I found this on line today and I love it.  This is the sort of stuff I gravitate to.  I love lists.

This list praises the best voices in Hollywood.  What I really like is they didn’t pick the most obvious people.  I mean really, if you can’t recognize James Earl Jones or Morgan Freeman then you’ve been living in a vacuum.  Instead, this list chooses less likely, but no less known, voices.  See if you don’t agree.

The Oracle

“This is the old sage, the gentle authoritarian, the kung fu master, the wise grandfather or God.  He can boom omnisciently when he needs to but generally he gives off solid comfort and warmth.”  The list makers chose Liam Neeson as the forerunner saying, “His vocal performances offers the perfect combination of warm, Jesus-like assurance and moral certainty with the power to roar if the forces of evil rise.”  They also included James Earl Jones and Morgan Freeman, Patrick Stewart and Anthony Hopkins in this list.

The Man’s Man

“He’s confident, traditionally masculine and his voice is there to remind you that he’s got it all under control.  It scratches but doesn’t growl.  He doesn’t have to yell, but he can menace you easily just by getting a little stern and maybe dropping a register.”  This one they give to George Clooney.  As far as I’m concerned, they can give anything they want to Clooney .  I’m available after Saturday night.  They also include Edward James Olmos, Sean Connery, Alex Baldwin and Patrick Warburton (!!).  Any list that includes Warburton is good by me. 

The Ruler of the Manor

This voice is precise.  It is correct.  It is to be respected.  It’s the reason you want chocolate-covered biscuits with your afternoon tea.  This one is Judi Dench.  And man, do I love Dench. (Maybe we can get Kelli to tell us of the flight she took sitting next to Dame Judi.)  I love their description of her: Dench is masterful in this regard.  If something is “just not done,” she will tell you about it first with a glance, then by clearing her throat and, finally, because you are too dense to have noticed the first and second warning, she will speak.  And you will change your ways.  Also listed, Alan Rickman, Maggie Smith, Ian McKellen, Emma Thompson, all British actors of a certain age.

The Chicken Fried Steak with Biscuits

This voice is like the Man’s Man but Southern.  It’s a touch voice to pull off when the actor isn’t genuinely from the southern half of the country.  This one goes, without a doubt, to Sam Elliott.  And how!  Only he’s from Sacramento and raised in the Pacific Northwest.  But his register is so low and smooth.  “You laugh in that man’s face and he’s likely to pull out a shotgun he’s managed to hid somewhere on his body.”

The Funny Wierdo

It’s a gruff growl that no one is scared of, a comically grumpy woodland creature with a thorn in its paw.  Seth Rogan matches this exactly.  As does Paul Reubens, Christopher Walken & Wanda Sykes.

The Temptress

She’s sheer sex, and she sounds like bourbon-soaked cashmere.  She might have a husky smoker’s throat, or a “Maxim” cover babydoll pout, she might be a wealthy socialite having an affair with the gardener or she might be a straight-up scary maneater.  But she’s getting what she wants and you know it just by the way she asks you to pass the salt.  This was rests with Scarlett Johansson.  Also included, Angelina Jolie, Megan Fox, Tilda Swinton and Helen Mirren – just to prove you don’t have to be twenty years old to have that voice.

Tonight I’m totally going to cheat.  I can’t say I found this essay, Kelli did, but I couldn’t say it any better.  Kelli found it on Anna Campbell’s site who I’m guessing got it from the source.

I’m a fan of Teresa Medeiros.  I’ve read a lot of her work. 

So in case you ever wondered, here’s why:

SAY IT LOUD AND SAY IT PROUD: I READ AND WRITE ROMANCE!

I could spend hours sharing all of my passionate arguments on the benefits of both reading and writing romance. I could quote more market statistics. I could quote psychologists. I could quote Jayne Ann Krentz and remind you of the positive, life-affirming values inherent in all romances: the celebration of female power, courage, intelligence, and gentleness; the inversion of the power structure of a patriarchal society; the psychological benefits of spending time with authors who have a positive world view.

But to be honest I’m a little sick of defending “romance” as a genre to people too obsessed with its sexual content to attempt to understand its emotional content. So if any of you are ever leered at, sneered at, or otherwise degraded for writing or reading romance, simply blink and gently say (really quickly), “What the romance novel is really all about is the archetypal human struggle of integrating the masculine and feminine aspects of our psyches.” I can promise you that nothing will shut them up faster.

