My good pal Heather Gardner, from The Waiting is the Hardest Part, is coming out with the second book in her Maquire's Corner series and asked if I'd join in the love fest/cover reveal. I'm all about the love, y'all, and I really enjoyed the first book in the series so here I am to pimp book #2. Check it!
Ignoring
a recent trauma that is affecting her everyday life, ER Doctor Kate Maguire
engages in some high risk activities, but putting herself in these dangerous
situations isn’t enough to feed her edginess. She needs something more. When
her brother’s high school best friend comes back to town, it’s her chance for a
‘no strings attached’ fling with the man who still headlines in all her best
dreams.
Rhys MacGrath’s days of one-night-stands
are long over. The pro-football player might be side-lined at rehab for a
shoulder injury, but that doesn’t mean he can’t admire and desire the
all-grown-up, so-damn-hot, version of the tomboy he once knew. His sudden
interest in Kate might be aggravating his best friend, who doesn’t approve, but
it’s her indifference that’s driving Rhys crazy.
Everything heats up when Kate’s nosy
nature sets her in the line of fire of an arsonist forcing them to deal with
more than just the sparks igniting between them.
~~~)(~~~
Heather M. Gardner's love of books began
on the hand-woven rugs of her small town library where her mother worked. There
she had a never-ending supply of stories to read at her fingertips. As a teen, her
favorite genres to curl up with were romance and mysteries. When she started to
create her own stories, they were the perfect fit.
Heather resides in New York with her best friend who is also her husband, plus
her talented and handsome son. She is currently owned by four stray cats.
Heather's a full-time mom, works part-time from home, a chocolate enthusiast,
coffee junkie, cat addict, book hoarder and fluent in sarcasm.
About a week ago, just after the start of the new year, I dreamt I was married and had a daughter*. But it seems I'd been neglecting my family, as well as my duties to our home. Not sure why; possibly because I pursued a career or simply my own entertainments, apart from them. A violent pang of remorse, and a deep desire to atone and reclaim my life, made me return to our home.
I went to my "husband" first. He was grimly unhappy with me. Hurt, somber. He was a tall, blond man, wiry, with a bit of scruff along his jaw and chin. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in God knows how long. He's not anyone I know in real life. I walked up to him, gingerly hugged him. I had to stretch and get up on my tiptoes to do it. He didn't resist me, but was slow to respond. He did eventually hold me, though. It was almost as though he surrendered to the inevitability of having me back.
I apologized for not being what I ought to have been to him and our daughter. He was quiet, wary, sad. But he loved me, he wanted me, and he was prepared to do what it took to mend things because we belonged to one another. His embrace went from passive to active, he held me closer, welcoming whatever I had to offer, even if it was more pain. I pressed a kiss, like a pledge, to the area of his face between his chin and cheek, and I loved the feel of his yielding flesh beneath my lips. Then I sagged in relief against him. Over his arm, I spied a home in dire need of attention, a sink overflowing with filthy dishes. Guilt for having shirked my responsibilities to those I loved, for so very long, overwhelmed me.
I searched for my daughter next. A matronly woman appeared, a babysitter or nanny. She eyed me with grave suspicion, and I couldn't blame her. I told her why I was there. The woman said my daughter feared me seeing her, worried that I'd be disappointed by her. From what my dream self could remember, she was really just a little girl, perhaps five, and that she could harbor such concerns puzzled me. I stood firm in my wishes and the woman took me to my daughter's room. I approached a crib, I think, and a small, blanketed figure was handed to me. But it wasn't human. It was a tiny Lego figure. That was my daughter—a thumb-sized, hard, plastic figure. I felt alarm, hysteria, but also a bewildered love. Had she become that way for want of me?
The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters
by Francisco Goya
I awoke soon after that discovery. Regret, shame weighed heavily upon me all that day. The suffering of my dream mate I could still feel, like a fog drifting around me. And the shock of seeing what had become of my daughter, I couldn't bear. Meaning grew, like ivy, taking over every thought. My husband was God, a Judeo-Christian omnipotent power, ready to forgive and welcome home the wayward sheep; the home in shambles really my notebooks, containing tales and songs half-done, gathering dust in their various stacks; my plastic daughter who'd failed to become real and thrive signified the talents I've been given and have failed to nurture ever since the fall of 2013. Or maybe she represents me: a woman made small, and immobilized, by depression...
