I Like To Look At the Pictures.

Please note that some of the contents of today’s blog are not intended for those under 18. In fact, now that we mention it, the contents of this blog are never intended for someone under 18. If you’re under 18, why are you on this blog on a school night? Go study something.

Today’s blog was inspired by three events that involved the sharing of inspirational pictures among very serious professionals. Okay, even I can’t say that with a straight face. First a friend of mine slipped a pic into an email as part of a joke I'll explain later. Secondly, a bit back, an author I know shared with some of us that a fan had sent her pictures of rather sexy men as inspiration. This author refused to share. Hmmphf.

Today another author shared a picture of a rather delightfully formed male. It wasn’t nudity, exactly. A nice bare chest, an open pair of jeans and a strategically placed hand and you have a nice pic. I’m a firm believer in the tease. Show me a bit and my imagination will do the rest. And do it better. It won’t matter if you’re too ripped, and yes, in my humble opinion a man can be too ripped. If he looks like he spends every waking moment at the gym he’s going to be too tired to do anything else. Not to mention the over stuffed, can’t put his arms down, can touch his knees together look is not one that appeals to me. Flawed can be very good.

Back to my original intent. I seem to receive a lot of emails like the one today. For some reason people seem to think it’s a good idea to send me pictures of attractive men. I don’t know why, but they do. And no, I’m not complaining. I was asked, when I was doing my profiles on my male characters, how I came by all these pictures. That’s one way, diligent searches of Google images is another. Today, I’d like to join the ranks of the unselfish and share the pictures that I’ve received in the past. Some famous men, some not. But all very pretty so I’ll intersperse them through out this post.

I have, however noticed in these pictures, which I would assume are designed to appeal to either straight/bisexual women or gay/bisexual men, that the poses are often not quite erotic if you think about them too much. They often fall into one of three categories:

1. That can’t be comfortable
2. What exactly is he surprised at?
3. Is he afraid it’s going to fall off?

That can’t be comfortable relates to photos where the location of the shot just doesn’t look like someplace I’d find erotic. Say…oh, I don’t know…a pile of straw or hay. Straw and hay that have been baled are not soft and sweet smelling like grass. They are itchy and can smell damp and moldy if not stored correctly. So I look at those pictures and think to myself…ouch! Also, sex on a beach looks good on celluloid, but let's face it, there are too many damp crevices involved for that to be a good idea.

What exactly is he surprised at, refers to pictures where the man seems to be examining his manly parts with surprise or amusement. Exactly what is funny down there? Care to share with the class? And while we’re on the topic I have been told unequivocally by my brothers and male friends that it is never ever a good thing to laugh at the manly parts. So what is it? Someone drop a feather down your pants? You’ve been swimming in cold water and are astonished that it really does shrink? It looks different than it did yesterday? What? Share.

Often men in such “sexy” pictures are seen holding their manly parts. Now perhaps this is because he has just looked and been surprised and needs a tactile confirmation of what he saw, or perhaps it is because he’s afraid it’s going to fall off. I can’t think of a single occasion when I’ve seen a man in real life grab the merchandize that it wasn’t an insult, crude or an expression of fear. Of course if he has delayed reactions it could be a sign of pain because he didn’t grab fast enough.


I do appreciate, however, the photographers and models willingness to accept that contrary to popular belief women do like to look at pictures of male beauty. Not only do we enjoy it aesthetically, but we also enjoy it on an erotic scale. Granted we are not the visual creatures men are, but we still like an illustrated classic as much as the guys.

I was working on an article a couple of years ago on writing slash. Slash is a term used in fanfiction to refer to a same sex relationship. The purpose of the article was to help those who were writing same sex relationships without a base of personal knowledge to understand there were basic differences in arousal and reactions based on gender. It truly was fascinating.

Researchers tested the arousal of straight men and women and gay men and women using self-reported arousal as well as measuring physiological changes. Arousal does not mean reactions to actual sexual interaction and activity, but the body's “interest signals”. The beginnings of erection, the dilation of the pupils, the start of lubrication, increase in rate and shallowness of breathing, and increase in skin surface temperatures were the arousal indicators tested.

The first result was one that might be surprising. Men have long been labeled with the stereotype of being easily aroused. The truth is that men, gay and straight, had a more defined parameter of what they found arousing than women. For example, most women showed some evidence of arousal outside their sexual orientation while men didn’t. Women who had reported no interest in alternative lifestyles showed higher rates of arousal when exposed to images of said lifestyles than did men.

