Jamie Farrell's Blog, page 28

Welcome To Bliss

Bliss, Illinois, is the fictional Most Married-est Town on Earth where the Misfit Brides of Bliss series is set. I had a ton of fun building the world of Bliss, and I hope you have as much fun reading the books. Until then, here are a few little tidbits about Bliss.

 

The main street in Bliss is known as The Aisle, and it’s lined with every kind of shop a bride could need to plan her perfect wedding.
Bliss was almost called Harmony, but there’s already a Harmony Township in Illinois.
Every June, Bliss’s Bridal Retailers Association* sponsors the Knot Festival.
Divorce attorneys are not allowed to practice inside Bliss city limits. In fact, the D-word isn’t to be spoken in a voice any louder than a whisper, and even then, only if it can’t be helped.
It’s Bliss tradition that all the wedding-themed businesses are owned by married couples who pass the business down to their happily married children when they retire.
The Knot Fest parade is called the Bridal March, and all the brides of Knot Fest week are invited to walk down The Aisle in the parade.
Bliss’s most famous landmark, a hundred-foot-high, 90′s-style bridge wedding cake monument (complete with a splash pad to represent a wedding cake fountain), may have been subconsciously inspired by Touchdown Jesus.**
There’s a minor league team in Bliss is called the Bachelors, and I’m pretty sure they play baseball. (Bliss is still somewhat of a work in progress.) The minor league hockey team is probably going to be the Grooms, and they both exist because I think it would be fun to write some stories about hockey and baseball players someday.
Knot Fest is really just an excuse to have the Husband Games, which are a set of challenges in which men compete in the hopes of being named Husband of the Year.
The Husband Games were inspired by a conversation with a friend about whose husband was better.***

Intrigued? Be the first to hear when The Husband Games, Book One of the Misfit Brides of Bliss, is available by signing up for my newsletter, either here or in the sidebar to the right.

 

*True story: While I was writing The Husband Game, I asked my husband to help me brainstorm. “I need a name for the Bridal Retailers Association in Bliss, but I want it to be something with a funny acronym,” I said. Poor hubby didn’t have to say a word.

**My first glimpse of Touchdown Jesus happened many years ago when I was six weeks pregnant and morning sick and apparently cross-eyed, because for a second there I thought it was a giant woman in a wedding dress.

***My husband is better. Obviously!

My Favorite Weird Gift Ever

Recently, my friend, Meda, blogged about her anniversary, and she posed a fun question about unusual anniversary gifts, which reminded me of one of my favorite anniversary stories.

Just before my third anniversary, I met my mom and sister in Gatlinburg, Tennesee, for a short girls getaway in the Smokies. I was on a mission to find the perfect gift for the hubby, preferably something leather or crystal in keeping with the theme of a third anniversary.

And I was failing miserably.

I may have also been driving my mom and sister batty with my obsession to find the perfect gift, because we were there to hang out and have fun, not to spend three full days on a shopping mission. (Shopping, yes. Shopping exclusively and futilely for hubby? Erm, sorry, honey, but no.)

But then it happened.

We went to lunch.

And after lunch, we went to the bathroom.

And hanging there, in the bathroom stalls, were advertisements for all kinds of fun things to do and buy in Gatlinburg, Tennessee.

“Ohmigosh!” I squealed. “Yes! It’s perfect!”

“Erm, Jamie?” my sister said, because really, who goes into a bathroom stall and squeals in excitement about perfection?

(Don’t answer that.)

I flung the stall door open and grabbed my mom. “Get in here!” I said. “Look! You have to see this!”

(There may have been other women waiting in line, and we may have gotten some weird looks, but my third anniversary was a long time ago. It’s hard to remember all the details.)

My sainted mother gave me the she’s-gone-off-her-rocker-now look, but she still accompanied me into the stall, where I pointed at the advertisement.

“Where’s our map?” I asked her. “How close are we? Do we have time?”

The answers were, “Jamie, we’re in a bathroom,” “I don’t know,” and “I don’t know.”

(To this day, my sister won’t go into bathrooms with me. She breaks girl code because I’m embarrassing. Whatever.)

In the end, turned out we were right around the corner from The Perfect Modern Third Anniversary Gift.

You want to know what it is now, right?

Do you remember those decorative crystal or glass blocks that had flowers and butterflies and the Eiffel Tower laser-engraved in the center of them? They made great little office knick-knacks or presents for grandma, and they were sold in cute little kiosks at the mall, and I wanted them all.

And it turns out, in Gatlinburg, Tennesee, you could get a 3D picture made of your head, and have that engraved in a crystal block.

