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  • Oh, No, Not Again.

    LTSnowNo absorbing Vitamin D today. The weather is bleak and dreary, with a scattering of rain overlaying already densely packed,  heavy, WET, snow. Great for making snowmen and for putting out the backs of those shoveling.

    That would be me.

    Last year, after living in this house for twenty-odd years, we finally broke down and brought a snow-blower home from a Big-Box store. It’s earned the investment and then some. A few miles from the Atlantic and with a brackish river running through it, the town is subject to both ocean effect and lengthy power outages. The last storm produced the most snow in the state. A reporter for Boston News lives behind us and she was broadcasting from her roving TV van, yardstick in hand, measuring as the inches piled up.

    Not a contest I ever wanted to see the town win.

    Hopefully, the blower will keep us out of traction,  but it can’t climb terraced stairs to the front door. That’s where I come in. While DH blows, I lift and throw the white stuff. There I am in the front yard by my little girl fountain. Those poor battered bushes are boxwood. I should  burlap them so they’ll retain their shape. Covering them will also help reduce breakage and winterkill. Obviously, I don’t do that.

    We have plans to see American Idiot this weekend at the Boston Opera House. And another storm is moving in.

    I’ll keep you advised.

  • SEX STINGS on sale

    sexstingsBoston is my hometown. I was born, raised, educated, and employed within the city limits. My origins are readily apparent as soon as I open my mouth. And not only because my conversations are liberally sprinkled with “wicked pissa.”

    I sound like Boston. Vacations confirm this. When I’m out-of-state, locals routinely approach me and say, “You’re from Boston, aren’t you?” I’ve been known to lay it on thicker when this happens, as it did this past November when we were visiting San Antonio. Not that Bostonians all sound alike. We don’t. Dorchester sounds different from Southie sounds different from J.P. etc, but there is a nasal commonality to our speech, regardless of the neighborhood where we grew up.

    I miss the city. Now that my kids are gone and the house that was once just right is now too roomy, I’m thinking about moving back. A smaller place that’s cheaper to heat and closer to things on foot. I hate driving. At Open Houses, real estate agents say city living is a growing trend among empty nesters. The thing is, though, the city has changed in the decades since I’ve been gone. And though I haven’t lost my grating Boston twang, I’ve changed too.

    I was used to city living once. Can I get reacquainted?

    Looking out a window and seeing the neighbor’s house directly next door? Shades you need to pull down for privacy? Cheek-by-jowl fences to delineate property lines?

    I don’t know.

    Out in the boonies, I garden on an acre of land. That’s 40K square feet. You can’t get that in the city, where a buildable house lot resembles a parking space, which, BTW, you also can’t get in the city. Not much room to play in the dirt in the city.

    Growing up in Rozzie, (Roslindale) I had two gardens — a perennial bed with a plaster statue of the Virgin Mary within our property line and a vegetable garden I squatted on next to the tracks, a narrow buffer strip of land chocked with weeds and infested with tossed beer cans. Rumble-rumble went the freight trains on the hour, every hour. I don’t think I can find a setup like that anymore in the city.

    So I write books about the city instead, both historical and contemporary erotic romances.

    SEX STINGS, now on sale for $.99 at Amazon, takes place in Boston.




    Previously released and newly revised. Also RE-FORMATTED. 50,400 words.
    Snooping is one helluva dirty business, and no one knows that any better than down-on-his-luck P.I. Daniel Murphy. But with baseball bat-wielding loan sharks after him and his kneecaps on the line, this South Boston tough has no choice but to deliver the goods on a high-stakes sex sting operation. To collect the endgame bonus, all Dan has to do is covertly videotape his target Thérèse Walsh cheating on her boyfriend.

    With him.

    That’s right. Dan’s supposed to make like a porn star on camera with a woman he doesn’t even know and then deliver the evidence of her two-timing to his client. Can he do it?

    When Dan Murphy walks into her little knitting shop, Terry Walsh is immediately and overwhelmingly attracted to him and she understands exactly why. This is a new experience for her. Although she’s a psychic, Terry rarely understands her own hidden motivations. But, this time, she actually gets why she’d want to go to bed with Dan Murphy — any woman would. He’s one caring and protective guy.

    That’s a problem.

    Dan’s a little too caring, a little too protective…a little too vanilla. And she’s a lot BDSM. Going to bed with Terry always means the SEX STINGS.

  • Getting the good word out

    I strongly believe quality books deserve to be read, especially the hard to find older ones, so today I’m giving another personal recommendation.

