It's Easter again, Charlie Brown!

Easter is just days away. And while the focus of adults is, rightfully, on the spiritual significance of the events leading up to the Crucifixion and Resurrection of Jesus Christ, the secularized celebration represented by Easter bunnies and Easter Egg Hunts, colored baskets, chocolate candy, and other goodies is often eagerly anticipated by children.

As the mother of four, Easter was a holiday, much like Christmas, that commanded considerable prep time, resources--and thought. Easter baskets had to be individualized to each child, placing items each child particularly liked in their respective Easter basket. Additional care had to be made that no one received more candy or goodies than the next child, that there was an appropriate balance of nutritional versus junk food, and a similar proportion of fun items as opposed to educational. It was a daunting task.

Then there was the matter of the Easter clothes--suits for the boys and pretty dresses, shoes, and Easter 'bonnets' for the girls. Being the 'frugal' gal that I am, I generally tried to buy Easter outfits (aside from the footwear) a year ahead when they were marked down after Easter.

We made a big deal out of coloring our eggs and, living in the country, we had some really memorable Easter Egg hunts--one year particularly so. After we'd found the eggs the Easter Bunny had hidden, we'd take turns hiding the eggs. One year my daughter, Katie, did the honors. Try as we might, we couldn't find the final egg anywhere. And Katie couldn't remember where she'd hidden it. The next day when I went to start my automobile and it wouldn't start, I discovered the missing egg. It was sticking out of my tailpipe.

It's fun to look back at the photos of all those Easter holidays--yet also somewhat sad. My babies are all grown up. No more egg coloring parties. No more Easter Egg Hunts. No more frilly dresses, lacy socks, shiny shoes and Easter Hats.

Nowadays, we approach this holiday with an attitude of grateful praise and thankful humility for the ultimate sacrifice made on our behalf.

But one thing remains constant: As always, Easter is a time for family and friends and fellowship.

And, of course, Cadbury Creme Eggs!

So, care to share any of your favorite Easter memories--or favorite Easter candy? Any Easter traditions you carry on from year to year? What about childhood Easter celebrations or events that stand out? Chime in!
And from my family to yours, have a wonderful (and warm!) Easter!
Blessings!
~Bullet Hole~

Platitudes...Misty, Watercolor Platitudes...

The Assassin actually ate the chocolate that used to live inside these wrappers.

This was a tough decision guys. You really stepped up last week with the whole, "What If..." thingy. But I had a whole week to think about it so there's no more beating around the bush.

The winner is Refhater with "What if I really wasn't switched at birth and this really is my family?"

The whole thing smacks of the Bombay clan, doesn't it? So Refhater, e-mail me at leslie@leslielangtry.com and we'll talk about your future writing for the greeting card company we should be starting with the rest of you. Oh, and one rule with the galley, no photocopying...no matter how much Hellion threatens.

And now, for something completely different...

If you are like me, (and if you are, we should talk) you have an addiction to Dove dark chocolates. I've tried everything to cut back - cold turkey (unfortunately there's a Walgreens one block away), promises (how many iPods does one person need for christsake?) and threats (but for some reason, I don't scare me).

Reality is, a dish full of the candy sits on my desk in a place of honor most people would reserve only for the Queen of England. Although, why anyone would want the Queen of England sitting on their desk is beyond me - but hey, to each her own.

I have convinced myself that the dark chocolate is medicinal and should be taken every five minutes. And it works. I do feel better. That is, until I read the little sayings they put inside on the wrapper. The folks at Dove don't have the talent YOU GUYS have when it comes to writing this crap.

Here are a few examples:

• "For once, just let your heart rule your head." Oh yeah. Cuz that always turns out good in real life.


• "Put up your feet and unwind" I tried this. And then my boss walked in and gave me one of those looks that says, "What the hell are we paying you to do?" It wasn't a good look. I don't recommend it.


• "Live life large." Um, due to the consumption of chocolate, I really am. If I live it any larger, I'm gonna need new pants.


• "Dance to the beat of life." Unfortunately, due to my enlarged state (see above) dancing could cause a heart attack at the worst and shortness of breath at best.


• "Strength comes from within." Well it better. Because I don't excercise anymore and just sit around on my ass eating bon bons, my arms have the strength of a T-Rex's.


