who has met the miter saw on the field of battle and bested the beast!~

The World According To Jack

2008-09-30T22:08:00.000-07:00

Jack (my son, for those who have not yet participated in the yak-tipping/goldfish-impersonating initiation you must undergo in order to read this blog) turned 8 this summer. Apparently, this is the age where your children start to say things that force you to do the cartoon double-take. Or maybe it's just my kid. Here is a sampling of Jack-isms from the just this past month;

Jack (not happy with something I asked him to do): Mom, you'd better be nice to me.

Me (not happy that he's questioning my omnipotent authority): Why's that?

Jack: Because someday, I'm gonna be a 5-star general and then your Commander-in-Chief...just like Dwight David Eisenhower.

Me (wondering if Jack has been secretly watching Mad Men): I still win. Even the President has to answer to his mother. Now clean your room.

This one happened two days later:

Jack: (sobbing on the sofa in the middle of the afternoon): Mom, I'm really sad.

Me: You're 8. It's a beautiful day and you have no homework. What do you have to be sad about?

Jack (still crying): Because I want to get married someday and I also want to be the Pope and I can't do both.

Me: Um... Go out and play. (I know, I won't win any motherhood wisdom awards for this one.)

Here's my favorite. It happened a couple of days later, while I was watching the presidential debate:

Jack: (Appearing beside me suddenly and completely naked from his shower) I'm gonna vote for McCain.

Me: You can't vote. (Thinking about this for a second) Wait, Why McCain?

Jack: (shaking his head as if I'm retarded) Because if he wins, there will still be an Iraq war when I'm old enough to go and fight.

Me (yelling as Jack dances naked out of the room): I liked it better when you wanted to be the Pope!

I don't know. Maybe he's going through a growth spurt or eating WAY too many Sour Skittles lately. What do you think?

The Assassin

Recent Lessons Learned at the Craig House

2008-09-30T01:22:00.000-07:00

I’m a firm believer in learning our lessons. I mean, if we don’t learn from our mistakes, then what’s the use in our making them, right? And yes, some lessons are those we have to repeat over and over before the light bulb comes on and we reach the amazingly intelligent conclusion of, “Duh.”

Okay, so I admit it, we at the Craig house have experienced our share of “duh” moments. Below are a few lessons we at the Craig house have learned over the years.

Hubby: Do not microwave a toothbrush. Yes, it sounds reasonable that to stick it in a cup of water and set the time on one minute might be sure to kill the germs and therefore save you from the $1.99 of having to purchase a new one every three weeks, but it doesn’t work.

Me: When hubby says he’ll fix something, insist he doesn’t. (Remember carpet cleaning and plumbing episodes. Remember tooth brush!)

Son: Do not microwave a whole egg. Yes, I know you want to prove mama wrong when I say you can’t do that, but when the egg explodes coating the microwave with scrambled egg, you’re going to be sorry.

Me: Never attempt to move a feline that is about to release a hairball. Believe it or not, there are worse places for a hairball to land other than where you thought it might end up.

Son: To clean a cell phone you DO NOT run it through the washing machine. To dry a cell phone, DO NOT run it through the dryer. In other words, check your dad-burn jeans before doing laundry!

Me: When son says, smell this, and has funny look on his face, don’t do it. When son says, taste this and has a green appearance in skin tone, don’t do it.

Son: Puking is not a team sport. Yes, when you were small, mama always held your head and kept a damp cloth to your brow during these times of needs. At eighteen, and with a man-size stomach, you are lucky if mom tosses a wet rag at you and says I hope everything comes out all right.

Son: Just because it’s in the refrigerator doesn’t mean it’s still edible. P.S. Refer to lesson above for reference.

Hubby: Never start whining about losing your glasses until after you check the top of your head.

Me: When bad odors are suddenly emitted into the air while in the car, don’t assume the obvious and think it will eventually fade, instead ask son if he just took off his shoes.

Me: Never attempt to wax my own eyebrows. (No explanation needed.)

Me: Always pay close attention to how you spell the word “public.” To remove the “l” from the word can change the entire meaning of a sentence. Especially if said sentence is being posted online where the world can read about it.

Son: Never ask your mom to cut your hair when she’s mad at you. (No explanation needed.)

Me: Never loan cell phone to son who doesn’t check pockets before washing.

Me: Never ask your aunt, who hasn’t said the word sex, thought about sex, or had sex in twenty years, what she thought of your romance novel.

Hubby: Never ever, under any circumstances, ask your wife what happened to her eyebrows.

Okay…so there you have it. Some of the life lessons we have learned at the Craig house. What about you guys? Any lessons you could share? Come on, I shared.

Crime Scene Christie

It Just Figures

2008-09-29T05:09:00.000-07:00

You ever have those things happen that you're absolutely sure only happen to you and could have only happened to you at that particular moment? Don't answer that, Christie, we've heard enough of your stories to be scared when you leave the house. :)

So it wasn't an elaborate thing, but I get really amused with ironies in life. I was driving to work the other day and talking to one of my friends about our never ending struggle with diet. We're both emotional eaters, so boredom, stress, happiness, excitement...pretty much anything but sleep makes us want to eat. Stress is the worst though, and since we're both very busy people with tons of responsibility, we fight the battle to indulge ourselves every day.

Now since I spend most all day every day sitting and typing - either at home or at work - it makes it particularly hard for me to avoid "picking" at food. After all, I'm just sitting there, right? Why not have something to graze on all day? And if I choose carrot sticks, we wouldn't even be talking. But no, my biggest downfall is caramel corn - specifically Poppycock that I get at Walgreens up the road from the office. So I was telling Cari that I work and work and work and kept the thoughts of Poppycock from my mind as long as possible but then eventually I just decide to get it over with go get a bag so that I stop obsessing. And then it never fails, that is the day that Walgreens is selling them buy one get one free.

