Julia London's Blog, page 91

And on November 3rd, God looked at the election morass… wiped his hands and walked away

Today is November 3rd and the elections are done.  Since I have no crystal ball (actually I do, but it's got a snowy village inside and doesn't do predictions for crap), I cannot foretell the winners or the losers, but since today is Wednesday, and I want to whine, can I say that, much like Lily, I'm tired? 

I'm tired of stupid ads that say nothing.  I'm tired of a congressional

process that shouts and screams.  I'm tired of newsmen that latch onto

the latest trending google term, or cute youtube video, instead of

actually reporting facts. I'm tired of the TSA groping my body parts

because somewhere in remote parts of the world, there are five stupid

guys who think bombing is fun.

I'm tired of hearing about Wall Street bankers who are raking in the bucks AGAIN! I'm tired of giant robots foreclosing on houses.  I'm tired of Andy Rooney complaining about the world.  I'm tired of the View.  I'm tired of articles that tell me that Facebook is secretly filing away my DNA.  I'm tired of dirty dishes.  I'm tired of cleaning.  I'm tired of Europe being silly (really France?  Burning cars is the BEST way to protest something?)  I'm tired of Charlie Sheen and his drug problems.  I'm tired of people who write/blog/video/say something that they now "regret."  I'm tired of pumpkins. 

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So, in today's post, what are you tired of?  Anything you need to whine about?

It's Me. No Kidding.

I saw a neighbor recently who didn't know I was a writer.  So being the self-promoting hound that I am, I gave her a couple of books.  She flipped it over to look at the back (where my photo is), and got a puzzled look on her face.  She said, "Wow.  I would never guess this was you."

I laughed a little.

Her frown got deeper.  "Seriously.  I would never. guess. this. is. you."

I said, "It's me.  You've just never seen the Julia London Full Monte."

By this point, she was studying me.

I kept trying to explain my face away.  I said, "I am usually out running or walking the dog when I see you."

She nodded. Then she started talking about the books and saved me any further embarrassment.  For the record, she never made a face when she said it, or gave my any reason to think she thought one version was better than the other.  But I know what I look like when I've been running, and let's just say I wouldn't be winning any beauty contests.

Anyway, I came home and looked at myself.  and then the latest pub photo.  This picture is what Julie Kenner sees when I go to her house.  The neighbor sees my hair pulled back with a hat.  And you guys see the coiffed, made-up version of me that I trot out from time to time.  But I don't think I look THAT different.  There are some authors out there who look waaaaaaaaayyyyy different than their pub photos.  Like…twenty years older than their pub photo, if you know what I mean.

I am very proud of my very vain self for showing you the real me.  Do you think I look that different?  How do you photograph?  More or less like your real self?  Are you ever surprised by how you look in photos, or in real life?

I blame Kathleen…and a book giveaway!

So, this year at RWA National, I roomed with Kathleen O'Reilly and Dee Davis, which for the past ten years (wow) is nothing unusual. And Kathleen spent a lot of time in the room writing. Which is nothing unusual. And she wrote on paper. Which is nothing unusual. AND this time I noticed because I am enamored of all things Levenger, and she was using the Circa system, which I've had my eye on for a while.

Yes, yes, I know I love my iPad and all my various electronic gadgets, but I love paper the most of all. And the truth is, I'm a scribbler. I recently decided that I wanted to keep a journal. I'm a terrible journaler–why I decide every couple of years that I should do this is beyond me). But this time, since I know I'm a terrible journaler, I figured I would just suck it up and include lists and doodles and whatnots in the journal. A record of life, I'd call it. And so I bought a journal from Office Depot, and sure enough, a few lame journal entries–and lots of lists. Grocery lists. To do lists. Story point lists. You name it, I listed it. And the journal/notebook/list-o-rama became unwieldy.

That's when I remembered Kathleen and the Circa idea. Because the whole shtick is that you can re-arrange the pages. So I can scribble … and then move and/or remove. Yay!

