Tiptoe around the Tulip

A couple months ago, our eight year old black lab Cooper had a seizure and passed away in our back yard. As difficult as it was to witness, my husband and I were so very happy that we were both home to talk to Cooper and soothe him. He was surrounded by the smells of his own back yard and the voices of his “parents” and we clung to that in our grief.

Fast forward a couple of months. We missed having a furry friend to greet us at the door and watch play in our yard. To that end, we submitted an adoption application in to the Chicagoland Lab Rescue (CLLR) for a puppy. Both of the labs we owned previously were rescue dogs; it’s the only ones we would consider. At any rate, things happened very quickly after that–we were approved for a home visit and lo and behold, on the CLLR Facebook page, there was a little female black lab named Winnie. She is five months old. I knew immediately she was going to be ours and we renamed her Tulip. (She wasn’t much of a Winnie.)  Last Sunday, we picked her up, and the fun began.

She slept all the way home from Naperville and made herself right at home in our house. We were thrilled at the way she seemed to settle right in…and that should have been our first clue.

Things I love about having a puppy: the puppy breath. Her tiny little eyes and equally tiny bark. The way she cocks her tiny head when she hears another dog outside. The way she belly crawls across the room once she’s let out of her crate because she’s so happy to see us. Her excitement at eating her dog food and her enthusiasm at the sheer volume of dog toys we have for her. The fact that we’re going to be able to teach her how to be the best dog for our family.

I AM THE BEST DOG. LOOK AT HOW CUTE I AM.

Things I hate about having a puppy: the jumping up on the couch, the love seat, the kitchen table, me. The way she wakes us up at the butt crack of dawn because she has to go potty. The teeny tiny bladder she must possess because we are outside every half hour. The way we take her outside and march around the back yard in the snow for twenty minutes, only to have her pee on the floor the second she gets in the house. (We did NOT think that through–the fact that it’s like minus 500 degrees outside and we are trying to potty train a new puppy.) The fact that at night I’m afraid to even clear my throat too loudly so I don’t wake her up.

me? pee in the house? never.

Then there’s the best of all–biting with those needle-like tiny teeth, which have alternately bruised me and bloodied my arm. There are SO MANY TEETH. It’s like the little guy with the sword from Trilogy of Terror is chasing me all around the house. We have used the trick of spraying her with a spray bottle when she nips but she just doesn’t seem to care–and in fact enjoys the water game. We end up having scarred arms and a dog with a wet head.

I suddenly understand why Tulip’s foster mom gave us a $30 crate to take him with us…I thought she was just being nice but now I understand it was more a matter of survival.

However, we went through this puppy stage with Sammy, then with Cooper, and now with Tulip. I will load up on band-aids and get her in a puppy training class. I know things will get better, eventually.

Won’t they?

Whoa, ho, ho…it’s Magic

One week ago today, we were sitting in an airport, waiting for a flight back from Orlando marveling at  how quickly a vacation can come and go.

Was it a vacation, though? I believe it was, only in the strictest definition of the word. “Vacation” implies that one relaxed. Slept in. Lounged.

This was not that kind of vacation because we were at Universal Studios and Islands of Adventure, and we had things to do, things to see, and ride attractions to experience…AND ONLY SIX DAYS TO DO THEM.

I can feel the magic from here. It tickles.

Three years ago, I was introduced to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. I am not ashamed to tell you, dear reader, that when I stepped foot into Hogsmeade, I cried. It’s magical beyond anything you could imagine. The shops, the music, the staff that populate the stores…all of it is geared to letting you have the most enchanted time of your life.

it really is this glorious. even better in person.

Example: When I bought my interactive wand. (Yes, even at almost 50, I bought an interactive wand.) I finished up my purchase on a Chase card so my husband wouldn’t know how much it was and still doesn’t. The cashier handed me the receipt and a pen, and asked me to “sign for the Ministry of Magic.” Charmed, after I had done so, he handed me back my card and said, “Here’s your Muggle plastic.” Talk about getting—and keeping—you in the magic. Same thing happened when I bought a Gryffindor student robe this year…but we won’t talk about that right now. I modeled my wizard robe to my daughters and they both snickered so hard they fell off the couch. #nerd #bignerd #biggergeek

Girls, don’t make me get my little friend.

I stood in line to do spells with six year olds and I don’t regret a single minute of it because the spellcasting fed my soul. I was actually pretty good at it.

This year, the cast of characters going to Orlando changed a bit, meaning it was extra fun because we got to watch two people who had never been there become just as bewitched as we were upon first seeing it.