Now, who in their right mind is only going to pick up one bag when the second costs nothing and their is no discount at all for just purchasing one?

So we get off the phone and I manage to steer past Walgreens and instead turn into a QT gas station. They sell this honeynut cheerios snack mix that is much lower in fat that other choices and is far better for me than the caramel corn. So I head into the store, pick up my bag of snack mix and head to the counter, pleased with myself for skipping Walgreens and going for the lower fat snack. So the guy picks up the bag, scans it, then says to me "these are buy one get one free."

AAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

So I head out to my car with two friggin' bags of snack mix and call Cari back. She'd probably still laughing.

Deadly (double for nothing) DeLeon

Mystery Author Ed Lynskey

2008-09-28T03:00:00.000-07:00

Please join me in welcoming mystery author, Ed Lynskey. As much as I love funny books, every once in a while I’m in the mood for a real heart pounding, stay-up-all-night, edge-of-your-seat mystery. Like Ed’s awesome P.I. Frank Johnson series. So, Ed, take it away…

Judging a Book by Its Title: How Mysteries Get Named

Like all authors, I spend a lot of sweat and blood drawing up short lists of prospective titles for my crime fiction novels and then pruning the list down to pick the sure-fired winner (hopefully). I do have a few pet peeves on novel titles. They shouldn’t be too long. They should be original without being outrageous. They should be memorable. They shouldn’t be too cute. But then how do I apply all those rules to compile a short list in the first place?

Bob Randisi (founder of the Shamus Awards) has written he searches for a title that’s unique and sticks out in the reader’s mind. I like that advice. I seem to gravitate to the Walter Mosley and John D. MacDonald school by also using colors to create my first two P.I. Frank Johnson titles (The Dirt-Brown Derby, The Blue Cheer). Colors strike an emotional chord in the readers’ minds. One color that doesn’t appeal to me -- and is perhaps overused -- is black, closely followed by the color red.

Sometimes a key phrase can be lifted from the novel’s prose and pressed into service to make a nifty title such as James M. Cain’s masterful noir The Postman Always Rings Twice. I’ll always think of John Garfield starring in the first movie adaptation saying those fatal words in a wooden voice. Reading the title, my first question is why does the postman ring twice? So from the get-go, my curiosity is engaged. That’s salesmanship. Michael Collins (pseudonym for Dennis Lynds) published one of his P.I. Dan Fortune books, Blue Death, from the stark physical description of a drowned victim looking blue.

One-word titles leave me wary. Sure, a single word is easier to remember for the reader (i.e., the buyer), but many one-word titles have already been taken and used over and over. “Deadfall”, for instance, shows up twenty times on Amazon including as a Hardy Boys title before I stopped counting them. On the other hand, Bill Pronzini has released his titles in the excellent, long-running Nameless Detective series under one-word titles, including Deadfall. Go figure.

Sometimes the titles are a skillful play on words. Donna Andrews does this with clever effectiveness (No Nest for the Wicket. We’ll Always Have Parrots. Owl’s Well That Ends Well -- you get the idea). I’m not witty enough to pull this off without sounding clunky and cute, but then my books don’t use a lot of humor either. The vintage Alfred Hitchcock short story anthologies used droll titles (Down by the Old Bloodstream, Behind the Death Ball, both from Dell). But then Sir Alfred was that sort of a personality, so the apt titles worked.

Have you ever had a jingle or phrase bounce around in your head for years? That happened to me in titling my third P.I. Frank Johnson book, Pelham Fell Here. The words appeared on a highway historical marker on the way to Culpeper, Virginia. My grandfather pulled off to the side of the road one day and read the bronze plaque.

That’s why the plaque’s title imprinted on my brain. Pelham is the small town where Frank returns after finishing his military service. Major Pelham, a fallen Confederate war hero, lent his name to the small town. Frank isn’t into hero-worship and casts a jaundiced eye on what’s been going on in Pelham during his absence. Loren D. Estleman wrote me that Pelham Fell Here is a “strong title” which is gratifying to hear. A writer always strives to pick a striking title.

For my P.I. Sharon Knowles short stories reprinted in a collection I wanted something with a gentler tone. A Clear Path to Cross is what shook out of the deliberations. It’s a longer title and I like the image it conveys. A softer edge, Sharon isn’t hardboiled like Frank is. Unlike Frank, Sharon doesn’t have any novels. Yet.

Of course, the final say in the novel’s title is the publisher. It’s right there in the written contract you sign. I’ve been fortunate in none of my titles have been rejected or altered by my publisher. My favorite anecdote on the selection of a novel’s right title is F. Scott Fitzgerald and The Great Gatsby. Fitzgerald wrangled over a short list of titles that just didn’t ring: Among Ash-Heaps and Millionaires, Trimalchio, Trimalchio in West Egg, On the Road to West Egg, Gold-Hatted Gatsby and The High-Bouncing Lover. In the end, The Great Gatsby prevailed and the rest, as they say, is history.

Ed Lynskey
http://www.myspace.com/edlynskey

Faye Hughes On Adventures in Flying

2008-09-27T05:00:00.000-07:00

Okay Guys, With great pleasure, I'd like to introduce you to my good buddy, Faye Hughes. She's my writing partner, my friend, my critique partner (among others) and a partner to a lot of my crimes. As a computer guru, she talks me down from all the computer ledges that I manage to get myself on. She's also nuttier than a giant slab of peanut brittle. Which explains why we are such good friends. She is, as we say in the south, a real hoot. Together we wrote, The Everything Guide to Writing A Romance Novel, which was just released this week. She is also the author of seven romance novels, two of which were optioned for TV movies. (Yeah, the girl can also write fiction.) Take it away, Faye. ~Crime Scene Christie

They say hindsight is everything. I have a tendency to agree because, looking back on my March 2007 flight to New York City, I realize how close I came to ending up on the “No Fly” list along with suspected terrorists and other “persons of interest.”