People often ask me why I write romance. I write romance because the ever expanding boundaries of the genre allow me to express my own heartfelt beliefs in optimism, faith, honor, chivalry and the timeless power of love to provoke a happy ending. In a society gutted by cynicism, we have found the courage to stand up and proclaim that hope isn’t corny, love isn’t an antiquated fantasy, and dreams can come true for women still willing to strive for them.

Probably the most subversive thing we dare to do is to make the woman the hero of her own story. And to realize exactly how subversive that is, I want each of you to honestly ask yourselves if the marvelous J.K. Rowling would have been such an international success if her first book had been titled, HARRIET POTTER AND THE SORCERER’S STONE. Traditionally, in our mainstream patriarchal society, it’s been the male character who is allowed to go on all the thrilling physical and emotional quests. Oh, he might have a female sidekick like the delightful Hermione Granger in HARRY POTTER, but she is rarely allowed to overstep her role as confidante and facilitator of his self-discovery. In a romance, the heroine acts as narrator of her own story as well as driving the various plotlines that fuel that story.

Our heroines don’t just “stand by their men”, they “stand up to them.” And guess what—their men love it! We celebrate both a woman’s softness and her strength and introduce her to a man capable of recognizing the value of both. Is it any wonder that both she and our readers fall in love with him?

I write romance because a young woman in Portugal named Lourdes Goulart was praying that my next book would come out before the cancer that was ravaging her body claimed her life. Even though chemotherapy had weakened her eyesight to the point of blindness, she sent me a beautiful and painstaking cross-stitch she’d done of a windmill she could see through the window from her bed. Six months ago, I received word from her sister, Rosa, that Lourdes had died. She started my new book the day before she entered the hospital for the last time, but didn’t want to read past the first page for fear of being interrupted.

I write romance because of a call I recently received from a friend who attended nursing school with me. She’d just undergone a total hysterectomy. She described how depressed and emotionally empty she’d felt after the surgery and its numerous complications. She told me that reading my latest book pulled her out of her depression and even restored the sexual desire for her husband that she had feared she would never feel again.

I write romance because of an e-mail I recently received from a 54-year old incest survivor. Instead of blaming her father for the terrible thing he had done to her, she had always blamed her mother for letting him do it. Because my hero in A KISS TO REMEMBER found the grace in his soul to forgive his mother for a similar act, this woman decided, after nursing her bitterness for 50 years, to forgive her mother before she passed away from Alzheimer’s Disease.

I’d like to share one more brief story with you:

They met in 1957 when he was twenty-two and she was eighteen. He was a skinny, handsome G.I. with a motorcycle and a devilish twinkle in his eye. She was his sister’s best friend. She was beautiful, smart, and funny. He was in love.

They married in 1959 and three years later, while she was pregnant with what was to be their first and only child, he was transferred to Heidelburg, Germany. They lived over a bakery run by a jovial German couple named “Momma and Poppa Hartman.” On weekends, they would climb into his convertible MG without so much as a change of underwear and go racing through the countryside to explore the castles of Germany and Austria.

The child was born in 1962. His first indication that something was wrong was when he came home from work one day to discover that his wife had given away all the furniture. Luckily, a kind-hearted neighbor had taken it in and stored it in her apartment. His beautiful young wife lost weight and stopped sleeping. Her speech was rapid and slurred. At times, she even seemed to forget that she had given birth to a baby. He had no choice but to seek professional help.

The doctors informed him that his wife was suffering from a severe form of mental illness. It would be well over a decade before that illness was correctly diagnosed as Bipolar disorder or manic-depressive illness.

He went driving along the river that dark, rainy night at nearly a hundred miles an hour–a 26 year old soldier in a foreign country with a brand new baby and a wife facing a lifetime of torturous illness and uncertainty. He had a choice to make. He could shuffle his baby off to be raised by relatives and abandon his wife to the care of a German mental institution. He could drive into that river and let all of his decisions be made for him. Or he could choose to live and fight for his family.