    Theresa Weir

    The author avoids clichés, handles story lines in an original way, has a clear and concise voice, often deals with difficult yet meaningful subject matters, depicts wonderfully imperfect characters, and infuses a much appreciated sense of reality in her romances. I absolutely love her books. She’s unique.

    Please see the following link at AARR for three reviews: BAD KARMA,SOME KIND OF MAGIC, and COOL SHADE. http://www.likesbooks.com/cgi-bin/searchReviews.pl

    Her books can also be found at Amazon:

    It’s my understanding that Theresa Weir no longer writes romances. A pity. The romance market needs authors of her high caliber.

    Currently, the author writes suspense novels under the name “Anne Frasier”.


    The erotic paranormal re-releases 4/4. I’ll get the first chapter up at the site this evening. Gentle reader, please be forewarned–the contents are explicit. I pull no punches in this book.

    Here’s the working SYNOPSIS:

    Two present day lovers relive the parallel . . . and ambiguous . . . sexual conflict of two past lovers.

    When docent witch Catherine Covington uses her psychic powers to save the life of CIA operative John ‘Hawk’ Adams, she does so at great personal risk to herself. Through her complete and total sexual submission to the dominant and disturbed John, Catherine finally reconciles what is to be a witch with what it means to be a woman. Only then does Catherine understand the visions that have plagued her concerning the captivity of her 17th century ancestor, Euphremia Prim, at the brutal hands of Hawk, a Wampanoag warrior . . . and John’s distant relative.

    Here’s the BLURB:

    A beautiful witch in sexual bondage.

    A beleaguered warrior carnally enthralled.

    Centuries of recriminations and lust explode when two lovers confront a past wrong.

    …because even in the realm of darkness love will hold dominion…

    I hope you enjoy the book!


    P.S. GEEZ! This oversight just goes to prove how bad I am at promo!! I forgot to mention that TOUCH ME releases with Loose Id–www.loose-id.com. The book has been available for almost two weeks, and now I think to include the name of the publisher. Shakes head.

  • A Thinly Veiled Analogy

    Anyone following the Olympics, particularly the figure skating?

    After the scandalous controversy surrounding the last Olympics, the skating committee established a new “foolproof” (read that cheat-proof) method of objectively judging competitors, whereby jumps, spins, footwork etc are assigned unique weighted numeric value. The higher the degree of difficulty, the higher the number, the better the likelihood of winning.

    Okay, I get it. I even approve–up to a point. That point for me is when the artistry suffers.

    Last night, I tuned into the Men’s Long Program, primarily to watch the losers. Because of the delayed broadcasting of the games, I already knew the Russian skater, Plushenko, would win the Gold, and more importantly why.

    For four years, Plushenko has exemplified the Olympic motto “Citius, Altius, Fortius” (Faster, Higher, Stronger). The man is a jumping machine. He does quads (4 spins in the air) as if he never heard of gravity. One right after another BOOM,BOOM,BOOM he’s leaping up into the air, doing his centrifugal force thing. A techno style, people in the know call it.

    I’m not in the know, so I can call it something different.


    I’ve seen Plushenko skate before and he does nothing for me. I love figure skating, but I didn’t even bother staying up to watch him win. Nothing against his skill, he’s a master at what he does–

    But he’s not a virtuoso at what he does.

    Where’s the artistic impression element of his performance?

    After a while, it’s ALL just jumps, too much of a good thing, and I lose interest.

    I want grace and elegance and musicality . . . I want the subtle movements that lead up to the jumps, the preceding tension that keeps me squirming on the edge of my seat–will he/she/they do IT this time–as well as the actual leaps into the air.

    I want the whole story.

  • Happy Valentine’s Day!


    THE LADY OF SHALLOTT, 1894, John William Waterhouse (Pre-Raphaelite)

    I love the unabashedly romantic works of Waterhouse, which explains why I’ve used his art work on several of my covers. Although a 19th century artist, his paintings have a contemporary feel. Also, some of his pieces translate well for a subtle D/S theme–then again, that’s my erotic mind at work.

    Since today is Valentine’s Day, I thought I’d tell you what I’ve been pondering lately—-Solely within the context of a romantic relationship, is it better to love or to be loved?