You see, I was flying from Syracuse to La Guardia, where I was going to meet Christie Craig, my critique partner and new writing partner for non-fiction in the baggage claims area. I was totally excited, if a little sleep-deprived. You see, Christie and I had talked on the phone daily but we hadn’t met in person yet, and the PASIC conference in NYC was going to be our chance to get better acquainted.

So, I lugged my too-large-for-carryon suitcase from the long-term parking garage and checked it in with the skycap, then headed inside the terminal at Syracuse’s Hancock Airport. I made my way through the security checkpoint and arrived at my gate about an hour early. I really needed coffee, but before I could grab a cup, they announced that the flight from Syracuse to LaGuardia was boarding.

WTF? I mean, you’d think somebody would have told me that the flight was leaving an hour early. Still, I grabbed my boarding pass and got in line. It was a small plane. Getting small planes balanced can be a challenge, so people rarely end up sitting in their assigned seats. As for me, well, my seat didn’t even exist. I had an “F” and there were no “F” seats. I asked the flight attendant who looked at me as if I was the last thing she wanted to deal with that morning. Hey, I don’t’ blame her. After all, she had bigger problems, like getting the plane balanced. She told me to sit anywhere. And I did and less than an hour later, I was in LaGuardia. But still no coffee.

No problem, I decided. Christie was supposed to meet me in my baggage claims area and since her flight got there earlier than mine, we would probably be able to get out of the airport and to the hotel a lot earlier than we’d expected. We could grab some lunch and, yes! Coffee!

It was a great plan. Only, my suitcase never made its way around the luggage turnstile with the rest of everyone else’s luggage. Crap, I thought. Now what? First, they assigned me to a seat number that didn’t exist and now I had no luggage.

Now, by this point, I’m sure a lot of you know what happened but, honestly, it took me another 20 minutes before I figured out that I’d taken the wrong flight to LaGuardia. (If you’re wondering why I didn’t check the flight numbers, hey, it was all I could do to find the right gate number. I seriously needed coffee that morning.)

Anyway, I figured my suitcase would arrive on the next flight, so I started calling Christie on her cell. According to her last email, her flight should have arrived. But Christie’s cell was heading straight to voicemail. (A quick bit of info about Christie, she always carries her cell phone when she travels but she rarely ever remembers to turn it on. It wouldn’t be so bad if she could remember how to access her new messages but, hey, that’s a blog for a different time.)

So, there I was, settled in on a bench in the empty baggage claims area, waiting for Christie and my luggage.

Christie got there before my suitcase. I knew it was her when I first laid eyes on her. A small blonde woman in a hat dragging two large suitcases on wheels that were bigger than she was. She got to the turnstile, saw me sitting on the bench and smiled. “Hello,” she said.

I smiled back and said, “Hi, Christie.”

The look on her face was priceless.

You see, I’d seen pictures of her but all she’d seen of me was an old author photo on some of my out-of-print paperbacks. And the hair color was different.

Anyway, Christie nods and asks, “Faye?”

Okay, I couldn’t resist. I said, “Nope.”

She started to look worried then. She even glanced from side to side, to see if there were any security guards nearby. But no luck for Christie. It was just the two of us.

She said, “Um” or “Uh” and I could just see the wheels in her head spinning. Who was I? How did I know her name? And probably most important of all, Why the hell had I agreed to meet Faye at her baggage claims when we didn’t fly in on the same airline?

I started to giggle then, and that’s when she started seriously looking for security, but I quickly confessed that I was Faye.

Then she said, “But your plane’s not supposed to be here for another half hour.”

“Yeah, and did you know cell phones don’t work unless you turn them on?” We had a good laugh. Now, let’s flash forward a few hours. That night at the hotel, I received a call from Travelocity. He was very nice but he sounded just like the Travelocity gnome they have in the TV commercials. Anyway, he told me I’d taken the wrong flight and he wanted to make certain I took the right return flight. “Very naughty,” he said. “Naughty, naughty.” (You try not to burst out laughing at that kind of dialogue. I mean, the Travelocity gnome was chastising me.

Then he made me write down the info and I hung up. I joked to Christie that TSA should contract the Travelocity gnome to handle security. I mean, he had busted me about the wrong flight and nobody at the airline figured it out. “But that voice,” I said. “Very naughty?” I nearly fell off my chair laughing.

I guess I was a little disrespectful of the gnome because at 7:00 the next morning, a guy from “hotel security”, dressed in one of those MIB type black suits, unlocked the door to our hotel room and came in to give us our personal “wake up call.”

Only we hadn’t requested a “wake up call.” Personal or otherwise.

And when we called down to the front desk to ask about it, they told us that hotel security never unlocks and enters a guest’s room to deliver a wake up call.

I figure I learned a valuable lesson that day. Okay, maybe a couple of them. First, always drink coffee before flying, or before boarding a flight. And two, never make fun of the Travelocity gnome. He may seem inanimate and cute but if he calls your hotel room to tell you that you’ve been ‘naughty’, you’d best be respectful, or you might end up with a MIB type in a suit in your hotel room the next morning for a non-requested wake up call.

Respect the gnome. Seriously. Always respect the gnome.