...or do dreams even mean anything, at all? Back in college, a psych professor told me they were nothing but electrical activity in my brain, triggering memories that flashed in my mind's eye. Maybe that's so. Maybe we'll never know, either way. Perhaps we're not meant to be satisfied on the matter, but to ever wonder at the secrets we tell ourselves as we slumber...
*In reality, I'm a divorced mother of a teenaged son.
...why, yes. Yes, it is. Because YOLO, as the Youth said in 2012.
I unintentionally turned inward in 2013, especially in the fall months. Perhaps that's why I opted for a solitary birthday celebration. If "celebration" is the word...I aimed to make 2014 the year of the Very Goth Birthday and didn't fall too wide of the mark.
I'd accrued a couple of free nights on Hotels.com (which I use to book all my work travel), so I checked into the Night Hotel NY (not to be confused with its sister hotel, the Night Hotel Times Square) (although both of them are pretty much in Times Square).
Mah room
I was running late the day I checked in (my actual birthday, December 21) and had to forgo one of my planned stops for the day, so I was in a bit of a snit as I stood in the lobby awaiting attendance. Though the ambiance was what I'd hoped for, the piped in music wasn't. "For fuck's sake," I grumbled to myself as my lip curled in a disgruntled sneer, "why are they playing this stupid dance shit? They should be playing The Cure, or Joy Division, or frigging Depeche Mode, or something." Thankfully, I could breathe a sigh of relief when I entered the blissful quiet of Mah Room.
It'd been a couple of years since I'd last visited the Museum of Sex so I betook myself there, verily. I couldn't help but note their earnest exhortation for guests' best behavior (pictured left) as I paid the entrance fee, but I told the cashier I wasn't making any promises. (Especially regarding that last bit, W00F.)
He didn't mean to turn me on, poor chap.
One of the exhibits was the darkly dirty and whimsical sex puppetry of Peruvian artist Ety Fefer called Grumildos (see image right). It was my fave of that particular visit, I only wish the artist had given us more scenes to enjoy...or, perhaps, made some for sale, so sick puppies like me could bring a scene home as a souvenir. You can see more (and infinitely better) pics of the installation by clicking here.
You'll be heartened to learn I found mine. (As it were.)
I'd looked forward to checking out the Funland: Pleasures and Perils of the Erotic Fairground installment but found it kind of meh. I thought the best (and spookiest) bit was The Tunnel of Love, in which one has to manage various twisty turns in the dark in search of the supposedly elusive clitoris.
I ambled about the MofS shop, then buggered off for some Burger King (not too exciting for a birthday dinner, I know, but I so totally dig their onion rings and that spicy dipping sauce that accompanies them) and Cold Stone Creamery (the night was mild enough to enjoy the chocolate and crumbled Oreo goodness). I went to the 10:15pm showing of Michael Keaton's Birdman, which was brilliant and engrossing though not the lighthearted romp I'd anticipated (if I'd actually read the reviews, I'd've known "lighthearted" and "romp" were hardly appropriate descriptors for the film). It was about 1am, I think, by the time I trekked through a still active Times Square to get back to my hotel. I was emotionally exhausted from the movie ('cause I'm sensitive and whatnot) and feeling myself very alone.
As I entered the hotel I spied the restaurant/bar and strolled over to check out the action. There wasn't any, though the bartender Licensed Mixologist was still there. I asked if the bar was closed and was delighted to learn drinks could still be had, 'cause I needed one. I ordered a Painkiller (again—so totally needed one), a cocktail composed of dark rum, pineapple and orange juices, cream of coconut, and a sprinkling of nutmeg.
As I sat and soaked up the atmosphere (and cocktail), I felt my shoulders sink down. Then I grinned broadly as the absolutely most appropriate song thundered from the bar's speakers—Depeche Mode's "Enjoy the Silence."
One Painkiller, to go.
When I settled my bill for the one cocktail with my Mixologist, I jokingly asked if I could get one "to go" (back up to my room, that is). And the answer, to my surprise, was YES!
