Grandma Sundays

Yesterday was a day like many other Sundays, meaning it was Grandma Sunday. I armed myself with hot dogs, mac and cheese, applesauce and juicy juice, with fruit snacks for later and goldfish crackers for reinforcements.

It was straight up noon when the first arrived: Alyssa (almost 5) and Sophia (little over 2), followed by Shawn (almost 2) in close succession. Soon after, the mommies and daddies leave, and now it’s just Papa and me. (Cue exciting Mission Impossible music)

I’m not naming names but one of them hardly ate anything except his juicy juice and his name rhymes with Dawn.

Boss Baby is currently the “in” movie for the two year old set, and after some Granny fumbling with the TV, we’re able to start the movie. That made the three grandies delirious with joy. I watched too, of course, and I have to admit, too, that it was pretty cute. Alyssa knows almost every single word of dialogue and repeats it. Papa Joe told me this morning over coffee that Alyssa reminds him of me, because I do the same thing while watching Practical Magic.bb

Our activity for the day was Easter egg coloring. I had boiled three dozen figuring at least a half dozen would be smashed to smithereens. The coloring commences and Papa and I were batting and grabbing at little hands that seemed to be everywhere at once. As fast as I rescued one egg from certain death, they’d grab another and hurl it into the glass coffee cup of dye with frightening accuracy and force seen only in fast pitch softball.eggs3eggs

If that weren’t exciting enough, Sophia chose that time to lose her balance and go ass over teakettle off the chair and onto the floor. While I wiped her tears, Shawn (seemingly unconcerned for her well-being) promptly burrowed into Papa’s arms and fell asleep.

We finish with the eggs, most of which surprisingly made it through, and move into the living room to color and play with the little kitchen with its attendant pots, pans, and silverware. (Note: if you don’t see a plastic toy knife on the floor in the kitchen and step on it, it will slide and take your hamstring with it. You’ve been warned.)aeggs

Because falling off the kitchen chair wasn’t exciting enough, Sophia decided she’d walk on the coffee table and after approximately one step she fell off that too. Luckily her top lip broke her fall. With the carrying on she did buried in my shoulder, I expected to see a tooth through said top lip, or a big bruise, or profuse bleeding but there was nothing. While sitting down and comforting her I thought I was losing the feeling in my toes because I had this cold feeling seeping through my foot but luckily that just turned out to be ice cold milk leaking out of the sippy cup, because Shawn knows how to loosen the lids.

Almost at the same time, I notice Alyssa’s back is bright red. She has fair skin and I thought she was having an allergic reaction. How could I see her bare back, you ask? That’s because when she gets to our house on Sundays, she watches her parents out the window and when she can’t see their car anymore, she will tell me that she’s “hot and itchy” and races down the hall to the “extra” dresser drawer that’s filled with spare mismatched clothing but also a puke green strappy tank top, which she puts on almost every single time she’s over. She struggles to get it on because she wears a 5 but the tank is a 3t. (Note: her back had an itch and she scratched it. No worries.)

Shawn woke up from his nap and now we’ve viewed Boss Baby a second time and the youngest two have choked down two packages of fruit snacks. Alyssa asks me if she can clean. Well, my momma didn’t raise any fools and I agree, then have to hide a smile as she uses half a package of baby wipes on my coffee table, book shelf, TV stand, and windows. Actually, pretty much any surface she can reach. She’s happy, though, and asks me if she can sweep too. She does a better and more thorough job than I ever did at five. Heck, she does a better job on the floor than I do now.

By the time my daughters come back to pick up the kids, I am exhausted…but happy. I marvel at their little faces. How much this one looks like her mother, another resembles a beloved aunt, and the third has toes just like his mother. It is the best feeling in the world to watch each of them learn, figure things out, read, make me fake soup and coffee in the kitchen, and of course have Alyssa (aka Becky Home-ecky) clean up the living room.

I won’t technically have them to myself for the next couple of Sundays. This Sunday is Easter, next Sunday I’ll be out of town…but you can bet that the whole time I’ll be thinking of fun things for the grandies to do, planning a kid friendly menu in my head, and of course making a to-do list for the oldest. Do you think she’ll do windows?

