Wow! What a party!

For all you who missed the party at RT. . . here are some pictures of the CosmoChix! We had a great time and threw a heckuva bash. Some said it was one of the best parties of the conference-- and believe me, there were plenty!

We had 120 people in a suite and on a terrace loaned to us by the estimable Jo Carol from RT and our honorary bartender was none other than the runner-up cover model, Travis Greiman!! Through the evening, questions were asked about Travis and when answered (guessed!) correctly, earned a goodie bag of record proportions! Plus, everyone had cosmos, wine and other drinks. . . food and chocolate. . . and received goodie bags with CosmoChix mirrors as favors. Oh yeah. . . and Travis brought a number of his new buds with him. . . so we were overflowing with handsome young males of cover model quality!

Don't you wish you'd been there?
We wish you had, too! Let's do it again, sometime!

Last one in. . .

The rest of the Chix are already in Daytona Beach, kicking back and having fun, and I'm stuck here makin' party plans and packin' up the car with all kinds of goodies. . . Ghirdelli chocolate, cosmopolitan mixer and spirits, martini glasses. . . give-away goodies. . . prizes, centerpieces. . . whew! A lot to do before I hit the road tomorrow.

And I still have to pack. . . and figure out what to wear. . . and tan and lose ten pounds overnight so the Greenpeace-ers won't keep trying to push me back into the water. . . and try on all this new makeup the rest of the Chix talked me into. . .

I'm goin' casual, you guys! It's summer and it's Florida and it's RT. Time to party!

Wait until you see what we have in store for you! If you're still reading this. . . get yourself in gear and get to Daytona Beach!

RT, here I come!

Just a quick note to let you all know I'm off! If you're interested in locating me at RT I'll be in Club RT on Wednesday afternoon at 3:00 with the Vampire Vixens. Stop by and pick up a silicon bracelet that reads 'got blood?'. You know you need one!
Then, you won't see me in any official capacity until the signing on Saturday, and of course, the CosmoChix party Saturday night! It should be a blast, and I look forward to meeting you all!

Michele

Other Mothers' Sons

The countdown has begun; I’m leaving for the Romantic Times Readers' Convention with my rather nervous, but still cute as pie cover contestant son in…let’s see…four days. Plus, I have a couple of books to write, a few horses to train, a mare in foal, and a house that’s about to be condemned by the health department.

So, when my teenage daughter ran up to me with a gaping baby bird in hand and asked if I wanted to be a humanitarian, I promptly told her, "No. No, I don’t. I want to be a cranky old woman who refuses to allow another distraction into her life, especially if said distraction has to be fed, conversed with, or nurtured in any conceivable way. I’m overloaded. Can’t you see I’m overloaded?"

It was rude, I know, but my bright little daughter should have known better than to ask. After all, she wasn’t all that thrilled when, last Christmas, she found ten newly-whelped puppies in her bathroom…placenta, dog slobber et al. Not to mention the ferret we adopted not so long before that. It was gallumping around a parking lot looking lost (and a little carnivorous), so we bundled it up in a coat and took it home.

Ferrets, as you might know, are not the sweetest smelling animals in the universe, so what better place to keep it than your beloved daughter’s bathroom. It’s better than the kitchen. Growing up on a cattle ranch in North Dakota, I spent many a blustery winter morning sharing my breakfast with newborn calves.

But we don’t have calves. We have dogs, horses, an occasional ferret, and cats. Ragdoll cats to be specific. One of them has kittens, or rather ‘kitten’. The other was about to ‘kitten’, so a pre-fledging just didn’t fit into the master plan. I told my bird-loving daughter as much and I was firm…for about three seconds, until I looked down into that gigantic, yellowed billed baby bird maw. At which time I believe I said something eloquent like, "Oh crap," shoveled the ugly little thing into a box, and toted it into the kitchen.

This morning, Serenity, above-mentioned mother-cat-to-be, gave birth to six pink-pawed, rat-like kittens. Six is a passel of kittens. They’ll need some tending. There is also the baby bird to consider, which, by the by, has to be fed mushed up puppy chow from a syringe at three hour intervals. I shoved all eight little critters into Tara’s micro sized bathroom. One big happy family.

As for me, I’m escaping to Daytona in four days to lie on the beach, party with the CosmoChix, and ogle other mothers’ sons. Tee hee. My bright little daughter’s going to miss me something fierce…at three hour intervals.

Lois' "Tempting the Wolf" hits shelves July 25th. She's too humble to tell you, but the rest of us aren't. -Cchx

Barbie, you got some 'splainin' to do

A recent visit to a fellow author's house for our annual PAN meeting resulted in half a dozen of us playing, er, Barbie. Actually, we quickly dressed the Barbies in historical costumes and tried not to reveal to our fellow cohorts just how much fun it was to relive good times with a long lost friend. I'm talking about Barbie. And I once worshipped to the altar of Barbie.

Oh yeah, Barbie was my life, my goal, dream. I was going to have the perfect life someday, just like Barbie. I would have the perfect figure, exquisite clothes, and stylish hair. My feet would always fits into precious pink heels and my boyfriend would always greet me with a smile and those perfect white teeth. I'd have the camper, the apartment, the corvette, why yes, I'd even have my own private airplane and a Barbie Horse. And when I married, I'd come home to Ken, whose plastified smile was always ready to greet me. Ken would do whatever Barbie asked, he'd even wear the plastic apron and serve Barbie drinks aboard the airplane as they jetsetted to DisneyWorld for vacation. (Hey, I was a kid. DisneyWorld was the Ultimate Vacation.) If Barbie asked, Ken delivered, and never without that plastified smile.
And ah, observe the precious Barbie baby, whose head (I didn't take note of at the time) was virtually the same size as Barbie's head! (Talk about an anatomical ouch!) But the accessories that baby had! And all of them matchy-matchy and easily moved about by Ken, (as he grinned his plastified grin). Along with the perfect Ken, and perfect baby and a plastic cat or two, Barbie lived the dream.

