Ghosts, Phlegm, and a Book Recommendation (oh myyyy)!

Howdy, folks! Actually, if I were saying that out loud, it would sound more like 'Owbly oks' or something, because I'm fighting a sort throat, congestion sort of ick. (Seriously, autocorrect, you don't have 'ick' in your dictionary? No, I don't mean 'ice' thankyouverymuch, just leave it as 'ick'.) I blame the grocery store. Or maybe this past weekend's writers' meeting.

If I was plagued at the latter, though, it's okay--it was a really neat meeting, complete with a ghost hunter from Connecticut Ghost Investigations giving a fascinating presentation with videos and Electronic Voice Phenomena (EVPs) and everything! Way cool, and totally worth a little Creeping Crud and a steady diet of Zicam and liquids.

But I digress, because what I really wanted to tell you about today is a Very Fun contemporary romance that is releasing this week: UNEXPECTEDLY YOURS by Jeannie Moon. I had the pleasure of reading an advance copy of this clever, flirty story, and wanted to share it with you!

And so ... the cover:  

The blurb:

Unexpectedly Yours

It was a win-win arrangement…until Caroline lost her heart…

Caroline Rossi needs to reinvent her life. Being a geotechnical engineer hasn’t exactly proved to be a guy magnet. She’s never really had the opportunity to let her hair down and have fun. But when a chance encounter with her big sister’s brother-in-law—millionaire Josh Campbell—leads to a night of unexpected passion, Caroline starts engineering an arrangement that will give them both what they want. She can help Josh with an important real estate project and he can school her in the art of amour. At first Josh balks—but there’s something irresistible about Caroline, something very different from the bombshells he usually dates.

Can the friends with benefits agreement really work? Or are Caroline and Josh playing a dangerous game that may end in heartbreak?

And a link to the first chapter: CLICK ME. 

With that, I shall wish you a wonderful week of zero crud, happy reading, and no ghosties. (Unless you're looking for ghosties, in which case I wish you ghosties!)

How Not To Train A Cat

Although Arizona and I will sometimes comment in passing to Lucy T. Cat and MegaPixel (formerly Pixel T. Kitten) that they really ought to get jobs and contribute to the family's crunchy budget, we don't really ask that much of our pets. 

In exchange for them using the litter boxes, staying off the counter, and providing companionship when it suits them, we offer free-choice dry food, evening wet food (with narration provided by Arizona: "Is it squishy time? Who wants squishies? How does shrimp and cod sound tonight? No? Ocean whitefish? We can do that"), a variety of treats and toys, and all the warm-soft things (including laps and the center of the mattress) they could want. Oh, and in Lucy's case, a doorman (me).

You see, while Pixel is perfectly happy being an indoor kitty (seeing as how the last time she was outside she got thrown from a car onto the highway, she isn't exactly jonesing to return to the Big Scary World), Lucy lived for quite some time as a barn cat until the day she presented herself at the back door  of my then-house to be let in. And I, having an opening for a house cat, obliged. Which in hindsight perhaps created a bad precedent: she meows at a door, and I open it. And when I don't open it, she howls. A lot.

Mind you, Arizona and I refuse to be cowed by ten pounds of tabby, and thus have weaponized our bedroom with (insert dum-dum-DUMMMM music) the Squirty Bottle. It is large. It is powerful. And, because we've been piling on the blankets rather than heating the bedroom, its liquid contents are cold. Think Supersoaker in the fridge cold (because we've all done that, right?).

Which brings us to this morning. When, at o'dark-thirty, Lucy T. Cat decides she has to Go Out, Right MEOW. 

Now this is a clever cat, capable of higher-level strategizing. Knowing that we are armed, she performs a strafing run worthy of the Red Baron, darting into the bedroom for a couple of good howls, then bugging out again when there's movement from the bed. 

But I am a higher mammal, which means that I am also capable of making a plan. So this morning I stealthily reached down and retrieved the Squirty Bottle when she wasn't in the room, and kept it beside me, knowing there would be another attack soon. 

Wait for it ... wait for it ...

"MEOW!"

I whipped my gun hand around, aimed, and let rip with three blasts of cold water in rapid succession: SQUIRT, SQUIRT, SQUIRT! 

Directly into my own face. 

Yeah. I had the Squirty Bottle pointed the wrong way. 

Sigh.

So how about you? Any bad pet training moments you care to share? Or unpleasant awakenings? Make me feel better!