 

 

Seductive New Reads

Today, I bring you a bunch of seductive new reads – including my own book, Sexy Bad Boss, which is only 99 cents for the first time since it was released. So if you’re looking for something new, take a look. There are a variety of genres, so you’re bound to find something you’ll like!

Click the pic to get started…

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Today’s blog post is courtesy of Tami Lund, author, award winner, and wine drinker. When you’re done checking out the above books, have a stroll around her website for even more awesome reads: http://tamilund.com.

Tami’s Driving Tips

AKA – How Not To Piss Me Off When We Are Driving On The Same Road

Special Note: I use “he” as a unisex pronoun in the below list, mostly because when I wrote the first draft, “they” started to sound really dumb, and since I hear more men complain about women drivers than the reverse, it seemed appropriate to share the wealth.

Number 1.

Use your turn signal. I know, I know, this is an age-old one and it seems half the population loathes those who do not use this handy little tool, while the other half blithely carries on with their driving lives with not a care in the world. At least, not until they unexpectedly realize their lane is ending in approximately 17 feet (see not a care in the world, apparently) and they suddenly need to get over or else jump the curb and slam into that telephone pole.

At that point, the driver swiftly glances over his left shoulder and tries to edge into traffic, only to be thwarted by the line of cars in the correct lane, none of whom are allowing him in because they have no idea what the non-blinker-user wants or needs to do. For all we know, he fully intends to jump that curb. Maybe he likes to wrap cars around telephone poles. We can only assume he intends to go straight because he isn’t using a blinker.

Number 2. 

Speaking of that telephone pole…when you are in a lane that is clearly ending (by clearly, I mean there have been warning signs and flashing lights for the last three miles, not to mention, you drive that exact same route five days a week so you know it without even having to pay attention to the road), GET OVER. Do not wait until the last second. Do not think the rest of us on the road believe in that zipper concept. We don’t. We think it is the dumbest thing since building roads that end literally ten feet beyond an intersection.

Probably the guy who built that road came up with that concept and then convinced his friends to spread it around social media so he could claim it was a “fact.” News flash: We all know that lane is ending. That’s why we’re in this one. And we’re all patiently waiting for our turn to get through the light and get on with our lives.

But when some asshole comes tearing down the lane that’s ending, clearly intent upon cutting in line, you will see a bunch of drivers with absolutely nothing else in common bond together like an army of ants. We will drive our cars so close together you can’t get a piece of paper between our bumpers and we will all stare straight ahead and pretend we don’t see that guy trying to edge into our lane. Go back to the end of the line where you belong and follow the rules like the rest of us. You’ll get to your destination 34 seconds slower, yes, and if that really bothers you, leave 34 seconds sooner.

Number 3. 

Don’t tailgate in the right lane. With the exception of Texas, this is a universal rule: Faster cars in the left lane, slower cars to the right. If I’m in the right lane doing seven miles over the speed limit and that’s not fast enough for you, go around me. That’s why God created left lanes, idiot. Because if you don’t, and you continue to tailgate me, I will slow to six miles over the speed limit. Then five. Then five under. I will become the dreaded grandma driver, and don’t think I won’t. Trust me, sweetheart, tailgating raises your blood pressure, not mine. Not when I’m in the right lane.

Number 4. 

Conversely, don’t drive slow in the left lane. GET OVER. See above. If you get over to the right, we’ll all quite cheerfully zoom around you on the left. That’s how the rules work. And we won’t even flip you off as we do so. Well, most of us, anyway. Sorry about that other guy. But don’t worry, he’ll probably cause a 76 car pileup come the next snowfall (see no. 5).

Number 5.

Don’t drive your vehicle through snow like you’re trying out for the bumper cars at the fair. Come on, dude. How long have you lived in the north? And don’t lie to me and tell me you just moved here from sunny Florida because if you did, you’d either be hiding inside your house staring at the snow with fear in your eyes or you’d be driving 15 under the speed limit and making the rest of us nuts. Every single time we get a significant snowfall in the north, there’s a 76 car pileup on some highway. Every single time. Slow the fuck down and be patient. We all want to get to our destination too, you know. Preferably alive. Preferably safe and sound.

Welp, I think that about covers it. My driving pet peeves, anyway. I’m sure you have a few of your own. Go ahead, share. You know you want to.

