Any of you interested in the new books I’ve read and reviewed, follow the jump and see what I said about A Tale of Two Lovers by Maya Rodale.

I did enjoy the book as a whole.  Ms. Rodale has written a story and characters that are not caricatures of every other Regency hero and heroine.  I for one have never read one where the heroine teaches her friends the art of boxing in the front parlor after her husband has given her some pointers.

My day off was FAB-U-LOUS! I got a zillion errands run and still had time to sit down in a cafe and write out almost all of chapter twenty.

I also dropped the kids off at school, went to the bakery to order a birthday cake, took items back to Target and Walmart (ick!), went to the post office, the dry cleaners, the UPS store, the bank, and got the kids registered for summer camp – all by 10am.  I felt like the Marines only with better hair.

While I was at Target, I was delighted to find the latest Sookie Stackhouse book.  I knew it was coming out in May, but I thought it was at the end of the month.  I squealed, loudly.  Loudly enough for people to turn and stare.  Clearly, these people don’t know what they’re missing.  Also, and this is almost the best part, it was on sale – like 60% off. LA!

*****

The Bandit and I had another odd conversation in his bed this evening.  He wanted to know where the end of the rainbow was located.

“It moves all the time so you can never be sure.”

“Maybe if we ask a leprechaun.” Don’t you love how this seems completely reasonable to a six year old?

I was understandably skeptical. “I don’t know how much luck we’d have with that,” I told him.

“Why?”

“Well, leprechaun’s aren’t very nice.  They tell you the wrong directions and generally screw you up,” I told him.

“Why?” he asked again.

“I told you.  They’re not nice little people.”

“Maybe it’s because they always have to wear green.  That would make me mad.”

I shall file this information away under Good To Know.

Due to the largess of the enormous national company Ava and I are employed by, we get the next two days off.  Add those days to the weekend and we have four days off.  In. A. Row.

I don’t even know what to do with myself.

I do have a list as long as my arm of errands I need to take care of while I am kidless, but it’s really important to me to get a whole bunch of writing done, too.  I have no idea how I’m going to get everything done, but I’m sure going to try. If you need me, I’ll be holding down the fort at Starbucks or my favorite cafe.  For some reason, I can always concentrate there.

*****

Tonight I was sitting on the couch working on this blog and flipping channels. I paused on American Idol because the girl singing wasn’t half bad.  I stuck with it as the judges started their critique which I honestly can’t remember.  What I do remember is the fact that one of the judges mentioned she was fifteen and the fact that she was wearing three inch heels.  I had to call Kelli to see if I was way off base, but I think if Sassy toddled out to the living room at fifteen years old wearing heels like that, I would have a stroke. 

A stroke I tell you.

Admittedly, I was still very much a tomboy at fifteen and even up to my twenties.  I don’t think I even owned any high heels until I was into my twenties. 

It is true the girl was glammed up for American Idol and the television audience, but I see this at Target and the mall and all over the place – little girls as young as seven and eight wearing sandals with a chunky heel. 

Maybe I’m just that old and out of touch, but I want my little girl to be a little girl for as long as possible and that means not dressing like a grown up. 

What do you all think?  Am I hopelessly twentieth century?

The state I live in turns 100 on February 12, 2012 so the local newspaper has been reprinting news stories from 1912.  This one My Honey pointed out to me and we both found it delightfully amusing if only for the florid word choices.

April 28, 1912

Someone had got Dr. Crepin’s goat.  This was learned yesterday afternoon when several of his friends came into his office to view the elegant cut of mutton of which the doctor claimed he was the owner.

Yesterday doctor Crepin made a trip into the country, north of the town, to a farmer friend of his.  The genial rustic wished to show his appreciation for the doctor’s visit and accordingly killed a fine young goat, dressed it and gave it to the doctor on his departure.

Arriving in the city, the doctor divided the cut of mutton and presented Dr. Huffman with one half.  The other he carefully laid away in his office.  Proud of the possession of this fine meal to be, Dr. Crepin sallied forth upon street to meet his friends, five or six of whom he acquainted with the fact of his treasure.  He called them to his office to view the beautiful cuts and ribs.  But, lo, upon returning, he and the friends could find the meat nowhere.

The city physician sorely vexed put forth in haste to the police station and notified them of the theft.  He offered $10 for the thief dead or alive.

Back upon the main street again he bethought himself that he had invited several of his friends to a fine meal of mutton, for Sunday dinner.

Dejected and sore, he entered a butcher shop and there purchased “some fine mutton.” And this is what got the doctor’s goat.

Does anyone else find it alarming the doctor offered the reward “dead or alive” over the theft of meat?  I’m sorry he was “sorely vexed” but that seems a bit excessive coming from a physician.  But my favorite line is “sallied forth upon street.” Who says that?  And then, “but, lo, upon returning.” I ask you, who, besides me, talks like that?

It is always amusing to me to see how our language is constantly evolving.

The Bandit turns six tomorrow and, coincidentally, he lost his first tooth yesterday.  Of course, he tucked it under his

Bandit with an extra hole

 pillow so the tooth fairy would come.