So that is exactly what I did for hubby for our third anniversary.

The Only Know Crystal Jamie Farrell Head In Existence

Know what’s funny? For our third anniversary, he got me a crystal block with a hummingbird engraved in it.

Either great minds think alike, or he wants me to remember him as a hummingbird.

I Want Your Husbands

Hang on, friends. We’re about to get sappy.

I’ve been working on The Husband Games for a while now, and this week, I’m knee-deep in revising the section of the book that leads to the crowning of the Husband of the Year. (I can’t wait to share this with you all!) So the book has me thinking about husbands and celebrations and other fun things, like tire changing and steak grilling and hole digging.You know, all those lovely things husbands do.

I like lovely. And I like celebrations. And I like husbands. (And significant others of all orientations and genders, really. Because love is pretty awesome.)

So, next year, in celebration of all our lovely husbands, I want to feature yours.

Yes, yours.

Right here. On my blog.

I want to know why you fell in love with him. I want to know about the little things and the big things and the in-between things he does to be your hero. I want to showcase the happiness and joy that he brings to your life.

Because we can all use a little joy, right? Real love exists outside the pages of a romance novel, and I want to celebrate that.

So, if you know of a fabulous husband (or wife or boyfriend or girlfriend), tell me! You can even nominate someone else’s (or yourself) if you’d like. Everyone’s welcome at this party. Just comment here, email me at jamie@jamiefarrellbooks.com, or drop me a line and tell me your husband is awesome, and I’ll send you The Husband Interview. Here – I’ll make it easy on you. You can even just fill in this form and hit the “Submit” button.

[contact-form]

And, to thank you for your participation, here’s a story about a fabulous husband I know. We’ll call him “The Hubby.”

The Hubby and I met through two dorm windows in college while his best friend was trying on women’s dresses, and thus our relationship started. He preps my oatmeal in the mornings, he folds laundry like a champ, and he makes me laugh every day. Sometimes twice.

He’s done a lot of things over the course of our marriage to earn himself a Husband of the Year trophy. Things like perfecting a grilled steak. Arranging his running training schedule so he’s back from his morning runs in time to help the kids get ready. Washing my hair for me when I tried to cut my finger off.

But last Christmas, he secured the title forever. Eleven years ago, he believed in me when I told him I was writing a book, and ever since, he’s made my writing a priority. He’s given me time to take classes, to join writing groups, to write, despite everything else he has on his plate. Last year for Christmas, he took it a step further. He gave me the means to hire an editor and a cover artist so I could publish Southern Fried Blues and the Misfit Brides of Bliss trilogy (starting with The Husband Games). Without him, I probably never would’ve made my dream a reality.

And so I give The Hubby my first Husband of the Year crown. I know he’ll do it proud.

Your turn. Tell me about your hubby, and don’t forget to sign him up to be the next Husband of the Year.

Sit Back, Relax, And Let My Children Entertain You

Wool knee socks courtesy of my sister-in-law

I’m still stuffed full of turkey, so I’m taking the easy way out here today and letting my kids entertain you. Here’s what they’ve been up to this month, as recorded on my personal Facebook page:

We have one of those little green dudes that you put out on the edge of your driveway with the flag and the “SLOW” sign. (I call him LG.) So Munchkin just walked inside with LG’s flag stuck in one of the grooves of his bike helmet, which he was wearing. I told him to take it off.

To which Munchkin replied, “Aww, man! I wanted to be a unicorn!”

 

Squeaker: “Mama, have goldfish please?”

Me: “Sure.”

I get him goldfish and hand them to him. “What do you say, young man?”

Squeaker: “Whee!!”

 

Last night the hubby had to tell Squeaker that we don’t brush other people’s legs with toothbrushes while they’re sitting on the toilet.

 

Me to Squeaker: “What do you want for breakfast.”

Squeaker, after a moment of intense contemplation: “Ummm… Popcorns? You have popcorns, Mama?”

 

Squeaker: “You go potty, Mommy? You go potty, me say blessing every time.”

 

Squeaker: “Look, Mommy!” He bends down and grabs something. “It’s my eyeball!”

Followed the next day by…

Upon climbing out of the car with his construction paper pumpkin…

“Mama! I lose eye!”

And two days later…

Squeaker just found another eyeball. “Look, Mama! Me find my eyeball!”

“Good job, Squeaker,” I said. “Can Mama have it? I don’t want Buttercup to eat your eyeball.”