Next day I went for an indifferent breakfast at some bistro around the block (Bistro Around the Block would be a brilliant name for a restaurant, wouldn't it???), then headed up to the upper east side to the Metropolitan Museum of Art so I could check out the (what else?) Death Becomes Her exhibit. Offered by the Costume Institute, this installation featured mourning garb spanning a century from 1815 to 1915. Bombastic organ music played as one meandered through the beautifully attired mannequins. Quotes from periodicals, journals, and letters of the era were projected onto the wall, and the lighting was fittingly sombre. I certainly admired the remarkable work, but after two hours was ready to leave death to its own devices.
Toward the latter half of this time period,
sparkly dress in light mourning colors of mauve and purple were acceptable.
I admit to being all Gothed out and in need of cheer. So I did some shopping at Desigual, made a stop at Starbucks for my usual (a lovely, buttery Toffee Nut Latte), enjoyed a fish'n'chips dinner at the Cock and Bull (heh heh) with a Dark and Stormy drink, and did some more shopping at Barnes and Noble, where I picked up another Georgette Heyer to add to my collection. I capped the night with a different Licensed Mixologist who, upon learning it was my last night there, insisted we do shots of Jack Daniel's Tennessee Honey. Now, I'm not really a whiskey drinker but DAYUM, that jazz was the bomb diggity, as the Youth said in...hell, I can't ever remember.
Right, so; that's all I got. Hope all y'all enjoyed every danged December holiday you cared about and wish you a happy, healthy, love-filled, and prosperous 2015.
Last week's focus on Cybersex made me horny realize I've not done a post on the science of attraction (a series I've cleverly referred to as "What about luuurve?", aka WAL?) in rather a while, for which I am most heartily sorry and endeavor to atone. Forgive me? Of course you do. And so, on with the sex-ay.
In previous WAL? posts I wrote about eyes being the key to more than the soul and how be-rouged lips issue an invitation the average individual would be more than happy to answer. (Nudge nudge, wink wink.) But wouldja believe that the parts of your body which reveal the most about your true feelings are your feet? Ex-FBI agent Joe Navarro says that feet, unlike faces, cannot tell a lie. According to him, honest feet are a throwback to the days when a Paleo diet was the only diet around and we relied on them to get us gone when predators approached. (Also, "Honest Feet" would make for a smashing band name.) (Maybe for a Christian Rock band.) (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)
Website Go BodyLanguage agrees that the direction in which a person's feet point indicate where that person wants to be. In the above scenario, one would want to be the hell-outta-range of whatever creature suddenly appeared. In a luuurve, or dating, scenario one would presumably wish to run to rather than away from, and so the toesies would likely point toward the luuurve/lust object. Mind you, it has to be the feet pointing; the upper-body turning in that direction doesn't prove a damned thing. (Except, perhaps, that the person's mighty limber, in which case, W00F.)
Erotische Fotografie 1890-1920
Public domain via Wikimedia Commons
Fine, so you're at some holiday work par-tay and Hottie McHotterson approaches. You've been diggin' his scene since, like, your first day on the job and now, having read this blog post, you know where to look to see if he's really into you. You surreptitiously glance down at his feet...and they're both pointing at you! Score!!! But wait, one of them's moving and...oh, he's pushed it forward, so that the pointing foot's closer to you. Well, well. You've just hit the body language jackpot. 'Cause guess what else Mr. McHotterson wants to place closer to you? (Le rawr rawr.)
So the next time you draw near a person of interest, feel free to set your tootsies to stun, but take note—if your target's feet shift and suddenly point toward the door, then this is one Enterprise that won't be boldly splitting infinitives any time soon. (If you know what I mean.) (You don't? Tsk.) (Yes, I'm making a heavy-handed sexual innuendo of a Star Trek reference. C'mon, it's totally the sort of thing I live to do.) (And "Splitting Infinitives" would also make for a splendid band name, damn it.)
I feel a little badly about making y'all do my blogging work for me. But not badly enough to write a more substantive post, so...how about a round of Words, wOrds, WoRDS?
Using the Random Word Generator at CreativityGames.net, I'm going to toss out a word and you're going to share the first thing that comes to your mind, in the comments section below.
