In which Joe runs out of clean underwear.

This year, when the kiddies were all getting their new folders and crayons for the start of school, I was right along with them. I’m taking some courses to complete my Bachelor’s degree. All online, of course, because that’s the world we live in.

However, I still did treat myself to some new crayons. I huff them every chance I get and put them up very high so the grandies have to use the Rose Art ones.

close up of crayons

Photo by Pixabay on

My first class went pretty well for about a month, at which point I realized that I had signed up for a second session that started midway through the first class. Now I would have two classes to work on, both requiring large PowerPoint presentations and multiple page papers all formatted APA style.

Enough whining, though. Suffice it to say that nights around the Cacciatore household were a tiny bit busier. A lot busier. Like, a LOT plus I was doing homework on the weekends, writing paper after paper and wrestling with Word to figure out all the stupid fancy indentions. I made leftovers more. I haven’t dusted. I have my kids’ baby pictures still to put in their baby books.

What this meant for my long-suffering husband Joe was that I may have slacked off a tiny bit in the housework department. Now, it’s just the two of us anyway, so aside from the errant pair of socks on the living room floor and two coffee cups in the morning, it’s a breeze to keep clean. (Oh, and the black lab dog hair that clouds up and wafts all over the house but that’s a story for another time.)

person adjusting control on front load clothes washer

Photo by on

One thing that suffered mightily was the laundry—obviously—and one morning my husband came running up to me where I was applying makeup in the bathroom. “I can’t seem to find any clean underwear in my drawer. Am I missing it somewhere?”

Yeah, I thought to myself. You’re missing it because it’s still in the bottom of the hamper, where it’s been for a week, because although I have enough underwear for four women, you have only ten pairs and OH MY GOSH has it been ten days since I did the laundry?

It had. I followed him to the laundry folding table where I make a big show of looking for his underwear that I know are damn well in the hamper.

“Why don’t you just go commando? Wear Ballfree underwear?” I snicker. I mean, I wouldn’t (personal choice) but Joe’s a dude.

Dear Reader, you would think that I asked Joe to go to work naked. His mouth dropped open. He was scandalized. Years of Catholic training bubbled up and over the top. He looked trapped, like I backed him into a corner. Go without underwear? GO WITHOUT UNDERWEAR?


courtesy of angrydooting

“I guess—I guess I’ll just rewear the ones from yesterday.” He dejectedly pulled them out of the hamper and pulled them back on, all the while making a face like he was changing a dirty diaper.

I had to look away from his histrionics and smother a laugh, but I took pity on him. “Darling, I promise I’ll do some laundry tonight and get your skivvies all clean. Don’t worry.”

And I did. (But the ones he wore twice went through two washes, just fyi.)


A List of Spicy Firsts

Every author has a first. Published book, that is. And my friend, Christa Maurice, has compiled a list of author firsts for you. How about we go back to our beginnings, shall we?

Click below and enjoy!


The Bartender

Tami Lund’s first published book is called The Bartender. It’s a coming of age love story about love lost and found again, and a hero and heroine who may be too scared to give love the second shot it deserves… THE BARTENDER

Dragon Talk by Tami Lund

Let’s talk dragons, shall we…

There’s a curse on Gabe’s dragon colony. Thank the gods, because the last thing he needs right now is a fated mate. It’s bad enough he’s forced to lead these unruly, scaly beasts. And now he has a kid, too.

Definitely not interested in taking a mate, no matter what the hell his dragon thinks…



“You know what I like about you, Talia?”

“I can hardly wait to hear.”

“Well, you’re hot, but that’s not what I like about you. In fact, that would be annoying if I weren’t getting laid on the regular. Because then I might be interested in trying to hook up with you, and you strike me as someone who isn’t into one-night stands.”

“You’d be right on that count.”

“Plus, you’re kind of feisty, which makes me think I might be interested in more than just one night, and we both know that’s a big, fat no in my book.”

Feisty? That one deserved another giant eye roll. “Yes, I am fully aware of your intention to never sleep with the same woman twice.”

Bad Alpha Dads Social Media Logo Pic(PS – click this hot pic above to see a list of ALL the Bad Alpha Dad books!)

If you like sexy baby daddies. If you like dragons. If you like Tami Lund’s books… This book is for YOU! It releases on Tuesday, September 4 (yeah, the day after Labor Day, first day of school for many of you, so perfect time to cuddle up with your next book boyfriend!), and it’s only 99 cents until then.

