Badurday- November 26, 2011- Sexy Pilgrim

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G6YuLgyYZhc     Check this out. A fun rap from Muscle Milk. I couldn’t embed it here for some reason, but it’s worth the click.  I hope you all had a nice holiday. Mine was eh.

Thanksgiving is Safely Over Til Next Year. Thankfully.

We survived Thanksgiving. Kinda sorta. It was loaded with the usual turkey, cornbread dressing, oyster dressing, oyster chowder, pecan pie, banana split cake, pumpkin pie, and everything else the family could think to request. But a holiday around our house would be incomplete without sharing some vignettes. Consider yourself warned.

The massive influx of children with their noise and activity spread to the dogs. It got quiet (for the first time since six a.m.) around eleven at night. Just quiet enough for me to hear a metallic strumming sound coming from the other end of the house. Bring. Brinng. But it was dulled, almost like a harp strummed with the strings deadened. Bring. Brinng. Then a rapid, almost desperate bringbringbringbringbring. I was exhausted, but this sound was strange enough, and drove me crazy enough, to get up, trudge down the hall and investigate. It wasn’t hard to locate. A furious paced bringbringbringbringbring  drew me straight to the source.

Our blue heeler male was trying to dig through the metal grate door on the golden lab’s crate to get her out. Liberate her. Spring her from jail. Take her out dancing. Oh, just great. And that was totally sarcastic. She ‘s coming in heat. again. Muttered dark threats as I crammed Winter into his own crate for the remainder of the night. It’s pathetic when looking at a wiggling wet nose and pair of pleading black eyes peering at you from behind bars puts you thisclose to indulging in one of those “Neener, neener, neeeener” choruses as the latch snaps shut. Yes, exhaustion has the power to turn us all into strange folk.

We cheated and dined out while chasing down Turkey Day ingredients. I’m not proud of it, but I came close to running Hubby down with the wobble-wheeled shopping cart I got stuck with. All I wanted was to get things done and over with so we could go home. HE wanted to inspect every item. Weigh. Squeeze. Sniff. Compare. My left eyebrow went up when he tried to change the menu mid shopping trip. The other one joined it when he had the audacity to make suggestions for preparation.  As if a man who ordered spicy chicken at the Thai restaurant — then shook red pepper flakes atop it, and then nearly gave himself carpel tunnel wringing the black pepper mill before he thought it suficiently sprinkled, only to shake Tabasco sauce over everything as an after thought — had any business offering culinary instructions.

Heard the kids laughing hysterically. The kind of laughter that makes you smile and just have to go see what’s causing all that joy. As I neared the knot of children clogging the hall I heard the tortured gagging of a cat trying to rid himself of a fur ball. Nothing funny enough to warrant maniacal giggling. But then I noticed each gag had the strangest echo. Didn’t understand until Hubby stumbled past me in a rush, eyes watery, face a sickly green, doing some pretty impressive gagging of his own. Was I sympathetic? No. I joined the herd of laughing, pointing children hot on his heels.  He bolted inside the bathroom and shut the door, slamming it right in my grinning face.

Over the course of a few days, I noticed our grandson’s dog, Smokey, was spending an inordinate amount of time on his back under the coffee table, legs splayed like an overcooked turkey, wagging his tail. I couldn’t take looking at him like that any more, grabbed him by the back paws and slid him out from underneath it. Nearly screamed when his lips stretched in a grotesque pink stringing line from the bottom of the table to where I’d skidded him to a stop on the area rug. It took a moment, but as soon as I got over my shuddering fit enough to realize he hadn’t yowled in pain, I looked closer. Understanding dawned.

Proper methods for gum disposal would be the subject of the next family meeting, with the adamant declaration that stuck to the underside the coffee table is not one of them.

We had our traditional bonfire with marshmallows. We’ve done this often enough that I gather together a collection of water containers to place strategically around the fire pit. Invariably someone always catches a marshmallow on fire, and mistakenly tries to ‘wave’ it out in the air.  Next thing you know we’re diving for cover to avoid flaming marshmallow, slung to land God knows where. Hubby still moves pretty quick. But then a glob of flaming goo splatted on the back of a jacket is wonderful incentive.