Faye Hughes

www.FayeHughes.net

www.WritewithUs.net

I’m an International Superstar!

2008-09-26T03:00:00.000-07:00

Okay, well, maybe I’m still working on the superstardom thing… but one of my books has gone international! This week I got copies of the Polish version of my first book, Spying in High Heels! It’s been released as Sledztwo na wysokich obcasach in Poland by Amber publishing. Check out the cover - cool, huh? I have no idea what it says, but I spent all day browsing through the book. The most fun part about it are the little footnotes explaining my many Americanisms – like why “Dewey, Cheatum, & Howe” is a funny name for an attorney’s office, and what Six Flags is. I love it!

Since I don’t speak Polish in the least, I spent a good chunk of time yesterday trying to find a Polish to English dictionary online that I could use to translate the title. No such luck. Still searching. The best I can find so far is it says something "to soaring heel". Interesting…

But, in the course of my searches, I did stumble upon some very interesting facts about Poland. Did you know:

Pizza in Poland does not contain tomato sauce. The waiters bring sauce to the table in a pitcher, and you pour it on top. Sometimes the sauce is just catsup.

When American movies are dubbed for Polish TV, one man reads all the parts, even those of women and children.

The biggest section of any grocery store is the candy section.

Some Polish beer is ten per-cent alcohol.

There is a Pope channel on TV. Anytime one needs to see the pope, one can tune him in.

Polish toilet paper is made of crepe.

There is an M.D. on board every ambulance.

Doctors do not make as much as English teachers do in Poland.

The teaching of the German language at any level was forbidden in Poland for forty years after the end of World War II.

Poles peel bananas from the blossom end, not from the stem end.

Poles always carry cut flowers upside down.

Amongst all the members of the European Union, the residents of Poland marry the youngest – at and average age of 23 for women.

In Poland people wear wedding ring on the right hand.

In Polish, the English word “no” means “yeah, sure”. So, if a Polish man asks you out to dinner, don’t say “no” unless he’s really hot.

And my favorite…

Poland is currently run by identical twin brothers who serve as Prime Minister and President. They were once too-cute child stars and appeared in the 1962 movie, The Two Who Stole the Moon. (Who knows, maybe the Olsen twins have a future in politics yet!)

~Trigger Happy (or as they say in Poland, Spust Zadowolony) Halliday

'Bullet Hole the Builder' Checking In...

2008-09-25T07:57:00.000-07:00

Hey! Just popping in to say 'howdy' as the floor covering installers are here laying my carpet! I'll snap a couple pics and post them once the floor is down and they're outta here. I'm also painting. Yes. Still.

Pictures to come!

Have a great day and rest of the week!

~Bullet Hole Bacus~

So, Like, I Was On This, Like, AMAZING Book Tour...

2008-09-23T21:39:00.000-07:00

Jessica Anderson, Cherry Adair, Kathryn Caskie and Moi

Colleen Coble, Jade Lee's arm, Monica McInerney, Jordan Dane, Susan Mallery, Me, Elizabeth Hoyt and Kathryn Caskie

I shouldn't have to explain this one. I mean really, there's a nametag and everything.

Two cute guys who, surprisingly, were very excited to see me

Last weekend was one of the best weekends of my whole, entire, life! My publisher sent me on a book tour with 26 other authors across the state of Michigan! And look! Cute guys wanted their picture with me! Woo hoo!

Actually (and this will take the wind out of the proverbial sails a bit) the guys saw me and got all excited. One of them said, "My mom loves you! I can't believe you're here!" Anyway, these two adorable guys were so excited to have a photo with me (and apparently my chins) on their phone to send "mom," it was almost okay when they told me they were on their way to a wrestling meet. "High school or college meet?" I idiotically asked. The tall, cute guy said, and I quote, "Oh no, all ages. There will even be some old guys who are 40 there."

Oh well. Hey! Cute guys were excited to see me! Yay!

Once I got past the icky idea I was behaving like a Kougar, life went on. And it was wonderful. The Levy people who sponsor the tour of nine Meijer stores in three days spoiled us ROTTEN. Everything was taken care of from the hotels to the food to the transportation. I had a great time meeting so many wonderful authors. My kids and husband, however, are not so amused when I call out for my luxury bus or gourmet food. They still expect me to cook Spaghettios and clean toilets. Can you believe the nerve?

Probably the best part of the whole tour was talking to these brilliant, award-winning authors about the business. I'm still fairly new and am beginning to believe there is no way I'll ever learn it all. And yet these incredibly generous women (and a few fabulous men who put up with us) patiently answered my questions and didn't make fun of my wide-eyed, mouth open curiousity. And no one even tried to put a "Kick Me" sticker on my back. Not even once.

It's good to be home (at least, the guinea pigs think so - but they may just be after food) but I'd go back out with these writers any day, any time, anywhere.

The Assassin

Ike and The Craigs

2008-09-23T05:05:00.000-07:00

This last week I was selected to play a part in a movie of the week. At first, I refused to accept this so-called role. Surely, the Director, (AKA, Mother Nature) would come to Her senses and realize I didn’t have the personality to play such a serious part in her natural disaster movie. If she’d read just a page of one of my books, she’d know my personality and life lends itself better to comedy. “Call me when You have a different role,” I replied. Unfortunately, Mother Nature wasn’t listening. Ready or not, Ike was coming.

I wasn’t ready. So I went into this blissful state called . . . denial. Ike was not coming to Houston. It couldn’t. Because I had . . . deadlines. Deadlines encourage denial of anything that might try to pull your attention away from the task. So, on that Wednesday night when the news said we needed three days’ provisions of water and food, I looked at hubby who had no reason for his state of denial and asked, “Do we have provisions?”

