Mariah Carey's All I Want For Christmas
Another favorite Christmas song–and the theme song for the current WIP.
Do songs get stuck in your head too? Do you enjoy it or does it drive you nuts?
How to tell if you’re a Grinch
1. You reuse last year’s Christmas cards and send them out under your own name. (5 points)
2. You steal light bulbs from you neighbor’s outdoor display to replenish your own supply. (5 points, 10 if neighbor’s whole light sets or lighted Santa goes out)
3. You have dressed a dog or cat as Santa Claus, elf helper, or reindeer. (10 points for each; if you dressed an endangered species, 5 extra points)
4. You put out last year’s stale candy canes for children. (1 point for each piece of sticky candy). If you put out a chocolate or marzipan Santa also, add 10 points.
5. You enclose a shoddy and inferior gift from Target, Walmart, or K-Mart in a Bloomingdale’s or other prestige box to impress your friends. (5 points for each infraction).
6. You make collect long distance phone calls to your family on Christmas day. (5 points, 10 if from a cell phone), claiming you are stuck in a phone booth.
7. At the office Christmas party, you horde huge stockpiles of goodies for later consumption at home. (5 points; 15 points if you use this stuff for your own party)
8. You steal the wreath from a parked car to use on your own [Southern California only, others ignore]. (5 points — nobody but Angelenos are dumb enough to dress a car)
9. After an invitation to a friend’s house, you bring a commercially produced fruitcake and try to pass it off as home made. (5 points; 15 points if the fruitcake is from last year).
10. Any stealing from the Toys-for-Tots collection bins is a definite no-no. (20 points)
Evaluate your score on the “Grinch Scale” from 20 to 100.
20-30: You are just a cheeseball.
30-50: You are an apprentice in Yuletide larceny and are probably wanted by the police for overdue parking tickets.
50-100: Grinch, move over. The Meyer Lansky of Christmas crime has arrived.
1) Christmas carols
2) Pine, cedar, fir, and holly
3) Gift wrapping
4) Cookie making
5) Christmas cards
6) Christmas stories
What’s your favorite part of the holidays?
PS I’m trying to distance myself from cookies, since they aren’t good for me and trying to learn to love snow because we have lots of it. Usually, we get a dusting a couple of times during the winter months. Rarely at Christmas, this year we’ve had real snow, icicles, and frozen north winds for more than a week. The thrill of a white Christmas thing is already wearing thin.
Seattle is nearly as hilly as San Francisco and no one is prepared to drive in the white stuff. Translation–the freeways and arterials are all clogged with buses, trucks, and cars half on half off the road.
Today’s reading report is a lament. I love romance. Contemporary is one of my favorites, but selections are thin are the shelves. Some if my formerly reliable contemporary romance authors have abandoned the genre for paranormal. Is the market for contemporaries that restricted?
When it comes to single title contemporary romance, I’m down to one autobuy–Rachel Gibson. Charming and reliable, I can count on her to tell me a story that will engage me and make me smile. But, she’s just one woman, and I’m sure she has other things to do, because she only produces one book a year.
In comparison, there are half a dozen historical romance authors on my autobuy list. And in a market that is frequently reported as dead.
So, please share your favorite contemporary romance authors. There must be a few left.
November Cheer (schizostylis coccinea) comes in several pretty shades of pink as well as an elegant snowy white variety. The grass like foliage is unobtrusive most of the year. Late fall through early winter it blooms steadily.
Continuing the anatomy of a story, which I started with the hook here and continued with character building here, then comes plotting. Or as I think of it, making my characters miserable.
Strange but true, trouble, conflict, and danger are what moves every story ahead. The trouble may be a life of quiet desperation, the conflict maybe subtle, and the danger may be only to the heart. But it is conflict in all its many guises that makes stories compelling.
The art of plotting, closely related to the art of pacing, is all about leaping from the frying pan to the fire without exhausting the reader or straining her credibility. There are several excellent books that explore the subject. Volger’s A Writer’s Journey, Bell’s Plot and Structure, and McKee’s Story all do an excellent job with every different approaches.