(Side note: I have never bought art eyeballs for my children, but our house is somehow swimming in them. I HAVE EYEBALLS EVERYWHERE. I even found one in my grocery bags yesterday. And now back to our regularly scheduled program…)

Squeaker, pointing to my phone: “That mine?”

Me: “No, Squeaker, that’s mommy’s.”

Squeaker: “No, mine.”

Me: “No, Mommy’s. Silly boy!”

Squeaker, poking me: “No, you silly boy!”

Me: “I’m a girl. You’re a boy, I’m a girl.”

Squeaker: “No, you not girl! Buttercup a girl.”

 

Squeaker is teaching Munchkin the blessing song he learned at school.

Munchkin gets through, “God our Father, God our Father, once again, once again,” then stops. “Then what, Squeaker?”

Squeaker replies, “God our father had a tractor had a cow.”

 

Munchkin just asked me how to spell “Haf.” As in, “Might haf ta.”

 

My boys are both running around in feather headbands that they made at school today. Munchkin just told me, “Mama, Squeaker and I are playing Indians. He’s little Hiawatha, and I’m Eller.”

 

And my boys have discovered the joys of the word “booby.” We’re in for a long next 43 years…

 

Squeaker’s eating grapes. He holds one up, says, “Mama, is this cimmanon?”

“No, Squeaker, it’s a grape,” I say.

“This a grape?” he says.

“Yes,” I confirm.

A minute later…

“Mama, this cimmanon?”

“Yes, Squeaker. That’s cinnamon,” I say.

He laughs. “No, Mama. This a grape.”

And the quote of the month…

Munchkin just asked for his daily piece of candy from his candy bucket, and since it means I don’t have to listen to him whine for candy the rest of the day, I gave it to him.

He picked a sucker.

And then he and Squeaker had a huge discussion about suckers which led to the following argument:

Munchkin: “You bite it, Squeaker.”

Squeaker: “No, brother! You suck it!”

Munchkin: “Bite!”

Squeaker: “No, brother! Suck!”

Munchkin: “BITE!”

Squeaker: “SUCK IT, BROTHER!”

Your turn. Tell me something funny.

p.s. I post other things my kids say on my public Facebook page too. Swing by and like me?

p.p.s. Last two days to enter this month’s drawing for a signed copy of SOUTHERN FRIED BLUES! Go enter!

Guest Interview – Jackson Davis and His Thanksgiving Favorites

It’s Thanksgiving week here in the US, which means… Wait. You know what?

You don’t want to listen to boring old me talk turkey.

I know what you’re here for.

You want to know what Thanksgiving means to a certain charming Southern gentleman.

It’s okay. I’d rather talk to him too. Jackson? Where’d you go?

Jackson peeks around the corner, licking a bit of pie crust off his lips: Yes, ma’am?

Jamie: Come on in here. There are some lovely readers who want to know about your Thanksgiving.

Jackson ambles into the room and stretches out on a couch: Sure thing, Miss Jamie. What are y’all lookin’ to hear about?

Jamie: Let’s start with the easy stuff. Do you like your turkey roasted or deep-fried?

Jackson: Reckon it’d take more bacon grease than the likes of me can save in a year to fry a turkey up right, so don’t suppose there’s any reason to be picky on that. Now, a barbecued turkey though… that’d be a mite bit hard to turn down.

Jamie: Favorite side dish?

Jackson: Anna Grace’s sweet potato pie.

Jamie: That’s not a side dish. That’s dessert.

Jackson: That’s your Yankee side showing, Miss Jamie. ‘Round here, pie’s a side dish. Or breakfast.

Jamie: I suspect your momma would say otherwise. Other than pie, what’s your favorite side dish?

Jackson: Cornbread dressing.

Jamie: Will Anna make it for you?

Jackson: You know, we still ain’t talked about her corn bread. Never thought I’d pledge forever to a girl before I knew a thing about her cornbread, but there you have it. Hope it’s better’n her biscuits, but I’ll love her even if it’s not.

Jamie: What’s your favorite non-food part of Thanksgiving?

Jackson: Used to be football.

Jamie: Used to?

Jackson: Yes, ma’am. Used to. Now it’s eating Anna Grace’s pie.

Jamie: Aww, that’s sweet.

Jackson: Yep, eating Anna Grace’s pie while I’m watching football with my girl. That’s my favorite part.

Jamie: And now for some fun – recently, I asked your friends and fans on Facebook and Twitter if they had any questions for you. And because we’re all grateful for friends and fans, you’re sticking around to answer them, right?

Jackson: Reckon I am if you say I am.

Jamie: First up, Marilyn wants to know what was the first thing you noticed about Anna Grace that made you start falling for her.

