Hitman Meet Gustav. Gustav...Hitman.

My husband drove through Hurricane Gustav and all I got was this lousy photo.

Okay, it's really a cool photo. But you understand, in keeping with the t-shirt quote, I had to keep similar phrasing.

Yes, that's my book. My husband read it sitting in a Suburban SUV outside the hotel he was protecting during Gustav. He called to tell me how much he liked it and to let me know he thought my use of "dialogue has improved." And yes, he really said that.

Tom got the call to head to New Orleans a few days before Gustav hit. He drove there from Illinois in a rented SUV filled with all kinds of stuff - from a generator to duct tape. His mission was to protect a hotel, its clients and staff from the possibility of looters. Sounds like fun, eh? Well, it sounds like fun to Tom.

Being that I'm afraid of stuff like hurricanes, I wasn't happy about this. Especially when he arrived in time to drive across the 22 mile causeway over Lake Ponchitrain in the full brunt of Gustav. He actually said, "It was kind of tense."

Now, my husband is not an excitable man. Those words coming from him would be the equivalent of me saying, "OHMYGOD! #!@! WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!"

While he was there, he realized he hadn't yet read my latest, STAND BY YOUR HITMAN. So, being a guy who likes to watch storms, he sat out in the vehicle during the storm and read my book.

WHO IN THE HELL DOES THAT?

Of course, this is Mr. Assassin. When he made his first parachute jump in the 82nd Airborne, instead of screaming like a little girl as he plummeted to the ground (as I would have done), this man took pictures of the ground rushing up between his feet. He then sold the photo to other guys in the 82nd so they could all send it home and say that they took the picture. He made a fair amount of money off that too.

And last night, he tells me that he can't believe that Bob and Al (my dying plants) got last week's blog when he read my book in a car during a hurricane.

So Tom, here it is, your moment of zen.

The Assassin

A Hero I Met Along Life's Path

Gemma’s post about heroes got me thinking about a few that have crossed my path. Now, I have to warn you upfront. This is not my normal kind of blog. I’m not going to have you sobbing, nor will you be splitting a gut with laugher. But I think it‘s a heartwarming tale, so I decided to share something that happened to me years ago.



“Will you marry me?”

I sat there in that Omelet Shop looking over my plate of smothered hash browns at the man who’d just proposed.

I think I would have been less shocked if he’d pulled a violin out of his ear and started serenading me in Italian. I was . . . speechless. I was also having a hard time swallowing the bite of crispy potatoes covered with melted cheese--a scrumptious meal that the proposer himself had made especially for me and refused to let me pay for.

I met his eyes, certain I’d see laughter hidden in their green depths. No laughter. This man was serious. But he couldn’t be. Could he?

My shock at his proposal stemmed from good reasons—really good reasons. First, I was already married. Second, I was six months pregnant. Third--and I think this was where most of my shock stemmed from--why would he want me? Yeah, my self-esteem was about as large as an undetectable freckle on a lady bug’s nose. But of course, then I realized Robert really didn’t know me.

We had met a few weeks earlier. He was several inches over six feet, broad-chested, probably topped the scales at over 200 pounds, mid-twenties, kind eyes, and a thick head of strawberry blond hair. Not what you’d call a typical hunk, but he had loads of charm and a devilish smile that I’d seen women respond to. He worked at the omelet shop with my mother.

My mother, whom I had been staying with for the last three weeks since my husband of almost two years decided he deserved better than me. Yeah, the husband was a big part of my self-esteem issues. I was young and dumb—a few weeks shy of my eighteenth birthday. Yup, that means I was married at sixteen. But hey, by my family’s standards that was practically an old maid. My mom was married at thirteen.

“I’m serious,” Robert said. “I work two jobs. I don’t make a lot of money, but I pay the bills. I’d be good to you.”

I literally had to pick up my chin off the table. “You can’t be serious.” I dropped a hand on my swollen belly, thinking maybe the man was half blind and hadn’t noticed I had a watermelon-size lump under my shirt and a wedding ring on that hand. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.” He shot a quick glance at my mom working behind the counter.