All I Want For Christmas part three. If you missed the previous installments you can find the the first one here and the second part here. I hope you enjoy the story. Comments are always welcome.
Rich asked for the Gravy. Peter uncorked another bottle of wine. Conversation hummed from several sections.
A half hour later, Peter pushed away from the table, everyone else followed suit, many groaning and swearing that they’d never eat again. By unspoken agreement, Rich, Spencer, Apeman and Connors cleared the table. The older men, women, and children, all left them to their work. Collin joined the cleaning crew.
The bigger kids sprawled on the floor, gathering around a game of Clue. Jenny got out a book and gathered the younger kids for a story. The women monopolized two couches. One woman produced a bag of knitting, another brought out a quilting project. A soft buzz of feminine chatter accompanied the handiwork. The older men headed for the family room to watch another football game with the sound low enough to enjoy their own color commentary.
The guys made quick work of clearing the table. The brothers drifted off to join the football fans, leaving he and Connors to scrape plates.
“Reminds me of KP duty.” Collin offered his contribution to civilized conversation.
“I was never in the service,” the controlling jerk said stiffly.
Collin tried again. “How long have you known the Andersons?”
“All of my life.”
So much for friendly chitchat. He wasn’t in the market for a new pal anyway. And, even if he had been, Connors would’ve tied with an Arab terrorist for last place on a long list.
They worked in silence. As the dishwasher chugged through the first load, it added a muffled whoosh of hot water to the rise and fall of voices that filtered into the kitchen from the rest of the house.
“Go ahead and catch the rest of game. I’ve got this handled.” Collin kept his voice even.
Connors nodded and removed the dishtowel he’d used as a makeshift apron.
Collin let out a sigh of pleasure. He wasn’t used to lots of civilians, except the kind that needed crowd control. Alone, his contentment settled–a tangible thing. The smells of the delicious dinner still hung in the air making his mouth water, even though he was chock-full.
Underneath the good food aromas, the clean smells of Clorox and lemony furniture wax transported him to his Grandmother’s house and into a world of bittersweet memories.
Collin envied his partner’s ease with his big rowdy family and for growing up in this warm home. But, all that warmth and friendliness only emphasized his own inability to fit in.
The only family he remembered was Granny. His mother was only a vague image. When he was a kid, he used to wish for brothers and sisters. As a teenager he’d adopted a gang of other kids, all as lost and lonely as him, in a childish attempt to make a family of his own, that disaster had taught him not to get too close.
Lost in thought, Collin stared out the kitchen window without seeing the spectacular winter sunset, or the Christmas cactus, heavy with shocking pink blooms, that filtered the view. He didn’t notice when Jenny came into the kitchen.
“Time for coffee.”
Her voice, low and soft, still made Collin jump. He turned toward her, for a second he’d been unguarded. Now, he was terrified she’d seen his vulnerability. He’d learned never show his soft side to anyone.
Luckily, she hadn’t looked at him. His cop face slipped into place. He watched as she stretched to get a coffee filter from a high cupboard.
If he’d been a gentleman, he would’ve offered to get it for her. But, he was no gentleman, and he enjoyed the show as the short yellow dress rode higher on those world-class legs.
“Just finishing up the pans,” he muttered his voice rough.
“Did the guys stick you with the dirty work?” Jenny laughed.
Her laughter was sunshine made audible. She didn’t seem offended by his gruff manner. Against all good sense, he warmed towards her.
“Nah, it wasn’t like that.” He found his sense of humor and grinned back, more at ease with each breath. “I volunteered. I’m not all that much of a TV sports fan. I’d rather play football than watch it.”
She smiled and nodded, while she continued to pour coffee beans into a large stainless steel contraption with enough valves and buttons to qualify for an engineering inspection.
He watched her out the corner of his eye. He’d never seen anybody with skin like hers. So perfect it was like creamy rose petals. Did it feel as soft as it looked? He jerked back from that dangerous line of thinking.
Trouble was his middle name, a farewell present from his spaced out Mother. But, he was way too smart to mess around with Apeman’s little sister.