The thing I found most interesting in the studies I looked at for the article was how polar opposite males and females were in what senses or avenues of arousal most affected them in all but one area. Males showed significant arousal to visual and tactile stimulation (viewing erotic images and casual touch). Women, not as much. Women were significantly aroused by auditory stimulus (voices, sounds of lovemaking) and by cognitive stimulation (stories, appeals to imagination and that lovely running commentary in our heads). Men, not as much.

What did we have in common? Olfactory responses. Both sexes showed significant reactions and arousal rates to trigger scents. Not the same ones, but reactions to scents were equal.

Just a bit of useless information.

And now to the pic that a friend sent me today. It's a bit of a running joke among us. I save pics of Hugh Jackman and Christian Bale that I'll slip into emails, she slips in pics of Gerard Butler. The joke has spilled over onto one of the forums I belong to and even one of the guys teasingly works in references. I'm a moderate fan of this guy and think he's adorable and a better actor than he often gets credit for. (We won't discuss Dracula 2000, everyone's got one they need to bury.) So, for my final offering I thought I'd share the picture that Anna sent me today.

No Particular Place to Go

"Riding along in my automobile

My baby beside me at the wheel

I stole a kiss at the turn of a mile

My curiosity runnin' wild

Crusin' and playin' the radio

With no particular place to go"

~Chuck Berry

No this particular bit of rumination isn't about cruisin' and parkin' with your sweetie. Though that is a thought for another time. Where did you and you're darlin' like to go? Was there a cruising strip in your town?

But as I said, what I'm thinking about tonight isn't steaming up windows on the side roads or in the cemetary, at the drive in or lover's lane. This is about an entirely innocent kind of cruising that is interconnected to some of the best memories I have of being a child.

My father and mother divorced when I was barely 2. I never knew him. I still don't, the last time I saw him I was 8 or 9 years old. I could honestly pass the man on the street and not know it was him. I doubt he would know me either. My stepfather is my dad. He and my mother married when I was 3 or just about to turn 4. Their marriage didn't last, but he didn't bail on me or my younger sister when the divorce occurred. He stayed in our lives and had visitation rights for us as well as my second sister, his biological daughter. I was about 8 when they divorced.

Money wasn't good for either of my parents. My mother turned to public assistance. Once a month she'd get a check to help cover the costs of raising three daughters that my dad's child support didn't cover. This is not a dead-beat dad story or a story of a father who didn't care, my dad paid child support the best he could, it just wasn't enough.

Back to the memories I mentioned earlier. Once a month, just after the check arrived, my mom would load us into the car and we would spend that Saturday or Sunday afternoon at the grocery store buying the non-perishable food for the entire month a head. We all helped collect boxes at the local bag your own. We all helped box the food, load it into the car and carry it inside. We helped put it away.

We usually got finished in time for a bit of play. In my case that meant reading a book or hanging out with my best friend Marcy. Just as the streetlights started to come on, we'd all make sure we were home. We knew what the first weekend of the month would mean. It was a ritual.

Mom piled us into the car with a blanket or two and we'd go fill up the gas tank. She'd drive us into town and to the local ice cream store. Maybe Baskin Robbins in the fall, but in the summer it was The Custard Cup. Ah, the Custard Cup. The bastion of quality soft serve ice cream in our home town. It was an institution that stretched back years. Each of us with our ice cream, my mom would turn on the radio in the car, roll down the windows and take us for a drive.

We drove through the fancy neighborhoods picking out the houses we'd one day live in. The holiday season always saw us cruising the streets looking at the lighting displays while we drank shakes from McDonalds.

Then mom would head out of town onto the country roads and we'd feel the wind wipping throught the windows as we drove down the country lanes. Then, sometimes, she would pull off on to the side of the road on an old blacktop road and cut the engine. We sat quietly and looked off to our left. There was the screen for the local drive in. There was no sound, but as we sat there finishing our treats, eyes growing heavy, heads nodding, we drank in the images on the movie screen. Actually going to the drive in was a rare treat, but it did happen. But more often than not, if a family show was playing, we'd sit there and watch several minutes of it, wondering what was happening.