So I ordered the sampler, loved it, and immediately turned around and ordered the hole punch, a cover (pink!) and a bunch of the disks you use to bind. Now I'm transferring my Shadow Keepers story bible into paper form. It'll still be electronic, but I'll be able to flip.

What can I say? I'm a techno gal with a paper geek heart…

And since my current use of this new-found paper love is to organize a Shadow Keepers story bible, I figure that this week's give-away can be Winner's Choice. I have a new Shadow Keepers book out this week–WHEN WICKED CRAVES–but the first three books have come out super fast. So all you have to do is comment this week to be in the running to win your choice of WHEN BLOOD CALLS, WHEN PLEASURE RULES or WHEN WICKED CRAVES!

So what about you? Are you paper or electronic. Or, like me, do you go back and forth depending on your mood, the tide, or who won last year's Super Bowl?

When Blood Calls

THIS WEEK'S WINNER!

Thank you so much to everyone who posted this week at Whine Sisters!  The prize is a signed copy of my upcoming release, A HARLEQUIN CHRISTMAS CAROL featuring stories by Betina Krahn, me, and Hope Tarr.  And the randomly chosen winner is: Lisa Hill!

Lisa, please e-mail at JacquieD@JacquieD.com with your mailing info and I'll get the book sent out to you. 

I was very excited to have the opportunity to write Today's Longing (the title of my story in the anthology) because it was my first Victorian-set historical story.  All three stories center around a Dickens theme.  Three apprentice angels (rather than ghosts) must earn their wings by New Year's or they face another century before they're given another opportunity.  The only way they can earn their wings is to unite their individual lady with her One True Love.  Much mistletoe and mayhem ensues during the season of 1894!

I hope you'll all look for the book, available next month.

Happy reading!

THIS WEEK'S BOOK GIVEAWAY!

I don't do a lot of reading when I'm on deadline–not only do I not have the time to thoroughly immerse myself in a book, but I don't like to muddy my brain waters by reading a story other than my own.  But I love to read. So what to do?  Well, mostly I read magazines.  Or sometimes, like yesterday, I just grab one of my own books from the shelf–this time it was Not Quite a Gentleman, a Regency-era historical that was published in September 2005.

The idea for Not Quite a Gentleman began with a single scene that played out very vividly in my mind–the heroine coming upon the hero while he's swimming in the lake.  Naked.  From that scene an entire book was born, one that led to a sequel, Never a Lady.  I really enjoyed writing NQAG–I loved my doctor hero who had no use for Society, yet found himself falling for a society diamond, and for the heroine who was supposed to marry a titled gentleman yet could not think of anyone other than the country doctor.  And then there were spies, and murder, and all sorts of mayhem, as well as, of course, romance (and that naked-at-the-lake-scene).

The stepback image--based on the naked-at-the-lake scene that inspired the book

So, this week's book giveaway is a signed copy of Not Quite a Gentleman. In order to be entered for the drawing, all you need to do is leave a comment this week (Monday through Friday).  A randomly chosen winner will be announced on Saturday.  And to start off this week's comments, tell me:  How did you spend your weekend?

Happy reading, and good luck!

My newest housemate

My kids have had a betta fish for a few months now, and I decided that I needed a companion, too. Someone with a calming influence. Someone to sit on my desk and make me feel guilty if I surfed the 'net instead of writing.

So….meet Leonardo, a Crowntail betta! Ain't he just the cutest thing?

Alas, the picture doesn't do him justice, but trust me when I say he's absolutely gorgeous. A deep blue with bits of green mixed in so that he looks iridescent. (I think he knows it, too. He has the attitude of one of those guys who just knows he's gorgeous.). I wasn't sure just how much companionship a fish would provide, but I have to say that Leonardo and I have already bonded. He'll swim to my finger when I press it to the glass, and hangs out in the corner to watch me type.