Jackson: The very first thing? Huh. Reckon I could take the easy way out and say it was her pie, but I think she got me before then. Looking back, I was a goner the minute I saw her for the second time, when she was standing up about fourteen feet high, looking down on anyone who tried to offer her pity for her unfortunate situation. Takes one heck of a Yankee lady to pull that off in a Southern woman’s house. Didn’t stand much of a chance to resist her after that. And I’m one lucky son of a gun to get to keep her.

Jamie: Okay, before this gets too sappy, let’s take a question from Sacha. She asks, “Jackson, will you marry me–” No, wait, she’s married and took that one back. Okay. The real question: Will you be appearing in any more books?

Jackson: Miss Sacha, Anna Grace and I would take y’all out for some fried chicken and sweet tea if we lived closer. (And I heard a rumor you bake some pretty good biscuits.) As for appearing in other books, I reckon I could do that for all y’all. Anna Grace and her friend Kaci got some bug in their ears about this big ol’ festival up north somewhere. Something about husband games and proving who’s better, me or my buddy Lance. And Miss Jamie tells me I got a friend or two who might could be starring in their own books one of these days. She says she likes me enough to give me a cameo or three.

Jamie: Next up is Jennifer, who wants to know how you like her biscuits.

Jackson: I love my Anna Grace, but I got a feeling Miss Jennifer’s biscuits might could win a few more awards than any biscuits coming out of my kitchen.

Jamie: Lisa wants to know, paper or plastic?

Jackson: Shoot, ain’t nothing but canvas in this house. And Anna Grace has ‘em labeled so there ain’t no confusion at the store either. Real smooth system there.

Jamie: Shelby has an excellent question. She wants to know if you’ll teach Southern gentleman lessons.

Jackson: Reckon I might could find some time for that. Stay tuned, darlin’.

Jamie: And finally, Sarah asks, how you doin’? (wink, wink.)

Jackson: Doing mighty fine, ma’am. Real nice of you to ask.

Jamie: Nice to have you here on the blog today, Jackson.

Jackson: Always nice getting to know new friends. But I gotta get on going. Anna Grace is texting me her grocery list, and I gotta get to the store before they run out of sweet potatoes. Can’t be missing my sweet potato pie this year. Y’all have a happy Thanksgiving.

(Don’t forget to sign up to win the goodies from all my Southern Magic friends, and also don’t forget to stop by and enter my monthly contest for a copy of Jackson’s book, Southern Fried Blues!)

A Southern Magic Holiday Giveaway

One of the perks of being a military wife is that we move around a lot. Sure, the actual moving part can be difficult, but at every new home, I have the opportunity to join new local Romance Writers of America chapters. After all my excitement over the reader luncheon earlier this month, you already know that I love my current home chapter, Birmingham’s Southern Magic Romance Writers, but today, I love them a little bit more.

Because several of us members have joined together to have a huge holiday giveaway, and one lucky person is going to win a big ol’ stack books and goodies, and even better, all of us participating authors are mailing our goodies separately.

Know what that means?

Over a dozen packages delivered to the winner’s door between mid-December and Christmas, with thirty-six books in all across a range of romance genres! Sounds super, right?

Enter below, and don’t forget to check out the other participating authors’ websites!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Participating Authors:

Betty Bolte
Carla Swafford
Christy Reece
Debbie Kaufman
Ingrid Seymour
Julie Johnstone
Katherine Bone
Kerry Freeman 
Naima Simone 
Paula Graves 
Mina Khan 
Susan Carlisle
Suzanne Johnson 

Deleted Southern Fried Blues Scene – Anna and Jackson and the Apology Pie

Woohoo! You guys are AMAZING! We passed 200 likes on Facebook, so, as promised and voted on by you fabulous readers, here is an extended version of the scene where Anna brings Jackson an apology pie.

(It starts just after the armadillo incident, which is all I’m going to say for those of you who might not have read the book yet. And if you haven’t read the book yet, you can sign up for my monthly contest to win a copy, or you can find it at any of these fine retailers: Amazon  |  Barnes & Noble |  Kobo |  iBooks  |  Smashwords)

Enjoy!

 

* * *

Jackson reached over the fence and smoothly clicked the lock open. His dog trotted through to the back yard. “Come on in.”

That sounded like a very bad idea. A very good, very bad idea.

“You ain’t got other supper plans, do you?” he said.

Anna’s plans hadn’t included wondering half the night if he wanted to kiss her or not. She had few enough brain cells left to figure out that puzzle. “I have some leftover hot dish at home I should really eat before I goes bad.”

“Hot dish?”