Then my mother would start the car and drive us back home, waking up weary grouchy children to stumble into the house to stand grumpily in line so we could have our dirty faces and hands washed before finally falling into bed.

I'm not sure why those nights were such wonderful memories. Maybe because they take me to a time and to moments when it was just us girls. My mom, me, Staci and Carla. Just us. No drama from my mom's boyfriends. No picking and nagging little sisters. No one who wanted to hurt me or anyone I loved. Just us girls.

Medical Woes.

I admire and respect doctors who do their jobs well. I admire anyone who does their job well as long as their job is not to screw over me or anyone else, i.e. most politicians and the IRS. It’s tax time. Can ya tell? I hate inefficiency and people who have or perpetuate systems that screw with people, particularly in very important areas of life. Like doctors.

I’m mentioned before that my SO and I have decided to try to expand our little family with something that doesn’t require annual rabies shots. Lots of other kinds of shots, but not rabies. Since neither of us are spring chickens we decided to seek a bit of help from my local women’s clinic. Testing over, we were told the importance of following the natural woman’s cycle carefully. Appointments must be made and kept. A sonogram must be completed between days 3 and 5 of the cycle and again between days 12 and 15. Every thing must be timed exactly.

So today the call is made. It’s day one, let’s schedule the sonogram. Well, day 3 is Wednesday and the doctors office confesses they don’t have a sonogram tech on Wednesday, or Thursday during the day. So the sonogram will have to be at 9pm on Thursday. A joke you ask? Nope, I’m not smiling folks. Then the doctor must be seen so that she can prescribe the helpful little Clomid pills. (Yes, those of you who read Access Denied, those Clomid pills really do exist.) But the doctor isn’t available until Friday and the pills must be started on day 5.

Now why is this a problem? Because Friday is a very important children’s lit conference, one that had to be committed to seven months ago. Can the doctor read the results and call in the prescription? No. It must be face to face. Why? Is there really a big black market for Clomid?