We drank butterbeer almost every day, sometimes sharing one because you could buy the froo frootiest drink at Starbucks and it STILL wouldn’t be as much as a butterbeer. Five of us shared the giant feast at Three Broomsticks restaurant. I rode almost every single ride except for the Hulk and Rip Ride Rocket, which I wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole because reasons. We saw some Transformers, got a little wet on the Jurassic Park ride, and met Blue the T-Rex, who doesn’t like eye contact so my sister promptly made eye contact. Silly Muggle.

We had volcano nachos at Margaritaville,

delish.

toured the Hogwarts Castle, and watched that very castle light up at night with the four different house colors. We had sushi at Cowfish,

double cheeseburgooshi.

rode the Hogwarts Express train, and risked our very lives to take a picture with Jaws.

We wandered around Diagon Alley, where we watched the fire-breathing dragon scare the stuffing out of newcomers. We had dinner at the Chocolate Emporium. We sweated our butts off, since the average daily temperature was only slightly cooler than hell. In a related story, the first day there, I got a blister from new shoes. Fine. So I wore my old ones the second and third days, and developed even bigger blisters. My sister and I wore SPF 50 every single day and barely have any tan to speak of, even after a week of being outside in sunny Florida for six days. Yet despite the regular and vigorous sunscreen application, I still developed sun poisoning on my inner shins. I know, right? Unfair. I also started referring to myself as Sister Chris of the Wailing Hip. (I didn’t tell anyone that, though.) I cannot emphasize to you how sore I was…we were up (well, Jenny was up) freakishly early so we could get to the parks early, then we’d be there for seven or eight hours during which we walked, strolled, or in my case, stomped and/or lumbered, take your pick.  My sister Jenny, going through thyroid treatment, RAN CIRCLES around me the entire time we were there. #letmesleepfortheloveofgod

We also were, by some miracle, upgraded to suites. These suites were bigger than my entire house and had a full kitchen, two bathrooms, and a living room with a sectional, dining room, and conversation pit. The suite was so big we needed the GPS to find the bathroom. We also had good snacks delivered via Instacart. We rode the boat through the waterways to get to the parks each day. We had tropical drinks poolside, made memories and laughed until we couldn’t breathe.

It may not have been the lounging, relaxing vacation you think of when you think vacation, but I believe it might have been the most fun yet. As I kept saying to my sister, “I can sleep when I’m home.”

I cannot wait to do again. As a matter of fact, I’m going to go check–and clear–my Muggle calendar right now.

The Swamp Monster’s Skin Cancer Check-Up

Waiting for a new tire Saturday, I decided to amuse myself (and my sister) by sharing an embarrassing story with her about my visit to the dermatologist.

I had basal cell carcinoma last year (you can read about it here) so I have to be more cautious about these types of things now.

After a long day of work sitting at a desk in a warm office, I had a late afternoon appointment for a full body skin cancer check. I wasn’t able to go home and change and felt…swampy.

So I texted her, and below is an absolute exact transcript.

Me to sister: Settle in. So, yesterday…

Sister to me: *puts the tea on

Me: I had a full body skin check, which was all clear, so good for me

Me: But

Sister: Butt?

Me: I was super conscious of my naked thighs sticking together

Me: Keep in mind I had sat my ass down all day

Sister: Like fruit strips on the roll. Hoo boy this is going to get good

Me: So she checks front of thighs and all is well.

Me: Then asks me to stand up and turn around

Me: Please refer to sitting all day

Me: So I stood up and tried to turn around

Sister: *blinking.* Paper got stuck up your crack?

Sister: DID YOU FALL

Sister: NEKKED

Sister: AND SHE HAD TO CATCH YOU

Me: The very tippy top of my fat ass thighs stuck together (I’m standing on the footstool part of the patient table)

Sister: Suction sound?

Me: So when I turned around the back of my left leg stayed turned around.

Me: I had to physically spread my legs so my other things could CATCH UP

Me: All while this doctor is seated about four inches from my crotch

Me: Refer to sitting all day and underpants were probably soaked with old lady sweat and fecundity effluvia (I have to apologize to you, dear reader, if I am offending you in any way, but I was trying to get my point across, plus I was going for maximum effect)

Sister: The word that comes to mind is…waft

Me: I know those aren’t two words that normally go together but they sure applied in this case

Me: Waft. Yes, waft.

Me: God. And she was pregnant and probably would have preferred to smell my feet again than do another upper thigh check

Me: *takes swiftest glance ever. “Yep, all good.”

Me: That is all. But I’m laughing telling you.

Sister: Probably needed a quick foot sniff to replace the lingering odor

Sister: What did her face do?