I think I must dedicate my next book to him.

So there you have it–my new good buddy (who, thankfully, has not attracted the attention of our cats!). Anyone else have a desk companion? A plant? Fish? Hamster? Bird? Some other office-bound creature who is their writing companion and muse?

Shopaholic Goes Suburban

A sequel to the delightful Sophie Kinsella books in which Becky Bloomwood rediscovers her shopping habit after waking up to find herself married with grown children, fat, forty-something, and living in the suburbs? NO. My life? YES. But I'm not Becky Bloomwood. I'm not rediscovering a habit. I'm finding material love for the first time, credit cards at the ready.

[image error]Well… credit card, not really. Debit card.  I have rationalized that it's not really bad if I'm not accumulating debt. I'm only buying what I can afford, coming out of the account as I buy it, no pesky credit card balances building interest. Makes so much sense, right? Wrong. I have one kid in college and another kid headed there next year. Can I really afford anything? No. But do I want to hear logic when I'm having so much fun?

It all started at Overstock.com. Darn them, they have so many different bargains! I'm not really a bargain shopper at heart. I'm the opposite. I seem to get more of a thrill by paying higher prices. Twisted, I know. But Overstock.com sucked me in anyway. I find one thing I need, and then I find ten more I kinda sorta need maybe, well, who couldn't use a battery-powered milk frother? You know, in[image error] case you ever need frothy milk on the run. A bargain at $19.99, might as well add it to the cart…

Then one day, I actually did need something that they didn't have at Overstock.com (silicone kitchen utensils to go with my new Overstock.com Cuisinart non-stick pots and pans) so I ended up at Williams-Sonoma.com. What a wonderland! So many helpful [image error]suggestions for my Thanksgiving table. A good time was had by me. Ka-ching.

Then came Sephora.com. And Bare Escentuals.com. Makeup! So fun! Pretty colors. They invited me to join their clubs. Suddenly, I was one of the cool kid shoppers. In a club! Special!

And then I took my act on the road, to an actual store. Nordstrom! And found a whole new world of designer label fun. I've never really appreciated well-made clothes and designer labels. I'm a mom! With two kids who always came first. And moms know, isn't it more important that you keep the kids in the cool clothes and shoes and games and supplies? I happily took a backseat for so many years. But they're all grown up, practically. It's ME time, baby! And when I slid my feet into my first pair of Italian leather flats? I realized that the expensive shoes really do feel better than the cheapies.

The ads are all fooling us into thinking that less is more and we really can get those designer looks for less… looks, yes, but quality and comfort to match? NO. They're feeding us lies, Suburbia. LIES! Now I know. It does not feel good to Pay Less. Comparatively. OMG. (well, sometimes it does, and sometimes designer labels disappoint… but that's not where I'm at right now.)

So… I needed a handbag to match the new shoes, (because I have gone handbag-less for years, just shoving things in pockets, which I can't do now that that the Nordstrom shopper showed me how my jeans should really fit, without bulgy pockets) and I couldn't decide between Marc Jacobs and Michael Kors, so I bought them both. And well, that was it. I've been on a downward spiral ever since. Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses from the Madonna collection? Yes, please. Tiffany & Co necklace because it features my birthstone, why not?

Do you know that when you shop at Tiffany, they send you a personal, hand-written thank you card? And my own sales professional is waiting to help me next time, any time. I have his cell phone number, in case I have a pressing need for diamond earrings in the middle of the night. True!

When, exactly, did I know that I had finally gone overboard? Before I actually received the Tiffany thank you card. It was when I was getting into an elevator with my husband, all dressed up to go nowhere special, and I suddenly realized that my outfit (my casual, just around the neighborhood outfit) cost more than my engagement ring. The ring he gave up a car to buy when we were in college and struggling? Yeah, that one. And most of the balance was in was the handbag alone (not inside the bag, my credit cards and cash, the actual bag).