When you sign on to treat fertility issues and everything must be timed so carefully, you would think you would plan a bit better, be a bit more flexible. Grrrr

~~~~~~~~~~~

Not what I wanted to hear on a Monday morning. I hate mornings. I am not a morning person and never will be. No amount of “oh but look at the fresh clean day full of promise” crap will ever make me be a morning person. I like sleep. Sleep likes me. I am one of those people who can fall asleep any time, any place. I can sleep longer than my dog, and if you own a dog you know that’s saying something.

It doesn’t help the cause that I have to get up around 4:30 each morning to make myself presentable to leave the house before 6am so I can drive an hour and a half to work. The ride home is two or more hours, so I guess I’m getting off easy.

This morning I’m in the shower trying to become remotely coherent. My eyes are still closed and I’m doing the “If I don’t open my eyes, I’m not really awake” thing trying to fool my brain into thinking I’m still asleep. Not that it’s ever worked. My SO comes into the bathroom and mumbles something that sounds like it could be an alien language. I give my usual, “I haven’t had my coffee yet, so don’t bug me” one syllable grunt.

When I finally climb out of the shower I find my SO standing there with a face that looks like someone inflated it like a balloon. Another lovely allergy reaction to goodness knows what. I shove a bottle of benedryl at the poor dear with orders to take it, run downstairs and fire up the computer. Sounds like an odd reaction I know. But at that point I have only seconds left before the window on the computerized subfinder program my school district uses shuts down and starts calling subs.

How does this fit with a rant about doctors?:

Because upon calling the allergist’s office, I discover that there are no doctors available today. Evidently Monday is the new Thursday and no allergist in their group works on Mondays. They will however be happy to page someone and get a prescription called in for prednisone (without seeing my SO) or we can go to the emergency room.

*head to desk*

Proud Romance Reader

Don’t let anyone ever discount romance novels or their readers. I confess to you shamefacedly that I was once a closet romance reader. I once allowed myself to be embarrassed by my penchant for the genre.

It wasn’t always that way. I think my love of romances, stories about love and the relationships between people, began in what might seem an unlikely place. It began with the chickenpox. I got the chickenpox when I was 9 or 10 years old. My Aunt Jo had me and three of my younger sisters as my mom was having gallbladder surgery. Surprise! We all three developed the lovely virus.

To keep us entertained my grandparents brought us books, coloring books, crayons and other things to do with little hands so they didn’t scratch. In between oatmeal baths and being doused in nasty smelling calamine lotion, I dove into the book my grandfather had brought me. Little Women.

Now it may seem odd to some to give a 10 year old Little Women. First of all I’d always been a strong reader. Growing up wasn’t pony rides and party dresses for our family. Reading helped me forget. Secondly, it was just my grandfather’s way. He was always bringing me books that were supposed to be way too advanced. It was he who planted the idea in my head I could be anything I wanted.

Back to romances. I loved the story of Little Women though I frankly think Teddy got short changed. Amy? I thought Jo was crazy for refusing him until Professor Baer came into the picture. Even at that age I understood the difference.

In middle school, my friend Trina introduced me to Harlequins. Back then the girls were always virgins and the couple never had sex until they were married. And the sex was vivid descriptions of kissing, his hands touching her back or face and then of course she would nearly faint as he “showed her the greatest of all pleasures a woman could know, one only a man could give her.”

When exactly did romance develop negative connotations? And why? Why when I sit in a café or at the lunch table do I feel compelled to put a book cover or a sticky note over the cover of the book? When, how and why did I let society do this to me? Why should I feel embarrassed?

Well, no more. I’m not going to hide my books. So come on now, throw out those old book covers, stop bending back the covers on the books. Be a romance reader and be a proud one!

Of course trying to read erotica in a public place will still make me blush. I’m still recovering from the decision to read Anny Cook’s Chrysanthemum while in a hotel restaurant. I guess I’m a work in progress.

So recommendations then? Yep, I finished two good ones yesterday.

Time for Love
by Kelly Kirch
From Cerridwen Press

This is a great Regency era with a time travel twist.

Sarah is transported back in time and into the life of a Regency era widow who is supposed to be acting as the chaperone to a young cousin in her first London season. As difficult as that may be, it’s complicated by her growing attraction to a known rake, Lord Hayworth. He’s sexy, seductive and obviously attracted to Sarah. Unfortunately he’s also very much promised to her young cousin.

Sarah and Drake are great characters. You want to cheer for them. Well done, Ms. Kirch!






Honeysuckle
By Anny Cook
From Ellora's Cave

Anny Cook has become one of my favorite writers in the past year since I signed my first contract with Cerridwen Press and discovered the wonderful world of ebooks. Honeysuckle is a hot, steamy sequel to Chrysathemum. I don’t think I’ve run across something that has made me laugh and fan myself so much.