Books we love: The Perfect Match

Just a quick (oops, just wrote that as 'squick' which totally wasn't where I was going with this ...) note today, as I'm finishing up revisions on Krista's book (Mustang Ridge #3, Harvest at Mustang Ridge, coming to you next August!) and need to Get My Butt In Gear. But I figured, hey, what are friends for, if not to make sure you knew about this really awesome book that just came out?

Et voila:

And, dudes, it's totally only $3.99 on Kindle!

And did I mention that:

... a portion of pre-order and first week sales of THE PERFECT MATCH will benefit Fisher House Foundation, which provides a home away from home for military families to be close to a loved one during hospitalization for an illness, disease or injury. 

TODAY IS THE LAST DAY FOR THE FISHER HOUSE BENEFIT, SO ORDER TODAY!

What's that you say? You want the blurb? I can do that!

What if the perfect match is a perfect surprise? 

Honor Holland has just been unceremoniously rejected by her lifelong crush. And now—a mere three weeks later—Mr. Perfect is engaged to her best friend. But resilient, reliable Honor is going to pick herself up, dust herself off and get back out there…or she would if dating in Manningsport, New York, population 715, wasn't easier said than done. 

Charming, handsome British professor Tom Barlow just wants to do right by his unofficial stepson, Charlie, but his visa is about to expire. Now Tom must either get a green card or leave the States—and leave Charlie behind. 

In a moment of impulsiveness, Honor agrees to help Tom with a marriage of convenience—and make her ex jealous in the process. But juggling a fiancé, hiding out from her former best friend and managing her job at the family vineyard isn't easy. And as sparks start to fly between Honor and Tom, they might discover that their pretend relationship is far too perfect to be anything but true love….

I HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS WONDERFUL NEW BOOK. I KNOW I DID!!

Hugs, and see you next week. Jesse

Of wizards on Segways and other cool things

I’m sure plenty of towns do their own versions of Halloween, but nobody does Halloween like Salem, Massachusetts. Witches? Check. Pirates? Check. Candlelight cemetery tours, a neon-lit Ferris wheel, and reenactments of the witches’ trials, with the audience members as the jury? Check, check and check. Not to mention a couple of LED-lit wizards riding Segways and giving sermons (I’m not sure if they were trying to gain converts or if that was part of their schtick) and … well, it’d be impossible to list all the weirdness Arizona and I saw on Derby Street and thereabouts over the weekend.

Some snippets of overheard conversations:

“No, no. I want Chrissy between Jack Sparrow and the giant squirrel. That’s it. Okay, now everybody say 'eye of newt'!”

“Did that headless guy just stick a French fry through his sternum?”

“Oh, boy. That Playboy Bunny has to be cold!”

And so on. I had to grin when my mother, who lives in Salem and was guiding us through town, said to my crowd-hating but very tolerant husband, “I know this is probably your idea of the seventh circle of hell, but you’ve got to admit that it’s pretty cool, too.”

He admitted it. And it was definitely cool. Here’s Frankenstein grabbing my cousin, who is screaming while my mom and I laugh our patooties off (and Arizona takes the picture).

Have a happy (and safe) Halloween, and I hope you laugh your patootie off!

Things I Don't Hate Anymore

Arizona and I may like watching various shows on the Food Network, but we pretty much exist on turkey sandwiches, pizza, tacos, salad-in-a-bag and Things That Go On The George Foreman. And when we watch Chopped, his theory is that all of the secret ingredients should go in the blender together and be served with a straw—maybe with different size glasses and garnishes for each round. Appetizer round? A sprig of cilantro and a soup cup. Dessert? A cherry and a coffee mug.

In other words, to say that we’re not foodies would be the understatement of the week, maybe longer.

Now, this shouldn’t be blamed on our parents. Mine grew lots of our food in a couple of big garden plots, and my mom canned jams, jellies and pickles. And there’s a legendary story in Arizona’s family about the time his mom gave him the choice between eating his peas and sitting at the dining table for the rest of his life, and he chose the latter.

When we got old enough to make food decisions, however (especially after my Big Breakup, when I could eat whatever, whenever for the first time in many years), we both gravitated toward really basic menus that happened to align just fine. In fact, the first time I met Arizona’s BFF, he looked in the freezer, laughed, and said, “Is he still eating frozen pizza five nights a week?” And I blinked and said, “I thought he was just going along with me.”

Still, new things occasionally make their way into our menu, like the homemade biscuits that made his eyes bug out with their yumminess, or the occasional new fruit or vegetable. Now, I am not a vegetable girl—if it’s not lettuce, spinach or mushrooms, forget it. And back in the day, when people used to tell me that my tastes would change as I got older, and I would start liking other veggies, I would dig in my heels, shake my head, and go with a mature and eloquent: “Nuh-uh. Not gonna happen.”