Tami Lund Headshot 2014

Tami Lund is a writer of sexy tales, drinker of wine, winner of awards, and sometimes frustrated driver. Head on over to her website for a glimpse at her books: http://tamilund.com/

Not Quite the Griswolds

 

pexels-photo-190294.jpegI was thirteen, my sister nine, and my brother seven when my parents decided they’d subject us to a fun family vacation in Wisconsin. Prior to the trip, Mom purchased new fishing supplies, including a razor sharp filet knife.

My dad warned me that I was not to let my mother touch the filet knife.

The night before we left, while Dad was at work, Mom opened all the new fishing supplies to pack them in the tackle box. I told her Dad said not to open the filet knife. Predictably insulted, she ignored his warning, pulled the filet knife out of the case, and promptly sliced the tendons in two of her fingers. I applied a helpful tourniquet and Grandpa had to take mom to the emergency room for some stitches. The ER nurse later said she could very well have lost her hand because I tied it so tight. Mom, you’re welcome.

When she resumed packing later that night, into the trunk went a week’s worth of clothes for five people, fishing poles, tackle box, minnow bucket, fishing net, and lifejackets.

My mother also packed a weeks’ worth of groceries because the only grocery store within thirty miles of the fishing resort sold frozen pizzas for $10. And that was thirty years ago.

We got up at 5:00 a.m. and stumbled to the car with our pillows, candy, and word find books. At that point, mom and dad packed even more stuff around us, because because…did I mention? Before anything else went into the trunk, a huge boat motor had to go in.

By 6:00 a.m. we kids were all in the car heading north and by 6:01 a.m. we were all sleeping in the back seat.

My mother worked hard at teaching us to appreciate the beauty of nature, as well. The very instant we crossed the border into Wisconsin, she would shriek, “How can you sleep? Look at the pretty scenery!”

It woke everyone up, including my father, who was driving. Bleary eyed, I snapped some pictures but when the film came back they all looked the same. Green hill. Green hill. Green hill and a mysterious dot in the sky, which might have been an eagle.

There were no DVD players or iPods for distraction. My little brother fell asleep on our shoulders…and he drooled. My sister and I had to sleep upright like mummies, because of mom’s packing job.

If it weren’t for the M&M’s my mother would pack for the trip, it would have been downright miserable as opposed to just miserable. Oh, and my parents smoked like chimneys at the time. They did crack the windows, lucky for us. To this day, the combination of cigarette smoke and coffee gives me an instant migraine.

A week in a mosquito infested resort was the first vacation full of warm family togetherness. It was run by a bushy haired, wild eyed woman who would sullenly dip for minnows at 5:00 a.m., dressed only in her nightgown, cigarette hanging from her lip. We didn’t go back.

Looking back, I’m sure it was hard to keep three fairly young kids entertained for a week without television, but mom and dad patiently played endless games of Scrabble and Yahtzee. There were tiny kittens at the new resort, and I challenged my dad to a Yahtzee game to be able to have one.

I won. We named her Yahtzee.

At night the families would get together and have a bonfire. I kissed a boy for the first time at one of those bonfires. To this day, the smell of “Off” makes me pleasantly weak in the knees.

They had activities for all ages from frog races to water skiing. One night the kids went on a hayrack ride through the woods on a snipe hunt. Before we left, I couldn’t figure out why my parents hee-hawed all through dinner, elbowing each other.

We innocently carried paper bags to catch our snipe, and listened to an old Indian legend about a boy named Cable, which ended when the speaker dramatically shined his flashlight down on an electrical box and announced in a booming voice, “And this is where they buried Cable.” The snipe hunt in the dark netted tiny baby ducklings. For some reason, my parents were shocked that we caught anything.

In the dewy early morning, cabin doors creaked open and shut. Boat motors started up, people conversed quietly, and the smell of fresh coffee and bacon wafted through the open windows. Bliss.

We were in the boat by 7:00 a.m. Mom would pack some snacks and a thermos of coffee and an empty coffee can for…you know. At 10:00 a.m., we’d motor back and make a big breakfast, then go back out and fish until dinnertime. Sometimes dinner was fresh fish from the lake we caught earlier in the day. I got a crash course in how to filet fish one night when we caught an astounding 93 crappie in one evening. My father and I spent three hours in the fish house, cleaning them.