Honeysuckle doesn’t believe one man could ever be enough, but it seems to be her fate as her father seeks to marry her off. Enter two gorgeous men who see in Honeysuckle exactly the woman they’ve been dreaming of. Peter and Dick Hieney have waited all their lives for a woman like this and aren’t about to let her get away. More than woman enough to keep them both on their toes, she goes with them. But convincing her to marry them amidst a plot to end the rule of King Arthur, while battling an evil sorceress, and the temptation of beautiful studdly men who just happen to be unicorns? That might not be so easy.

And its given me a new crush. They may be twins but I could choose. The sign of great characterization. They came alive as individuals. (Oh, and the ending is priceless. Poor Blessing. Poor Peter.)

And what kind of books do you write?

Since I received my first book contract the question I've been asked the most is "What kind of books do you write?" Now on the surface that doesn't seem like a difficult question, but it is one that has left me hemming and hawwing for answers.

Maybe it's because my first book, Access Denied, was not like the rest of the stories I tend to have in my head. It was a futuristic, soft science fiction story set in a world where almost everything is controlled for you. But this book is an anomaly among my stories. So if I tell you that I write futuristic, soft science fiction and you pick up one of the other books you will think me mad.

Most of the other stories that have been/are being published fit into the paranormal genre. I have a series that isn’t a labeled series because I only recently figured out what to call it. In the little world I’ve created, a race of shape-shifters have come to our dimension seeking peace. They are forced to tie their life energies to those of indigenous animals to stay in this new haven they call Semira. Measure of Healing follows my Cougars and Mating Stone (and the coming sequel, Lovers’ Stone) follows my Bears. There are 13 races in all. So I write paranormals or fantasy—but then again…

Seeing Me is due out in March. Again, it is neither a science fiction story nor a paranormal. Granted it is filled with fantasies, but that’s not its genre. It’s a contemporary story about a writer who meets a man that has women all over the world panting. The best part is, he seems to be very interested making her pant. So I write contemporary…or not.

And my Works in Progress (WIPs) are no help, either. One is the final installment in the Stones trilogy. One is the sequel to Measure of Healing that takes us to the world of the Wolves. One is a story about a young woman who goes home to the small town she fled and finds not much has changed, but what has is the boy next door. One is the retelling of a popular myth. And finally one is a completely different piece about dragons and healers and warriors.

So I give up folks. Don’t ask me what kind of books I write because the answer you’ll get will be the same one I give to my students when I’m in a contrary mood and they ask what kind of book I brought for the day’s read-aloud.

“The kind you read.”

Stayed up all night reading…

It’s been a while since I’ve done that, but I finally wrestled the latest Sherrilyn Kenyon book away from my SO who loves the paranormal adventure and vampire butt-kicking but skims over the “icky parts.” Needless to say I enjoyed Dream Chaser a great deal. It’s the last taste of the Dark Hunters before Kenyon finally delivers on the one we’ve all been waiting for: Acheron’s book.

I liked the hero, Xypher, this time around much better than I have the last couple of guys. But since my favorites include Zarek, Fury, Wren…yep guess I like them seriously screwed up. Bring on the borderline-sociopaths with a soft spot. But hide it deep. Odd since if you asked me my absolute fav. Kenyon guy I’d go hands down for Vane. Any guy who looks at a size 18 woman with serious drooling, ‘gotta have me that lust’ gets my vote.

After basking in the good story afterglow for a bit, I started trying to figure out the twists and turns she’s given us. Kenyon doesn’t seem to do anything incidentally or accidentally. I admit it. I’m friggin’ dying to know how Kyle Peltier, a young Katagari (Were), is walking around in broad daylight when he should barely be able to hold a human form at his age in the daylight. Just a couple of books ago he was still shifting back to animal form when his brother threw meat at him because he couldn’t control it. Is she pulling a Vane/Fury on us?

But now that I’ve done the basking and the wondering I’m going to do what was recommended in a recent workshop. I’m going to dissect this and figure out how she does it. Or that’s the theory anyway. How does she create pacing that keeps you turning the pages at 2am? How does she create her characters so realistically and yet perfectly that you want to knock down the heroine and take him for yourself? (I’m telling you, Vane’s mate would be in serious trouble if he was corporeal. Zarek’s is a goddess and even I’m not that stupid.) How does she manipulate the plot so as to keep you hooked and sucked in for book after book after book?

If I figure it out, I’ll let ya know.

Now an excerpt from my little Were story. Measure of Healing is available through Cerridwen Press.



“Now,” [Brie] turned from him, walked up to the wall just outside the boy’s room and placed her hand on it. “If you’re here to help, here’s the first thing you can do for me.” She turned to look at him.

“What?” she seemed to have completely abandoned the antagonistic posture of just moments ago. Her mouth was actually turned up at one corner in what was almost a grin. He moved over to where she stood. He saw a rectangular shape drawn on the wall in pencil.

“I need a two way mirror here,” she pointed to the drawing.

“I don’t have my tools with me,” he shook his head puzzled, “I left everything in my father’s workshop.”

It was her turn to look confused. He explained. “Unless you have the equipment we’re stuck. Besides, I’m not sure the kid would appreciate us remodeling around him.”

She laughed. “Cougar, I wasn’t asking you to install a two way mirror, I was asking you to create one. You know? Magic?”

