Julia Quinn – my favorite romance writer of all time and a Quill Sister’s favorite – posted a few of these on Facebook and they tickled the hell out of me.  I’ll post ’em periodically. 

This was one of my favorites – from www.betterbooktitles.com.

They made me go up to the snow today.  I don’t know why they continue to make me go outside.  They know I don’t like outside.  Unless there are rides to get to like at Disneyland, I’m not really interested in outside.  An outside shopping mall is really the outer limits of what I’m looking for when I go outside.

I think snow is gorgeous.  Up there.  On the mountain.  Well away from me. It’s also very pretty on TV and in the movies.  Movies like Dr. Zivago that I can watch on the sofa in my climate controlled home.

I do not like it in my shoes.  I do not like it in my pants.  I sound a bit like a Dr. Seuss book, huh?  I do not like it, SamIAm.

But they make me go to the snow just like they make me go camping.  I’m here to tell you, the first time they try to make me go camping in the snow – I’m out.  I don’t care what kind of guilt they try to pull.  That is just way too much to ask of me.  Camping in the snow.  Shit – that sounds like the 9th level of hell – if hell was freezing, freaking cold.

Today wasn’t so bad.  The only reason was my dad was with us.  He’s none to steady since his stroke so I remained the dutiful daughter and stayed very close.  And then he bought me cocoa.  Daddy’s are good. 

Just to recap: Snow = bad.  Daddy & cocoa = good.

Here’s the best part, though.  Sassy was absurdly enthusiastic about going to play in the snow.  By the end of the day, she was damn near hysterical with cold feet and  wet, freezing pants.  I kept whispering in her ear, “See, this is why I don’t like the snow.” 

I may have pulled her over to the dark side.  But it’s warm over here.

Today is an example of how much the world can go horrifically wrong. 

You get up, you go to the grocery store to get some milk, you see your friend, a United States Representative is meeting with constituents, and you stop by to say hello.

And then it’s all over.

You win a seat on your school student counsel and are thilled to meet a real life role model and to tell her how excited you are to begin your political career.

And the rest of us are left to wonder what the hell happened.  We’re frightened.  We’re angry.  We’re confused.  I can’t get over that this atrocity happened in my town.  I am filled with such sorrow for the families.  I don’t know what to tell my children.    I’ve been glued to the television all day trying to keep hold of my emotions.

The true sadness – at least for me – is that I suspect nothing will change.

What a world.

Being a mommy can really mess with your mind.  Is thinking these pictures are hysterical wrong?

hahahahahahaahahahahahaha

Sexy Woody

Oh dear God.  I fully expect a Cease and Desist Order to come from Pixar at any moment.

A Good Historical Romance needs Good History

The second book in my historical romance trilogy – A Prince of Norway – continues the story of Nicolas and Sydney Hansen, which begins in 1820 in the Missouri Territory and travels to Norway and back.

Most of us Americans don’t realize that Norway was under the control of Denmark for centuries: from the late 1300s until 1814. And in order to understand the period of Norwegian history that A Prince of Norway deals with, we must take a brief look at Napoleon.

At one time, Napoleon Bonaparte dominated Europe, defeating Austria, Britain, Russia and Prussia. Suffice to say, the little dude grabbed a lot of power. 

But Napoleon made mistakes. Big ones. Long story shortened: by the end of 1812 Napoleon had destroyed (as in frozen and starved) most of his own army. When the British invaded France in 1814 and Paris surrendered without a fight, Napoleon abdicated as Emperor of France, and hid out on an island.

Now back to Norway.

After Napoleon’s defeat in 1814, the Danish Prince, Christian Frederick, convened the National Assembly in Norway, where he was elected as King. But Austria, Britain, Russia and Prussia all refused to accept this attempt by Norway to become independent, with the Danish prince as their new king. 

Furthermore, the Treaty of Kiel stated that Denmark – because they sided with the defeated Napoleon – must cede Norway to Sweden. Following a brief show of strength by Sweden, King Christian Frederick caved, renounced all claims to Norway’s throne, and fled the country. 

Norway’s Storting (Parliament) reluctantly accepted the shift of control to Sweden. But the new alliance never sat well with Norway – the seeds of independence had been sown.

When I created the setting for A Prince of Norway I backed up a couple of generations to King Christian VI. His son, Frederick V had seventeen children by 2 wives and a mistress – and one short-lived sister. So I gave Frederick a stronger, fictional sister.

My Marit Christiansen married and escaped her brother’s lifestyle by emigrating to the New World. Settled in Philadelphia, she birthed a daughter, the princess Kirsten Sven. Kirsten’s life was saved during the Revolutionary War by a handsome American soldier of Norse heritage – Reidar Magnus Hansen.

These are Nicolas’s parents.

Now we have an unbroken link from the Kings Christian VI and Frederick V to Nicolas. And – thanks to his father – a purely Norse bloodline.