Definitely a temptation though, he gave her that. She looked like a stiff wind would blow her away. He had an urge to anchor her, to touch her, and to prove to himself that she was real.
But, he already knew what happened when they touched. They’d shaken hands when they’d been introduced. Before she’d offered him her hand, he’d thought he’d seen hunger in her eyes. It had vanished so fast he’d probably dreamed it. Whatever, she’d first felt, was quickly replaced with a wariness that stung. He remembered how she’d hesitated before shaking hands, obviously reluctant to touch him.
When they’d finally touched, he’d gotten a weird spark. Static, still he had an almost irresistible urge to find out if that spark would happen again. He wondered how much she knew about his history. If he reached out to her, would she feel sorry for the poor orphan kid? The idea of her pity was unacceptable, so he held himself stiff against the pull of her attraction.
Jenny crossed to the refrigerator, apparently done with the coffee for now. She got out desserts, unconscious of the effect she had on him.
Some tough guy, knocked for a loop by a home cooked meal and a cool little blonde.
He needed to get more sleep and to get laid. And not in that order. And certainly not with his partner’s baby sister, no matter how long her legs were. He ran a rough hand through his hair to dislodge the dangerous images.
Pretty, yeah. But, there were lots of pretty girls and he preferred the low maintenance kind. No matter how hard he stared, Jenny didn’t look like the kind of girl who’d go in for no-strings-attached hot juicy sex.
A picture of her long, elegant, legs wrapped around him flooded his mind. He felt the connection spark between them, and he hadn’t even touched her. A blush warmed his cheekbones. A hard-on raised the front of his slacks. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened without his informed consent. His loss of control shook his confidence and shortened his temper.
“You should come for Sunday dinner sometime. The guys play football out in the backyard all fall. George would love it, he thinks the world of you,” Jenny said politely.
“Does Connors play?”
“No, Mark’s not the football type. He doesn’t even like watching it on TV, but he’s being a good sport, trying to fit in with my brothers.” Jenny’s tone was tolerant, like Connors was doing something admirable.
Collin couldn’t believe she’d defended the bully. He spoke without considering his words. “That’s a waste of time, he’ll never fit in. The old woman was right, he’s all wrong for you.”
Jenny straighten her back and her chin took on a stubborn angle. “You’re way over the line Trouble. That’s what they call you isn’t it? I can see why.”
Her words were designed to hurt. Collin wanted to retaliate, but she was right. He was over the line. So, he kept eyes glued to the sink and his hands in the rapidly cooling dishwater. He worked over the roasting pan with painstaking thoroughness. By the time he’d cooled off enough to risk saying anything, she’d gone.
Just as well. He’d have opened his mouth and shoved his foot further into it anyway. He should be thanking his lucky stars that he hadn’t made more of a fool of himself. Except, he didn’t have any lucky stars. Hers must’ve been working overtime.
After the dessert plates had been cleared, Mark beckoned. Jenny followed.
“Come on, I promised Mother we’d stop by,” he said, shoving his arms into his camel hair coat and began buttoning.
Jenny glanced toward the living room. “I should help Mom.”
“Your mother will understand. Which one is yours?” Mark snagged her hand and tugged her toward the closet.
She stiffened involuntarily at his touch. He said nothing. He never had. Was he incredibly patient or just indifferent?
The hairs on the back of her neck stirred. Before she turned, she knew Collin, no not Collin–Trouble, she corrected herself, glowered from the archway.
When she did look, his mesmerizing gaze caught hers and held her for too long. Obviously, he’d overheard her conversation with Mark.
And it was just obvious that he disapproved.
Temper spots flared hot over her cheekbones. How dare he watch and judge?
Trouble, she was calling him that from now on, stood there, filling the passage from the living room to the front hall. His arms crossed in front of his chest and his legs widened in an arrogant stance.
Everything about him made Jenny as cross as a wet cat.
What gave him the right to disapprove of Mark? And why did she care what he thought anyway? She didn’t. Not one tiny bit.
Another Christmas montages via u-tube. The Christmas Song by the incomparable Nat King Cole.
How to Shower Like a Woman:
Take off clothing and place it in sectioned laundry hamper according to lights and darks.