Well, Barbie, you got some 'splain' to do.

I'm grown now. I have the 'life'. I'm married, have children, and the two cats (not plastic, but there are days I wish they were because I suspect plastic cats don't hack up hairball). Interesting, isn't it, how the dream can change? I don't seem to recall there being a Barbie Broom and Dustpan, Barbie Dishrag, or for that matter, a Barbie Toilet Brush. Barbie never owned a washer and dryer, and heaven forbid she wouldn't have a perfectly new outfit to wear each day, anyway. And what's with that baby that never came equipped with the Barbie Baby Rash or the Barbie Baby Diaper Genie? Who could have ever suspected a baby would be so...smelly and just so darn odd after that perfect big-headed unbendable baby that even smelled like baby powder?

And I certainly never recall Barbie having to rush to the bathroom and spray the Barbie Deodorizer after Ken exits with a guilty plastified grin affixed to his face. Nor do I recall the standard issue Remote Control Ken, just pose him in front of the plastic television, and point the remote; that's his talent!

They never had Corporate Raider Barbie, equipped with cellphone, laptop, rolodex and a wicked craving to sleep with Boss Ken while simultaneously sabotaging Barbie Climbing the Corporate Ladder's chance of ever getting that big promotion. And never mind the lacking appearance of Department Store Barbie on toystore shelves, who comes with a snappy blue vest and a tilted name tag and wears a frown on her plastified mouth as she mumbles into the intercom, "Price check on a box of supersize tampons. Checkout eight."

Where was Domestic Barbie? Oh, I know, she was married to Seventy-Hours A Week White Collar Ken. She stays at home with three plastic Spit-Up Babies and four Can't Be Housetrained poodles clambering for her attention while she can't figure out how the Barbie Toilet Brush got shoved into the garden hose and where did that last Barbie Babysitter find the secret alcohol stash?

My personal favorite would have been Migraine Barbie. A tiny bottle of Barbie Aspirin comes fitted into her plastic fingers, but don't bother calling Doctor Ken. You can't remove her from the box. She needs it dark and quiet. And don't shake her up; she'll spew.

What about Writer Barbie? She'd come equipped with a Barbie Computer (yet how to type with those four fused plastic fingers?) a stash of chocolate and attired in pajamas and bunny slippers. Her hair would refuse all styles and she would have an extra large backside garnered from Dedication To Work While Hunched Over The Keyboard Chasing The Muse. But man, would she have the office supplies. Little tiny Barbie Paperclips and Post-it Pads. An endless supply of fancy pens and little tiny books with her name on that she could hand out, perhaps even to Migraine Barbie, in an attempt to sooth her troubles. She'd write fantastical stories that always ended happily, sort of like the original Barbie Dream, but with a lot more reality stirred in.

Yeah, I like Writer Barbie, even if she's been known to attack UPS Ken when he comes knocking because he is her only connection to the outside world and he brings boxes from Amazon, and occasionally checks from her publisher. Ken doesn't know it, but Writer Barbie and UPS Ken have this 'thing'. It's okay, hand Remote Control Ken his clicker, and the whole world is right.

So, which Barbie would you like to see on the department store shelves?

Michele

Heroes, Heroes, Heroes. . .

Okay, I'm stuck on page one of the new book proposal, thinking about all the possible cool things my hero can be. And now I'm totally confused. Tall and semi-muscular, dark hair and cool eyes. . . the basic outline for my hero doesn't usually change too much. (He looks a lot like Rupert Evert, but hetero, if that makes any sense. Although this Nathan Kamp guy pushes all the right buttons. I may have to change my romantic hero template!) But from there. . . he could be anybody. . . even the butler!

Here's where I'm stuck. I'd write a "strong silent type," but I love writing dialogue and what do I give him for dialogue? Personally I'd like a funny guy, but not everyone likes a funny or snarky hero. I'm not really good at the tortured, brooding type. . . though I have tried over the years. So what do I find sexy, I ask myself. What do I find HEROIC?

A take charge sort of a guy? Action first and sort out the bodies later? A guy estranged from his own feelings who has to learn to embrace his feminine side? A smooth talking, hot walking city dweller? A guy in a dangerous, manly profession: spy, firefighter, policeman, detective, soldier, sea captain, alligator wrestler? A guy with a checkered past and a dim future? A guy with a noble soul but a deliciously sinful exterior? A ladies' man? A guy who has no luck with chicks? A guy with the tenacity of a bulldog and the instincts of a stalking tiger? A guy with a heart of gold and a sexy, "dirty laugh"?

See my problem? There's so much to choose from in the imagination. If only real life could be so lush with possibilities!

More important. . . what kind of hero isn't out there enough? What do we long for, but don't find on the racks?

Maybe there's plenty of tall, dark and dangerous already. Or can there ever be enough of tall, dark and dangerous? Is the world ready for shorter, lighter, and cuddlier?

Good Lord, I just described my fiance. Who would probably take serious exception to the "shorter" thing. He's six feet one. But his gorgeous prematurely-silver hair is certainly lighter and he is "cuddly" in spades. And does he give great back and shoulder rubs!