During the vacation, my mother wore a “waterproof bandage” which later we found out was simply a condom. Points to mom for creativity!

I never forgot those vacations, and when my kids were old enough, we began taking them to Wisconsin to a friends’ cabin on the lake. For one week we swam, fished, ate, sunned, and had a blast.

My husband Joe and I watched the kids make their own memories while we were on those journeys, like the annual trip to Tremblay’s Fudge Shop in the tourist trap that is Eagle River, the outrageous prices at the Pik and Sav, and the endless cans of Mountain Dew I never buy at home.

They experienced the mosquitoes, the fishing, the bonfires, the sunburns, the 386 games of checkers and watching Forest Gump, the Goonies, or the Great Outdoors until they knew every word by heart.

We all played board games with enthusiasm. We bravely got into the water to swim and splash around with them despite the water temperature being approximately four degrees above freezing. We had blue lips after swimming.

Then, it’s inside for a snack and perhaps they nap, but not for too long…I don’t want them missing any of the pretty scenery.

Ah, good times.

Mambo #51

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Oh, it’s on. Like Donkey Kong.

At 51, it appears Aunt Flo is departing forever. I can only hope. Why? I have been described as surly lately. I fear my family is going to start grinding up hormones in my coffee to keep me from going into a homicidal rage.

Example: at the grocery store, my husband parks our car.

“The whole back end of the car is hanging out,” I say. “We’re going to get hit. I’d pull up.”

Sighing, he makes a big show out of putting his seatbelt back on. Restarting the car. Putting it in first gear. Pulling up further.

As we head into the store, I realize he has moved the car forward approximately one quarter of an inch. Super.

Inside, he “accidentally” hits my ankles with the cart. I accept his tepid apology and send him to the end of the aisle for mushrooms then shout, “Honey, did you ever find those hemorrhoid suppositories?”

He yells back, “Yes, my darling heart, I found them close to the Monistat you needed. Is extra strength going to be enough?”

He’s quick, I’ll give him that. It’s on.

The next day, I replace the tennis shoes in his gym bag with black dress shoes. He doesn’t react but it’s probably all he thinks about as he saws the heel off one of my pumps.

I paint his toenails red while he sleeps and giggle all day until I get to the gym where I discover all the music on my iPod has been replaced by several hours’ worth of Gregorian chants.

The next morning he’s in the downstairs shower and hears me come in. “Truce!” he screams, from behind the curtain, but I’m too busy smearing Vaseline on his glasses to respond.

The shower curtain pulls back just as I finish. I look at him innocently. “Ok, truce. I’m out of tricks anyway.”

“I don’t trust you.” He eyes me suspiciously.

He should be suspicious because I’m most certainly not out of tricks. I could do this all day, every day. I wait on the other side of the bathroom door shaking in silent hilarity, waiting for him to notice his glasses.

I guess he noticed because midway through my shower upstairs, the water shuts off. I hear him on the other side of the shower curtain whistling.

“Say Uncle and I’ll turn the water back on,” he chortles.

“UNCLE!” I shriek, soap burning my eyes. The loss is humiliating but I admire him for his daring.

I have married well.

I can tell it’s going to be a fun ride on the Hormone Train. Luckily I’m married to someone with the patience of Job……and the occasional “Mambo Red” pedicure.

Vampire Love

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Happy Valentine’s Day! Seems to me such a drenched-in-red holiday should be celebrated with…vampires!

And I have the perfect boxed set to help immerse you in the vampire culture. While those other folks are gorging on chocolate, you’ll be indulging in something far more decadent, yet entirely unharmful to your thighs. In fact, you’ll probably end up accidentally exercising, as you clench them while reading these rather sinful stories.

So here’s the deal: I wrote a couple vampire books, and they are part of this series called Blood Courtesans.

What’s that, you ask?

In the Blood Courtesan world, humans are aware of vampires’ existence. In fact, humans can make a lot of money if they play their cards right, because vampires need blood to sustain themselves, and they’re willing to pay big bucks for the opportunity to put fang to neck.

Where’s the sexy come in?

You see, these vampires don’t just drink blood out of necessity. Oh no. The process of seeing to their needs involves seduction, wine, and sex. Once someone becomes a vampire, they no longer have need of food, but they still enjoy a delicious glass of wine. Especially if that wine is tasted through the blood of their courtesan.