My parents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary this year. Because my dad meant it when he said, “for better or worse; in sickness and in health,” I enjoyed a relatively stable, happy childhood and my mom’s hospitalizations were kept to a minimum. My father’s love is as unwavering and unconditional today as it was fifty-one years ago. Although my mother is now suffering from a rare and terminal brain disorder that has resulted in severe dementia, when my father visits her in the nursing home every other day, he still sees that beautiful, brilliant girl who won his heart all those years ago.

So when people ask me, “Why do you write romance?”, I can only reply, “How could I not?”

I have an application in my phone so I can keep notes to myself.  It seems like a great idea.  Story ideas come to me all the time, but the problem is, they’re just notes, disjointed mini sentences with no syntax.  When one is trying to jot down epiphanies at a stop light, one must be brief. Then hours or days later, I have no idea what they could possibly mean.  Let me give you some examples.

• Must have the only dog with thumbs    Clearly there was an Idiot Dog story attached to that but I can’t for the life of me remember what.
• Marshmallow bathroom rules  I suspect this one was a doozy. 
  

  Maybe it was about him? Anything's possible

  How weird must my life be if I can write a sentence that bizarre and then have absolutely no recognition of what it means? 

Unbelievably, I can remember that Greek Monsters refers to a conversation I had with my nephew about books I bought him for Christmas.  He’s nine and I thought he’d really enjoy the Percy Jackson & The Olympians series and I was right.  I bought him #1 & 2 in the series.  He commented that there were a lot of cool monsters in the books, and I told him he hadn’t seen anything yet.  I assured him there were scads of awesome Greek monsters yet to discover.  If there was one thing those crazy Greeks could do, it was create mindbending monsters.  “Cool!” he replied. 

Though this is super cool, I doubt it's what he has in mind.

I also can remember what this means: Cardboard Box Furniture.  One day The Bandit told me he’d like me to bring home any big cardboard boxes that happen to come into my work.

“Why?” I asked.

“Cause I’d like to make some new furniture with ’em,” he told me.

Deep sigh.  My house is so ridiculously cluttered you practically have to walk sideways around the dining table to get into the kitchen.  I’m not talking about cluttered like those lunatics on A&E’s Hoarders.  Have you ever watched that show?  Dear Lord, that show is the proverbial train wreck you can’t look away from.  You have never seen anything like it.  At first you can’t believe it, but every week there is a weirder, more deeply troubled individual who’s home is mind bogglingly filthy with garbage and junk and animals and you can’t stop watching.  It’s horrible.

That is not my house.  I assure you.  You still can’t come over for me to prove it to you because it’s a disaster of a different kind brought on by a seriously overworked Mom, an exhausted Dad, two hyperactive kids and a completely insane dog.

All we need to make it whole is cardboard furniture and marshmallows in the bathrooms.

Last week The Bandit came home with a note from the kindergarten teacher.  I don’t know what the class was studying, but the kids were asked to bring in a family heirloom to discuss with the class.

A family heirloom.  With my five year old. 

I don’t think so.

My Honey and I puzzled over what to send.  Obviously I wasn’t sending him with any of my great grandmother’s china or her wedding ring.  His father wasn’t excited about our son leaving the house with any paintings or Indian sculptures either.

A family heirloom?  The dictionary definition: something of special value handed on from one generation to another.  Can you imagine sending anything of that description with a five year old to his kindergarten class?

Whatever it was that we sent with the boy, we fervently hoped it would return whole and in very similar condition in which it left this house.  I wandered past the glassed in bookshelves and dismissed that idea out of hand.  I wouldn’t send a paperback much less one of those books.  Obviously no antique guns were going.  While the teacher might appreciate it, I didn’t think the kids would understand antique lace or or gold watches.

Pop and two big fish

Finally, we decided on this.  I wrapped it in bubble wrap and gave instructions for its care. 

This is a picture of The Bandit’s great grandfather and his namesake.  Bandit was thrilled when I explained who it was and the relationship with their names.  He was a big hit.  Some of that may have had to do with the fish.

What was the best part in Bandit’s opinion?  After they’d sat in their circle and discussed each item, the kids were sent back to their desks and told to draw a picture of their item.

“My picture was already done!” he said in triumph.  That’s my boy, always looking for a way around the work.