But, folks, I’ve got to admit. It happened.

It was at a Subway. (I wonder how many of our middle-aged suburbanite stories start thus, or at Starbucks, Panera, etc.) Or, rather, it was back home one night, when I returned from volunteer hours late and hungry, and Arizona offered me the remaining half of his lunch sub, as he had already fed himself. Despite there being green peppers and (horrors!) tomatoes on said sub, I was famished enough not to care, so I bit in. And angels sang.

Tomatoes, where have you been all my life? Too long, I have reviled you as having the texture of a bloated tick when bitten into, with an initial outer covering followed by a burst of goo. Too long have I required you to hide in ketchup or salsa, your true nature disguised. But not anymore. Now, I travel to Farmer Pete’s stand down the road for big fatties the size of my two fists together, then consume them in salted slices or make towers inside my turkey sandwich or burger. Om, nom, nom, nom.

And so, readerfriends, I confess—my taste buds have changed with age, at least in this small way. I doubt I’ll be jumping on the Lima Beans Wagon any time soon, or taking the Brussels Sprout Express to the corner of Asparagus and Tripe, but for now I’m enjoying my baby steps.

So what about you? What foods did you love to hate as a kid, only to discover them in later life?? 

Eek! (aka Gotta Make This Deadline)

Hey folks! I'm coming to you from my writer's cave, which at the moment consists of a couch, fuzzy blanket, cat, computer and no sleep, with Arizona providing food at semi-regular intervals.

Revisions on the third Mustang Ridge book (Krista's book!) are due tomorrow, and I'm in the weeds. The first draft of this book? Not good. My rewrites? Good. My timetable? I#%@@. So I'm keeping this short and sweet, and will be back with you next Monday having turned this book back in to my editor (writing gods willing!).

Hugs

Jesse

Small Bladders and Good Karma

One of the zillion things I cherish about Arizona, in addition to his spider-relocating skills, kindness to cats and easygoing nature, is that he never rolls his eye when I announce that I need a ladies’ room—or, if we’re out in nature, a ladies’ tree. Which is fortunate, as I have a bladder approximately the size of a walnut. Any of you who have road tripped with me can attest to this fact.

Anyway, we recently acquired the World’s Biggest TandemKayak (click to read about how we got it home), and have taken to spending hours on the water, either trolling up and down the salty river near our house, or taking to the open-ish waters of the sound. Which, when you’re in a kayak (and thus can’t easily hike any body parts over the side), makes the whole ladies’ tree thing problematic.

Fortunately, Arizona has a healthy respect for the Great Whites that patrol the waters of Cape Cod to our north, so he doesn’t expect me to man up and jump overboard. (He also probably suspects I would roll the kayak—and all of our gear—when trying to climb back aboard. Because that’s how coordinated I am.) Thus, he’ll find me a landing spot with a bit of shelter, even when he’s in the Fishing Zone.

The Fishing Zone, for those of you unfamiliar with this particular fugue, involves glazed eyes, selective hearing, and a singlemindedness of purpose rivaled only by, say, a diehard romance fan the day her favorite author’s new book is released. (Or is that just me when an ‘In Death’ book comes out?) When Arizona and I were first getting to know each other, he brought me to his grandparents’ house, introduced me to his mother and her husband, and promptly disappeared into the fish room to organize lures. (I am very lucky in all my in-laws, so it wasn’t that big of a deal. But since I had gotten used to him being very attentive, I was like, ‘Whaaa?’)

Now, mind you, I use the term ‘fishing’ loosely in reference to what we’ve been doing in the kayak, as there hasn’t been much (any?) catching going on. Thus it was a huge coup when, this past weekend, as we headed for shore to find me a ladies' rock, Arizona caught himself a large striped bass, thereby ensuring us many weeks of fish tacos, grilled bass, fish soup, etc. And later, when we landed the World’s Biggest Kayak back by the car and the guys near the dock flocked over to take pictures of his catch, my wonderful husband turned to me and said, “Any time you need to tinkle, you just let me know.”

So there it is, ladies. I now have carte blanche. Perhaps I’ll even turn out to be some sort of organic fish finder, with my bladder guiding us to the choicest spot. But for now, I’ll simply be grateful for my guy … and go find another recipe for striped-bass-somethingorother. Cheesecake, maybe?

How about you? Are you a camel, or a tiny tanks who has to pull in every other rest stop? Any funny stories to share?