Tonight as we were snuggling in his bed, I asked him about it.

“Did you see the Tooth Fairy last night?” I asked?

“No!” he squealed. 

“Did you feel her sneak your tooth out from under your pillow?”

“Nope,” he answered.

“Really?” I kept pushing cause he was giving me nothing to work with here.  “You really didn’t see her?”

“Nuh-uh,” he reaffirmed.

“What do you suppose she looks like?” I asked, expecting the typical fairy description. 

He answered right away.  “I think she looks just like your parents.”

“Really?” This alarmed me.  What did he know? “My parents or your parents?  Do you think the tooth fairy looks like Poppa with wings?”

“No, silly.” He giggled.  God, I love to hear him giggle.  “She looks like you and Daddy.”

“You think she looks like Daddy – with wings?” Now I giggle.  I’m imagining My Honey – all six feet plus of him – with wings and his goatee digging around under a Toy Story pillowcase for a chicklet sized tooth.  “Why do you think that?”

And here is where I discovered the genius that is my boy.  “Because if the kid wakes up and sees his parents he wouldn’t think anything of it.”

I’m quiet.  This is pretty good thinking.  He continued with his theory.  “See, if the kid wakes up then, poof, the fairy changes into your mom real quick and tells you to go back to sleep.”

I can totally work with this.  Genius, I tell you.

The Royal Wedding was the big thing last week.  You all know that unless you’ve been living in a vacuum.  The Sisters were completely sold on the idea.  Ava and her son even got up at the ungodly hour of 4am to watch.  I watched a replay while the kids and I got ready for work and school.  All of us agreed that Kate looked lovely in her dress, even if she did have on more makeup than necessary.  Her gown was dreamy and such a departure from Diana’s frothy nightmare.  William and Harry looked very handsome in their uniforms.  I thought the Queen looked like a tub of margarine in her head to toe yellow, and I still find Prince Charles and Camilla leave a nasty taste in my mouth.

But none of that was my favorite thing about watching the wedding.  Neither were the kisses on the balcony or their sweet ride in Will’s convertible.

By far, my favorite thing, and indeed it may rank up there in my list of all time favorite English things right there with Irish accents, David Beckham, Jane Austen, rolling green hills and sheep, is hats.  HATS!  Holy mother of God was there some outstanding head gear at that wedding.  I really wanna start wearing hats.

Let’s take a look, shall we.

This is my favorite by far.  It’s completely and totally insane – but fun, which is what I understand Beatrice is full of.  When I imagine wearing this hat, I see myself batting at imaginary bugs or dodging from imaginary birds because the shadows would fall on your face all day.  I’d forget I was wearing a hat and I’d give myself a black eye. 

This next one makes me worry that if there was a strong wind, she’d break her neck. And black, really?  It seems a bit dour for a royal spring wedding.

This one is especially delightful because she’s matched the feathers with her hair so you can’t be 100% sure where her hair ends and the insanity begins.  I love this.  Here in the US if you’re having a bad hair day, you don a boring old baseball cap.  Not in jolly old England apparently.  The Brits celebrate the bad hair by marrying it up with a chicken.

I love the way this lady is throwing a look over her shoulder that seems to say, “I know,  Crazy right?”  This hat is a good example of another odd thing about hats over there.  They all seem to sit on one side of the head or the other. At some point, don’t these ladies feel their necks tilting to the opposite side in order to compensate?  I worry about this.  Do you suppose it’s a conspiracy with the millinars and the chiropractors of Great Britan?

This one is the worst.  I don’t even find anything funny about it.  This is atrocious – blue on blue on blue on blue.  And she has a canoe on her head.  **shudder**

This final hat I totally want to own.  It’s crazy and big and red and flowery and fabulous.  Now this net crap she has wound all over herself, I don’t know about.  That just looks stupid.

For those of you interested in what I’ve thought of the last several romance Advance Reader Copies of I’ve read, I’ve

Alien in the Family by Gini Koch

Any Man of Mine by Rachel Gibson

posted reviews on my examiner.com column.

Check them out if it’s your cup of tea…..Earl Grey tea.  And scones.  MMMmmmmmmmm scones.

Off to get scones.  I’ll be back to post later.

Midnight's Wild Passion by Anna Campbell

Several other bloggeirs have had this on their sites already, but I had a bunch of stuff to tell you so I’m running behind.

I found this on MSNBC and nearly choked on my iced tea.

When “Goodnight Moon” just isn’t cutting it… one dad and novelist has written a bedtime story to warm the hearts of sleep-deprived parents everywhere.

When you click over to the story, you learn that although it’s written and illustrated like a children’s book, it’s really for adults.  Whatever – I love the sentiment.

“The cats nestle close to their kittens.
The lambs have laid down with the sheep.
You’re cozy and warm in your bed, my dear
Please go the f@#k to sleep.”

Hahahahahahaha!

I was at the mailbox when the informer discovered I was home.  

Sassy burst out the door and, from the front porch, yelled, “I’m not even going to tell you what Bandit is eating in the family room.  And. He’s. Naked.”