Me: Remained perfectly professional

Me: But probably wanted to do this

Me: I had to tell someone and this surely will be my blog tomorrow.

Me: I did manage to gather much of the paper up in my underwear-wearing crack, though. Good catch there.

Me: I never felt so old and stinky in my life

Sister: Nothing like the good old butt print on the paper.

Me: I never even thought about my underwear or wiping down, changing my undies, just about putting Vicks on my feet in the morning because she checks in between each toe (Please remember that I’m just trying to provide the facts, and I did in fact say this was an actual transcript, so I’m leaving in the not so savory part.)

(The rest of the conversation, via screen shot)

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, (#5 coming in August!) and their antics keep her in stitches.

Me, a cage fighter? Only on April 1.

 

(free photo via WordPress)

(Author’s note: this was written for a special edition April Fools in our office newsletter. The funniest part wasn’t the article, it was when someone who read the newsletter called to congratulate me on my new profession – and he didn’t know it was a fake article. It IS satire, by the way.)

Those who are used to calling the corporate office and talking to Chris Cacciatore will have to do without her for the next several months, as she is taking an extended leave of absence to fulfill a dream she has had since she was young—to be a WWE wrestler.

“I grew up around my two uncles, who were more like older brothers.  My formative years were spent fighting off offers of ‘Hertz Donuts’ and twisty Indian burns, among other things.  I also learned that the suggestion of ‘let’s see who can hit the softest’ was clearly not to see, in fact, who hit the softest.

“I grew tired of being pummeled.  I began working out in the gym and eventually honed my body into a fighting machine.  Soon, a trainer approached me about getting into the ring to do some professional wrestling and I thought, why not?”

Chris spent ten years in the wrestling circuit, learning famous moves such as the “Tombstone”, the “Flying Headbutt”, and perfecting “the People’s Eyebrow”.

“I stole that last one from The Rock after I beat him in a cage match,” Chris snickered.  “I also have a new move that I plan on debuting later:  “The Reverse Dog Lay”.  It’s adapted from the “Downward Facing Dog” pose used in yoga.  It lulls your opponent into a false sense of security before you steamroll them completely.”

Chris’ husband, Joe, supports her sabbatical completely.  “I pretty much have to,” he confided, looking to see if his wife Chris overheard.    “You don’t want to mess with her.”

Fun female field trip. (Not really.)

For those of you who are squeamish, please, for the love of God, look away now. Don’t read any more.

For those of you who yearn to live vicariously through me…please, pull up a chair. Let me tell you about my day.

At 51-almost-52, my baby factory has been shut down for quite some time, due to the fact that I had my tubes tied after I had my youngest daughter almost 25 years ago.

I am now 300 months postpartum; I guess I should work on getting the baby weight off. (#tryharder)

A while back, despite having my tubes tied, I exhibited every single symptom of pregnancy. Sore boobs, lack of period, bloating, mood swings, nausea. In short, I was really, really fun to be around.   When I say really, really fun to be around, I am lying through my teeth.

Just when the symptoms made me think I should go buy a pregnancy test, (despite the slim odds) or a priest for my exorcism, what should happen?

Aunt Flo came to town.

And the flipping bitch didn’t want to leave.

I asked her nicely to leave. When that didn’t work, I pouted. I threw fits. I threatened.  I drank.  I bribed.

My family wisely hid the knives behind the furniture.

I finally said Uncle. I went to the doctor, explained everything, was examined, had blood drawn, levels tested, and a negative pregnancy test. All tests normal. (Praise God.) So far, so good. She then started me on something to help staunch the…well…you know. Besides the referral to an actual gynecologist, I thought that was the end of that.

Except that I had to get an ultrasound today.  And not just any ultrasound, mind you.

(*here’s where I would normally insert a picture.  However, I don’t have any pictures from the events of today that would be appropriate here.  After all, I don’t know you that well.)

The medical test from hell started when I had to drink 48 oz of water from 12:30 until 1:00 pm. I’m quite the water drinker. I drink water all day long. However, drinking this much water in ½ hour was enough to make even me gag.

I parked the car at the hospital and despite having my legs crossed tightly the entire time was able to get to the ultrasound department. It was approximately 7.5 miles from where I parked.  I was afraid I was going to be late.  The panicked staccato taps of my high heels on the tile floor took my mind off how badly I had to go to the bathroom.

Chris has a bad day

The first part of the test was uneventful. I greatly enjoyed the warmth of the ultrasound gel on my lower belly. It was very soothing. The room was quiet and the light was dim and I would have fallen asleep except for the excruciating pressure on my straining bladder.

