There Oughta Be a Law Outlawing Murphy's Law

As the 'Assassin' informed you Tuesday, those of us who live in the middle of the country got hit by what the weather guys called 'The Storm of the Century'. While that might have been stretching it a bit, there's no doubt that the first snowstorm of '09 effectively shut down a number of states, Les's and mine included. With 16 inches of snow, coupled with sustained wind gusts of 40-60 mph, everything came to a grinding halt. Interstates closed while cars littered the medians and ditches. Rest areas and truckstops overflowed with semis and stranded travelers. Hotels filled. Flights got cancelled.

Wednesday morning my daughter and I ventured out to survey the situation. Three feet plus drifts covered our driveway and sidewalk in front, and a humongus drift covered our three car blacktop parking and smothered the garage in the back.

I wanted to turn around, go back inside, and hide in my bed. In hindsight, I should have.

I am doubly blessed to have a front-to-back double lot. Double the lot. Double the shoveling. I am also blessed to somehow be on the side of the street where the plows direct most of their snow. And they seem to particularly enjoy 'gunning it' as they go by my house in the front, throwing what they've plowed from the streets directly onto my sidewalks. Can someone explain why they need to drive so fast they hurl snow past the parking, onto the sidewalks, and halfway UP my driveway? Just curious.

Anyway, after some cajoling I managed to get the snow thrower going. It's a smaller model, great for 5-6 inches of snow, but not all that great with thigh-high stuff. So, the top layer has to be shoveled off by hand. I finally get to the point where the snow thrower can actually move some snow and after getting a faceful of snow, I brilliantly deduce the wind is out of the west, which means I have to blow the snow back toward the garage. I tuck my glasses in my coverall pocket.

And you guess it.

Somewhere along the line, my glasses slipped out of my pocket. My daughter found the mangled frames and one lens.

Murphy's Law.

It took us 8 hours, two frozen feet, one numb nose, and a swollen knee to get all the snow cleared. At present I'm basically blind due to the fact that the only prescription glasses I have left are tinted for the sun. And I drive to work in the dark and come home in the dark.

Murphy's Law.

Then we have 'car issues' to deal with. My daughter's car needs a new water pump. Of course, you can't just remove the water pump and stick another one on, you have to remove the timing belt.

Murphy's Law.

We make an appointment for this morning. Yeah. The same morning our temps are in the minus digits and wind chills are -30. We take her car up the road to the shop and discover the road is blocked off by police and fire equipment due to a fire.

Where's the fire?

You guessed it.

The repair shop working on my daughter's car.

Murphy's Law.

My bed is looking better and better all the time.

Have you had any 'Murphy's Law' moments recently? Any of those 'broken mirror' or 'walking under a ladder' incidents that evoke thoughts of hiding under your bed?

How's life treating you all?

~Bullet Hole~

Random Thoughts Before the Big Blizzard Hits...

This is a Henry Rollins doll. I'd hoped to have him done in time for this blog, but he has no tattoos, face or even a head yet. So you'll just have to imagine it. You should've seen me explain to a group of elderly women at my doctor's appointment; "Oh, he was the lead singer of Black Flag - you know - the punk rock group from LA in the '80s?" Actually, it was somewhat easier to explain than Jana's demon ski mask, and almost as much fun.





The doll is a gift for my friend Todd W. (for some reason, I have a lot of friends and one cousin named Todd), who is quoted at the beginning of chapter 13 in STAND BY YOUR HITMAN. He had an amusing thing to say about howler monkeys. I promised the doll to him for his birthday last month. I'm a smidge behind. I've decided that for my next project, I'm making a Steven Buscemi doll wearing a pink, demon ski mask.

Speaking of HITMAN, here's a picture of me and my sister, Jenny, or Sami from HITMAN as you know her. Of course, Mom just wanted a cute Thanksgiving picture of her two little girls. Sami called me "Dumbass" and, well, you can see what she did next. That's a weird thing, having your baby sister grope you on a holiday. Or maybe that's normal.