• "Remind yourself that it's okay not to be perfect." Actually, I do this a lot. And it would be great advice if my boss/husband/children/publisher and ME weren't expecting perfect.

With our new Greeting Card company (if you don't know what I'm talking about you haven't been reading my blog dammit) I think we should also score the Dove chocolate contract. I think we would do a lot better writing these things.

• "Letting your heart rule your head only works in romance novels. Think before leaving your husband for that so-called 'hunk/millionaire' you met on Facebook. Trust me on this one."
• "Skinny is an optical illusion created by a fascist, supermodel conspiracy. Eat another one."
• "You work too hard. This wrapper entitles the bearer to enslave her spouse/significant other/children to get things done around the house for a week. If they refuse, we will send VITO."

What would your wrapper say?

The Assassin

Spring has Sprung

Winner! Winner! Estella, you won a free copy of Kimberly 's book from last Saturday's post. Please send me your snail mail address at my website address christie (@) Christie-craig (.) com No spaces.






I’m sorry to tell you guys who live up north, but in Texas, spring has sprung. The robins have arrived, the mulberry tree in my front yard has dropped its fruit and the squirrels and birds are fighting over the purple berries. All the neighbor's outdoor cats are hiding under my car, hoping to get lucky—and I’m not talking about that kind of lucky—they’ll kill for a bird or a squirrel--literally. All day I have to listen to the chirping and squeaking noises, and the pathetic meows of the disappointed cats. Not to mention the upset female cats who don't take being ignored very well.


If that’s not bad enough, my entryway tile has the annual purple mulberry stains because son and hubby don’t know how to wipe their feet. My car and mailbox is covered in mulberry-colored bird poo because, obviously, mulberries have lots of fiber. Not that I still don’t love this time of year. I really do.

Oh, there is one other clue that spring is here. My son and hubby planted their garden. They do it almost every year. And to this day, when I see these two men out there working side by side, I remember their first garden. It was so sweet, that I even wrote about it. Below is my piece that was published in Chicken Soup for the Gardener’s Soul years ago, reprinted in the latest edition of 101 of the Best Chicken Soup Stories, and recently picked up by Ideal Magazines.


A Garden So Rich


I watched out the window as they started turning over the soil. Of course, my husband did most of the work while our five-year-old son spent most of his energy fingering through the dirt looking for worms. Still, the sight of the two of them "working" side by side, preparing the ground for a spring garden, brought a smile to my face.
For just a moment I considered joining them. Then I remembered the excitement I'd heard in my son's voice when he announced that Saturday morning, "Me and Daddy are going to plant a garden!"
I sipped my coffee, wondering if joining in on the fun would be interfering in a male-bonding project. Right then I heard my son call out, "Hey dad, bet you can't find a worm this fine.”
"Oh yeah? Look at this one," my husband countered.
I could see the two squirming creatures that dangled from their fingers in some sort of "fine" worm contest. For a second, I wondered how one went about qualifying a fine worm.
Cringing, I made up my mind. This was definitely their project. I'd leave it to them. Besides, it might be more fun to stand back and simply see what grows out of this garden.
I watched as they poked the seeds into the black top soil. They planted tomatoes, squash, and green beans. I watched as they carefully transplanted the tomato plants into the ground. I listened to the spurts of laughter, the dialogue that passed back and forth.
"When will they grow, Daddy?"
"Soon," my husband replied.
"Tonight?"
"Not that soon."
"Tomorrow?" my son asked.
"In a few days. The seeds have to sprout, then grow."
"Then we'll have vegetables?"
"No it takes a while."
"One day?" my son questioned.
"Longer," my husband replied.
"Two days?" his anxious young voice queried.
I saw the smile touch my husband's expression and at that moment I knew I was already seeing the first of many fruits the garden would bring.
My son would learn that some things in life weren't instant. My husband would learn how to better deal with a five-year-old's expectations and endless questions. Patience...what a wonderful fruit to grow.
In the evenings that followed they knelt to the ground and looked for signs of new life. The sight of them, so close and with common goals, warmed my heart and made me happy I'd decided to watch from afar.
More days passed and each afternoon I watched the two of them water their garden. My son always managed to get as wet as the garden and, more times than not, even my husband came in drenched. The laughter that followed them in made the muddy tracks and extra laundry tolerable. Well, almost tolerable.
Finally, the plants appeared. From the distance I enjoyed my son's look of glee, as well as, the look of wonder on my husband's face as he, too, watched our son. And like the tiny plants breaking through the earth, I saw fruit number two appear. Pride...what a wonderful fruit to grow.
The weeks passed; the garden grew. At the first fruit-bearing blossoms, I watched the two men in my life study and examine each plant. My son would ask questions and my husband would do his best to explain.
"Why do they call squash, squash?" the smallest and dirtiest gardener questioned.
"I don't know," came my husband's answer.
"I wonder how many worms live in this garden?" my son asked.
"I don't know," my husband replied.
"A million?"
"Probably," my husband said.
"Can we catch them?" Excitement radiated from his voice.
"I don't think so." My husband chuckled. "But look at this blossom."
"Will it really become a tomato?" Came yet another question.
"It will." My husband smiled.
I smiled, too. For just as plants grow, I knew I was watching a relationship take root--watching cherished moments being framed for future memories.
They continued to water, to weed, and to care for their small garden. And after all the work and effort they proudly produced ten tomatoes, several medium-size squash, and three pots of beans.
One hot afternoon, my husband stared out the window at the wilting plants and asked, "Was it all worth it?"
Our smiles met at the same time. There was no need to answer. Relationships, memories, patience and pride. Who knew a garden could bear so much?