“The original Minnesota casserole.”

“I got steak.”

She did have a working freezer, and hot dish froze well. And she hadn’t had a good steak in—well, about as long as it’d been since she’d been turned on by a hot, sweaty man. “I wouldn’t want to—”

“’Course you wouldn’t.” He grinned. “But you brought dessert, so I s’ppose that makes us even.”

“You really think a pie makes dinner and coffee even?”

His lips were twitching again. He shot a glance toward the garbage can, then met her eyes and solemnly shook his head. “Maybe, maybe not. But you’re lookin’ like you could use a good meal, and I sure wouldn’t be mindin’ some pretty company.”

This attraction to him had to be a rebound thing, because all this pretty-little-lady-ing he was doing had never really been her thing.

Of course, it’d been a long time since she’d had a thing.

The question of what her thing was now was somewhere beyond that gate. Or maybe she’d find out what her thing wasn’t, but she definitely had to go through that gate.

She squared her shoulders and marched ahead. “As long as you’re sure it’s not a bother.”

The gate clanged shut behind them. “Ain’t nothin’ ‘bout you ever been a bother.”

As if he’d tell her if she was.

He let them into the house through the screened-in porch, his dog moseying along next to him. “She’s sweet,” Anna said.

“Best dog I ever had.” He slid the pie onto the counter and ruffled the dog’s ears. She panted happily.

“How’d she get her name?”

Jackson flashed another of those ornery grins. “Aw, now, that ain’t a right proper story for a lady.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and set it next to the pie. “You go on and make yourself at home. Won’t take but a minute to get cleaned up.”

As he trailed through the kitchen toward the door leading to his bedroom, Anna noticed drawers half-cocked and a smattering of dishes on the counters. Her blood pressure ticked up a notch.

Not my house.

But she’d put the kitchen in such nice order before.

The door to Jackson’s bedroom clicked shut. Anna caught a glimpse of stacks of DVDs still in the living room.

She’d thought he was kidding.

Good thing this was just for fun.

She tackled the kitchen first. He still didn’t have a silverware organizer, and she found miscellaneous mixing bowls stacked on top of his plates when she went to put the dishes from the dishwasher away. Radish curled up under the table in the breakfast nook and watched her. The dog probably even knew she was wasting her time, but she felt better once things were closer to how she’d left them.

The sounds of water running drifted through the walls.

He was showering.

Naked.

Close by.

She paused to give her rear end a glance. A few streaks of dirt lined her pants, and a couple errant blades of grass. At least she’d fallen in a yard waste can instead of the trash.

But where were his southern manners now? Shouldn’t he have invited her to get cleaned up too? With him, to conserve water?

The taste of strawberries tickled her tongue.

She shook herself straight and headed to the fridge. He’d said he had steak. A salad would be nice with it.

He had a six-pack of Budweiser, a half-gallon of whole milk, half a dozen take-out cartons, three full plastic grocery sacks, one apple, and a bag of some weird green stuff she’d never seen before. It sort of resembled shriveled jalepenos, but with thicker, duller skin.

She opened the bag and gave it a sniff. It smelled kinda like dirt. Was this supposed to be edible?

She glanced into his fridge again.

Probably.

“You like okra, Anna Grace?”

She jumped. So that’s what okra looked like. She turned to face him. “I haven’t developed a taste for it yet.”

“Ain’t had it cooked right then.” He took the bag from her and shoved it back into the fridge, his hand resting in the small of her back as he leaned past her. His short hair was damp, and the fresh scent of Old Spice rolling off him made her want to bury her nose in his chest again. He grabbed one of the grocery bags, then went to the counter to sort out the contents. “You like grits?”

She shut the fridge door and turned to face him. “I’ve had them once or twice.”

He grinned. “Ain’t ever had those right either, have you? How long you been here?”

“A couple years.”

He shook his head. “And ain’t no one given you good grits? That’s a shame right there.”

Her thighs clenched. She wouldn’t have minded trying his grits.

The way his lips curved and his eyes went all cobalt made her wonder if he’d read her mind. She bumped into an open drawer as she straightened. “I guess you’ll have to fix that then. What can I do to help?”

He eyed her. “You know your way around a pie, I’ll give you that, but I ain’t so sure yet ‘bout you messin’ with my cookin’. How’s ‘bout you sit on down and watch how this is done?”

“Oh, come on. What’s it take to make grits? Boiling some water? I’m very good in the kitchen.”

“I bet you’re good a lot of places.”

She had no doubt he was too.