But my baby sister took the cake when we talked about being thankful and needing to dismiss things that don’t really matter anyway. Our mother always encouraged us to live life, view it with wonder, and be our selves to the fullest. She’s even managed to do so from beyond death. When our mom died she requested a particular song to be played as her casket was wheeled to the waiting hearse. The most memorable part of the refrain is “If you get the choice to sit it out or dance . . . I hope you dance!” It has carried a special meaning for us ever since, her own continuing encouragement every time we happen to hear it. Baby sister posted a Thanksgiving message that ended with:

“Think I’m gonna go dance now. But I gotta warn you. I’m white and Baptist, so it might not be a pretty sight.”

I had to laugh. And all I can say is, “Dance, baby! Mama’s watching and loving every minute of it!” With that said, if you’re ever given an option, I hope not a single one of you ever stays in your seat.

~Runere~

Visit Runere at www.RunereMcLain.com or Friend her on Facebook at Runere McLain  Follow her on Twitter@RunereMcLain

HAPPY THANKSGIVING

Turkey Turkey and SHOPPING

Hello everyone! Well it’s Tuesday again and here I am. I have to say I am so behind on all my emails and catching up with friends that it’s ridiculous. I recently joined a group blog called Castles and Guns which now puts me in four group blogs. However, my first and closest to my heart is Southern Sizzle. Not only is this my first ever blog but these ladies are like family to me. Lately I’ve been so busy that I’ve forgotten to take the time and thank my fellow Sizzler ladies. It’s like we’re the Golden Girls, I want to sing the theme song each time I think of these wonderful women. Also it’s been awhile since I’ve mentioned my dear friend, wonderful critique partner, and terrific author, Rebecca Zanetti. Bec and I have been beyond busy with edits, school, and family and things are slowly settling back into a rhythm for us but let me just say her latest release, CLAIMED is sure to be a holiday super star!!

 

Ok, so moving on let’s talk about Thanksgiving. Well, I admit this Thursday I will have one too many pieces of pie and cookies. I gladly admit I will eat until I can not eat any more and then make take home plates. You see, I need that nutrition for the big hunt later that night. Oh thats right, I will be one of those crazy people sitting in a line at WalMart around seven o clock. From there I will hit Old Navy, Kohls, and Jc Penny, I might even hit up Lowes and Home Depot.  I love black Friday shopping. It can be a blast if you keep your cool and know when to go home. I mean, when the joyous feeling of shopping starts to drain, you should go home.  And when some mean or tired “need to be in home asleep” person is beyond rude to a sales person on please be extra sweet to that sales person on your turn.

 

All right everyone, I miss you all and please let me know something that you are doing on Thursday!

Sayde

Moonday’s Heroic Hunk in History: Abe

Lincoln 1846-1847

Lincoln 1848 at 39 years old

Moonday’s Heroic Hunk in History is ABRAHAM LINCOLN who declared Thanksgiving a national holiday. While most folks wouldn’t think of Abe as a heroic hunk, early pictures tell a different story. Most photos that are published are from his later life during his presidential years. After the loss of his beloved son, the stress of dealing with the conduct and ravages of the Civil War, and—according to some—the possibility of suffering from a degenerative disease, he aged beyond his years.

According to his own description about the time he became President (1860), Lincoln was 6’4” tall and weighed 180 pounds with dark hair and gray eyes. Although the photographic techniques of the day made him appear ungainly, he was considered very strong. He could still hold a long axe with one hand straight out at shoulder level when he was 49. An attendant at the time described Lincoln as the most physically powerful man he had ever seen.  Two daguerreotypes picture Lincoln as a young man. Compare the photos from 1860 with the one from 1865.

Lincoln 1860 at 51

In 1863 Abe issued a Presidential proclamation that Thanksgiving a national holiday and set the date as the final Thursday in November. Prior to his proclamation, Thanksgiving was observed on dates determined by the individual states. Sarah Josepha Hale spent 40 years campaigning for the national celebration. In 1941 Congress legislated and President Roosevelt signed into law a bill that made Thanksgiving an official holiday to be celebrated on the fourth Thursday of November.

So think of Lincoln when you’re scarfing your turkey and fixings this Thursday.  HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!