When the test was over, I was led to the bathroom and told to take my time. I peed as if I hadn’t seen a toilet in a month. The relief was immediate and immense.

The ultrasound tech was hiding in the hallway and sprang out at me when I exited in the bathroom.

Her: “Are you ready for the second part of your test?”

Me: “Do you mean the part where I walk down the hall and find the exit?”

Her: (chuckling expansively) “Silly you. The second part, the internal exam.”

Me: (smile fades, face pales.) “No.  No, I’m not ready for that.”

Despite the elfin size, her iron grip lead me directly back into the room, where I am forced to “take off everything below the waist, but if you want to leave your shoes on you can.”

Leave my shoes on? Really?  And take everything else off?  I have on black high heels, no pantyhose. The thought of being nekked below the waist except for black high heels was a bit…pornographic to me. The shoes came off with all the other below the waist things, and I was grateful that I had a cute pedicure.

Funny what you think of, grooming wise, when you’re having an internal ultrasound. My toesies were not the only thing I had groomed, and I was glad.

“You’ll feel a slight pressure.” It was the only warning I got before the “wand” was “inserted” by Vlad the Impaler.

She apologized for the “pressure” over and over while applying said pressure and also for the fact that a couple of times I choked on it as it was coming up my throat.

Finally she finished up and withdrew the entire 3 feet of wand. I am thrown several dry washcloths to absorb all of the gel. I feel like the guy in the shower in “The Crying Game.”

She escorted me down the hall. I noticed that she kept looking to the right and left.

Me:   “Did you lose something?”

Her: “No. I’m just looking for the right sized broomstick. You’re not my only ultrasound today.”

***

(ps: everything turned out ok.)

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.

*I went home and told my friend Lambrusco all about it.

**originally posted on The Life and Times of Poopwa Foley

Cold Sores and Dry Shampoo

Pretty accurate description of how I looked that day.

It began innocently enough. A minor itch. A slight twinge. A little tingle. I started to fret. But maybe it wouldn’t happen this time. After all, I had gotten through other bouts of illness without developing one—maybe this would be one of those times.

Not so much.

At work, I felt the no-mistaking-it tingle that heralded the new arrival, and a look in my compact mirror confirmed what I already knew:  I was witnessing the birth of the world’s worst cold sore.

Fever Blister. Herpes simplex. It all sounds different to the ear but in the end, they are all the same—a gigantic cootie cluster on my lower lip, half an inch from dead center.

Maybe it wasn’t so much a birth as a coming home, however. After all, the only place I ever, ever get cold sores is in that very same spot. Same lip. Every time. What skeeves me out even more is the fact that despite my OCD antibacterial hand gel application efforts, despite wiping every touchable hard surface at home and at work with antibacterial wipes, despite bathing in Lysol and gargling with bleach, I got one anyway.

Thinking back, I realized that I had seen a coworker sporting a fever blister a week or two before. The “ewww” factor has been racketed up a notch.

Typically, the day before the spot actually makes its debut there is also quite a bit of pain, especially on the unique Chris Cacciatore pain scale. I’m not saying I’m a big baby but even a hangnail will wake me up at night. Throw a cold sore at me and it’s grounds for calling in sick.

The last time I got a massive cold sore was during a…you guessed it…cold. My defenses were down; I should have seen it coming. I had felt crappy all day at work, and suddenly, my entire bottom lip looked as if a chorus line of bees had stung it. That night, the pain was so intense that I was forced to start my obituary.

The next morning, surprised to find myself still alive, I realized that due to all the tossing and turning I did the night during the world’s worst night’s sleep, I had overslept.

For those who have no time for a quick shower, it’s dry shampoo to the rescue. Or so I thought.

I had picked it up on a whim, this dry shampoo. I had overheard a conversation while sitting at McDonald’s writing one afternoon. It’s normally a great place to write because you can tune everything out except this time, when two young women were talking about their hair. The conversation was animated as they discussed hair products but came to a standstill when one told the other she washed her hair daily.

The other said back, “You’ll dry your hair out! Don’t do that, girl. Use some of that dry shampoo. You won’t believe how it perks up your hairstyle on days when you are skipping a day, or maybe you’re just too lazy to wash your hair.”

What? A new way to be stylish while still allowing me to be lazy? Sign me up. I actually found some at the store on the way home. Now, normally, I don’t take much advice from people sitting in McDonald’s but due to the above referenced illness, I’m game…and since I overslept, what better time to try it?

Getting ready for work that morning, squinting through the cloud of agony my lip was causing, I read the directions and applied the dry shampoo accordingly, then brushed it out as instructed.