So she knew about the magic. Very few of the gifted humans knew that any of the Weres could wield magic. It was one of the rules of the council. They weren’t to perform magic before humans. Rules were broken all the time but this was one the Cougars were hesitant to break. In the back of his people’s minds lived the fear that some day the council would find a way and a reason to take the magic away from those Weres who had refused to relinquish it. It would lead to war as the Cougars would not let it go easily. So far their Domini had clung to the right for all Weres, insisting that those who turned their backs on the magic were fools. The current Dominus had told the council to go to hell when they suggested the Cougars cut back on the reliance of their people on the powers they had brought with them into the human world.

“Right.” Alejandro ran his hand through his hair and shook his head He pressed his hand to the wall and focused. Slowly he drew the outline of the area with one finger. As his hand moved a trail of silver lay in its wake. Once the outline was completed, he placed his hand in the center of the box and the interior changed. It was now transparent and he could see the room on the other side. The boy slept quietly in his box.

“Thank you,” Brie gave him a soft smile. “This will make it easier.” She turned away from him and walked to the end of the hall. “Why don’t I show you were you’ll sleep, then we can find you something to eat.”

He nodded. He was starving and exhausted. He’d had little time before her arrival that evening. Just enough to throw some things in a bag, gulp down a bit of dinner and be ready. He’d had to spend most of the day at his father’s office dealing with one of the more unsavory construction companies his father was forced to sub-contract with by the economic conditions.

The Ramirez family was in demand for their work on hardwood flooring and custom cabinetry. Given the nocturnal nature of his animal side, he usually spent the bulk of his days sleeping and late afternoons and nights in the workshop making the cabinets, railings and scrollwork that was ordered. He still worried that his brothers would have trouble keeping up with the orders. Eddie had promised to help but he had a job now that took him away from the family and the last thing Alejandro wanted was for his father, at seventy-two, to have to try and pick up the slack. His two oldest nephews were showing an interest in the business and were earning money for the college years that were fast approaching by working part-time but the family agreed their schoolwork came first.

He followed her down the hall. She entered a large room with a king sized bed, a dresser, night stand and large wardrobe. The furniture was a dark mahogany that matched the wooden trim running along the ceiling and floor. A wooden chair rail circled the room separating a plum striped wallpaper on the bottom and a pale mauve paint above. The wood had been laid in alternating strips of mahogany and cherry. He ran the palm of his hand over the door jam and the nearest section of the chair rail. Someone had known what they were doing. She crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out a small stack of clothes from a drawer that she left open. He half watched her as she moved to the closet and pulled out a blanket and pillow. He walked further into the room, running his hand along the wall. Then he moved toward the bed and his palm stroked the wood.

“Stop that!” she said sharply.

Alejandro’s eyes widened in surprise. She was glaring at him with a peeved expression. “What?” he demanded.

“Stop scent marking my house. You rubbed against the wall in the boy’s room, now you’re marking this one. I swear if you spray something I’ll neuter you myself.” She stomped out of the room.

He looked up at his hand where it still lay against the wooden post of the bed. And he laughed. He hadn’t realized he’d been doing it. He’d rubbed his back on the wall in the boy’s room on purpose. He wanted Tomás to know he was there. But he’d been rubbing his palm along the surfaces of this room, her room, absently. The palm of his hand where, like the pads of the cougar’s feet and along his spine, he had oil glands that left his mark upon what he touched. His amusement faded slightly as he began to wonder at just how much about him and his kind his little doctor seemed to know. He left the room and followed his nose to find her. She was making up a bed in a smaller room. It was so small it fit only the single bed and a narrow dresser.

She looked up at him, still irritated. “What have you got in that thing?”

He frowned, “What thing?”

She stood up from smoothing the blanket and pointed at his bag where it hung from his shoulder. “What, you keep all your cash in there? The secret map to a treasure chest heaping with gold? Why are you still carrying it? What’s in there that’s so special?”

He lifted an eyebrow at the sudden return of animosity and sat it down on the floor inside the door. “Nothing special, just your basics.”

She walked passed him, picked up the bag and headed down the hall. “Hey,” he went after her, “that is mine you know.”

“Cats,” she muttered under her breath. Reaching the larger room she placed it on the bed. “Then you’ll probably want it in your room.”

Realizing what was happening, he shook his head. “No, thanks little doctor but I’m fine in the other room.”

She smiled at him with a wicked light in her eyes that set him on edge. “You don’t think I’m sacrificing a good night’s sleep for you, do you?”

“No. Now why would I think that? You’re only trying to give me the bigger room, your room.” Alejandro gestured with his hand. “You’re sleeping in here. I’ll take the other room.”

Her eyes narrowed. Brie was well aware it wasn’t exactly nice of her to deliberately confuse the poor man but all things considered it was damned satisfying. “I thought you said you were going to cooperate with me?”