So . . . is spring sprung in your neck of the woods? Do any of you plant gardens? Do you have any special spring memories? Hey, Easter is right around the corner. Any Easter memories to share?
Crime Scene Christie

Holiday Traditions

Since I won't talk to you guys again before the weekend - Happy Easter! My Sheltie, Bogey, was kind enough to pose for an Easter photo for your enjoyment.

Most families have some sort of holiday tradition, but I think a lot of them center around Christmas. In my family, it was all about Easter. Back when we were all in the same state the whole family would get together for Easter at one house - usually one with acreage. We're talking maybe 50 people or more eating and having fun. Because you see, our Easter tradition was games!

The spoon race with raw eggs, raw egg toss, the three-legged race - we played them all. AND we had our own family tradition called the Egg Walk. If you were new to the family (as in married in - if you were just born you don't do the egg walk until you can actually walk) you were required to do the egg walk. This is how it goes:

A couple of people take a ton of the boiled, decorated eggs and scatter them across a pretty large section of the yard - you can watch while they're doing this. Then you are blindfolded, and spun around in a circle. Someone points you in the right direction and your objective is to walk through the eggs without breaking one.

Thing is, while you were being blindfolded and spun in a circle, we picked up all the eggs. Do you know what it looks like to see grown adults tiptoeing around nothing? And don't think you're doing this in absolute quiet - oh no - there is all sorts of heckling going on and the yelling of "watch out" and "not to the right" from the sidelines.

Now, THAT is a family who appreciates a good joke!

Any Easter traditions in your family?

Deadly DeLeon

Welcome to Kimberly Lang

Before I start belting out Sweet Home Alabama, I'll turn you over to a very funny Bama gal who is making a name for herself in romance fiction.

Take it away Kimberly!

I’m tickled to be here today. ~waves to my Alabama Home Girl, Christie~

One of the coolest things about being a writer is the fact I can file a lot of stuff under “Research” or “Refilling the Well.” Going to Vegas for the weekend? Research. Reading the latest romance releases? Both Research and Refilling the Well. Watching movies? Surfing the net? A pedicure? I can apply the terms pretty broadly (it doesn’t take a lot of practice), and it means I can get away with a lot.

“Gee, Honey, I can’t wash the dishes right now. I know it looks like I’m just reading, but, really, it’s market research. Gotta stay on top of the market, you know.”

“The well is feeling a little empty at the moment. I’m thinking a Girls’ Night Out is needed. You watch the kid, okay, Sweetie? Bye!”

I should be very ashamed of myself, I know.

So, I’ve spent a lot of time recently avoiding, I mean, researching. Or maybe I mean filling the well. All I know is that I’ve been watching a lot of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And by a lot, I mean the complete box set. (Don’t tell my editor, okay?)

I’m a huge Buffy fan. I’ll happily argue Angel vs. Spike.* I’m unashamed to admit my small Riley crush. I’ve often worn my hair like Willow, and I would love to kick some butt like a Slayer. I love the action, the dialog, the characters. It was an awesome show.