Walk to bathroom wearing long dressing gown.
If you see husband along the way, cover up any exposed areas.
Look at your womanly physique in the mirror –> make mental note to do more sit-ups/leg-lifts, etc.
Get in the shower. Use face cloth, arm cloth, leg cloth, long loofah, wide loofah and pumice stone.
Wash your hair once with cucumber and sage shampoo with 43 added vitamins.
Wash your hair again to make sure it’s clean.
Condition your hair with grapefruit mint conditioner enhanced with real passion fruit.
Wash your face with crushed apricot facial scrub for ten minutes until red.
Wash entire rest of body with ginger nut and jaffa cake body wash.
Rinse conditioner off hair.
Shave armpits and legs.
Turn off shower.
Squeegee off all wet surfaces in shower.
Spray mold spots with Tilex.
Get out of shower and stand on bathmat.
Dry with towel the size of a small country.
Wrap hair in super absorbent towel.
Return to bedroom wearing long dressing gown and towel on head.
If you see husband along the way, cover up any exposed areas.
How to Shower Like a Man:
Take off clothes while sitting on the edge of the bed and leave them in a pile.
Walk naked to the bathroom.
If you see wife along the way, shake wiener at her making the “woo-woo” sound.
Look at your manly physique in the mirror.
Admire the size of your wiener and scratch your ass.
Get in the shower wash your face. Wash your armpits.
Blow your nose in your hands and let the water rinse them off.
Fart and laugh at how loud it sounds in the shower.
Spend majority of time washing privates and surrounding area.
Wash your butt, leaving those coarse butt hairs stuck on the soap.
Wash your hair. Make a Shampoo Mohawk.
Pee.
Rinse off and get out of shower. Avoid bathmat.
Dry off forearms and butt only.
Fail to notice water on floor because curtain was hanging out of tub the whole time.
Admire wiener size in mirror again. Shake it to watch water fly off.
Leave shower curtain open, wet mat on floor, light and fan on.
Return to bedroom with towel around waist.
If you pass wife, pull off towel, shake wiener at her and make the “woo-woo” sound again.
Throw wet towel on bed.
Things I really like about reading books–
1) Selection–it is darn near unlimited. Whatever the subject, there’s a few titles available.
2) Reading fits my schedule–phone rings, company drops by, or the kitchen catches fire–no problem. Slip in a bookmark and tend to whatever. The story waits.
3) Fiction makes more sense than real life. The characters behave, well, in character–imagine that. In reality people are walking contradictions.
4) I don’t have to guess what the characters are thinking, the author generously shares.
5) The good guys win. At least, in the kind of books I read good triumphs over evil.
6) There are few dull bits, even those calm interludes hold vital clues to what’s really happening.
What do you like best about reading?
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Copyright © Evanne Lorraine 2008-2011. All Rights Reserved. | Design by Karen @ Swank Web Style
When both Hunter and Tru bond with Amber their mating triangle threatens everything they hold dear.
Determined to help rescue the princess, Cassandra agrees to act as the dragons’ sex slave, but can she guard her heart from the dominant males?
Camille, a plump, sweet-natured breeder, is caught in New Eden’s endless war with Baldor. Her mates, Jaxon and Aegis, need cunning and courage to rescue her. They need a miracle to capture her heart.
Werewolf-whisper Daniel is the only one who can heal Scarlet’s broken werewolf connection. If he succeeds then the pack’s needs will eclipse his claim on her heart. But if he fails, they'll both die.
A lonely woman finds passion with a dominant much younger lover, when she tries to leave she learns her new master plays for keeps.
One dangerous warrior woman plus two rogue demon males equals a love to threaten an empire.
Getting paid to watch Eduardo is Desiree’s dream assignment, but when he reaches out to her, crossing the line, everything changes.
Deep in her secret heart, she lusts for a sexy pirate who’d be her master and commander in the bedroom. But, this man may be too dangerous
She finds paradise in the arms of twin brothers, but their law demands she chose one warrior to mate and one to die.
One woman, two men, three wounded hearts--though already mated their love is still forbidden.