He just shrugs. “We can get them later.”

“Later?” I panicked. So, at eleven o’clock on Wednesday night, we’re in a local grocery store. It’s here I become totally submersed in the surreal-Ike script.

Hordes of people, resembling zombies, push their carts along the aisles, grabbing hurricane rations. We headed straight for the water. There, on aisle four, are two women playing tug a war over the last six pack of H2-0.

I look at my husband, at the empty store shelves, at our empty basket, and ask the obvious. “Should I jump in and see if I could win?”

He sighs, “They’re bigger than you are.”

We moved past the screaming women. As we got to their carts, I saw dozens of cans of tuna filling their baskets. Feeling desperate, I snag a couple of cans and dropped them in our cart. (Hey, this is life or death.) And we run away.

We found most of the shelves empty, but we did get the last four cans of chicken, a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and some crackers. As we’re about to leave, water arrives, and we, with the Zombies wait in aisle four. We snagged two cases, and got out before more fighting broke out.

Thursday morning, the air conditioner flowed, coffee perked. Life was normal. Hubby went to work, I went into my office and back into my blissful state of denial. I sent in my book. Thank gawd! When son got up, he stormed into the study screaming, “Mom, why aren’t you watching the news?”

The television was turned on and I’m thrown back into the script of Ike. The mayor was speaking to Houstonians. I can’t relate word for word, but it translates to something like this: “Put your head between your legs and kiss your arses goodbye.”

Okay, he didn’t exactly say that, but with lines of, “100 to 150 mile winds” “freeways jammed. Don’t try to escape.” “Leave work and go home to take care of your family” he might as well have said it.

I called my hubby and calmly informed him that the freaking sky was falling and he needed to come home. NOW!

Never one to enjoy panic, I turned off the TV, chased my son out of my office and returned to my blissful state of denial.

I enjoyed my bliss, until the phone calls started coming from out-of-state family. I can’t relate to you word for word what they said, but it went something like this: “I hear you need to put your head between your legs and kiss…” Seriously, my cousin asked if we had burial plots.

I practiced deep breathing, ignored my four felines who bounced off the walls acting as if the world was ending, (did they know something I didn’t?) and I waited for hubby --my hubby, the safety engineer. How lucky am I to have a safety engineer to keep me safe? (You know where this is leading, don’t you?)

Hubby arrived, armed with only a book on the Roman Empire, which by the way, didn’t they end in disaster? He plops down in his chair and begins to read.

I stared at him. “Baby, how much wind can our windows sustain?” Hey, he’s smart, this is what he does for a living.

“Probably 70.”

“Baby, how much wind do they say we’ll get?”

“Probably 100 to 110.”

“Baby, why the freaking-frack, in gawd’s name aren’t you covering our windows?”

So we covered our windows. Okay, Hubby and son covered windows. I went back to my computer and backed up some of my files. Then I grabbed my backup drive and wondered where the safest place was to keep it is. Which one of the ten pine trees in our yard would hit the house, meaning which room would be destroyed? I even tried to fit it into my bra. Didn’t work. It went into my purse.

Meanwhile, stray cats are showing up in our backyard. Hey, they know we’re suckers. Hubby and son catch them and put them in the garage.

Hubby and son also pick up any loose objects that could be snatched up the 150 to 170 mile wind gusts and used as missals on the Craig home. Loose objects like one of our eight land turtles. (Hey, I’m not gonna be the one written up in the paper about being killed by a turtle.) What do you do with 8 turtles during a hurricane, when you have stray cats in the garage? You put them in the back of your car. (Oh, did I mention that Floppy Skivies, the family rabbit, was upstairs in my son’s bedroom, sharing space with his rats.)

I started cooking our last meal. With extras in case the mayor and my family was wrong and we accidentally lived.

While cooking, I noticed our hurricane rations have been depleted. I suspected the ladies I stole the tuna from, but then son confesses. Can anyone tell me how one eighteen-year-old boy can eat an entire jar of crunchy peanut butter in less than 24 hours?

We ate our last meal and I wrapped up the leftovers. We brought down our mattresses. My dad made me promise we’d bring down an extra mattress. So when the roof was being ripped off and debris flew inside, we could cover ourselves with the third mattress. Let me tell you, hearing things like that doesn’t make you feel better. But you bet your boots I had the third mattress.

Darkness strikes the Craig house around midnight. Son asks if he can now eat the hurricane rations. Something about hurricanes makes an eighteen year old hungry.

We curled up on the mattresses, and I saw it. Not Ike. Son was eating the leftovers from the fridge. “You’re eating our lunch,” I said.

“Yeah, but we might not live, so I don’t want to waste the pasta.”

Wind, the eerie sound of trees being delimbed and decapitated, filled our ears. We woke up off and on during the seven-hour storm. Morning arrived, no power, no air conditioner, no coffee, Ike still blowed. We braved a peek outside. Our yard was a mass of tree limbs and debris, and we’d been blessed with gifts from Ike, several new trashcans. Hey, we needed some new ones.

Many houses on our block brought a whole new meaning to tree houses. Thank God, no one is hurt. And our street was a river. Could anything induce one to brave that river? Yup. The water had backed up our neighbor’s sewage. Don’t get between a woman and a toilet when she has to go.

We ate crackers for breakfast, minus peanut butter, and snarled at son. Around noon, son asked, “What’s for lunch?”

I reminded him that he ate our lunch. He reminded me that it’s my maternal duty is to feed my young. I reminded him that some mammals are known to eat their young. Ike brought out the best in me.