Jenny/Sami texts me every Saturday about 6a.m. when she's up and working on a crossword puzzle. This week's question was, "What was that book, 'Guys and Dolls' - the one about drugs?" I responded, "Valley of the Dolls was the book about drugs. Guys and Dolls was a successful musical about a loveable bunch of gangsters." My sister replied with, "FANKS BUTTDART!"

We're supposed to get a crazy blizzard tonight (oh, it's Tuesday as I write this - in case you're keeping track), with 8-12 inches of snow, white-out conditions, 50 mph winds and subzero temps. All day long the weather folk screamed, "We're all gonna DIE!" I suppose I deserve that for still living here.


Stay warm, where ever you are.


The Assassin

WINNER!!!

Leona, you won the $10 gift card to Barnes and Noble. Please send me your snail mail address to christie (at) christie-Craig (dot) com.
Thanks everyone for playing along.



Below is part of the special feature that Dorchester posted on their website. I'm running a contest on who can tell me why they think they could be a Christie Craig character. The winner will win a soft, cuddly bathroad and a copy of my book. (See a picture of bathrobe at the site above) And I've only gotten a few essays. So come on, send me those short essays, approximately 400 words, at christie(at)christie-Craig (dot) com

To read the rest of this blog go to: http://dorchesterpub.com/Dorch/SpecialFeatures.cfm?ID=2752

Ten Requirements for a Christie Craig Character

Note: Only the Bravest Need Apply



1) Flaws, Wonderful Fabulous Flaws

Yeah, I know some people think heroes and heroines need to be gooder than grits, perfection at its best, to be the cream that pops up in a pot of homemade soup. But I’m here to tell you that I’ll take a flawed character over the do-gooder every time. Why? Because perfection and do-gooders are boring as watching toenails grow.

I need someone who is too stubborn for her own good, Divorced, Desperate and Delicious, someone who can’t stop fidgeting, Divorced, Desperate and Dating, someone who holds grudges for over 20 years, Divorced, Desperate and Deceived. I need characters who speak before they think, who put their tootsies in their mouths so many times that they have footprints on the roofs of their mouths. I need someone who makes mistakes, but is then willing to pay for them, because I never give my characters a break.


2) Lots of Emotional Baggage

I need something to work with here. Did your ex get caught on camera playing pin the secretary to the elevator wall? Did your ex decide he made a better girl than a guy and start waxing and wearing your thong underwear? Did your ex toss you aside for an old fat woman who didn’t even have money? If so, let’s sit down and have a heart to heart, because you just might be my kind of character.

3) A Willingness to Compromise, Improvise, and Be Flexible

You need to know from the get-go that nothing is going to happen the way you plan it to happen. That’s not going to be chocolate in that Godiva box. And honey, if you find yourself in a bad situation, weaponless, don’t just stand there and be a victim, find something to use. What about that singing fish hanging on the wall? Hey, have you ever seen what a toilet tank lid can do a man’s head? And for Pete’s sake, if you find a dead guy in the Porta-Potty, just pick yourself out a tree to do your business.


4) Secrets—The Dirtier, The Better

Did your mama swap husbands more often than she changed purses? Is your mama a bit of a teetotaler and a hypochondriac—and in truth you’re a bit like her? Was your daddy’s ugly mug on the most wanted list for the FBI? Hey, are you not who you say you are, but you’re really an undercover FBI agent hiding out in the Witness Protective Program? If so, boy howdy, do I have a position for you.

5) Family You Don’t Mind Poking Fun At

Now, I don’t want you to be mean, because you gotta love these people, but let’s face it, I write humor, and I’m gonna need someone who I can use for comedic relief. Plus, if you are being upfront about being flawed, there’s a good probability that you come by it naturally. The wormy apple never falls that far from the tree, if you understand what I’m saying. Plainly put, if you don’t have someone in your family tree I can poke a little fun at, then I’m gonna have to have all my fun with you, and that can be a hard row to hoe.