Here it comes, y'all—today's random word is...
LOVER
To learn what came to my mind, select the darkened text between the asterisks.
***
Two things: Billy Idol's song "Got To Be a Lover" AND my desperate need for Carol and Daryl (from The Walking Dead) to resolve their sexual tension and do the horizontal mambo already, for fuck's sake. Literally. I mean, COME ON!!!
***
Go on, then. Reveal unto the world what that word inspired in your little gray cells.
Mazel tov! E-mail me at aoorooo at gmail dot com to let me know whether you prefer to receive a $20 Amazon Gift Card OR a copy of my book, That Fatal Kiss, + book swag, as pictured here (it's OK to go for the gift card, honest). ;-)
And thanks to all for participating, as well as the readers who supported, and continue to support, writers (and, indeed, artists of every stripe). Now, onto the Booty Rap...
I was an avid fan of Saturday Night Live through the 80s and a good portion of the 90s, then sort of dropped off watching regularly, at some point. This year, I happened to catch this season's premiere as I chillaxed in my hotel room (from some business trip or other) and just LURVED the "Couple's Booty Rap" sketch. If you need a laugh, check it out (but be careful if you're at work!). Note: it may take more than a few seconds to load, but it's totes worth it.
Today is the day! My third bloggiversary! AND my...
RESURRECTION
BLOGFEST
III!
YES! Today, participants in this blogfest will BRING OUT THEIR DEAD!
Posts, that it. If you require further elucidation, clicketh hither.
But if you're ready for some reanimated blog posts, read on.
To celebrate my third year of blogging (!!!), I'm resurrecting my Valentine's Day post (published on 2/10/14), in which I wax poetic about "What love is." I was going to bring back a post in which I bitched about crimes against grammar but reckoned that, as an author of romance dark and whimsical, I might be best served by accentuating that which is warm and fuzzy. But if you'd rather read a rant, thither thou goest. Anyway, hope you enjoy, and please do be sure to check out the other participants' resurrected posts (see linky list all the way down). The three qualifying bloggers who'll be selected at random to win either a $20 Amazon Gift Card OR my book and some book swag will be announced on Monday, November 10, 2014 (God willing). (If you're just learning about this blogfest, it's not too late to sign up ~ you've got till 11:59pm on November 7 to do so and follow the rules to qualify!)
In a previous post, I bitched about how ruinous loving is. And it is.
But that's not all it is.
In my late 30s, I began to draw parallels between romantic and paternal love. Not in an Oedipus/Electra kinda way, 'cause that's gross. The love my parents (who are not perfect people) show me and my sis, and even more, the love I feel for my son, is straightforward and manifests in obvious ways:
Love looks out for you, as regards basic needs and comforts (food, rest, shelter, chocolate*).
Love needs to see you well and happy.
Love wants you to feel better ASAFP when you're not well, whether it's from physical, mental, or emotional trauma.
Love shares with you, without conditions or expectations.
Love laughs with you.
Love does for you.
Love accepts the feelings of anger, disappointment, and sadness you engender, but will always want to hold you close again (eventually; but the wait shouldn't be too long).
Love waits for you to get your head out of your ass and apologize for whatever heinous fuckery you've perpetrated.
Love understands that you may never apologize and forgives you anyway.
Love may hurt you, but it'll want to fix that hurt, too, even when it doesn't understand WTF your problem is (see #2).
Love wants to touch you (to the degrees appropriate to your relationship).
Love wants you to want its touch (see parenthetical statement in #11).
Love recognizes and respects that you are your own person.
But the critical factor of real Love: You don't have to work for it, you don't have to earn it; it's just always there for you. Always.
Now, in my early 40s, I feel that's what I should expect, when it comes to romantic love: obvious demonstrations of love that don't demand anything extraordinary of me, and a well of that same feeling within me for the other person, one that never runs dry.
And lots of exhausting, mind-annihilating, earth-shaking, God-revealing sex. Of course.
Maybe romantic love won't happen for me.
But I believe it happens.
Wishing you all Love, now and forever.
*chocolate is totally a basic need.
* * *
Resurrection Blogfest III Participants!
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