Recap of this week's search for Mr. Right:
Last weekend I met The Artist on the Motorcycle for a movie and drinks. We saw Sweeny Todd (Great , movie, loved it!), then went to a little neighborhood nightclub for drinks. Mr. A on M was adorable. Great smile, gorgeous blue eyes, total gentleman. Amazing, huh? I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop and his big reveal that he was gay, married or both. But, it turns out he was just a nice normal guy, and we had a nice normal evening. (Maybe my New Year really is looking up!) I’ll admit, there weren’t fireworks of chemistry between us, but there’s definitely a great friendship brewing, if nothing else.
Mr. Coffee (a.k.a last Friday’s date where Aunt Flo decided to come along) did finally call me. (Happy dance!) The down side is we haven’t been able to find a good time for a second, or as he put it, “real” date yet. I’m hopeful next week our schedules will finally match up. There was mention of a sunset over the ocean and dinner. (Tre romantique!) We had a lot in common and he’s definitely in the running for fireworks chemistry. Will let you know how things progress.
(P.S. Mr. Coffee, if you’re reading this, I have no plans for tonight. Hint, hint.)
In the meantime, (switching gears here), my writing efforts of 2008 are off to a bang! My short story “Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit” (available in the Dreams and Desires charity anthology) is up for a Predators and Editors award for best Short Story. This is a unique contest in that anyone can be nominated, but it takes reader votes to win. That's where you come in. If any of you would like to vote for "Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit", I'd be eternally grateful. Here's the link to vote:
Just scroll down and click the little button next to "Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit", then enter your name and email address (they will toss the addy after the contest, so no spam) and hit "submit". They'll send you an confirmation email and all you have to do is click the link and, voila, you've voted for me!
And, for those of you that haven't read it yet, here's a quick excerpt of the story:
Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit
“You’re going to leave the car idling, then we loop around on Pico and take La Cienega straight down to the ten. No stopping,” I said.
Quinn nodded, her eyes shinning as her hot pink bangs bobbed up and down in the seat beside me.
“Here, Carrie.” Lynette reached her arm between the console and handed me a .22. I checked the chamber. Fully loaded.
Lynnie handed another gun to Quinn, who twirled hers like a wild west sharpshooter, almost dropping it on the upholstered seat of Lynnie's mini van.
“Ready, ladies?” Quinn asked.
Lynnie and I nodded as one.
Quinn pulled her Marilyn Monroe mask on. Lynette and I followed suit, becoming Mamie Van Doren and Jayne Mansfield. My vision instantly blurred as I tried to see out the tiny plastic eye holes.
“Just like we rehearsed,” Quinn instructed. “They’ll be so distracted, they won’t even know what hit them.”
“Right,” I said. Lynette nodded.
Then we all stripped down to the matching black and pink polka dotted bikinis we’d purchased at Wal-Mart the day before. We tore open the mini van doors, streaking across the parking lot of the Los Angeles Mutual Bank on Fairfax and Pico, guns drawn.
Quinn was the first to hit the front doors. She plowed in, her gun stuck out in front of her like an Al Pacino movie.
“Everybody on the ground, hands behind you heads! Nobody moves, and nobody gets hurt. I’m f***ing serious!” She waved her gun in the direction of a guy in a Jerry Garcia tie and Dockers who was making a move for his cell phone. He froze, dropping to the floor along with the other people in line on their lunch break.
Lynette came in a close second behind Quinn, aiming her gun at the security guard by the door who looked like he’d just started shaving yesterday. His wide eyed gaze bounced between Lynette's boobs, barely contained by the triangles of polka dotted fabric, and her gun, leveled at his chest, not sure if he should be scared or turned on.
I came in behind Lynette, making my way across the floor of stunned people to the third teller window on the left. I set my plastic, flowered beach tote on the counter and pulled it open.
The man behind the counter stared at me, his jaw stuck in the open position, eyes looking from the tote to my generous size C chest, the one thing I’d been happy to inherit from my mother.
“Hi, there” I said. “Empty the drawer into my bag, don’t even think of pushing your panic button, and keep your hands where I can see them. And,” I added as an afterthought, “stop staring at my tits.”
Score one for the Bombshell Bandits.
Thanks for the votes, everyone, and I’ll let you know the results as soon as I do!
~Gemma “Trigger Happy” Halliday