10) A Willingness To Risk It All

At times, just saying alive is gonna keep you busier that a cat covering up crap on a marble floor. And it’s gonna get really bad because there’s going to be a lot of crap hitting right at the end. Don’t blame me, it’s another thing my editor insists on. He calls it a black moment, only sometimes it last a hell of lot longer than a moment. You might even think death is imminent. The thing is, happily ever afters don’t come cheap. You gotta work for them. But here’s the thing, the promise I make to you and all my readers, you will get your happy ending. You’ll find the love of your life and when it’s all said and done, it’s gonna make one hell of a story.

Also leave a comment today and I'll pick one winner to receive a $10 gift card to Barnes & Noble.

Christmas Party Fun

‘Tis the season for Christmas parties and cheer, and what could be better than a romance reader’s Christmas party with a #1 NYT Bestselling Author as the honored guest? Well, aside from there was also food and wine!

Legacy Books in Plano, TX (close to Dallas) has a romance reader’s book club that meets the first Tuesday of each month. The group is hosted by romance bookseller extraordinaire, Kathy Baker. The group is comprised of readers and writers and we have a fabulous time each month, drinking wine and talking romance.

Last Tuesday was our Christmas party and we had as a special guest none other than one of my favorite authors – Debbie Macomber! Here’s a pic of me and Debbie:



Have I mentioned that I own ALL of Debbie's books? And that I told her that she needs to write some more cowboys? And that's she's super nice and gives wonderful speeches?

It's all true.

Merry Early Christmas to me!

Deadly DeLeon

The Panty War

Allow me to introduce you to Susan Helene Gottfried from West of Mars. We met online and have learned we share a sense of humor. From last week's blog, I learned that most of you would give up your panties before your phone, credit card and shoes. Now, I thought you might want to read Susan's point of view on panties. When she sent the post to me, I couldn't help but laugh. Why? Because darn it if I'm not one of those anti-thong people. In my defense I don't were flip flops either. Don't want things between my toes or between . . . other things! Anyway welcome Susan.