This is a product that I will never, ever buy again. I have a dreadful feeling it had been moved from the Halloween section of Wal-Mart into the hair section, as it obviously was meant to be used to make white stripes in my hair for a Bride of Frankenstein costume. Despite vigorous brushing, I couldn’t brush the white out and ended up with not only white patches of hair but a very pink scalp.

Thanks, random strangers at McDonald’s, for your crappy advice. Mom’s always said “don’t eavesdrop”, and I should have listened.

It worked out in the end, however, because coworkers were too busy trying not to stare at the white streaks in my hair to even notice I had a cold sore.

***

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.

The perfect shade of red.

There are hypochondriacs, then there’s me. I live on a whole other plane of existence.

“Are you sure it’s a pulled muscle?” a slithery voice asks me, when I’m sure that the reason my shoulder is sore is because my wild boar of a dog yanked on his leash. “Are you sure it’s your gall bladder?” it asks, when I have a stomach ache, but I’ve already had a scan that shows significant gallstones, a surgical consult, and a scheduled date for surgery.

“But are you sure?”

Because it’s not enough to constantly worry about the aches and pains that come with being 50 and menopausal, I also have a big side order of anxiety deluxe.

Other people: My leg hurts. If it keeps up, I’ll go to the doctor and have it looked at.

Me: I have a blood clot, and I’m going to die.

Other people: Geez, what did I eat today? I have terrible indigestion and gas.

Me: I’m having a heart attack, and I’m going to die.

Other people: Boy, this is a terrible headache. I’ll take a couple of Tylenol and it should subside.

Me: I have a brain tumor, and I’m going to die.

You may be noticing a pattern. My counselor calls this catastrophizing. I call it “Monday.”

I joke about my health anxiety. I have to, in order to stay sane. There are several tricks I have in my arsenal now to get through the day. Sometimes the fact that I get through the day without calling my doctor in a panic or speeding to the ER is a major feat.

Sound generators (ocean waves, white noise, tubular bells, etc.) help as well. Recognizing ANTS (automatic negative thoughts) tends to defeat intrusive thoughts. Watching funny videos is always good too, especially the little clips I have of my little grandchildren. Watching American Housewife. (looking at you, Katy Mixon.)

Occasionally, though, I get an A plus in imagination and creativity when it comes to my anxiety. For instance, the other night I was battling for space on our bed with our pig of a dog, and when he finally laid down, my covers were pulled down. Since the light was still on, I was able to see a giant reddish bruise right between my boobs.

Cold fear shot through me. I couldn’t remember injuring myself, so obviously, the only reasonable thing to conclude was that I was bleeding internally. Lips numb with fear, I wet a piece of the top sheet and rubbed at it, and it disappeared. My tired but still slithery brain said that I was just dissipating the blood, and I was quite confident I’d be dead by morning. I decided against calling the ambulance just then.

Morning came and the alarm went off as usual. After I took a shower I noticed the bruise wasn’t there anymore. I had been given a reprieve and was going to live, temporarily at least.

After lunch I brushed my teeth in the bathroom at work, and just for shits and giggles, decided to look and ensure the bruise was still gone, just in case I should forget entering sales and begin writing my obituary. I pulled up my shirt and to my absolute horror; the bruise was back, only bigger. And redder.

I hyperventilated for only a minute or two while I was wetting a paper towel, just in case a wet paper towel was good for curing internal bleeding.

Funny thing, though, once again it disappeared. Not only that, there was a red stain on the paper towel.

Wait just a gosh darn minute.

It was then that I remembered that while I was getting ready the day before, putting on makeup, a small chunk of red lipstick had crumbled off the tube and dropped. I hadn’t found it on the bathroom floor.

However, my bra caught that small crumb of lipstick right between my boobs, where the warmth melted it onto the inside of my bra, where it caused a big, red “bruise”.

I let out a high pitched giggle. I wasn’t about to die, after all. I could put off writing my obituary and instead write this article.

Thanks for the welcome to Love, Lust, and Laptops!!

Vote For Tami Lund’s Novella, MIRROR, MIRROR!

Guess what? My novella, MIRROR, MIRROR, is in the first round of voting for the Rone Awards! How did that happen? Well…

1. One of the reviewers at InD’Tale Magazine really liked it. Here’s what she had to say:

What a fun, light-hearted quickie of a romance! Coming in at only 128 pages, it surprisingly doesn’t feel incomplete! The set-up is perfect for a novella-length story and the pacing is superbly executed to allow the story to be complete without short-changing the understanding behind the characters. The Grandma/ghost aspect was a bit confusing and the bawdy humor seemed forced at times but overall, it was a thoroughly enjoyable escape that will delight anyone in need of a giggle and a sigh after a long, hard day!