Oh yeah, and drinking blood makes vampires horny.

If a Blood Courtesan is lucky enough to get chosen to provide sustenance for a vampire, she’s likely to be wined, dined, and then dined on. While experiencing the best sex of her life, I might add. These vamps have been around the block a few thousand times in their long, long existence. They’ve got the Kama Sutra down. They’ve probably written parts of it.

And you can read all about it.

There are 11 full-length novels or novellas in this set. All new stories, all taking place in the Blood Courtesan world. All written by different authors. Some are best sellers. Some are award winners. All are excellent story-tellers.

Want a taste? A nip? A sample?

Here’s a teaser from ETERNITY, the book I wrote as part of this boxed set:

“You don’t fight fair,” I stated flatly. “I can barely resist you.”

“Then don’t.”

An arm snaked around my waist, pulling me to her so that her front pressed against my back. She slid her hand under the hem of my shirt, her nails gently scraping my skin. I closed my eyes and didn’t move away like I should. Instead, I turned my head slightly and breathed in her scent: Magnolias and wine and sugar and cocoa from that cake she’d eaten earlier. I wasn’t hungry; I’d indulged in a courtesan only last night, but I still wanted a nip, a taste of her blood. There was no better dessert than my precious Abigail.

She swivelled her hips, rubbing against my ass, while her hand travelled south. When her fingertips grazed my erection, it was like she’d flipped a switch. I was gone. I couldn’t say no any longer. I needed this as much as she seemed to.

One night. I could handle one more night, couldn’t I? Letting her go the first time had nearly broke me, so I should know better, but clearly, she was a master at seduction. Or perhaps it was my obsession for her. I’d had far more skilled women in my long existence, and none made me remotely as lust-crazed as this one did.

Wrapping my arm around her back, I twisted us both, switching our positions so that her ass now rested against my throbbing erection. Dipping my head, I nipped at her bare shoulder, sliding my fang back and forth over her skin but not penetrating. Yet.

She cupped my backside and her other hand threaded into my hair. I pressed my hardness against her ass and gathered the hem of her dress in my hand so I could get to what was underneath. Her naked flesh, the gathering wetness and heat that was all for me.

“One more night,” I said, vocalizing my thoughts, as if that would somehow give me strength to follow through on the promise. I slipped my hand under the elastic of her panties; my fingers found her shaved mound.

“What?” she said, wiggling, which I took to mean she wanted more. So I pushed my hand lower until it slid through wetness. She arched and moaned and then said, “What did you say?”

No idea. I couldn’t even recall speaking at this point. My entire focus was on the task at hand. She needed an orgasm, multiple ones. I needed to ensure she never forgot this night when I sent her back to her human life.

“I want more,” she said, shifting her hips.

“I’ll give you more. We’ve all night, love.”

“No.” There was a touch of impatience to her voice now, and I finally realized she wasn’t struggling for more, she was trying to get away from me. I tugged my hand out of her panties and turned her around to face me. Her eyes were bright, her color high, her hair mused, and she looked so damn fuckable, I wanted to pick her up and toss her onto the bed and ravish her for the rest of our time together.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, my impatience matching hers. Now that I’ve made this decision, I didn’t want to waste a single moment.

“This.” She waved her finger between the two of us. “This isn’t just one night. I don’t want one night. I want all of eternity.”

All of eternity?

She wanted me to turn her.

Despite what I kept telling myself

And here’s one from UNDONE by Skye Jones:

I leaned forward and took a bite of the mango. As the sweet ripeness hit my taste buds, I gave a small moan. I had never tasted mango like it. This fruit was nothing like the mangos we got in our supermarkets back home. Some juice ran onto my chin and I reached for a napkin, but Dimitri got there first.

He tipped my chin and licked the juice from my skin, ending his shocking display by kissing me on the lips with sensual skill.

Oh my God, if he could make a kiss so damn hot, what would he do with the rest of my body to play with. My nipples, the traitorous things, went hard as granite in my dress, and when Dimitri finally broke the kiss and leaned back his gaze traveled down my body as he smiled to himself.

I felt vulnerable, on display, and horribly turned on. Why did he have this effect on me? I hardly knew him. He represented most of the things I hated in this world—apart from the cool factor of him being Russian—yet he made me tremble with a mere glance.