Just like that, I knew my mom had told Robert about my situation. I felt my face flush. Mortified. The last thing I wanted was for anyone to know how I’d failed. I was going to kill her. Seriously kill her.

“She shouldn’t have said anything.” I picked up my fork and started to play with my food.

“She didn’t tell me much,” he said. “She didn’t have to. The first time I saw you, I felt as if I was looking at an angel with a broken wing. I knew someone was hurting you. And damn it, you are so beautiful and you don’t know it. You’re funny. You’re sweet. And some guy out there is treating you like shit. You don’t deserve that.”

Okay, right then I knew the guy was half blind and functioning on half a brain, too. I wasn’t any of those things. I knew because my husband had told me.

I thanked Robert for his offer, but turned him down. It would take several years before I realized what a gift Robert offered me that day, but even then, I knew he’d made a difference. Yes, I went back to my husband—back into an abusive marriage. I didn’t find the courage or the self-esteem to walk away from him for good for four more years. But the day I jumped on an airplane with a four-year-old daughter, determined that we deserved better, I thought about Robert.

I knew that the courage it took to walk away from an abusive marriage had grown from a seed of confidence planted by a fry cook in the Omelet Shop four years earlier. Robert called me an angel that day, but looking back I think he was the angel, one of those heroic people who speed walk through our lives and yet make a big difference.

Have you had one those angels cross your path? I hope that if there’s anyone out there in the place I was over twenty years ago, I hope you find your own Robert, I hope you’ll realize that you deserve better. And let me tell you, almost a year after I boarded that plane, I met another hero who proposed. The only difference is, I married that one. He’s not perfect, but he’s close, and he’s perfect for me. So for you women out there wondering, there are a few good men amongst us.


Crime Scene Christie—who promises to be funnier next week.

How To Become Your Father In 17,857 Excruciating Steps

This past weekend was girl's weekend, and me and my two best girlfriends (and cp's) went to Jefferson, TX to stay in a haunted hotel. Unfortunately, I cannot report any spooks, but I did pick up a really cool purse. :) It's been forever since I traveled - thank God - but just packing one bag brought back all the memories of my traveling days when I was a corporate trainer. So I'm going to tell you about my crazy trip to Denver.

I was doing a two-day accounting training in Denver the week before Christmas, 2006. Fly out on Sunday, train Monday, Tuesday, fly back Tuesday night. I checked the weather and it was supposed to be in the high 40's and sunny all week. For someone who's always hot that sounded like a bit of heaven. So I packed my carry-on with two days of regular business clothes, grabbed a light-weight jacket and headed to the airport in blue jeans, tennis shoes and a T-shirt.

Class went fine on Monday, until Monday afternoon when the students started talking about a blizzard that was coming. Excuse me??????? Yep, there was a blizzard coming - the next day. Now, did these people do the smart thing and send me home figuring they could do the last of training by webex sometime later? Noooooooooo.

The next morning I wake up to a foot of snow on the ground and more on the way. I get in my rental car (which of course, is NOT a 4-wheel drive) and creep off to class, glad their office is only two miles away. I get to the office, but only three employees from the whole company are there - again, did anyone call me and tell the Texas girl with the non-4-wheel drive not to leave the hotel? Nooooooooo.

So I sit there until 10:00 am when the manager finally decides that the storm is getting worse and no one should come to work. You think? So I head to my rental and start skating back to the hotel. The hotel entrance was slightly elevated and all the roads were covered with ice, so I gunned it and managed to get the car to slide into the parking lot sideways where it promptly stopped against a snow bank. I got out and left it there.

Went into hotel, which only serves breakfast mind you, and asked where I can get food, because apparently I am going to be there a while. They say there is "sorta" a grocery store across the street. So I change into my blue jean and tennis shoes and throw on the light jacket - mid 40's, remember? The wind was blowing almost 50 mph in a straight line, and I had to walk head into it to get across the street. The snow drifts were already 3 foot tall in some places. It took me twenty minutes and three falls to get across the street into the "sorta" grocery store. And that's when I realized what the sorta part was for.