Before I could see which of the seventeen descendents of King Frederick might be involved in the 1814 switch of regents, they needed to be charted, tracked, and fictionalized if they fell off the radar, which almost all of then did. That was fun. (And the family tree is posted on my website: http://www.kristualla.com/)

So in 1818, the oldest and most powerful of these fictionalized descendents sent Nicolas a letter, strongly requesting that he return to Norway (he went there in 1806 at age 19). They wanted one of two things from him: either actively candidate for a reclaimed throne, or sign over his 10,000 acres and his title as Greve (Count) to their cause.

The times being what they were, the letter didn’t reach him until 1820, at which point he had remarried and had a second child.

So. Is it time you found a new brand of hero? Please allow me to help.

For every 10 people who comment here, I will give away one free e-copy of A Woman of Choice – the beginning of the trilogy. And, yes. Commenter #11 warrants 2 copies! Comment #21? I’ll give away three.

BUT WAIT! THERE’S MORE!

 In February at the end of my blog tour, I’ll give away one SIGNED PAPERBACK SET of the trilogy. Here’s how you can get in on that deal:

1. Go to http://www.kristualla.com/ and find the “Secret Word” on my home page.

2. Send an email to ktualla@cox.net with “Signed Trilogy Giveaway” in the subject line. Put the secret word in the body.

3. Comment on any blog at any time in the tour to activate your entry. Each day’s blog location is listed at http://kristualla.wordpress.com/blog-tour-dates-locations/

A Woman of Choice, A Prince of Norway, and A Matter of Principle are all available at http://www.goodnightpublishing.com/

A Woman of Choice – Missouri Territory, 1819

A woman is viciously betrayed and abandoned by her unfaithful husband. She is rescued by a widower uninterested in love. In desperation, she becomes engaged to his best friend. One woman, three very different men. Life is about choices.

A Prince of Norway – Christiania, Norway, 1820

American-born Nicolas Hansen has been asked to candidate for his great-grandfather’s throne. His new wife Sydney isn’t about to let him go to Norway and face that possibility alone. The moment they arrive at Akershus Castle, the political intrigue and maneuvering begin. Can Sydney trust anyone? Will Nicolas resist the seduction of power? Or will he claim the throne for himself? Most importantly: will their young marriage survive the malicious mischief of the ambitious royal family?

A Matter of Principle – St. Louis, State of Missouri, 1821

Nicolas Hansen has returned from Norway determined to change the world. But when he runs for State Legislator in the brand-new state of Missouri, the enemies he made over the past two years aren’t about to step quietly aside. Sydney has made enemies of her own, both by marrying Nicolas and by practicing midwifery. When a newspaper reporter makes it his goal to destroy them, Nicolas must rethink his path once again. But this time, it’s a matter of principle.

Right at this very minute, I’m burning sandlewood incense, drinking hot vanilla and cherry tea out of my Keep Calm and Carry On mug, and eating gummy bears out of my great grandmothers Havilland Limoges bowl.  None of the rest of my day was this nice.

It all started the minute I woke up – at 7:20.  I ought to be used to it by now.  I never, never, never get up on time.  Ever. 

“Everybody up!” I holler.  Sassy, who was in my bed flies out from under the covers with me.  She claims she’s with me because she had a nightmare.  That’s a moot point.  She’s always in my bed when I wake up.

“It’s all my fault, I didn’t hear my alarm,” she moans. 

Guilt is a tasty breakfast, let me tell you.  

I assure her it’s not her fault and that she’s not responsible for waking up her mother.  The Bandit isn’t as easy.  He takes a lot of coaxing.  I do this from inside the shower.  It’s not the best plan but it works for us.  Sort of.

While I’m in the shower, something I would have forgone due to the late time except that I didn’t wash my hair yesterday and, seriously, one extra day is the limit, I come up with the outfit of the day.  I build the entire thing around the shoes.  The boots tie the whole thing together.

I get dressed.  Sassy gets dressed.  The Bandit whines and finally gets dressed.  I give my hair a rudimentary blow dry, shove a barrette in it, and toss all my makeup in a bag to put on when I get to work.  I send up thanks to the God of Snooze Bars that I had the foresight to pack the kid’s lunches at 1:00 the night before. 

I yank on socks as I head down the hall to make breakfast.  No Pop Tarts.  No Danishes.  I make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and try to make it sound like a treat.  I listen to complaining while I pull up the boots – lovely knee-high,  black-leather with heels.  And the zipper breaks.  I have no time to mourn.  I also have no time to change outfits to go with new shoes.  I grab the first pair I can find and shove me feet into them.  My outfit is no longer cute – merely serviceable. 

I’m trying to push the children out the door, and Bandit whines, “I’m thirsty, Mommy.”  What can I say?  I’m the one who made him eat peanut butter for breakfast.  I trot over to the fridge, shove a plastic take-home cup into the water dispenser, and get doused with water.  Deep sigh.  Ugly shoes, wet sweater.

On the mad dash to school, “we’ve got eight minutes, guys!”, Sassy asks if I remembered to clean up the dog puke.  Did I forget to mention the dog puke.  And yes, I forgot to clean it up.  