“Can I kiss your throat?” he murmured, his voice deeper than usual. Husky.

I swallowed and nodded. As he pressed close to me, I closed my eyes and waited for the soft touch of his lips on mine, but before he kissed me, he ran his nose up the length of my neck, inhaling as he did so and making me shiver.

“You smell amazing.”

“It’s Givenchy,” I told him.

“No, pretty one. Not your perfume. You.”

“Ah.” Not sure what to say, I shut up as his lips found the skin right below my ear by my jaw.

He kissed me there, feather light and oh so soft, and began to work his way down my throat. The kisses were so light, so chaste as to be almost nothing but wisps of breath against my skin, but they still made me shiver and sigh. I wanted more. So much more. To feel his lips pressed hard against me. His tongue laving me.

One of his hands slid under the table and gathered up the silky folds of my dress, pulling it up as his hand climbed my leg. When he reached the apex of my thighs, he stilled and left his hand there, cool and tempting against my overheated skin. So close to where I needed him, but still a million miles away.

His other hand played with my hair. He lifted it and let if fall through his fingers. Every now and again, he caught a heavy handful of it and gave a gentle tug, and when he did, he pressed his mouth that bit more firmly against my throat.

I wanted so much more. Between my legs grew obscenely damp, and I’d bet I had soaked the gossamer material of the dress. My breath came in rapid gasps, yet he’d hardly done anything of real consequence. But I needed him to.

“What do you want, pretty one?” He kissed my collarbone, murmuring something in Russian against my skin, and hearing the low words in that exotic accent made me weak at the knees.

“I want more.”

“How much more?”

I wanted it all, and he wanted me to say it, but I had my pride. He’d paid for me. He’d bought me. Why should I be the one to beg?

About to say as much, he chuckled darkly against my skin. “You deny yourself because of pride? I don’t know whether to be annoyed or impressed.”

Those deft fingers of his moved from their resting place at the top of my thigh, and stroked right between my folds, pressing against my most sensitive spot.

“So proud. So beautiful. So different.” He kissed me again when he finished speaking, and this time, it wasn’t gentle or soft. It was insistent and demanding and wild.

 

And, because this is so much fun (and hot), here’s one more. This one is from CONCEALED by Rosalie Redd:

“Don’t touch the Stradivarius.” Gavin’s cool, minty breath eased over my cheeks, tickling my skin.

Confusion wracked my brain, stalling my thoughts. “What?”

He smiled, and this close, I got a good look at his fangs. Long and pointed, they were nothing like the plastic pair I used to play with as a child.

He dropped his head to my neck, his lips trailing over my jugular once again. “I said, don’t touch the Stradivarius.”

“Why not?” My breaths, short and quick, eased from my mouth.

“Over the last one hundred and twenty years, only my hands have touched that violin.” He grazed his tooth along my neck, pricking at me.

120 years… “How old are you?”

“I was born January 14th, 1879.”

“So that makes you one hundred and thirty-nine.”

“Very good. Smart as well as…beautiful.” He chuckled, and the vibration travelled along my nerves, lighting up my senses.

I gasped as much from his touch as from the hateful word he said even after I’d told him how much I despised it.

With his free hand, he trailed his finger down my rib cage and over my hip. The movement was sensual, possessive, and I couldn’t stop the slow moan as it eased from my lips.

He pressed his knee harder against the wall, pushing up my skirt and encouraging me to spread my legs.

With a soft whimper, I complied.

“And, my spunky Alexandra, how young are you?” Gavin slid his fingers along my thigh until he reached the juncture between my legs.

“Twenty-two.”

“Ah, the perfect age.” He brushed his fingers over my panties, circling the outer edges of my mound. My body responded, my nipples peaking under the sheer top.

A groan eased from Gavin’s lips, and he rubbed his chest against mine, teasing the hard nubs. His one eye, vibrant red, stared at me.

Caught like a fly in a web, I couldn’t look away. “The perfect age for what?”

“For sex, of course, dearest Alexandra.”