It was an organic health food store!

It was then that I really started wondering exactly what I had done to send such horrible karma my way. I am not organic or healthy and I was literally stuck with trying to find something I could choke down for however many days I was going to be stuck here. I finally settled on bread and organic peanut butter - which is nasty!

The storm raged on for two days and was the biggest mess Denver had ever seen - yep, that's right - I was in THAT storm - the one that left thousands of people trapped at the airport for days.

On Thursday, I woke up and it had stopped snowing. Yeah! I looked out the window and couldn't even see my rental. It was completely covered. People were riding bobsleds down the street and a group passed by on cross country skiis. But it looked like some business were open. And that's when I decided to become my dad.

You see, I walked two miles in the snow for groceries.

C'mon, we've all heard the story about how lucky we are because our fathers had to walk two miles in the snow to get to school. Well, I trumped him. I had to walk it for food!

Two miles creeping on ice laden roads in Nikes and blue jeans for a chicken pot pie and some hot wings. Even more dire, I'd run out of books!!!!!!

After sitting at the airport for 17 hours on Friday, I finally managed to get on the last flight leaving Denver. If that flight had not left, I would have gotten home for Christmas on the 29th.

Ask me again if I miss traveling? Ever?

Deadly DeLeon

Jane Myers Perrine

Please allow me introduce a very neat lady. Jane Myers Perrine is nice, witty, and even if she doesn't take people out the way some of us do, you're going to enjoy reading her wonderful stories. Take it away, Jane...

I’m a little different from the terrific writers on this blog. I don’t kill people. I’m NOT saying that fictional murder is bad. Christie, Gemma, Kathy, Leslie and Jana bump off people with great skill and humor. I’m just saying that none of my characters have done that—yet.

Right now, I write inspirational fiction although murder may not be far off. My career started with three novels published by Avalon Books. Then I signed with Steeple Hill Love Inspired. My third Love Inspired is out the first of September; my fourth, in January.

I was wondering what to blog about and decided: PETS. In DEEP IN THE HEART (September, 2008) the heroine has a buff cocker spaniel—she’s on the cover—modeled greatly on our buff cocker Daffodil (we went through a let’s-name-our-pets-after-flowers stage). In the January book, SECOND CHANCE BRIDE, the heroine has a skinny, fussy cat much like my husband’s skinny, fussy cat Dolly Gray.

I grew up without pets of my own. My sister had a turtle and a parakeet, both of which died in peculiar ways and at an early age. Because a turtle is not a pet one can cuddle with and take for walks and the parakeet didn’t really like people, they weren’t completely satisfactory as pets. And they weren’t mine.

I married a wonderful man who grew up with animals all over a huge yard in Pewee Valley, KY. For awhile his sister bred pulik which are Hungarian sheepdogs, amazingly smart animals with prehensile claws. I inherited Andy and discovered how wonderful and loyal dogs are—and funny. Since then, we’ve had dozens of pets. Because of all the dogs, cats, birds and a zillion furry little creatures our son loved, a friend called our house the Louisville Zoo. As you may have guessed, we lived in Louisville at the time.

But since I have to narrow my choices, I’m going to write about our peach-cheeked love birds.

My husband is a much more romantic person than I and gives wonderful and thoughtful presents. One anniversary, he surprised me with a pair of peach-cheeked lovebirds. Beautiful birds, the peach not only covers their cheeks but tops their heads and runs down their throats. They’re about seven inches in length with lovely two inch tails and vibrant blue plumage under the green feathers on the body.

Such a romantic gesture.

Because I taught Spanish for so many years, I named them Don Quixote from the classic Cervantes novel, and Dulcinea, Don Quixote’s fantasy love. For months, the birds sat in their huge cage, chirped and cooed. Some days, they’d bob up and down their perches and show off their colorful feathers. I always thought this was some sort of mating ritual but it could have just been a fun way to exercise. At night they fell asleep next to each other, cuddling close.