So snag it now, and it will be on your ereader, ready for your full attention, just as soon as you drop those kiddies off to school…

All the ways to read:








Tami Lund is an author, wine drinker, award winner, and writer of DRAGONS! Here’s her website if you want more:

Coming Soon – Another Addition to the Sexy Bad Series

Into contemporary romance? Rom com? Sexy times? The Sexy Bad Series is perfect for you! Here’s an excerpt from the next book in the series, which releases in September!

Sexy Bad Books

sexy bad escort 3dcover

(It’s the best one yet, according to our editor!)

Chapter One


“We’re such a cliché.” I place a glass of red wine in front of the lovely, dark-haired lady I’ve been eyeing all evening and then grab the chair next to her, shifting it closer before dropping into it.

She arches one eyebrow but doesn’t move away as my leg brushes hers. “I realize we’re at a wedding, but we haven’t slept together. So how are we a cliché?”

“We should sleep together. I’m pretty sure you’d like it.”

“Pretty sure?”

The bride at today’s wedding is my best friend Erin, and the lady I’m sitting with, Veronica “call me Ronnie” Frost, is now officially her sister-in-law. Ronnie’s also hot as fuck, eight years older than me, and completely unobtainable. Which makes this chase both fun and safe.

I shrug and take a pull from my beer. “I mean…

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My husband is married to a nerd

Yes, I said it.

I had my nails done Saturday morning at Luxe Nails. I wore my Three Broomsticks t shirt which, as everyone knows, is a restaurant/pub in the Harry Potter books and at Universal studios in Florida.

While I was at the nail place, I complimented one of the employees on her Harry Potter watch and showed her my t shirt in HP solidarity, and then it happened…a fellow fan popped her head up in excitement and we gabbed about HP for a half hour.

She’s 56. I’m 51.

I didn’t want to scare her and tell her how deeply I’m into Harry Potter and all things Hogwarts, which is to say REAL. I didn’t tell her, for instance, that I bought a set of student Gryffindor robes. I didn’t want to tell her that I bought the $32 tie that goes with it, or that I have an interactive wand that does real spells. (Yes, it does.)

I didn’t want to tell her that I wear Harry Potter socks more often than not, even though I don’t know how my husband can possibly keep his hands off my sexy self. His restraint is admirable.


I mean, who wouldn’t want THIS?

I didn’t tell her that I’m perilously close to having an entire room devoted to Harry Potter.

Yes, my husband is married to a nerd. But I take solace in the fact that so is HER husband.

I’VE READ ALL YOUR BOOKS AND I LOVE THEM SO MUCH and other answers to silly questions

Who doesn’t love those ‘favorite this, favorite that’ posts on Facebook? Who doesn’t get sucked into answering all those pointless questions, then halfway through wonder, WTF am I wasting so much time on this again? And then keeps going to the end anyway before gleefully tapping, “Post!”

Yeah, all of us. And so I bring you… one of those posts:

Favorite smell: The bathroom when I’m the first person awake in the morning. Trust me, you do not want to walk in there after my husband has performed his morning ritual…

First job: Waitress. Seriously, is there any other answer to this one?

Dream Job: That lady draped across the couch, being fed bonbons and not gaining a single pound. In fact, I think she’s losing weight. Stupid bitch. I hate her. I’d never want to be her. Okay, then, I guess my dream job is: author.

Favorite dog breed: Wait, seriously? The makers of this poll expect me to pick just one? WTF do they think they are? How can you possibly? I mean, look at those adorable faces, those wagging tails, those wet noses, those puppy-dog eyes. And don’t get me started on cats…

Favorite Foot Attire: Flip-flops. I got nothing funny for this one. Flip-flops just straight up rock. Sometimes I wish I lived in a place like Hawaii so I could wear them all year long. Okay, there are a whole slew of other reasons I wished I lived in Hawaii, and they have nothing to do with foot attire.

Favorite candy: Sour Patch Kids. No, Cadbury Creme Eggs. OMG, those things are to die for. It’s a good thing they are only available for like two months a year. Otherwise, crack dealers would give up their drug of choice because they could make a killing hawking this stuff. Or is that just me? Because legit, the guy in the white panel van with no windows could lure me in using those little chocolate eggs with the strangely egg-like yet decadent as fuck creamy center.

Favorite pie: Blueberry. No, cherry. No, pumpkin. No, strawberry. No….

Favorite cake: Carrot. Also, the kind that doesn’t count toward my daily calorie allotment. That exists, right?