Want more? Click here for a list of all the various ways you can download this delightful gift to yourself: AWAKENINGS

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Tami Lund Headshot 2014

Tami Lund writes books, drinks wine, and wins awards. She also participates in fun, sexy boxed sets and anthologies. She currently has a short story published as part of the 12 Magical Nights of Christmas Anthology. If you purchase this anthology, all proceeds are donated to St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital. Grab it here: 12 MAGICAL NIGHTS OF CHRISTMAS

Seven Rules for Renting at Movie Kiosks

pexels-photo-270456.jpegIt’s Saturday night. You are tired of everything you see on any streaming channel and remember that right down the road is a kiosk from which you can rent a newish movie.

I think this qualifies as rule 1/2, okay? Go online at home and reserve the movies you want first, before ever going to the big red box. One and done. The only thing you have to do when you actually get to the Box, then, is swipe your credit or debit card and wait. Swipe and wait, people, swipe and wait. Much easier.

If you are still in the dark ages and don’t own a computer, or you just happen to be out and about and decide to pick up a movie on the way home, let’s be a little more considerate. See below.

  1. Are your hands clean? These red kiosks are a public use item, which means God only knows what cultures might be growing on the touchscreen. I certainly don’t want to use the screen after you’ve been eating some big greasy hamburger, or mining for green gold, or trying to pick the apple you had for lunch out of your teeth.
  2. The places of business putting out these kiosks also should make antibacterial wipes available just like they do next to the grocery carts. Why? See above.
  3. People, for the love of God, make your phone calls before you lean on the box, head under the screen, and start cruising for a movie. Do not call home three different times trying to get a popular consensus on what you should get, dimwit. People are waiting. More importantly, do not call someone and leave a message, then linger in front of the screen waiting for a callback. You’re a big boy and it’s only a couple bucks. Live dangerously.
  4. Please, for the love of all that’s holy, read the trailer information for movies some other time, like at home while you’re choosing your movies beforehand. I was once behind a man who read the synopsis of at least 16 different movies to his phone friend. I was just trying to return one movie before the 9:00 p.m. deadline. The horse’s ass ended up not renting anything, and I had to pay extra because of his obnoxiousness. Why? Because my email receipt showed 9:01 p.m.
  5. Speaking of deadlines, try to avoid the 8:55 p.m. rush. It’s not pretty. Whoever drew the short straw at home has to return the movie, and obviously the clothing choices reflect that. People, please remember that you will be seen returning the movie, oh Unshowered One. Wearing orange piggy flannel pajama bottoms and a red Wisconsin sweatshirt while rocking striped spa socks…I am judging you, and I am not alone. You’re making Walmartians look like fashion icons. (I’m not saying I wore that to return a movie. Okay, yes I did.)
  6. If for some unusual reason I have to stand at the kiosk and choose instead of having reserved my movies at home like I normally would, don’t you dare stand too closely behind me. It does not make me go faster. It skeeves me out and gives me butterfingers, causing my fingers to slip because it makes me nervous…
  7. …and threatened. If I feel threatened, it could also force me to break out my professional ninja moves and karate chop your solar plexus. It’s very possible that I could miss and deliver a massive blow to your junk, making you miss YOUR 9:00 p.m. deadline. Whoopsie! My advice: Back the heck off. You’ll get your turn.

Easy enough, right? You would think. So many people, however, observe no @Redbox etiquette whatsoever.   I’m just doing a public service here.

Enjoy your movie.

*originally appeared on the Life and Times of Poopwa Foley

About the author:

Christine Cacciatore is a multi-published author who lives—and loves—to write. Together with her sister, Jennifer Starkman, she has published the magical novels Baylyn, Bewitched and Cat, Charmed, with the third book Elise, Evermore coming out soon. On her own, she has written Noah Cane’s Candy, a sassy holiday short romance and Knew You’d Come, a spicy paranormal romance novella. Also, Chris ventured into the Kindle Worlds Mary O’Reilly paranormal series and has written Trouble Lake and Grave Injury. They’re the perfect books to curl up with any time of year but especially Halloween…because they’re chock full of ghosts!

Chris is a member of the In Print Professional Writer’s Group in Rockford, IL and the Chicago Writer’s Association. In her spare time, Chris enjoys writing, reading, and coloring in her grandchildren’s coloring books with the good crayons. Chris is married to a devastatingly handsome man she met on eHarmony, has three children and a gigantic black dog who helps her pack lunches in the morning. She also has four of the most beautiful, intelligent grandchildren in the world, and their antics keep her in stitches.