However, all didn’t turn out well for these two. One day we came home from work to discover that Don Quixote had a wound on his lovely peach cheek. Dulcinea had attacked him. The owner of the pet store said it could be that we had two males. Lovebirds are very hard to sex (meaning, of course, to tell what sex each is), and two males together could get aggressive.

My husband likes to say they got a divorce after that. I prefer to explain that they separated. We got a cage for Dulcinea and placed it next Don Quixote’s. They didn’t seem to mind a bit. I also changed their names. The one with the injury we named Scarface, after the Al Pacino character. Dulcinea was renamed Bone Crusher, after the then-successful boxer Bone Crusher Smith.

Their lives moved on fine. They cooed to each other—from separate cages. They slept next to each other, touching feathers and heads through the bars. They bobbed back and forth on their perches, strutting (or bobbing) their stuff. They just no longer lived together.

Yes, life passed happily until Bone Crusher got sick. Listless, he no longer bobbed or chirped or cooed. I took him to the vet. Once I signed in. I sat the packed waiting room with the huge cage on my lap. After ten minutes, the receptionist called, “Bone Crusher Perrine.” I stood and carried the cage across the waiting room in complete silence as people realized that Bone Crusher was a small, green bird. Then everyone laughed.

The vet prescribed bourbon. No, I’m not kidding. Yes, we lived close to Bourbon County, KY, but the vet said a little bourbon on her seeds should perk her right up. So I went to a liquor store and asked what kind of bourbon was best for a lovebird—well, in the interest of accuracy, that last sentence isn’t true.

Now comes the sad part. A few weeks later, when I took the cover off his cage, Scarface lay dead. A couple of mornings after that, I found Bone Crusher dead, her head under the seed dish.

George swears she committed suicide because she couldn’t go on without Scarface. I don’t know what happened, but I missed the narrow and perfectly straight strips of paper they’d rip from the cage liners and toss through the bars onto the floor—along with piles of seeds. I missed their beautiful peach faces and their bobbing dances. I even missed their loud, raucous screeching.
But most of all, I missed their cooing to each other like lovers in a novel, just from separate cages.

Jane Myers Perrine had lived and collected pets in many states, but has now settled with her husband and two cats—Maggie and Scooter the Wonder Cat—in Cedar Park, TX. Visit her at jane@janemyersperrine.com

Hero Worship

A few days ago I got this email saying I had a new message on an online dating site from a guy named Ramirez.

For anyone who hasn’t read my books yet, the hero of my High Heels series is a hot, Latino cop in Los Angeles named… wait for it… Ramirez.

My first thought, staring at this email, was that someone I knew was playing a joke on me. I clicked the link, logged into the dating site and found the note. It was a short little, “Hey, what’s up, liked your profile” kind of thing. Signed Ramirez. Still thinking I was being set up, I clicked on the link to see his profile.

A picture of a hot Latino guy pops up. We’re talking HOT. Not someone I recognize, not one of my girlfriends playing a joke on me. And, as I browse through his pics, I can tell they’re not fakes, either. It’s the same guy in different settings, some with his family, some in military garb. This Ramirez is a real guy.

I read the rest of his profile. And, would you believe… turns out he’s a cop. Seriously. And that’s not all. He’s relocating to my area soon, but for the past two years he’s lived in Los Angeles. A hot Latino cop in L.A. named Ramirez.

I literally found my hero.

So, of course, I had to talk to this guy. Granted, things are going swimmingly with Mr. Big, so I’m not really thinking dating is in the cards. But, this guy is my hero. I’m dying to know how else he might be like the Ramirez in my books. This is just too great an opportunity to pass up. So, I give him my number, and the next night he calls me. I’ll admit, I was excited as I picked up the phone. I mean, how many times does a writer actually get to meet her hero?

So, with bated breath, I answer, “Hello?”