On Saturday evening, we attended a fancy dinner in honor of three family birthdays this month: my mom-in-law, my brother-in-law and My Honey turning 65,45 & 40 respectively.  Those of you doing the math, yes I’m older than my husband.  Thanks very much for bringing it up.  It’s one of Sassy’s favorite subjects.  You’d think I’d have a fairly tough scab on that wound, but no.  Let’s move on, shall we?

We had dinner reservations at a very toney restaurant in town, one of My Honey and my favorites.  We were able, at the last minut,e to pawn my kids off on my brother which left him with my two kids, his own two kids, my father and 87 dogs.  Basically, I slowed down at his door, shoved the kids and their teddy bears out of the car, and sped away.  

We all got dressed up.  My Honey wore his suit and looked very James Bond.  I wore the treacherous shoes from Kelli’s birthday two years ago, without incident this year.  All five of us looked lovely.  We showed up at the restaurant about fifteen minutes before our reservation.  The Maitre d suggested we wait in the bar.  This had been our plan all along so we readily settled ourselves on the cushy  leather bar stools, ordered a lovely bottle of chilled white wine, and enjoyed the jazz/flamenco four piece band.  We were all in fine moods so we weren’t too upset when our reservation time came and went.

After it had been at least twenty minutes past our appointed time, the Maitre d came in and told us it would be a bit longer.

“So the reservation time we make is merely a suggestion of when we’d like to eat?” I asked.  He no ma’amed me and headed to the door.

He came again in ten more minutes with the same news.  He told the bar to comp us another bottle of wine.  At the forty minute mark he appeared to tell us about a potential table.  This table he was inordinately excited about was in the “Murphy Room”, clearly a name he’d just made up in order to entice us to take the inferior table. 

“So we made our reservations for 7:45 and requested a table with a view (almost all the tables in the restaurant have a view of either the city lights or the mountains) and you offer us a tiny room with a view of the drywall?” My tone was dry, my smile fake.

I’d like to mention I was on my fourth glass of wine.  My mom-in-law reiterated it was a special occasion and the maitre d strode back up front, his step a little less assured than before.

Unbelievably, we were still in a good mood and were laughing about our circumstances.  I have no idea how this was possible as we were all starving and now drunk, but we jovially giggled and teased the bartender.

The Maitre D did not fare so well when he returned with another suggestion.  This time, filled with false bravado, he suggested the chef’s table.  Normally this is a table in the kitchen where the chef serves you directly and makes sample dishes and such.  This is an honor I would have jumped at had we been in Gordon Ramsey’s restaurant or Emeril’s or Wolfgang’s.  We were not. 

“Look,” I told him with extreme patience, “I am not paying forty dollars a plate to sit at the counter at Denny’s.”

Michael spat wine out his nose.  Our poor little Maitre ‘d scurried back up to the safety of his podium.

We were finally seated an hour an a half past our reservation.  We were comped another bottle of wine and a round of appetisers.  Dinner was wonderful and there was a lot of sucking up from the waitstaff – as it should be.

I’ve got a handle on the local Maitre ‘ds.  I don’t pretend I could handle a big city one like New York or **gasp** Paris, but one of these days maybe I’ll get a shot at it.

Like Ava says, why have kids if you can’t mess with ’em.

The theme song from Indiana Jones alerted me to the phone call while I was at work.  I was surprised to see the caller ID show one of The Bandit’s friend’s Mom.  I was even more surprised when she told me why she was calling.  In fact, I think she might be insane.  Or horribly naive.  Or totally delusional.

She invited The Bandit to spend the night with her son.  I blinked several times and said nothing, but then came to my senses and readily agreed.  And then she told me the rest of it.  She was going to sell the boys to gypsies.  Oh, I wish, and she may by the time this story ends.  She’s also inviting two other boys to spend the night.  That’s four five-year-old boys.  Together.  For like fifteen hours.

Does it terrify you more when I tell you this merry band of boys is the entire membership of the famed Four Toddlers of the Apocalypse?

I offered to bring Vodka with the boy’s sleeping bag.  She’s under the impression that everything will be fine.  I don’t think she’s thought this thing through.  I, on the other hand, have.  Along with his sleeping bag and clean jammies, I giving her his medical insurance card and fifty bucks for a copay.  I plan to leave the state.

So I’m telling all of this to Kelli and I keep hearing crackling and other assorted muffled noises over the phone. 