He slid a man-sized steak out of the bag and set it on the counter, then grinned at her. “But you ain’t touchin’ my grits.” He pointed his elbow toward the living room. “You wanna pick a movie?”

Was that code for Let’s eat, then make out? Or was he just hoping she’d put all his DVDs away?

She hadn’t cleaned a really good mess since the last time she was here. “Sure.”

By the time Jackson brought in two steaming but mismatched plates of steak, cheese grits, and potato chips, she’d split his DVDs by genre and alphabetized them on a bookshelf that had been pushed up against the wall. He eyed the DVDs before handing Anna a plate. “Shucks, Anna Grace, you didn’t have to do that. Guess I owe you one now.”

 

* * *

*Sigh* I love that Southern man.

Fun fact: In the first draft of Southern Fried Blues, there were less than half a dozen scenes in Jackson’s point of view. And as my good friend Kelsey Browning said, to quote her sister, “That would’ve been a tragesty.” (Yes, tragesty. And if you like that word, you’ll like Kelsey’s books too!)

Thanks so much to each and every one of you for loving Jackson and Anna enough to want to keep seeing their deleted scenes! You all make every minute of this crazy writer life worthwhile, and I love you all for it!

Guest Interview – CJ Blue from The Husband Games Talks Turkey

Special surprise today! I’ve talked CJ Blue, hero of The Husband Games, into stopping by to tell us about his family’s Thanksgiving traditions! I heard him say something about getting to a turkey-cooking contest (and possibly something questionable about how he intends to win), so we’d best get going quick.

Jamie: Hi, CJ! Thanks for visiting the blog. Our readers don’t know much about you yet, so let’s start with the basics. On a scale of 1-10, how much did you enjoy being the hero of The Husband Games?

CJ: Considering where you left me in revisions before you ran off to cook your own turkey–

Jamie: Oh, right. You’re not real happy with me right now, are you? Sorry about that. I’ll fix it for you next week. Probably. Maybe. You know what? Let’s talk Thanksgiving instead. Why don’t you tell our readers who you usually have Thanksgiving with?

CJ: When a guy has twelve sisters, the better question is, who doesn’t he usually have Thanksgiving with?

Jamie: I’d have to guess other men. Also? You have eleven sisters.

CJ: Technically, sure, but it’s easier to just clump Basil in with the girls. He squawks like ‘em, and he doesn’t mind.

Jamie: Pretty sure he does mind.

CJ (with a mischievous grin): Yeah, but that’s also what makes it fun.

Jamie: So, eleven sisters and one brother. Who do you think will win your turkey-making contest?

CJ: You mean who’s going to come in second after me?

Jamie: I happen to know for a fact you haven’t had Thanksgiving turkey the last three or four years, and you haven’t made one yourself for even longer, so you’ve got your work cut out for you if you want to win.

CJ: But I’m still going to win.

Jamie (giving it to him, because really, he’s stuck in an ugly position in revisions right now, and he’s kind of adorable when he gets all cocky): Okay, I’ll rephrase. Other than you, who will make the best turkey?

CJ: Adorable? You mean drop-dead sexy, right?

Jamie: Cocky. I definitely meant cocky.

CJ, delivering a killer, cocky smile: Just for that, I’ll concede you might have a point about my handicap with the turkey. But only because I’m out of practice on keeping up with which one of my sisters currently has the best odds of sabotaging the competition. Gotta keep a close eye out. I already saw Cinna toss something… unexpected… in Pepper’s turkey smoker, and I know the twins switched out Basil’s gas tank on his turkey fryer for an empty one. Margie’s got the science of the turkey down, but there’s some art to a good turkey. It’ll be a close call this year. Probably Rosemary or Ginger, since they have the most practice.

Jamie: And who’s going to eat all these turkeys?

CJ: Along with my parents, there’s the thirteen of us kids, plus a couple brothers-in-law and all my nieces. All my mom’s sisters and their families come over too. No turkey will go to waste. Except maybe Pepper’s. Pretty sure nobody’s gonna want to eat that unless she fixes whatever it was Cinna did.

Jamie: What’s your favorite Thanksgiving tradition?

CJ: The nap after dinner.

Jamie: Why?

CJ: My family’s great, but there’s something special about quiet after that many hours with that many people talking over each other. Good chance to get some quality one-on-one time in with the few who stay awake. Or a good chance to sneak out and work off some energy. If I can move. Not as used to the noise since I haven’t been around as much the last few years.

Jamie: What’s your favorite Thanksgiving memory?