You know that great line from Jerry Maguire? “You had me at hello.”
Well, this was the opposite. Ramirez lost me at “Yo, babe.”

And things only got worse.

Every other word from the real Ramirez was “f”in this and “my homies” that. He told me all about the time he got jumped at a club for wearing the wrong baseball team colors in the hood. He told me how he used to live with his parents, but they thought he was too lazy and kicked him out. He told me his cousin lives in my town, just a few blocks away, but he “don’t see her no more” ‘cause she owes him money he lent her for a tattoo. He told me he really digs kids – his ex wife had three by three different “baby daddies”.

Big time reality check.

I ended the conversation as quickly as I could, realizing this was not someone I ever wanted to talk to again.

I guess there’s a reason I write about fictional guys. My hero was much more heroic when I was the one putting words into his mouth.

What about you ladies? Is there a real life inspiration behind the heroes you write? Do you ever put a real man in the role of the heroes you read about?


~Trigger Happy Halliday

Everything old is new again!

Okay. I intended to post some pics of my newly 'organized' office this week. Problem is I don't actually have the 'organized' part down yet and it would be kind of, uh, embarrassing to post 'after' decluttering pics that show stacks of papers and files that need to be sorted, filed, or shredded. You see. I kinda got sidetracked.

Oh? You're not surprised? I have a habit of doing that?

Nice.

Anyway, I have something better than a clean work area to unveil this week. I have a new website!

A little background on this. For those of you who don't recall, I'm sort of--challenged--when it comes to things like technology...and small engines, appliances of all sizes, shapes, and functions, large engines, and anything to do with mathematics. So when I became newly published in 2005, the biggest 'sweating bullets' moment for Bullet Hole Bacus was not writing the follow up book, but establishing a web presence. The very thought made me bilious. Imagine my relief when my son, a high school sophomore at the time, displayed an aptitude for design along with his gift of artistic ability.

How do you say 'dodged that bullet'? Whew!

I figured the legendary Janet Evanovich involved her offspring in the biz, why not this fledgling author? So, Erick, one-third of my triplets, designed my first website. Recently he decided it needed a new look so he revamped it. It's up and running as of yesterday! We still have some tweaking--okay, fine, 'ERICK' still has some tweaking to do on the site like adding new page content and a navigation area before we're totally good to go, but if you have a moment, click on over to http://www.kathybacus.com and check out the updated look.

Erick is working on his own website promoting his art work and web design acumen and has plans to launch that soon. More on that front later!

All this 'updating' has me more determined than ever to give my house a badly needed facelift. Remember I told you I was planning to pull down border in my kitchen and ex formal dining room turned TV room? Just FYI. The fabric softener mixture so didn't work for me. Today I'm trying a vinegar solution. I'll let you know how it goes.

Hope you like the website! (Erick says, "Me, too!")

~Bullet Hole off to fight the Battle of the Border~

Requiem

I guess it's fitting that in the Fall, plants die. And while I expected the demise of Al, the Space Plant (may he rest in peace), I certainly didn't expect my cactus, Bob, the Succulent (isn't that fun to say?) to die as well. This is par for the course. People who know me also know that I cannot keep plants alive. Apparently I have a quota on the living things thing. One husband, two kids, two dogs, two cats, two guinea pigs and 24 Girl Scouts are all I'm allowed.

There was a time in my life, when to discourage my friends from giving me plants, I kept a hanging something by the sink in the kitchen. It died, because that's what plants do in my presence. Even though it had plenty of light and access to water (being next to the sink and all). I kept that dead plant for two years to remind myself not to take on any more. People thought I was a psychopath, but it worked.

Imagine my surprise to find Bob lying on his side, life eaking from his prickly body. I killed a cactus. I may be the only person on earth who can kill something that can survive in Hell-like conditions. I wonder what that says about me?

I guess the Summer of Plant Weirdness is finally over. All I have to look forward to next year is seeing what strange things come up in the Spring. Personally, I can't wait.

The Plant Assasin