2. She liked it so much, she recommended it be added to the Rone Award competition.
3. Now, readers get to choose which books go on to the final round. Final round is reviewers again, and they have to select one winner, which will be announced in October at the InD’Scribe Conference.
4. This is where you come in. I need your vote, so I can move on to the final round! Voting ends TOMORROW (April 23) so hurry!!

Here’s what you do:

1. Go here: IND’TALE WEBSITE
2. Register, if you haven’t already. It’s easy and there’s no obligation (although they do have a pretty cool monthly e-magazine, if you’re interested.)
3. Go to week 1 of the 2017 Rone Awards. (upper right corner of the website)
4. Go to the ‘Novella’ category. (first category)
5. It’s alphabetical by book title – so scroll down to M – there’s Mirror, Mirror by Tami Lund
6. Vote!
7. P.S. – since this category is so big, you can vote for two books, so if you see another on the list you like, go ahead and do it!
8. Receive my eternal gratitude!

Want to know what you’re voting for?

Okay, here’s the deal: Adelle was jilted at the altar, so she’s sworn off love. While at a friend’s wedding, she ends up visiting an old gypsy woman who claims Adelle can see her future husband in an enchanted mirror.

Yeah, right. Adelle doesn’t believe in hocus pocus, nor does she believe her hottie best friend, Ben, is anything but a platonic roommate. Even if she did see his image in the mirror. Even if she can’t stop thinking about the old lady’s words–or her bestie in a highly inappropriate way.

Here’s a sampling of what Vivienne, the old Gypsy woman, is like:

…The woman who, by Adelle’s judgment, looked to be approximately a thousand years old. Her face was heavily lined, her cheeks sagged, her nose was crooked. She wore a brightly colored scarf on her head, wispy gray hairs sticking out from under the silky material. Her body was covered with the same type of peasant shirt and billowing skirt that Adelle wore, except it was uncomfortably obvious she wasn’t wearing a cleavage-enhancing bra, because her breasts hung somewhere in the vicinity of her knees.

“Quit staring at me, girl. You’ll look like this someday, too, if you’re lucky.”

Lucky?

“Lucky,” the woman said, as if Adelle had repeated the word out loud. “You wanna know how many hunks I had in my day? There’s a reason I look so worn out.”

 

As kooky and cranky as Vivienne is, she’s damned perceptive, too:

 

“W-what do you want?” she asked, hating the way her voice cracked with her nervousness.

“Peace, love, and happiness,” the woman retorted. “But I’d settle for a romp with your date. He’s single, isn’t he?”

“Ben?” Adelle said in surprise. “No offense, but I don’t think you’re his type.”

“Why do people start offensive phrases with the words ‘no offense’?”

“Er…”

The old woman waved a veined, wrinkled hand over the candle flame. The rings she wore on every finger and her thumb glittered in the light, gold bangle bracelets clinking gently on her arm.

“Well, who do you think is his type?” the woman asked.

Adelle furrowed her brow, confused by the woman’s question.

“What’s so damn difficult about my question, girl? You know him, don’t you? He’s your best friend, so you say. If that’s the case, then you ought to know what he likes in a woman. You’ve known him for ten years. That’s almost a third of your lifetime. Answer me,” she snapped.

“I, uh, I…” Adelle stuttered over an answer. How did this obnoxious old woman know anything at all about her and Ben’s friendship? Nicole must have filled her in while she was getting her own fortune read.

Taking a deep breath, she said, “He likes good-looking girls. Blondes, it seems.”

The old woman cocked her head to the side and gave her a considering look. “Well, that puts me out of the running, I suppose. Although a box of ‘golden platinum’ could remedy that easily enough. What else? That boy can’t be so superficial that looks alone would win his heart.”

 

Yes, this novella is full of humor, a few sexy moments, and a heartwarming happily ever after. It’s the perfect read for a rainy afternoon or anytime, really. And if you vote, it just might become an award winning book!

THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!

Tami Lund writes romance novels, drinks wine, and sometimes wins awards. But only if you vote! Check out the rest of her books here: www.tamilund.com

The Hunting Widow Talks Poop

Once a year I get to claim that moniker, Hunting Widow. Don’t get me wrong; he heads out and attempts to kill forest animals at least a dozen other times throughout the year, sometimes even successfully. But those are day or weekend trips, and aren’t terribly disruptive to my life. In fact, I don’t mind them in the least, as it allows me additional, often uninterrupted, writing time that I would not otherwise have.