Next Moonday, the first of three generations of American founders.  Rita Bay

Lincoln in 1865 at 56

Badurday-The Thanksgiving Edition

I’ve had a spectacular week this week and much to be thankful about. I started the week on Monday with my monthly trip to Tallahassee where I conduct hearings as part of my day job. While I was between cases, I checked my email. I received an offer to publish my most recently completed novel, Surfer Bride. This offer was for an ebook release date in April, 2011 and a print book in September, 2011.  It’s a romantic suspense.

On Tuesday, my book, Solo Honeymoon, was released and climbed very quickly up the mainstream best seller list on my publisher’s website. I’m very excited about that.

Then we had the holiday weekend and I finished the 50,000 word NaNoWriMo challenge. Now, the manuscript itself is not done, but I have a grand start on it. The working title  is Obsession.

Of course, I’m also thankful for family, friends, health, etc- all the standard stuff, but this has really been a wickedly brilliant holiday week.

Here’s how to order Solo Honeymoon and an excerpt. Enjoy the Pilgrim and Indian photos: http://www.bookstrand.com/solo-honeymoon 

New Moon Indians- USA Today picture

 

Dario came around to the side of the table where she stood. “I’ve taken the liberty of having dinner served to us here in the conservatory. Please be seated, and the chicken sorrentino will be served.” He pulled out her chair, and she sat.

“What’s in chicken sorrentino? I’ve never had it.”

“Its chicken, eggplant, two kinds of wine, and mushrooms.”

“It sounds divine,” she said. “Why the limes?”

“I had the chef pour some marsala in a pitcher, and I like to add lime juice to it as a aperitivo. Would you like to try it?”

“Sure.”

He took a knife from the table and cut the limes open. As he squeezed the limes and smiled at her, she felt her insides melt at the intensity of his stare. His dark brown eyes were bottomless, and she knew she could lose herself in them and never want to come up for air. His hands were strong and capable as they pulverized the limes, and she blushed to think what those hands could do to her body.

“How do you say it…‘a penny for your thoughts,’ Emma?” he asked.

“I have no thoughts.”

He laughed. “So, you’re just sitting there watching me and your mind is blank?”

“Of course not. It’s just that I’m really just relaxing and have no specific thoughts.”

“Sure, cara, sure.” He smiled again at her.

Thankfully, the young man that had brought Emma the note earlier brought in the plates of food at that very moment, and she was spared having to come up with a plausible story of what she had been thinking.

Wonder what he would say if I told him I was thinking of those big strong hands squeezing my…

Emma, are you all right?” Dario asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“Fine. Fine,” she replied as she picked up her fork and took a bite of the chicken.

 The food was delicious, and Dario seemed to be on a charm offensive with her as he told her stories of his childhood days with Vincente and their adventures at the estate when they were on holiday from school.

Once the plates had been cleared, Dario stood. “I’ve brought in an old Victrola and would love for you to dance with me. We didn’t get a chance at the town party, and as dancing is my passion, I’d like to share it with you. Will you?” He stood and took off his dinner jacket. The white dress shirt he had on clung to his body. He held his hand out to her, and she rose from her chair and took his hand in her own.

They walked over to the Victrola, and Dario picked out a Viennese waltz by Strauss and put it on the turntable to play. As the scratchy sounds came from the machine, he held out his arms to Emma, and she moved into his dance space, and they began the first steps of the waltz. As soon as Dario touched her back, he stopped short. He spun her around to face away from him.

“Nice dress, Emma. I’m glad your seamstress ran out of fabric and couldn’t finish the back.”

“Very funny, Signore Conti.” She shuddered at his touch.

“Come here, woman,” he said in a low voice as he pulled her to him again.

They danced until the song ended. After the song ended, they stared into each others eyes and kept dancing as Dario hummed until the candles sputtered and went out. At some point, Dario’s hand on her back changed from the waltz position to a caress. She pulled herself closer to him as his hand ran up and down her back and eventually inside the fabric of the dress around to the side of her breast. As soon as his fingers touched her breast, she stopped moving. He stopped as well and, as his thumb inside her dress thrummed her nipple, he bent and kissed her. She groaned, and he said, “Will you go alone again to your bed tonight, bella mia?”

“No. I don’t think so, but I don’t think I can move right now to go anywhere.”

“No matter, bella, I’m not sure I can either. My passione is inflamed for you.”

“I know.”

He smiled. “You noticed?”

“Of course.”  

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