“I said I wouldn’t interfere in your treatment of Tomás.”

“Well, that’s exactly what you’re doing.” Her hands rested on her hips. “I need to be in that other room. It’s closer to him, it has a vent between the two rooms that will allow me to hear him, allow him to hear me and allow my scent to reach him even when I’m not in the room.” She moved to the door. “So be a good boy and sleep where you’re told. I’ll get the rest of my things moved in the morning.” Pausing she looked back over her shoulder. “Meet me in the kitchen when you’re done. I’m going to put something on for dinner. Hope you don’t mind but I’m a strict vegetarian.” She flashed him a wicked “you’re so screwed,” grin and left.

Somedays are Like That ...

This was not a good day. In fact, it was one of those days when very little good occurred.

The day started off badly at lunch. We went to a restaurant that we occasionally frequent. It was not our first time there. In fact we go about once a month. And yes, I'm going to call them out by name. Provinos in Kennesaw, Georgia. The food that was ordered came out badly. As the name would suggest it is an Italian restaurant. The dish that was served to me had burnt cheese on top and the "lasagna" that was supposed to be part of the combination amounted to three half noodles and some tomato sauce. It took 15 minutes for us to get the attention of our server, one who had waited on us before. She had a large party and us in her room. I finally had to go have someone track her down for us.

When I asked her to remove the dish, uneaten, she did so. The "proprietor", as he was later identified to us, came over to the table and asked about the issue. I explained the problem and he rather snottily says "No one else has had a problem, just you." He then, very put out, asks if he can bring me something else. I told him that fifteen-twenty minutes ago when the problem was first notice, perhaps, but not now as my SO had finished eating and we were ready to leave. He then says that the server is a sweetheart who has been with him from the beginning.

Now the only complaint I had against the server was the fact that I spent the extended period of time waiting for her to reenter the room so I could flag her down and eventually had to go ask someone to find her. As the "proprietor" walked away he nastily says, "I'll be sure to reprimand her."

My response across the room was, "And you'll be a smart-ass while you do it too, I'm sure."

Ultimately you would have expected the dish to have been removed from our bill, right? No. It wasn't. I informed the server who he sent back in to deal with us and the bill that he, not her, had just lost them two semi-regular customers as we won't be back and we will make sure to tell everyone we know about how we were treated. So, I'd suggest everyone else try the Olive Garden across the street.

But the day was not over.

Have you ever wondered what happens when there is a severe weather warning while you are in a large department store? Unfortunately today I found out. Now, where I grew up, if the civil defense siren went off it meant there was a tornado coming and you had a matter of seconds-minutes to get to safety. Where I live now the blow the blasted thing for any type of weather "emergency".

It has been a rainy day. The rain was actually so heavy that we could hear it from inside, pounding down on the roof of our local WalMart. And while we were shopping at Wally-World the sirens went off. Mind you they did this just after I'd finally convinced the SO that you actually needed to try on clothes before you bought them so I don't have to make return trips and exchange them. So while my dearest was in the dressing room....Sirens!

Okay, that part was funny.

The announcement came over the intercom that there was a severe thunderstorm warning. No duh! We've been listening to the severe thunderstorm boom thunder and pour rain, while watching the lights flicker. So what is the response? The customers are rounded up along with the staff and asked to crowd around the fitting rooms. I looked at my SO in shock. They must be kidding. They weren't. Finally, the warning was downgraded to a watch and we were allowed to resume our shopping.

Our natural response after such a run of rotten luck was to seek out that Mecca of peace and revitalization known as the book store. My SO had just learned about the must read "Ghost Hunting" by the tv guys. That's okay. While hanging out in the paranormal section I ran across an encyclopedia of werewolves. Guess what went in my half of the shopping basket?


And on a completely unrelated topic.

I don't watch television. I don't have cable or satellite. My television operates only to play dvds.

Thanks to Blockbuster, I finally have gotten a chance to see the first three episodes of the first season of The Tudors. I love this time period in history. I adore it. I devour biographies of that time period and the Elizabethan era that followed. I’m not so much on the romanticized historical fiction set there, but the history fascinates me.

Well, the series is quite enjoyable if taken as fiction. At least they’ve gotten the names of the characters correct. I keep having to explain the historical inaccuracies to my SO who will tolerate this particular obsession and who has even agreed to go see The Other Boleyn Girl with me later this month. (I suspect this has more to do with Natalie Portman than an interest in the film itself.) But with some suspended disbelief it is quite interesting.

There is just one troubling point…I really doubt that everyone walked around naked or half naked at King Henry VIII’s court. Good heavens I know Henry was a lusty fellow but I doubt the women of his court ran about naked to this degree. Of course I know there are those who would not complain if Jonathan Rhys Meyers and Henry Cavill ran about naked a bit more.

You must admit, sometimes fiction beats the hell out of history…