I got the kids to school before the bell rang – miracle of miracles – they do go to an Episcopalian school after all (if only I believed!)  On the trek back to the car, I leave My Honey a very, VERY apologetic voice mail about the dog puke.

Ava refused to accept my resignation.  Again. 

I attended a 2 1/2 hour meeting during which I received an email on my phone from MY AGENT regarding a battle we are waging – it’s not going smoothly and now we’re ready to pull on the hip waders and slog into the shit.  I spent several hours this evening not writing but instead emailing my national and local representation and finding a local intellectual property attorney.  MY AGENT has valiantly duked it out and now we need a bigger gun.  Unbelievable.

All of that sounds like crap, right?  But wait.  There’s more!

After all that emailing was done, I went into the living room to tell My Honey what I’d found.  He was seated on the sofa using my lap top because his computer imploded two days ago.  I positioned myself near the arm of the sofa, not somewhere I have probably ever stood before, or at least not for any measurable amount of time.

I looked up and I noticed a huge, black circle on the curtain.  I pulled it away from the wall and noticed there’s black on the wall and on the back of the couch.  It appeared scorched.  It actually looked as if something was smoldering against the curtain, sofa and wall.  I started to freak out a little thinking of how horrifyingly close we could have come to losing everything.  I don’t want to even think about the danger for the children – but all our stuff.  Gone.

My Honey, with a slightly cooler head, was trying to figure out what electrical item could have been positioned there to cause such damage.  While he was trying to pull the furniture away from the wall, I began inspecting the drapery a bit closer.  It totally looked charred.  However, it didn’t have a smell, which I thought was odd.  I expected a burnt smell.  I rubbed the wall and the blackness seemed to give way a bit.  I smelled the couch and  the wall.  Nothing.  It sure does look burned though.  I scratched at the curtain but no part of the blackened material budged.  My Honey licked his finger and rubbed it on the black circle on the wall and a swipe of white showed through.

I cocked my eyebrow at him, and very tentatively, VERY TENTATIVELY, touched my tongue to the drapery.

Who wants to guess what it was?  Anyone?

Chocolate pudding.

I keep getting locked out.  I don’t know what’s happening in the universe, but it’s starting to give me a complex.

Several times over the Christmas break, I was locked out of the house. 

**Why aren’t Sassy and The Bandit in their showers yet?  Give me just a minute.

One weekday it happened when the children were sitting on the couch watching the Disney Channel next to the front door and their daddy was still asleep.  I knocked on the door.  And knocked again.  And then banged on the front door.  The whole while I can hear Mickey Mouse at a volume that will surely make my children deaf.

Sorry – I had to pause in my story again because a completely naked Bandit just ran through the living room with Idiot Dog in pursuit.  I notice the boy is distinctly NOT wet.  Now there’s a naked girl in here, too.  Oh for crying out loud.

I’m back.  Anyway, I started knocking on the window directly behind their heads.  Nothing.  Not even a curious nose from the dog. 

Hold on…I hear an awful lot of noise coming from the bathroom and none of it sounds like running water.

What were we talking about?  Oh yeah – so I bang on the window and yell with my mouth next to the window frame….

Oh, dammit.  I’ll be right back.  Now there’s crying coming from in there.  Deep sigh.

….and still no one answers.  I was out there in the freezing cold for ten minutes trying to attract some attention besides that of the neighbors…

LISTEN YOU TWO – IF I HAVE TO COME IN THERE ONE MORE TIME SOME LITTLE PEOPLE ARE GOING TO BE VERY SORRY.

Finally, I got their attention…

No, you have to use soap.  You know what soap is right?  Wait, the dog has something he shouldn’t.  I can tell because he’s slinking around crying.  He only does that when he’s stolen food.

I was locked out twice last week at work when I left to…..

For God’s sake Bandit, use a towel.  Wait a sec – I have to go get the mop.

Um… oh yeah…I left my desk to go to the bathroom.  It’s not a big deal….

Now Daddy is hollering down the hall and I hear sniveling.  I HOPE TO GOD I DON’T WALK IN THERE AND FIND TOWELS ON THE FLOOR.

What were we talking about?  Oh forget it.

This is one of my all time favorite quotes:

The reason for this whole trip down nostalgia road was because I also saw every single Marx Brothers movie at theTemple.  Every one.  I’ve never been a fan of The Three Stooges.  I don’t think I have the correct chromosomes to appreciate Larry, Moe, Curly and Shemp.  But I do appreciate the Marx Brothers.  The verbal gymnastics of Groucho, the blithe sarcasm of Chico and the charming clowning of Harpo guarantee a great time.

The next time you see one on AMC or Turner Classic Movies – do yourself a favor and take a seat on the sofa and enjoy it.  You’ll actually have to pay attention because Groucho is quick and if you blink you’ll miss something fantastic.

A New Years toast to love and laughter
and happily ever after