I know you think Sassy doesn’t really talk like that, but she does.  She’s very dramatic and she really works the emphasis.  And italics.  And exclamation points.  You can almost see all those things floating above her head in bubbles while she’s talking.

I looked around to see if the entire neighborhood heard her.  There was one pedestrian who tried not to make eye contact with me, but I can see his shoulders shaking so I know he was laughing.

“Get in the house,” I told her.  I grabbed the mail and stomped up the walkway.  Sassy continued to blab away, tattling on her brother with vigor that would suit a district attorney nabbing a mob boss.  I tried to ignore her, but she was ruthless.  She managed to stay in front of me the entire way, walking backwards and clicking off her brother’s sins on her fingers.

I feinted to the left and, when she fell for it, I dodged to the right and sidled past her in the front door.  I dropped my

I fear this could be The Bandit in 20 years

 purse, the mail, my keys, sunglasses and kindle on the kitchen table and strolled over to the door way to the family room.  Sure enough, there he was: stark naked, face, chest and hands covered in chocolate, melting Easter bunny grasped in his grubby paw.  But here was the best part.  Hold on to your hat.  He was astride a rocking horse, bouncing away and watching cartoons.  Clothes littered the floor.

I have no idea when our house turned into a locker room, but it has.  There are always clothes everywhere.

And don’t think The Bandit has this concept cornered.

Sassy got the slightest sunburn on Monday at her grandmother’s pool.  We’re talking the palest burn ever.  There was no discoloration of her skin to speak of, but the way she moaned about it, you’d think her skin was falling off.  Anyway, she walked around the house with no shirt on for two days. 

If I could have an eclair for every time I hollered at one of my children, “For the love of God, put some clothes on!” I’d be five hundred pounds.

Why can’t my children wear clothes?  At what age does my eight year old daughter’s modesty kick in?  Will my little boy ever stop flashing his willy to the world?

Please call before you come over unless you want a shocking surprise.  I’ll need at least ten minutes to get the heathens dressed and clean up the frat house.

“Did you get a call from the Headmaster today?” 

I should hang up the phone now and pretend I didn’t hear that.  “No,” I tell my husband.  “Why?” 

“Apparently your son was down there for spitting on people,” My Honey tells me.  The teacher told him all this when she caught up with My Honey as he was picking the kids up from aftercare.

I take in a huge, chest expanding breath and let it out slowly.  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope,” he continues, “This was the third time he’s spit on someone, too.”

Third?  How come this is the first time I’ve heard about it?  My Honey tells me of the other incidents and it only makes me more frustrated. “So what happened today?” I ask.

Apparently the class was standing in line for something and, according to the teacher who clearly didn’t see the incident from the beginning, he turned around and spit on someone for no reason.  I don’t believe that is true, but I hardly think my son is a saint, either.  I’ll admit there have been times in the history of civilization when spitting on someone has been warranted, however, there is no way The Bandit is going to convince me that anything the five year old in line behind him did or said qualifies as a spitting offense.  Spitting is reserved for Nazis and people who murder your family, not for line pushers.

This time the teacher wasted no time in hauling his butt to the HM’s office and depositing him there for further disciplinary action.

I immediately called the Headmaster.  He related the same story My Honey received from the teacher.  The HM also disclosed he wasn’t in his office when The Bandit arrived so my little boy had to sit on the bench of shame outside his office to wait for him.  You know the bench.  Every school had one.  That bench or hard wooden chair that, when you were seated upon it, meant you were in serious trouble and were just awaiting your fate.  When HM arrived, Bandit was sobbing and I guess it took some time for the boy to get control of himself before they could even talk.

“I don’t want you to think I’m mean,” I told HM, “but that’s good.  At least he had the impression he was in serious trouble.”  Not like the trouble he gets into with his teacher and, I guess, his parents.  “He’s a very difficult child to discipline,” I explained.  Nothing you do to him seems to have any effect.  My brother was just that way, too.  I felt somewhat better that Bandit comprehended the magnitude of his trouble. 

“What did you say to him in your interview so I am on the same page when I get home tonight?”  I asked.

“We discussed how he was never going to do that again,” HM told me in even, reasonable tones.  “He said the words I wanted to hear, that he wasn’t going to have a repeat of the behavior.” 

“And then you beat him?” I asked.

The HM laughed knowing I was kidding.  Sort of.

“No, we talked about how men never break their word.”

“And then you beat him?” I asked, again.

“No, Mrs. Bright,” he told me patiently.  “However, he understands if he breaks his promise, his word, then I will have to call his parents and we’ll all have to sit down and figure out what will happen to him then.”

No beating?

This is a parochial school.  When did they get all touchy-feely with the hippy discipline?  Where was the nun with the ruler?  HM’s don’t keep a ping pong paddle in their desk drawers anymore?  What the hell am I paying them for?

Of course, I’m kidding.  If that actually happened then I’d have to go down there and go all Mama-bear on their ass.  But still.

Now when I get home I have to come up with an appropriate, effective punishment, something sufficiently awful that the child second guesses ever spitting at someone again.  I, for one, do not wish to sit on the bench of shame waiting for the HM to come.