Hubby dragged out the grill. Big man-- with grill-- about to make fire. A grill that hadn’t been used in two years, but he’d sworn we had propane. I emptied fridge of anything that might cook. Because of grills unclean state, I wrapped everything in foil and cooked hobo style.
We all stood around the grill, as hubby lit it. Hey, with no TV, this was the best entertainment there was. We had no idea how good the show would be.

Hubby discovered we have no propane. I sent him . . . The Look. “No, problem.” Hubby assured us. He found wood in garage, doused it with kerosene and struck a match. The explosion sent part of the bottom of the grill flying. Hubby’s eyebrows were singed. But fire was burning. Fire continued to burn. Grill suddenly caught on fire. Yup, the entire grill. Hubby became slightly concerned because the propane can was still attached to burning grill. Me, I became slightly concerned that the fire was spreading to the back of my house.

Hubby, safety engineer that he is, used our water rations to put out fire. House was fine with exception of bubbled paint and smoke damage. Lucky for hubby, the food came out great. Hey, son was about to die of hunger.

24 hours later, no air, low food (due to son) low water rations (due to fire) we decided to brave the freeways and escape Houston for Alabama.

Just one small issue. No gas stations. Just one big issue. No bathrooms. Hubby and son said, “We’ll just hang our lizards out for air.”

Oh, but no way was I baring my lizardette on the side of the freeway. (Hey, you need to maintain some dignity. Besides, Ike victims had suffered enough, they didn’ t need to see my arse.) Hours later, the need for a restroom was crucial. We stopped at several places, operated without power, but they’d locked bathrooms due to the lack of water.

Finally in an east Texas town we found a generator-operated hole-in-the-wall fish restaurant. No lights, but they were serving food. More importantly, they had water, they had a BATHROOM. I moved between the tables, to the back of the restaurant, blackness invaded the dark hall. The bathroom is where they said it was, but they hadn’t informed me where the toilet was. I shut the door and moved around the pitch darkness like a blind woman, a blind woman who really needed to pee, reaching out and thinking, “gross”, who knows what I’ll touch in a public bathroom. I found the toilet. With my foot, thank gawd. I unzipped, stripped and sat down in record time. I just got a healthy stream going when I hear . . . breathing. And I’m not talking about my own.

I had company and yes, this was a one seater. “Hello,” I suddenly wondered if I’d gotten in the women’s or men’s restroom.

A female voice answers. “So you found the toilet?”

“I hope it’s the toilet.” I laughed.

We shared Ike war stories while I peed. Hey, in really desperate times, modesty is thrown out the window. Who knows in a few more miles my lizardette might have been bared on the freeway.

Bladder happy, the Craigs hit the road again, our only concern was finding gas. We got lucky about an hour later. I went in to get a drink. When I get outside, hubby was waving in a panic and I’m told to get in the car NOW.

I jumped inside. “What is it?” I asked as he frantically drove away.

“That guy was smoking a cigar and filling up a gas can. That idiot is going to start a fire and blow something up.”

“Sort of like you did, huh,” my son said. We all started laughing.

I realize then how lucky we really were, we braved the storm, had no serious damage to our home, and survived with even our senses of humor intact. I think my son even gained a little weight.

Thank you, Mother Nature.

Can You Believe the Nerve?

2008-09-22T06:40:00.000-07:00

I told this story once a long time ago on my personal blog, but thought I'd share it here. I think I've mentioned before that nothing shocks me any more. But every once and a while, I get surprised and every once and a GREAT while, I get totally surprised. Well, it happened one Friday night last year.

I had an all-day writer's workshop on Saturday to attend, so my local cp's and I decided to get a room Friday (like we always do when individual schedules allow) and do our girl's writer's night. So it was fairly late (11:00 ish) that night when we put on bathing suits and headed down to the hot tub (one of the main reasons for the hotel excursion). We had been sitting there for about a hour when a guy walked in. The timer had just gone off so he asked if we wanted it turned back on. We said yes, so he did then he asked if he could turn off the lights.

We really didn't care. The room opened up to the courtyard which had plenty of light and quite frankly, we were already hot and the popcorn lights weren't helping matters. So he turns off the lights and then walks around to the side of the hot tub and sits at the side. My cp's are running on about one of their wips, so they aren't paying attention to this dude, but I thought he as acting weird. I mean, he seemed to be in pretty good shape but yet he was sitting on the side of the hot tub with the towel wrapped around him. So as soon as I turn my head, he slips into the water and I'm like "Oh My God! I bet he's naked!" (which in the south, is pronounced nekkid)

So my cp's have never looked over but I stop contributing to the conversation altogether. I'm too busy looking for his hands. Because by God, if his hands go below and his shoulder shakes (or anything else) I am SOOOOOOO out of there. So I'm busy on hand watch and the other two are plotting a book and finally one cp looks at ole boy and says "I bet we're boring you to death." And all I'm thinking is "Don't talk to him! He's naked!" Mind you, she STILL doesn't notice anything weird. The other one looks over as he responded and it was written all over her face - she definitely knew he was nekkid, now.

So a couple of minutes later we decide we're waterlogged and get out. We're halfway down the hall when I say "Can you believe that guy was in the hot tub nekkid!!!!" The clueless cp almost falls out in the hall and says "But he was floating on his back when we left!" Of course, it was dark, so I guess she didn't get a good look.

Now, being nekkid in a public place is bad enough but there is some big high school dance competition going on this weekend and half of the hotel was filled with high school girls. What in the world was he thinking??????? Doesn't he know that only one person filing a complaint would have him labeled a sexual preditor??????? And since this is the south, a more appropriate way of asking would be "what kind of cahonies does he have" but the problem with that question is I kinda already know and it still doesn't answer the question.