: Huh. That’s a hard one. Might be that time the twins came down with the flu, so Mom and Dad put Rosemary in charge of dinner and Ginger in charge of watching Cinna. Cinna was just a baby that year. Ginger put her down for a nap, but there was so much going on, she wouldn’t go to sleep. Just kept screaming in her crib. So Pepper, Cori, and I dressed her up like a turkey, rocked her to sleep, and put her right in the center of the table. Should’ve heard Ginger screeching when she realized Cinna wasn’t in her crib. Everyone else was watching her sleep right there on the table, but Ginger was ready to call the cops.

Jamie: Your poor sisters.

CJ: Poor sisters, my you-know-what. Ginger put itching powder in my underwear the next day, and you don’t want to know what she did to Pepper and Cori. Not something a boy should ever have to hear about. A man either. Man, we had fun growing up.

Jamie: On that note, do you have a few minutes to answer some reader questions?

CJ: Anything for the ladies.

Jamie: Great. First up, Dee wants to know, boxers, briefs, or commando?

CJ: Boxers.

Jamie: Dee’s also curious to know about your idea of a perfect date.

CJ blows out a breath: A date? What’s that?

Jamie, smiling: You know, when two people get together and hang out and do something–

CJ: All right, all right. I know what a date is. But I haven’t had one in forever. You ever try to make plans with an overworked single mother who’s convinced she’s bad for your reputation?

Jamie: A-ha! So you admit you do want to date Natalie?

CJ: She’s starting to grow on me. But I’m staying away from her kid. This is just for fun. If we ever get to do anything. With you in charge of our destinies, I don’t see anything happening anytime soon. So, dating. Yep. Back to What’s that?

Jamie, clearing her throat and quietly chuckling to herself over what’s in store for poor CJ next: You used to date women. Before your first marriage.

CJ: Foul in the no-spoiler zone, Ms. Author Lady. We’re not going there.

Jamie: Your widower status is in your blurb. It’s not a spoiler.

CJ: And I’m sure our wonderful readers will be happy to learn more about my dates when they read my book.

Jamie: Okay, Mr. Grumpy.

CJ: I’m not the one who decided to leave me hanging in revisions. Any more questions?

Jamie: Just one. Marilyn wants to know what you think makes an ideal husband.

 

CJ, letting out a low whistle and looking around for an escape route: You cooking already? It’s getting hot in here. I’m gonna go open a window. Back in a bit. Maybe tomorrow.

Jamie: Nuh-uh, mister. Sit on down and answer the question. I’ll even let you have some pie when we’re done.

CJ: Ideal husband, huh? Don’t really have a lot of experience in that department. Might want to ask your good buddy Jackson instead.

Jamie: No, you’re exactly the right person for this question. You’ve spent four years thinking about it.

CJ: You mean hiding from it.

Jamie: We all deal with grief in out own ways. But I know you’ve got a few opinions. Don’t be shy.

CJ, taking a hit of courage: An ideal husband is a guy who’ll support his wife however she needs it–emotionally, spiritually, physically, financially, you name it–and who won’t try to mold her into someone she’s not. He’ll listen to her and trust her and be her partner, and he’ll be willing to step down and let her shine when she needs to shine. To do what she needs to do, even if she can do it better without him. Especially if she can do it better without him.

Jamie: So what makes an ideal wife?

CJ: Time’s up, Ms. Author Lady. We’ll have to save that one for next time. Now, you promised me some pie…

Jamie: Okay, okay. You’ve earned your pie. But you’ll have to promise to come back sometime.

CJ: Deal. And a happy Thanksgiving to all our lovely readers.

 

Thanks to CJ for stopping by and answering the easy and not-so-easy questions! If you want to know when his book is out, sign up for my newsletter! And have a wonderful Thanksgiving week!

Friday Flashback – 80′s Style

Hubby finds the best stuff on YouTube.

If that doesn’t bring a smile to your Friday, then let me know. I’m good for internet hugs and my monthly giveaway is still up – go enter for a chance to win Southern Fried Blues and Maria Geraci’s The Boyfriend of the Month Club.

And I have lots of cool stuff coming up for you guys next week. Especially those of you who love Jackson Davis. And who might want another little bonus hint from The Husband Games. And who might be interested in a super cool giveaway my RWA chapter, Southern Magic is doing to celebrate the holidays.

(Disclaimer: I’m potty-training Squeaker next week, so odds are good I won’t be around much. (Seriously, I know you guys don’t want to know about that!) But I’ll check in as I can!)

Have a great weekend!

Ever Have One Of Those Days?

The fun thing about having little kids at home who are semi-self-sufficient is that you think you can trust them to do the little things, like put both their shoes away together, in the same place, when they take them off, but in actuality, you can’t even trust two-and-a-half-year-olds to pay attention to whether or not they’re wearing shoes.