Thing is, I write for Presents/Modern Heat. No vampires, demons, witches, or werewolves allowed in my plots. Nothing supernatural or paranormal. My heroines can be perky and strong, but they don’t kick butt in the Buffy sense. Umm, maybe I can make a small argument on the whole Alpha-hero front, but even then, it’s a little weak even with my broad definition of research.

But sometimes the brain just shuts down and it needs mindless entertainment. Or mine does, at least, because somewhere around Season Six, the fog lifted. I became oddly motivated and my WIP didn’t seem like something I should continue to avoid. It seems Buffy slays all kinds of demons.

I coined a new term – I wasn’t refilling the well; I was “Rebooting the Brain.” I’ve decided it’s equally as important. When my computer locks up and won’t cooperate, everyone tells me to reboot. I think it works for the computer between my ears as well. Complete shutdown. Turn everything off and count to thirty before restarting.

Or in my case, watch six seasons of Buffy, then restart. Hey, I’m not one to question something when it works.

Am I the only one with this need to reboot? How do you reboot the brain? Alternatively, weigh in on the Spike/Angel argument. I’ll pick a one person from the comment tail to receive a copy of my book!

Kimberly
www.booksbykimberly.com

*And I always come down on Spike’s side.

************
I’m celebrating the release of TWO books this month! The Secret Mistress Arrangement makes its US debut (squee!) and The Millionaire’s Misbehaving Mistress is out in the UK (squee again!) Big blog party at the Writing Playground (www.writingplayground.blogspot.com) on April 7th to celebrate – and more chances to win! Please drop by!

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Basketball Diaries

First off, I was totally going to name this post March Madness because it was just SO appropriate. I had it all written, then I logged into blogger to post it… and saw that Kathy’s post yesterday was titled March Madness. Whoa. Talk about great minds thinking alike. ;) So I improvised with a new one.

And, why, you ask, was March Madness so appropriate? Well, let me tell you about the sports fan my mom met on a blind date last week.

She met him online and he called himself Tennisdude. Right off the bat, Mom could tell he was a sports nut. Mom? Like me, she considers high heels an aerobic workout and shopping the next great Olympic sport. However, she does like to play a game of tennis now and then, and you’d think any guy who’s that into sports is probably in good shape right? (Yeah, you’d think…) So, Mom agrees to meet Tennisdude at a local brewery for drinks the next evening.

That night Mom’s work ran a little late, so she texts Tennisdude and tell shim she’s on her way, but running about ten minutes behind. He’s cool with it, says he’s at the bar.

Only, there’s some big basketball game on that night. (Yeah, see how big I am into sports? I’ve got no clue what game. All I know is that instead of Survivor, they had super tall guys in squeaky shoes on TV that night.) So, the bar is packed. Mostly with guys. All of them watching the TV set. When Mom walks in, not one head turns away from the TV.

Which is where she encounters a problem. Which of the many guys at the bar is her date? She’s seen a couple of his pictures online, but the thing Mom’s rapidly finding out about dating over 50 is that every man posts pictures of his “young at heart self” that are at least ten years old. Hence, he could be any one of these guys. In lieu of tapping each one on the shoulder to find out if he’s the one, she decides to sit in the only vacant seat at the bar and wait for him to notice her. (Mom’s pictures actually are recent and she does look just like them. I come from honest stock.)

So, Mom sits. She orders a glass of wine. She sits some more.

Clearly the game is more interesting as, still, all pairs of male eyes are glued to the TV. Not one has even glanced her way. So, Mom texts Tennisdude again. She tells him she’s at the bar, the blonde in the white jacket sipping the cabernet, and waits.

And waits.

And begins to wonder if she needs to put on a pair of Nikes to get noticed around here.

Finally the guy next to her strikes up a conversation. She tell shim she’s there meeting a blind date, but doesn’t know which guy it is. My guess is that BarFlyGuy has had a few at this point, because he immediately agrees to help her find her date. Before she can even protest, he’s out of his seat, rounding the bar, tapping every guy on the shoulder asking if he’s hear to meet a blonde from the internet.

Needless to say, Mom now has a zero low profile. Eyes start turning her way. Lots of them. Which might have been a good thing under different circumstances, but the way BarFlyGuy worded it, it sounds like someone just ordered her from ebay.