But my internal monologue would have made a great sitcom skit. :)

Deadly (dumbfounded) DeLeon

Single Guy's Tiers

2008-09-19T03:00:00.000-07:00

First off, whoever said last week that the way to get a guy to open up was football talk… you are brilliant! I went over to Mr. Big’s house after Monday Night football and watched the game highlights with him. I have to say, it was actually kind of interesting. I could get into this game. And, it worked like a charm. He was more talkative than I’ve seen him in … ever! So, thanks, gals. :)

Okay, on to today’s blog topic… this week Suze sent me a link to the Dating Diaries blog. It’s written by this guy, Rich Santos, who writes for Marie Claire. Apparently, he made a New Years resolution to be a better dater (sound familiar?) and has been chronicling his dating exploits on his blog every since. He calls himself a, “smart, funny, attractive guy who not only admits to being clueless about women but is willing to share his dating diary.” I love it! A peak inside the inner workings of Single Guy.

One post he had up especially caught my eye. He called it the 4 tiers of a relationship according to a guy. Yeah, like I wasn’t going to click on that one. So, here are the 4 tiers according to Single Guy, with running commentary from Single Gal (yours truly) :

TIER ONE - 1 to 3 months in

Things are pretty sensitive here. It's easy to overwhelm and look too interested or too fired up. I would assume keep things simple, almost cliche. Stick to dates that girls are used to, and places they feel comfortable:

(Single Gal agrees. Comfort is key when we’re dealing with a guy we don’t yet know very well.)

Group Outings: Heading to the bar keeps things casual and gives her a base because her friends are involved. (And she can always use one of them as an excuse to leave if things are heading south. “Sorry, Suze is really drunk. I gotta take her home.”) It also helps her get a sense for who I am because she can meet some of my friends (usually not a good thing for me actually). Too much of this will make things too friendly, so I think it must be used at appropriate levels.

Dinner: Everyone likes to go out to dinner, and actual dates are rare. Eating is a sensual experience, and it's fun to try out new places around town. (Just beware of garlic breath and spinach between the teeth.)

The Movies: Another cliche date, but it's best combined with dinner. There is a lot of talking during the first three months, so you don't want to end up in silence at the movies all the time. (But it opens up a great opportunity for a little hand holding. And you can tell so much about a guy’s personality by how he handles the shared armrest situation.)

Ticketed Events: This can happen towards the end of Tier One. Shows, concerts, art exhibits are all great conversation pieces and usually a good time. My dad used a ticketed event to woo my mom. He asked her to a concert that was months away. After she said yes, he felt like it was safe to ask her out to dinner for the next weekend. Crafty!. (Toward the end – yes. At the beginning of stage one – no. I had a guy take me to see a Broadway style play once as a first date. Which was really nice of him, but I spent all evening feeling guilty that he’d spent so much and gone to so much trouble when it was clear in the first five minutes I didn’t want to see him again.)

Walks and Drives: These are so nice. City, country, anywhere-getting out and seeing people and places is charming and sparks a lot of conversation. Usually good for end of Tier One. (Again – bad first dates. I’d actually save these for Tier Two. While they sound nice, I’m really not sure I know enough about a guy after a month or two to go off alone with him for a walk in the country. Or a long drive. While it may not occur to a guy, safety is a big issue for most dating girls.)

TIER TWO - 4 to 8 Months In

Getting more comfortable and ready to try new things.

Weekend Trips: Now you're really getting into each other. You can take little trips to the shore, or go camping. This is usually a big test-the long drives and general travel put a little strain on a relationship so going away together tests your mutual mettle. (I’m sorry, but I gotta know a guy REALLY well before I want him to see me camping. Camping=short showers, no hair dryers, very little make-up, no heels, and lots of mosquitoes. This is not how Gemma looks her best. Now, if we’re going for a weekend in Vegas… I’m there.)

Weddings: Once you've earned that spot, you get taken to weddings. You know it's getting serious when your boyfriend/girlfriend gets a wedding invite with plus 1, and you're even more in if your name is on the invitation too. (OMG – Mr. Big asked me if I wanted to go to a wedding with him next month. Does that mean we’ve hit tier two? Happy grin.)

Parental Meeting Casual: This usually means meeting parents of your significant other for dinner, or in public. Once you've earned the right to meet parents things are definitely serious, but usually the first meeting is a casual one. (Totally agree with the casual first meeting thing. Good call.)

TIER THREE - 8 Months to a Year In

Totally comfortable.

Parental Meeting Serious: These are the ones where you are at the family cookout, and you're meeting extended family. You are driving in other family members' cars, and helping out around the house. People are starting to size up how you'd fit in their family.
(Personally, I want to meet the family sooner than this. I mean, if he comes from loonies, I need to know that up front. Uh… and no one else is driving my car. I don’t care if we’ve been married for ten years. That’s my baby. I’m not loaning it to your brother.)

TIER FOUR - Over a Year In

Anything's possible...

International Trips: This is all about investment: time, money, receiving shots in some cases (ouch!). Once you're traveling to big time places, you know you're serious.
(He forgot one thing about tier four – rings. A big, gold, shiny ring with a diamond solitaire.)

So, what do you ladies think? Do you agree with the tiers? Think he’s moving too slowly, too quickly? Have any of your own to add? I noticed one thing he forgot to mention is when certain words are acceptable. Words like "boyfriend" "girlfriend" and "love". What tier do you think those come in?

~Trigger Happy halliday

Bob the Builder--Marry Me!

2008-09-18T05:29:00.000-07:00

First off, I want to mention how relieved I was to learn that Killer Fiction's Crime Scene Christie and her family, although temporarily displaced by Hurricane Ike, are all safe and sound. That was very good news. I have an idea she'll be blogging about her experiences next week so be sure and drop by.