“I just ate a sleeve of Girl Scout cookies,” she finally confessed.

“Oh, yeah.  I still need to get some of those,” I told her.  She’s the co-leader of her charming six year-old’s Daisy troop.  I don’t remember Daisies but apparently they come before Brownies which supersede the actual Girl Scouts.  Since Kelli’s semi-in charge, she runs around with a trunk load of cookies like some sort of suburban drug dealer.  Unfortunately, she’s broken the cardinal rule of drug dealing: she started using her own stash. Don’t I sound urban?  I’ve watched Scarface and Miami Vice.  I’ve got the lingo down.

One of the Mommies at her daughter’s school mentioned she needed cookies.  “Do you have any more?” she innocently asked Kelli.

“Maybe.”  Kelli was cagey.  “What kind do you want?”

“What kind do you have?” the Mommy innocently asked.

“What kind do you want?” Kelli asked again, giving nothing away.

“Thin Mints?” the Mommy suggested, tossing out everyone’s favorite.

“Nope.”  Kelli was quick to answer.  Her words clipped and unfriendly.  “I don’t have any of those.”

“Really.  How about Samoas?”  the woman mentioned another popular cookie.

“Na-huh.”  Kelli shook her head.  “None of those.  And no Tag-a-longs either.  Peanut butter has been real popular.”

The woman looked perplexed.  “I thought you were a cookie mom.”

“I am.  There’s Shortbread.”  Kelli was willing to part with the Shortbread ones.

Another Mom arrived on the scene who claimed to have multiple varieties in her Lexus minivan.  She was also uber-thin.  Certainly Kelli hated her on the spot.  But most importantly, her stash was safe.

So you know how I’ve been writing angsty emails about children’s birthday parties?  I’ve mentioned several places by name, one of them more than once.  Well, I’d not given  it any more thought since the last birthday ended in a non-event.

Today I signed on to write you an absolutely hysterical blog that involves The Bandit, The Four Toddlers of The Apocalypse, a sleep over, girl scout cookies and my obsessive compulsive issues with M&Ms.  I’ll write it up tomorrow.  You can keep that little preview to sustain you until then. 

Instead, when I logged in I saw that I had a comment that needed to be moderated.  I fully expected to find either a comment written solely in Russian, or a penis enhancement drug pitch, or some other obnoxious bit of spam.  None of those is what was awaiting me. 

There was a comment from Peter Piper Pizza.  Gulp. 

Hi Amylynn,

We came across your blog and wanted to chime in.

It is important to us that all Peter Piper Pizza customers leave our restaurants feeling like they had a positive experience. We also pride ourselves on being a family-friendly establishment and are honored that so many families choose to have their children’s birthday celebrations with us. Any suggestions you have for improvements are welcome, and we invite you to give the store manager a call to share your feedback.

Thank you for your business Amylynn, and we hope that we will see you again in the future.

So why do I feel guilty?  Every word I said was true.  All right, perhaps there were some enhancements and poetic license. I am a writer after all. That’s what I do, but the spirit of my posts were true. Ask any parent.

So now I’m at a crossroads. Do I bother to reply and think they really give a damn what I have to say?  What would I tell them anyway?  That I’m a budding curmudgeon?  That I’m a hypocrite because both of my children have had parties at Peter Piper, but that I completely cringe every time I get an invitation? 

And here’s another thing.  Why can’t Sprint ask me for my opinion?  Or my bank?  Or the cable company?  Especially Sprint.  I’ve been fairly vocal on these pages about my loathing of Sprint but I get bupkiss in return.

I’m going to have to mull this over.  And I’ll try not to let the power go to my head – but don’t be surprised if I grow a Snidley Whiplash mustache over night.

“There cannot be a crisis next week.  My schedule is already full.”   Henry Kissinger, American diplomat and political scientist.

I totally feel like this.  I don’t currently have a crisis to deal with like so many Mr. Kissinger managed, but I am definitely all full up. 

Another good quote:

“I’m not exactly a tiny woman.  When Sophia Loren is naked, this is a lot of nakedness.”   Sophia Loren, mondo movie celebrity.

Yeah.  Look at this picture.  She was huge.  If I starve myself until June, maybe I’d be this huge.