Finally BarFlyGuy taps the right guy on the shoulder and Tennisdude looks up. (And, surprisingly, he doesn’t look 10 years older than his pic. He looks 20.) With stooped shoulders and a slight limp (that speaks to the fact it’s been decades since he actually played sports) he shuffles over to where Mom is waiting. At this point, she’s wishing BarFlyGuy hadn’t been so helpful.

Tennisdude settles himself in the empty seat next to Mom. And promptly tells her, “I’ve been waiting here all night. Where have you been?!”

Moral of the story: Don’t date a sports fan during March Madness.


~Trigger Happy Halliday


P.S. Stop by the Romancing a Cause auction!
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March Madness

March Madness strikes again. No. I'm not talking about the NCAA tournament. I'm talking about the weather, of course. And my frame of mind. 'Mad' didn't even come close to what I felt when I looked out my window Saturday to find big, fat, fluffy, cold flakes falling on one of the last days of March--and this despite four weather forecasters assuring me that the snow would track south of us.

Right.

It's the Winter of My Discontent--The Sequel. And it sucks.

I want spring! And sunshine! And temperatures that let me wear T-shirts and capri pants and make me want to shave my legs again. I want to plant tomato plants upside down in my topsy turvy planters, grill a nice thick steak outside on the patio, take the chain saw to the dead tree in the back yard, and yes, even rake and bag leaves. But spring refuses to, well, spring!

I whined about the weather all day Saturday and into Sunday when I had to kick the thermostat up a notch to keep warm. It was either that or call and order one of those old lady snuggies from TV to wrap up in.

I whined Monday and Tuesday when I had to pull out the winter coat again.

And yesterday when the temperature was a balmy 32 degrees as I left for work, I whined some more. Things couldn't get worse.

Mid morning my cell phone began to vibrate. I checked my voice mail at lunch.

"I'm going to Tahiti. You want to go to Tahiti? Call me. We need to go to Tahiti."

Now, normally if I received a message like this on April Fool's Day I'd bet the farm it was a joke, but since the caller was a good friend of mine who's going through some challenging times--and who has been known to fly off somewhere fun and diverting on a moment's notice, I figured it was legit.

I stared outside the window at the wind whipping hats off men's heads and turning umbrellas inside out and sighed.

"Friggin' Tahiti." I muttered. "Tahiti. Can you believe it?"

"Excuse me?" The gentlemen next to me gave me a quizzical look.

I gave him a weak smile.

"My friend. She's going to Tahiti. Tahiti. Warm sand. Divine beaches. Drinks with tiny umbrellas that aren't inside out stuck in them. That Tahiti."

He suddenly developed a freakish interest in his tuna fish sandwich.

As I chewed my rabbit food lunch I pondered what it would feel like to be that spontaneous. To just decide you're flying off to some exotic locale (heck, flying off anywhere) and just doing it. But that's just not me. 'Spontaneous' is about the last word anyone would use to describe me. I'm somewhat anal about schedules and routines and planning ahead. Don't get me wrong. I've often wished I was one of those 'spur of the moment' people who pick up and pile out the door without prior planning. But I'm not.

If I was, I'd be on the phone to my friend telling her to 'count me in'. No April foolin'.

But I'm me. Good ol' predictable, (translate as boring) structured, level-headed, Bullet Hole. Someday I'm gonna surprise you all. Someday when there are no classes to finish coursework for, no lawmakers and judges to protect, no kids at home to ride herd on, no deadlines to ignore, er, meet--someday I'm going to do it. I'm going to unfold a map, close my eyes, and point to a spot, pack, and go.

What?

You don't believe me?

You think I'm deluding myself?

You just wait. One Thursday you'll click on the Killer Fiction blog to find a new (and less uptight) Bullet Hole blogging from some surprise destination. Just you wait.

Of course, with my luck I'll end up in some place like Podunk City, USA.

Oh well. At least I'll have broken my cycle of 'Stick in the Muditis' when it comes to spontaneity.

So, tell me. When was the last time you picked up and went someplace or did something on impulse? What did you do or where did you go? How'd it work out? Or, if you're like me, what do you wish you could do totally out of the blue?

Maybe I should start today and decide to do something today out of character and unexpected.
Something that deviates from my norm.

Hmmm. What could I do?

I've got it! Maybe I'll brush my teeth BEFORE I take my shower rather than afterwards.

Oh, brudder. I'm in worse shape than I thought.

Now where the heck IS that map????

~Bullet Hole~