I don't know how many times I've sat through a conversation that's begun with a variation of this sentence: "I don't know how anyone could ever stand to wear a thong. Who wants a piece of string up their butt?"
It's always the butt. Never the ass.
Maybe that says plenty right there. I don't know.
What I do know is that I rarely speak up in these situations. I merely smile and hold my counsel.
I bet you've figured out why. Yep, I wear thongs. When I don't wear a thong, I'm wearing a G-string. It's what works for me. They stay put. I never have to turn my back to my car as I get out of it while I pick at the seams that just bunched up. There's no need to casually hook my finger through the denim of my jeans and give a practiced flick to settle the cotton/nylon/silk/lace/leather/whatever back into place, all the while trying to be cool and completely un-self-conscious.
That's not why I don't speak up, though. It's not that I think talking about my panties is too revealing. Or beneath me. Or that I don't want to open myself to further ridicule. Or to hear that so-and-so's husband agrees with good old Fred Durst (the frontman of Limp Bizkit, a band I personally don't like, but this fits so we'll shamelessly talk about Fred and, for once, not make fun of him) and that bikinis or tangas or hell, even granny briefs are sexier than a thong. Or a G-string.
Nope.
I keep quiet because it's easier. The speaker is almost always set in her bikini/boy short/tanga/granny panty way. She doesn't want to change. She wants to hear other people agree with her. She wants to feel safe in her views of women's skivvies, and thongs and G-strings aren't safe. It's that simple.
But me, I threaten the club. I'm the maverick, the outsider, the bad girl who thinks not having panty lines is a bonus to the lack of pickin' at the crack. No one wants to hear that you adjust pretty fast to the feel of a thong or G-string. That wearing snug pants makes you stop feeling the strangeness that much faster. That when you're having an illicit adventure with the Tour Manger, a G-string can be tucked into cleavage that much easier…
Okay, so that last part didn't happen to me. That sort of situation is exactly why I write fiction. (But Susan, don't you do research? Well, maybe. I'm the one who keeps quiet, remember?)
Yes, I keep quiet even though I could be the one who introduces the shock! the outrage! the scandal of being the bad girl! into the group. I could be the wild child, the one who'll dance on top of the bar when we go dancing. Maybe I was the one who snuck under the bleachers with that hottie from the football team, the one with those doe eyes and luscious lips.
But maybe I'm what I look like: the girl in the jeans and fleece tops who looks more likely to run through the guys' flag football adventure at the local elementary school's field. You know her: the one who's likely to pick off the ball and run into the endzone and start celebrating while all the guys stop and stare not just at the girl's audacity but the fact that that girl had some moves.
Maybe none of that really matters. Maybe I'm neither woman. Heck, I'm not even sure either woman truly exists; human beings are more complex than that. It's also human of us to need to compartmentalize our fellow humans into those simple, easy pigeonholes that way.
All in all, it comes down to this: I know who I am. I know why I wear thongs and G-strings. I know about the lack of panty lines, the chafing, the feelings of sexiness and the way when you look in the mirror, sometimes it seems that maybe letting it all hang out isn't the sexy choice.
Maybe I don't speak up because it would destroy the silent superiority I feel toward these women, who use safe words like butt instead of ass. Maybe it's the flip side: that I know speaking up would only ruin the solidarity among women who don't want their minds changed. Maybe I keep quiet because ultimately, I just don't care what they think, one way or another. Or maybe I keep quiet because while I don't agree with their views, I want to belong to the club. Keeping quiet allows me at least a measure of delusion. For a few seconds there, keeping quiet lets me belong.
Because no matter what we're wearing up against our little girl parts, we all want to belong.

Free Holiday Read!

Last, year I posted a free holiday read for a limited time on my website, so I thought I’d share it again this season. Only this time I’m only posting it here on the blog. Why? Because I like you. ;) So, here’s an excerpt of CHRISTMAS IN HIGH HEELS. Hope you enjoy! (Now I’m off to load my Amazon cart with Christmas goodies… I love online holiday shopping!)




CHRISTMAS IN HIGH HEELS

“Maddie, what is that?” a deep voice asked behind me.
I looked up at the green sprig I was currently pinning to the ceiling of my boyfriend’s living room.
“Mistletoe.”
“Mistletoe?”
“Yeah, you know, you’re supposed to kiss under it.”
I felt a pair of large, warm hands at my waist as I strained forward on my stepladder. “I know what it’s for. I just don’t get why you’re risking life and
limb to stick it to my ceiling. Whoa, careful,” he added, grabbing my hips as I
teetered to the left.
“Use your imagination, big guy,” I responded, stepping down to face him.
“Hmmmm.” He looked up. We were standing directly underneath the green sprig. “Good point.”
He leaned in close, his warm breath hitting my lips just a second before his
mouth did. He tasted like coffee and the rocky road ice cream we’d had for
dessert. Yum. I kissed him back. Hard. With tongue.
“So,” he said when we finally came up for air. “What’s on the agenda tonight?”
I nipped at his lower lip. “Use your imagination, big guy,” I repeated with a
grin.
Tonight was Christmas Eve. Our first together. Not that it was the first
Christmas Eve that had passed since we’d started dating, but it was the first one
we’d spent together. In fact, it was the first holiday of any kind that we’d really
spent together.
Jack Ramirez was tall, dark, and handsome with a capital H-O-T. He was
also a homicide detective with a captain who tended to call at all the wrong
times. Like on my birthday when our opera tickets had gone to waste over a
double homicide in the West Hills. And last Valentine’s Day when he’d made
reservations at this romantic, little Italian bistro with drippy candles and
everything. Then had to cancel when some stockbroker got hopped up on one
too many triple lattes and shot his partner in their office downtown. And then
there was Halloween. My best friend, Dana, had thrown this huge costume
party, and Ramirez and I were supposed to go as two-person horse. An outfit
that doesn’t work so well when the front half gets called to a triple homicide near
the airport.
So, when Ramirez had sworn on his grandmother’s grave that his captain
was not only not calling him in this Christmas but was also in Vancouver visiting
his mother, I immediately made the agenda for our evening. Ramirez, me, and a
nice romantic evening at home. Quiet. Alone.
Possibly even naked.
And from the look in Ramirez’s eyes, I’d say he was totally on board with that plan.
He leaned in close again, doing a sort of deep growl thing in the back of his
throat, before his hands snaked up my sides, pulling me taut against a six-pack
Budweiser would kill for.
I planted my lips squarely on his, nibbling again until we both started panting like Dobermans.
But just as his fingers began flirting with the button fly of my jeans, the
“William Tell Overture” rang out from my purse.
Ramirez groaned.
“Hold that thought,” I told him, quickly locating the offending cell and
hitting the on button.