But this mid-November excursion year after year, this is the big one. He leaves our southeast Michigan home in the middle of the night (okay, super early morning) and heads north until he crosses the Mighty Mackinaw Bridge, and then he hangs a left and drives west until he is almost to Wisconsin. And then he sits in the woods and hopes Bambi will make his way past the deer stand, so he can add a rack to the wall and fill the currently nearly empty deep freeze in the basement.

He discovered this hobby a month after my son, our first child, was born. Thirteen years later, he swears it was a coincidence. Thirteen years later, I do not believe him, so we agree to disagree. We do that a lot in our relationship, which works well for both of us. I figure it’s making our kids well-rounded.

“Kids, your dad is a narrow-minded Republican, don’t listen to a word he says.”

“Kids, your mom is a bleeding heart liberal. If she had her way, we’d donate every penny we make to the poor and you’d never get to go on vacation.”

See? Well-rounded.

I used to resent this time he spent away, because it meant I had to take care of myself, two babies (after the third year of hunting, anyway), the dog, the house, and whatever the hell else cropped up while he was gone. Did I mention I work fulltime outside the home?

When the kids were little, it was hell. I mean, unconditionally horrid. Babies and toddlers require a great deal of upkeep, and I had not signed up to do it alone for even a week, so needless to say, I was terribly resentful of the time he spent away. He got into the habit of not even calling or texting while he was gone because he knew I would be bitchy and would pick a fight because goddamn it, taking care of kids is hard work, and like I threw in his face every opportunity I got, this was supposed to be a fifty-fifty gig.

Fast-forward thirteen years, and it’s a different world. My kids practically take care of themselves. My son is in middle school, and gets up, gets ready, and heads down to the bus stop without my having to say anything more than, “Have a great day at school and try not to give your science teacher grief.” My daughter still needs a little prodding, but not much, especially if you warn her ahead of time (“Here’s the plan for tomorrow morning. I know your dad doesn’t usually drop you off at the neighbor’s house until eight, but I have to leave for work at seven-thirty, so we need to be in the car and pulling out the driveway at that time, okay? And if we leave on time, I’ll buy you that pony you’ve been begging for.”).

She loves hanging out with these particular neighbors, so doesn’t mind an extra half hour in the morning, on occasion. Just yesterday it occurred to me that this was the last year I had to worry about early morning drop offs. She too will be in middle school next year, which means we’ll all leave the house at the same time. Easier yet.

Unless extra-curricular activities throw a wrench into my well-planned-out routine. Such as jazz band. My son has discovered a love of music and plays the trumpet. This year, he made it into jazz band, a high honor for seventh graders, which is fantastic, of course. As fabulous as this is, it means my routine has had to adjust, because jazz band practices for forty-five minutes prior to the start of school, and guess who has to drop him off two days a week?

The last day of Hunting Widow-dom 2015 turned out to be the most challenging, because I had to get the son to jazz band practice, which meant we had to leave the house at seven a.m., which meant my daughter had to get up at six-thirty, a full hour earlier than she’s used to, and half an hour earlier than she’s had to get up since the husband has been away at deer camp. Have I mentioned she isn’t a morning person?

The night before, I convinced her to go to bed at 9:15, and I literally crawled into my own bed immediately thereafter, but that was because I’d stayed up until midnight the night before reading a book. Despite my early bedtime, I woke up late that morning, so instead of getting ready for work a half-hour prior to the kids getting up, as I’d planned, we were all trying to get ready at the same time, in one and a half bathrooms and one kitchen. Fun times.

And yet we made it. We were out the door at 7:05, which was my goal. The daughter was dropped at the neighbor’s, the son was at school by 7:15, and I was on my way to the day job, excited that I’d get there earlier than normal, therefore could cut out earlier than usual.

Halfway there is when it hit me. I hadn’t completed my normal morning routine. I hadn’t—gasp—pooped. In my own bathroom. All by myself, with no potential witnesses to any sounds or smells that might possibly occur. And as I continued to suck down coffee, I could feel the urge roiling in my gut, and I knew I’d have to go by the time I arrived at the day job.

Damn it.

I hate pooping at work. Which is so silly, if you think about it. First, everyone does it. Maybe not at work, but everyone does it, often daily. Second, I’ve birthed two kids, and if there’s anything more embarrassing than a nurse telling you, “You’re pooping on the table, so you’re doing it right,” I have yet to experience it.

As I clutched the steering wheel and contemplated which restroom was least likely to contain witnesses, I thought about writing. Which led to another thought. I write about sex. No, not erotica, but I write romance, and my romance always contains sex. Fairly explicit sex scenes. Sex scenes drawn from the dark recesses of my mind. Sex I’d love to have, or maybe have had. And it occurred to me, why am I so damn embarrassed about performing a bodily function that everyone—everyone—does, but I happily and proudly write sexy stories and make them available for the entire world to read? What’s the difference? Wait, the difference is, everyone poops, but most people don’t write about sex and peddle it to the world. So therefore, I should not be embarrassed about either scenario, right?