As for me? This 'never ever ever marry again' confirmed single woman is ready to commit--or maybe that should read 'be committed'.

I need help. I know I do. How could I not? My offspring assure me of this on an daily basis.

Last week I blogged about the 'bug' I'd caught related to home improvement and remodeling projects as I caulked, painted, stained and varnished to turn my formal dining room into a TV room. Well, the bug has, er, spread and it's having some rather unpleasant side effects.

Once I finished the walls of the TV room, my brother and his wife came over and helped me put up the chair rail. Just my luck. It looked fabulous.

Why is that a bad thing, you ask?

It looked so awesome it got me itching to do the same to the bedrooms and the dining area off the living room. And guess what that meant: new two-tone paint jobs for those rooms, as well.

So, this week I dropped by the paint store and the home improvement center on my way home from work. It took me an hour to pick out the paint despite my sis-in-law giving me a home decorating magazine that had the paint combo I wanted to use. But the big problems awaited me when I went to pick out the lumber for the chair rail. I needed ten boards of varying lengths from 12 feet to 8 feet. The moulding came only in 16 feet lengths.

And the customer was supposed to cut their own boards.

Now, this may not seem like a daunting task, but did you catch the part about the boards being SIXTEEN FEET LONG! You should have seen me try to maneuver those boards out of the upright bin they were in and get them down to floor level without hitting something or maiming an unsuspecting fellow customer in the process.

Once you get the board down so you can eyeball it for flaws, the fun really begins. A number of the boards had boo boos which meant putting that board aside and retrieving a new one. I was beginning to attract some attention by the time I had 15 boards stacked on the floor. Unfortunately, none of that attention came from a nice, helpful 'Bob the Builder' type employee.

I managed to get all but 3 of the boards selected & cut when a clerk happened by. I was on him quicker than I've been on caramel apples lately. His eyes got big as apples when he saw the stack of boards (and remnants of my board cutting) littering the aisle.

I inquired as to whether he could assist me in cutting the final boards. Clearly he had better things to do, but he grudingly agreed and took the final three boards, measured them and lopped them off with a hand saw, rather than the one provided with the miter box. I stared as they dropped to the floor. Nice. Hadn't he ever heard of a square edge or a ninety degree angle?

I went in search of a wheeled cart to transport my moulding, nabbed one with a bad wheel, brought it back, loaded it up and headed to the checkout.

I gave the clerk a list of the number and lengths of my boards.

"I still have to measure all of them," he said and I winced. I wasn't real confident I'd measured all that well.

He went through them and got to the final three the grumpy clerk had cut.

"You sure you want these?" he asked. "The ends are banged up."

By this time I was ready to saw something--and it wasn't chair rail.

I stomped back to the moulding aisle, found two more boards, and a miracle! A helpful, nice clerk who offered to cut the boards for me!

By the time I checked out, it was 8 P.M. I loaded the Jimmy with my moulding. I'd known the longer boards would hang out the back a bit so I figured I'd wrap them with a blanket and raise the back glass of the Jimmy and they'd be fine.

Only I'd forgotten rope to tie the back hatch down.

I tied it with an Ethernet cord left in my Jimmy from my daughter's move to college.

It was dark by the time I pulled out of the parking lot on my 45 minute drive home. With the back hatch up, I had to drive all the way home with the friggin' dome light on. I'm sure folks driving alongside me could see my lips moving as they passed me.

Hello. I was singing.

What? You don't believe I was singing? You think I was saying naughty words?

Actually, I was asking God if Bob the Builder was taken. 'cause I'm thinking of proposing.

Sigh.

BTW, pics of all my home improvement projects (aka 'Mom's Obsession' to my kids) are coming soon!

Have a super rest of the week and a wonderful weekend!

~Bullet Hole~

The Short Bus Comes For Leslie Langtry

2008-09-17T11:11:00.000-07:00

OMG. I'm so sorry! I've been busy getting ready for this Michigan book tour I forgot to post!

So a couple of things. I'll be in Michigan Thursday through Sunday for a multi-author book tour of Meijer stores! I think this is pretty cool because, 1) it's a real book tour with a bus and everything, and 2) I don't think I've ever really been to Michigan. Well, there was that once, after college where we had to pass through the state to go to a wedding in Canada. But I don't really remember it. Something to do with too much champagne and not enough aspirin.

Here is the info if you happen to be in Michigan this weekend;

Friday, Sept. 19:

10:30am-11:30am Kalamazoo, 5800 Gull Road

3:00pm-4:00pm Grand Rapids Cascade, 5531 28th St. SE

5:00pm-6:30pm Grand Rapids Knapps Corner, 1997 E. Beltline NE/GR

Saturday, Sept. 20:

10:30am-12:00pm Lansing, 2055 W. Grand River Ave.

3:00pm-4:30pm Ann Arbor, 5645 Jackson Rd.

5:15pm-6:45pm Canton, 45001 Ford Rd.

Sunday, Sept. 21:

10:00am-11:30am Fochester Hills, 3175 Rochester Rd.

12:15pm-1:45pm Royal Oak, 5150 Coolidge Hwy.

3:30pm-5:00pm Monroe, 1700 Telegraph Rd.

I think Gemma has participated in this tour before.

In other good news, The Chicago Tribune reviewed HITMAN! And if that isn't exciting enough, they gave it a good review saying, "Stand by Your Hitman" is another sure hit winner."

So, I guess I had something to say after all. Now, back to the laundry! Can't go to Michigan naked! Or maybe that is I shouldn't go to Michigan naked.

Whatever!

The Assassin