And sometimes they wear only one shoe.

Which, according to Munchkin, “is fine, Mom. We live in Alabama.” (Or maybe they get that one-shoe-on, one-shoe-off thing from their father, but that’s a story for another time, from a time long ago when we were acquainted with parties that involved alcohol and lasted past 8 PM.)

But back to Those Days.

We had one on Tuesday. Squeaker, Buttercup, and I were preparing to head out for a field trip to the post office. One minute Squeaker had his sandals on, both of them, one on each foot, and the next minute, he was barefoot. And I could only find one sandal. So I went digging in his closet, and I located both of his sneakers and one of his Darth Vader slippers.

The sneakers would’ve meant putting socks on him, and that’s just not happening these days, so I grabbed the Darth Vader slipper. (I love left-and-right interchangeable shoes) (Hush. Slippers are too shoes.) (Yes, they are. We live in Alabama.) I also grabbed the sandal, and I had him put one on each foot.

We were only running to the post office. It’s not like we were going to hubby’s work or Grandma’s house or church or anything. We only had to drop off one package. We weren’t going to be there long.

Except my one package was going to Canada, and it was 3.2 ounces over the weight limit for first class shipping, which meant I had to remove some of the package or pay double in shipping.

So the kids and I (with Buttercup waving a plastic lemon and yelling “BUH-BYE!” at everyone) stepped out of line and over to that nice little counter the post office has where people like me can use their keys to rip into the packages they’ve overpacked and remove that surprise extra book they were going to include in the package (sorry, Sacha), and then re-package it, get back in line again, and this time succeed in mailing the package.

All while Buttercup is still waving a plastic lemon and yelling, “BUH-BYE!” at everyone. (She’s very advanced verbally.) (Or possibly she’s hurtling insults leftover from a previous life in a place and time where lemons were insulting. Could go either way.)

Once we’d successfully paid to mail the package, we traipsed back out to the van. I got the kids strapped in (which is a trick for both of them, since they’ve conveniently both arrived at ages where they’d prefer not to be strapped in), then I strapped myself in, started the engine, and attempted to shift my van into reverse.

And failed.

And that when I noticed that were all kinds of red lights blinking at me on the dash.

My van was running, Iwas pressing the brake, but those red lights were telling me you ain’t goin’ nowhere.

I shut the car off. Turned it back on. Tried again.

Nope. We were stuck.

So I dug my owner’s manual out of the glove box and flipped through until I found the key for the dashboard warnings, all of which translated to, “If this light comes on, you’re screwed.” (We always read between the lines when it comes to dashboard warnings, right?)

Side note: Hubby has an uncanny way of knowing exactly when to call me: when I’ve just taken a giant bite of really chewy food, when I’m in the shower, when I’m coated in some kind of bodily fluid courtesy of the children or cats, you know, the good times.

Back to the story: Right at that moment, the hubby called.

(Really. It was remarkable.)

We had an overly complicated discussion about who would call our insurance company about their towing policy and who would call the nearest service shop to see about getting the van in for maintenance, during which time I unstrapped my kids and let them run around the back of the van. (We live in Alabama. We weren’t the only ones doing this in the parking lot, I promise.) (But we were the only ones with a kid in one sandal and one Darth Vader slipper. Just in case you were wondering.)

Eventually hubby and I agreed that I would call the shop, so I did.

And the first thing the service guy said was, “Oh, I can talk you through how to get your van back in gear.”

Me: “Uh… is that safe?”

Him: “Oh, sure. Absolutely.”

Me: “You know I–SQUEAKER! STOP DOING THAT TO YOUR SISTER!–have two kids in the car with me. Are you–BUTTERCUP! GET THAT OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!–sure?”

Him: “Yes, ma’am.” (I love Alabama manners.) “You’ll be just fine.”

And you know what? He was right. I hacked my car’s safety systems, and I made it home just fine. Which means you should all be praying for me, because today, I have my car and my two children (and one sandal and one Darth Vader slipper) in the shop, and we’re hanging out having a great time, waiting to see if we’ll be able to afford to send them to college after this.

Good times.

(So is this where I plead with you to go buy a book so that my children can afford to go to college? Because if so… Southern Fried Blues is a lot of fun, and you’ll love it, I promise. And it’ll make my frazzled, domestic-chaos-filled day if you’d leave a review too. Pretty please? I’ll not only love you forever, but I’ll write you another book. Promise.)

What’s the most interesting place you’ve ever had car troubles?