When the elevator doors closed, it was fitting to see that they were reflective. I had to look myself in the eye (which looked like three eyes because the shiny finish was warped and scratched) and say "My name is Sherri and I have a problem…    but wow, my handbag looks perfect with these shoes. I [image error]wonder if they come in other colors?"

Sigh.

Do you love to shop? Are you a bargain-hunter? Have you ever been addicted to shopping? Do you squeal in delight when you get packages in the mail, even if you mailed them to yourself? What's your best purchase ever? Favorite splurge? Would you rather buy lots of less expensive things or one good quality item that will last? Or maybe you've spent more only to regret it later?

Sisterhood of the Traveling Purse

So I had a little adventure this weekend.  As many you already know, I went to the New Jersey RWA Put Your Heart in A Book conference.  (One of the best regional RWA conferences out there).  Anyway, arrived at the NJ Metro-Park train station on Saturday afternoon, after a lovely lunch with Kathleen, with about fifteen minutes to spare.   I found the right platform and dragged my suitcase up the stairs and took a seat by the schedule monitor, congratulating myself on being such a seasoned commuter. 

And then I realized that while my suitcase and I had made it to the platform, my ever rebellious purse had decided to hang with Kathleen and head for the burbs (after all they have Targets out there).  What this meant, my sinking heart and revolting stomach informed me, was that I was alone on a train platform somewhere in New Jersey with no money, no ID, no credit cards, no ticket and NO PHONE.   

Totally and completely alone. 

This is the kind of stuff I write about but have absolutely no interest in actually experiencing.  So after forcing my breathing back to semi-normal, and informing my tear ducts that seasoned commuters do not cry, I hauled my suitcase back down the stairs, and into the station.  (Now as a disclaimer as much as I'd like to paint this as a run-down seedy hole somewhere in a state I don't live in Metro Park is in fact a lovely station with brand new platforms, state of the art monitors, a little coffee kiosk and a newsstand.   However—the latter do not mean much if you don't have money. 

Anyway, much to my relief, the ticket booth was manned (or womaned) and open.   So I tearfully explained my situation whereupon the woman behind the window (who is truly a GODDESS of kindness) asked me what Kathleen's phone number was.   "Um," I said, the sinking feeling back again, "I don't know, it's on my phone which is currently partying with my purse in Kathleen's car." 

"Do you know any phone numbers at all?"  the woman asked, speaking now as if to a very slow two year old.  Yes, I assured her.  My home.  Which, thankfully, should be occupied on a Saturday afternoon.  So I gave her the number and she called.  But no one answered (my teenager doesn't do land lines).   Fortunately, the woman was truly wonderful and when she called again a few minutes later, voila –my husband.   He told her (this was all happening behind the glass window) that he'd contact Kathleen.  I sat down to wait. 

Forty minutes later.  No Kathleen, no purse, no nothing—except a steady stream of lucky people who all had money, tickets and ID.  I had the woman call back.  No answer.  I started imagining that my husband had secretly always wanted to dump me and this was his chance.  I was back to saying no to the tears, who quite frankly weren't listening. 

"DEE," the woman called from behind the glass.  "Your husband is on the line."  This time she passes the phone beneath the little crack where you slide your credit card.  

I immediately sent high praise heavenward.   But the news wasn't good—no Kathleen.   She wasn't answering her phone.   (I later learned, she was jamming to the oldies—like one of those movies where the heroine calls her friend with her only phone call before some horrible fate, and the friend is wearing earphones, or out to lunch or jamming to the oldies.)   So Robert says he'll rent a car and come get me.  "Where am I?"  I realize then, that I don't know—Metro Park, New Jersey—I say.  "But where is that?" he asks.  I look at the lady, who is actually looking amused as she follows the conversation, and somewhere some little remaining thread of sanity informs my brain that maybe I can have my husband charge a ticket for me. Sure enough, that does the trick.