Want to read the rest? Download the .pdf version here:
http://www.gemmahalliday.com/christmas_in_high_heels/Christmas_in_High_Heels.pdf


~ Trigger Happy Halliday

Bullet Hole's Black Friday

I totally spaced off blogging on Thanksgiving. I ended up having to drive my kid back to college that morning and it slipped my mind big time. And today I'm late posting due to a family medical appointment that lasted longer than anticipated. Sawwree, guys!

So. I did it. I didn't intend to, but I did it. I went out on Black Friday. One of my daughters and I were seduced by the Black Friday ads and incredible bargains and decided to try our luck. With the kids' video game television beginning to go funky, I decided since the price was right, the time was right. Merry Christmas! We get to the store before five. The LCD HDTV unit I had my eye on was also of considerable interest to many other bargain hunters. I get in the line indicated by the store employee. I was cool about the whole thing. I figured if I got one of the TVs, great, if not, no big deal. That was my attitude.

The line snaked through the book section ( a perk here since I had ample time to read a nice selection of blurbs). The line moved forward as the employees handed out the sets one at a time. And then it happened. That 'one' person in a crowd who thinks the rules don't apply to them. That one individual who decided they were entitled to bust through the line of folks waiting patiently for their chance at a great deal and shove their way to the goods. That kind of individual.

Unfortunately this person chose to attempt this brazen breach right in front of a former cop--a former cop whose pet peeve is people behaving badly. That's right. Old Bullet Hole.

I turned to the individual and pointed towards the back of the line. "The line ends back there," I informed the cutting customer.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and looked up at me. (Most women are considerably shorter than my five-feet-nine inches). "In this world if you want something, you have to step up and take it, missy!" she informed me.

I smiled down at her.

"And in a civilized society, you follow the rules," I responded. "And the rules say the line ends back there." I pointed in the direction I had earlier.

By this time others in line, as well as the employees dispensing the TVs, were alerted to this customer's intentions and she had no choice but to accept banishment to the end of the line.

The line moved forward as one-by-one the TVs were taken from the pallet and handed to the next customer. Being tall, I was able to peek over the aisle and count the remaining sets. It was going to be close.

I got up to the pallet. There was one couple ahead of me. And one TV left on the pallet. Sigh.

I turned to leave when an employee stops me, "Hold on. There's one more." And he pulls a set out from behind the camera counter.

I never have this kind of luck.

My daughter and I picked up a few more small items and got the heck out of Dodge. We were back home by six A.M.

Mission Accomplished!

I still have a few things to buy, but the biggies are bought.

So, did any of you end up shopping on Black Friday or did you opt for a safer 'Cyber Monday' outing? Any crazed shopper stories to share? Rudeness running rampant?

I'm enjoying this evening with a seasonal romance and a warm mug of cider. Talk to you all next week!

~Bullet Hole~