Favorite food: Didn’t we already cover this? Cadbury Cream Eggs. Duh.

Favorite thing to hear: Waves crashing on the beach. Also, “I’VE READ ALL YOUR BOOKS AND I LOVE THEM SO MUCH, WHEN ARE YOU WRITING THE NEXT ONE??”

Color of eyes: Wait a minute. This is one of those abrupt scene shifts that throws off the entire story. Is this asking my favorite color of eyes? (Ian Somerhalder) Or is it asking what are the color of my eyes? (Blue-green) Because that’s not exactly a “favorite” question, so therefore doesn’t work in this random and pointless and addictive poll. Just sayin’….

Favorite holiday: The one on which I don’t have to work at the day job and also don’t have any obligation to do anything with the family, so I can spend my day writing. What do you mean, that doesn’t exist?

Night or Day person: I’d say I’m a coffee and wine person.

Favorite day of the week: Whatever day allows me to get in some sweet-ass writing time.

Tattoos: Is this a trick question?

Like to Cook? I like to eat. Does that count?

Can you drive a manual transmission: I’m pretty confident I could turn this question into something dirty. If I wanted to.

Skate backwards: You mean like at the skating rink, during middle school? Duh.

Favorite color: Blue. Sorry, I got nothing for this one. Blue is legit my favorite color.

Favorite vegetable: Food.

Glasses or contacts: Whatever he prefers to wear, so long as he isn’t wearing a shirt. Wait, you’re saying that wasn’t relevant to the question? Why not?

Favorite season: I like… no, no, that won’t work. It’s this… no, that isn’t right. Let’s go with… nope, not that. Okay, fine, summer!



Tami Lund: award winning–and sometimes silly–romance author. Check out her website here: 


The Purple Foot Scrubber of Deathly Tickles

There’s nothing like it…immersing your feet in a warm, bubbling foot bath while sitting in a chair that massages your back. Except of course if you’re watching Rhee Drummond and having a glass of wine while you’re having a pedicure. I can’t have the wine right now, though, because it’s only 9:30 a.m.

My sister and I probably put sixty plus miles on our poor, aching arches while we were at Universal at the beginning of June. Last year I bought a pair of slip on tennis shoes that from day one, cradled my feet in marshmallowy comfort. This year, thinking the same thing would happen, I bought a new pair of those same tennis shoes.

I was wrong about the new shoes. I got BLISTERS. I was in misery. Of course, you don’t feel them while you’re walking but let me tell you something, you sure as heck feel them when you get back to the hotel room when shreds of skin are hanging out the backs of your heels.

Fine, I think. Tomorrow I’ll just wear my tried and true, three year old tennies tomorrow. Which I do. However, I also have on brand new, plush socks and between being on my feet too long, sweating, and having those super soft socks on, I managed to work up some terrible blisters again, this time in a different spot. It’s almost funny except it’s not. My blisters sting.

I am forced to switch to flip flops the next day and I don’t know about you, but I don’t do so well walking ten miles in flip flops. My calves still haven’t quite forgiven me.

feet legs animal farm

My legs and feet kind of looked like this. (Photo by Gratisography on

Fast forward three weeks. We’re back from Florida, and I have my tootsies soaking in the aforementioned bath at the nail bar, relaxing.

My technician comes over and pulls my feet out of the bath and sets them on the footrest. She leans in and looks closer.

“Oh, my gosh. What did you do to your feet?” she shrieks. She’s staring at my poor arches, where the skin is pruny from the warm water. It’s also showcasing all the remnants of those blisters and all the trauma I put my feet through walking around the parks. She puts a mask on and some gloves and it’s then I notice that none of the other technicians have on gloves and a mask.

brown chair with white pillows

Almost this luxurious. (Photo by Pixabay on

I’m feeling singled out.

My concentration is broken by a couple who came in with matching “Eleven years of wedded bliss” t-shirts. They’re both there to get pedicures too. Their technician doesn’t say anything about their feet.

My pedicure begins with a sugar scrub on one foot, then the other, followed by the Purple Foot Scrubber of Deathly Tickles. I’m biting my fingers to keep from kicking her in the head when she hits an especially sensitive spot.

She manages to calm my aching, previously blistered feet down so much that they’re smooth and pretty. By the time she’s done painting my toes, I’ve forgiven her for making a fuss because they look so good.

I tip her well, mostly to ensure her silence for the next time I’m in the nail bar. Maybe she’ll skip the mask. And the purple foot scrubber.