We arrange to meet at Penn Station – I still have no way to get home—at the Aunt Annie's Pretzel stand.  (Okay, what can I say, they are awesome or would be if I had money to buy one).    Anyway, I get on the train—almost two hours after arriving at the station—sit back, and wait for it—the train moves maybe 100 yards and then stops.  Never did figure out why, but about fifteen minutes later we're finally off, me whispering over and over  now "there's no place like home." I arrive at Penn Station, haul me and my suitcase up the stairs and start toward the Aunt Annie's kiosk, only to realize that there are four of them in Penn Station.  So I start circling, looking for my husband, suitcase still bumping along behind me.   And find no one. 

So I suck up my courage, go to the information stand where another Goddess of a woman uses her private cell phone to call my husband's cell phone (I have thankfully, remembered to ask for the number and write it on the back of my ticket receipt.)  And he tells me he's here, at Aunt Annie's.  "Where the *bleep* am I?"  "Stay put, I say,"I think I know which Annie's you're at."   I trudge off again, and check all four Annie's—no husband.  Turns out there are FIVE Aunt Annie's in Penn Station.  One of them downstairs.  (I didn't even know there was a downstairs—except for the trains.)  Anyway, down I go (again) with my suitcase and there he is.  

Meanwhile, Kathleen has reached home and realized that the black leather party animal on the floor of her car is not her bag but mine.   And she wonders… "why didn't Dee call?"  (um, Kathleen, you have my phone).  But then she pulls out her own, and low and behold, over twenty-one calls—from my husband (not to mention the 23+ , which were apparently was happily ringing along to the jammin' songs,  to my phone.)   Then in another act of sheer Goddess-ness (is that a word?) she arranges for her husband, who is going out and about somewhere in New Jersey (I really do need to get a map), to drop by my apartment with my now well-travelled purse.  But we're going out and won't be there so we arrange the old New York standard, the doorman drop.   And low and behold when I get home, there it is…my not particularly apologetic purse looking absolutely none the worse for wear.  

Moral of story?   Memorize phone numbers and stuff money in your bra.  You never know when you'll need it. 

So how was your weekend?

The Candy Conundrum

So, apparently yesterday Jonathan Franzen (author of high-brow literachure! Oprah Book Pick – the first time he spurned her, but her love would not be denied!), met with Barack Obama (who's a fan!).

It's robo-call voting season again! I love the callerid on these things. "TELE TOWN HALL," "NAME UNAVAILABLE," and best of all "ANONYMOUS." I want to vote for Anonymous. Will he unmask himself to be on my ballot, or dear League of Women Voters, Can I vote for anonymous? I wanna vote for Anonymous!
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Hello, my name is Anonymous, will you vote for Me?

And today's big conundrum, what's the best Halloween candy? According to David

NG and Ben Cohen, the top of the candy hierarchy is Caramellos, Milky Way, Snickers, Rolos and Twix. I have issues. Carmellos? Seriously? Seriously?? And Twix? Twix? Twix are like …. dog bones to me. In my candy-coated opinion, "Regular old Hershey Bars" (relegated to Post-Tertiary) are Top. Tier. Without Question.

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Whoppers are the Best!

And Whoppers (Second Tier) do not "blow." They are classic. They are timeless. They crunch. They are chocolate. There. Is. No. Blowing. (WARNING: DO NOT GOOGLE WHOPPERS, especially in conjunction with Blowing.)

They put Nerds in the Bottom Tier, and geez, is anyone surprised that I love Nerds? I know, it's a weakness, my Nerd-love, but there it is. And I love the Candy Corn (technically Autumn Mix, which contains, not only the candy corn with brown stripes, but also pumpkins, which should be eaten in parts).

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Pumpkins are Best Eaten in Parts

Today's question: What is your top tier in Halloween Candy, what are the dregs? And your worst Halloween candy ever? (dental toothbrushes here).