Right?

Yeah, try telling that to my bowels.

***

Tami Lund likes to write. And drink wine. She’s writing happily ever afters, one book at a time. Take a look at the free one, over on her website: http://tamilund.com

Recovering from The Stand-In release day party

Whew!

If you know me, you know I’ve written a few books. Exact count: 13 published + the two freebie anthologies with the ladies of Love, Lust and Laptops. I have a couple on the go at any given time and another submitted right now. However, last night was my first release day party!

 

The party was held on Facebook to celebrate the release of The Stand-In, my brand new contemporary romance. The book is now at http://www.lsbooks.com/the-stand-in-p990.php as well as Amazon, B&N, ARE, and Kobo.

It took place from 3-9pm and showcased some of my besties as guest authors. I had a blast. There was some pretty man candy, giveaways and games and I think all had a good time. I was able to connect with some new readers and I hope my guests were able to do the same. All told, 160 people signed up- not bad for a first go.

Would I do it again? Absolutely! Would I do it differently? I would have even more coffee.

The readers were awesome! Quite a few stuck it out until the bitter end and one of these readers, Barbi, will be immortalized in one of my upcoming books. That’s right, she’ll have a character named for her…although Barbi is a sweet lady, I’m getting a villain vibe…what do you think, Barbi? 😉

All in all, it was a great night. Thanks to all who attended and very special thanks go to KaLyn Cooper, Monette Michaels, Parker Kincade, Tami Lund and Emilia Mancini for entertaining the troops.

My next book Vice comes out in the next few months. We may just have to host another party…

The Stand-In available for preorder

Whew! I never thought I’d make it to this day.

When you craft a book, taking care with each detail, it can seem ages roll by before you make it to release day. That’s how it’s felt for me and my journey with The Stand-In, my new contemporary romance.

Now, we haven’t quite made it to release day yet…that comes Feb. 9. However, we have officially made it to preorder day! Yay! The Stand-In is now available for a discounted preorder exclusively at Liquid Silver Books at http://www.lsbooks.com/pre-order-coming-soon-romance-books-c322.php

Do take advantage of this special price. Come Feb. 9, the book will be available at Amazon, ARE, Kobo and will follow at iTunes and B&N. I appreciate your support and hope you fall in love with these characters.

Here’s a teaser:

Failed actress Winn Busby is at the end of her rope. With no money and no prospects, she accepts the one job she never thought she’d see on her résumé. Professional bridesmaid. It should be easy. If only the idea of weddings and vows didn’t give Winn a case of the hives. Her role becomes more challenging when she’s told a reporter will shadow her work for a men’s magazine article.

Working for Player Magazine is Patrick Lincoln’s worst nightmare. A former political journalist, he used to write thoughtful columns for one of Toronto’s most respected papers. That is, until he was blackballed for allegedly sleeping with the boss’s wife. Overnight, Patrick becomes the city’s most reviled bad boy. And now he’s forced to write a seedy expose on, of all things, a bridesmaid.

Patrick begrudgingly accompanies Winn to a series of strange weddings. As they are forced to work together, he learns there is more to the stand-in bridesmaid than puffy dresses and pretty speeches. She, in turn, begins to question whether or not Patrick actually deserves the derision of his peers. As much as they fight their attraction, it begins to threaten their work and their sanity.

For so long, Winn has felt second-best. A stand-in. She finally meets a man who believes in her value. But can she let go of the past and accept him?

Excerpt:

He frowned and shook his head. “I’m not a very good date, am I?”

“Oh, you’ll do. You’re taller than I am, which makes for good dancing dynamics, and you bring me drinks at regular intervals. Oh, and you’re tolerable in your tux.”

He stepped closer, a little too close for her comfort. “Just tolerable? I tried really hard tonight. Showered and everything.” His gaze dropped to her lips.

“Well,” she replied, clearing her throat. “I suppose you look good in the tux. Does that appease your ego?”

He ran a finger over her bare shoulder and down her arm. Her skin flushed with goose pimples at his touch. Already too deep for her peace of mind, his voice grew husky with desire. “Winn, I’m nowhere near being appeased.”

He leaned in. He was going to kiss her again, and she already knew she’d allow it. God help her, she’d kiss him back with everything in her. Lips, tongue, teeth, foolish heart.

Goodreads link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/24309704-the-stand-in