    Consider, if you will, the hauntingly beautiful song I CAN’T MAKE YOU LOVE ME:
    (Artist: Bonnie Raitt; Lyrics: Reid Michael Barry & Shamblin James Allen II)

    Turn down the lights, turn down the bed
    Turn down these voices inside my head
    Lay down with me, tell me no lies
    Just hold me close, don’t patronize – don’t patronize me

    Cause I can’t make you love me if you don’t
    You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t
    Here in the dark, in these lonely hours
    I will lay down my heart and I’ll feel the power
    But you won’t, no you won’t
    ’cause I can’t make you love me, if you don’t

    I’ll close my eyes, then I won’t see
    The love you don’t feel when you’re holding me
    Morning will come and I’ll do what’s right
    Just give me till then to give up this fight
    And I will give up this fight

    Cause I can’t make you love me if you don’t
    You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t
    Here in the dark, in these lonely hours
    I will lay down my heart and I’ll feel the power
    But you won’t, no you won’t
    ’cause I can’t make you love me, if you don’t

    There is empowerment in loving someone, even if that someone cannot or will not return those feelings. If you believe, as I do, that feeling anything, even heartache, is a gift, then, aren’t there burdens and rewards for both participants in an unequal emotional relationship?

  • A completely inappropriate topic for a writer’s blog

    Please forgive me. This is a writer’s blog, and believe me, I know I should stick to astutely articulated authorial discourses on the subject of writing: Literary Devices. POV. Transitional Elements. Prologues. Denouements. Character Arcs. Story Arcs. Joan of Arc.

    You know, important stuff like that.

    But honestly, and in all modesty, wouldn’t you really rather know a little something about me? Maybe, like, how I think? The deep, philosophical profundities that bounce around inside my head and make me who I am? Maybe learn the deep, dark secrets of my psyche . . . or psychoses?

    Sure, you would!

    Here goes.

    I have the world’s worst hair, and it’s destroying my universe.

    Far from my best asset, my hair is a pain in my ass-et. Refusing to hold a curl or take a perm or cooperate in any way, poker straight, my hair just sits there flat at the crown, each lifeless strand hanging down from the scalp, stubbornly resisting any sort of outside mediation or intervention beyond shampoos, blow drys, and combing. No styling. No products. No futile attempts to turn my hair into something it is not, namely something decorative, something to be proud of during those first impression occasions.

    Apparently suffering from some sort of obstinate/defiant disorder, my do is a definite don’t. When I remember . . . or my sister complains how I’m letting myself go to the dogs . . . I cover the gray with a rinse. Temporary, not permanent; any color that will outlast my next change of mind is too much of a commitment for me. Then, every couple of months when I remember . . . or my sister complains how I’m letting myself go to the dogs . . . I get it all lopped off. A blunt cut, I think my hairdresser, Lorenzo, calls it.

    Lorenzo. I’ve been going to him for years. He’s the only hairdresser–and I’ve been to a few–who has never insulted my hair. When I sit in his chair at the salon, we talk about other things, any subject under the sun.

    Except my hair.

    With the instinctive sensitivity of a really good hairdresser, Lorenzo understands my hair is a sore spot and so we just do not discuss it. We talk around it.

    Two weeks ago, in a daring attempt to try something new, I asked Lorenzo to change the part from it’s usual off-center location to the side. He looked at me askance, but said nothing to dissuade me–the man knows me so well!

    A quarter inch to the left, and I looked like a different woman. My hair? Incredibly gorgeous!

    Until the next shampoo.

    DH motions to the left side of my head. “What’s up with that?”

    Now, I’m scared. When a man and woman have been married for as long as we’ve been married, who looks at one another any more? (I could tell you stories that would make your hair curl! Another day. Another blog.)

    DH is still staring at the left side of my head. Figuring this has to be monumental, a growth of some sort that erupted overnight, we talk.

    –Whatd’ya mean?–

    “Your hair. It’s hanging all-wrong. Kinda lopsided.”

    I run into the bathroom, gaze into the mirror.

    He’s right! My new part is all askew. Like a bad comb-over, stray pieces of hair from the right side of my head traverse my scalp and hang down about an inch lower on the left side.

    I straighten out my new part, and return to the kitchen.

    “Looks better,” DH says.

    I nod. –It’ll take time to retrain my hair. That’s all–

    But even then, I had a sick feeling in my gut.

    Every day, for the past fourteen days, in a last ditch effort to keep the new part, I’ve been lopping off stray pieces of straggly long hair on the left hand side.

    But I know, this isn’t working. My hair has won.

    Every time I go to the Stop&Shop, I talk to the bakery lady. (Ask my kids, I talk to everyone) One day, as I picked out muffins, I complimented how nice she looked–the bakery lady had obviously just returned from the salon and her white hair was all fluffed and curled.

    “Don’t matter about anything else,” she said. “When my hair looks good, I feel like I can take on the world.”

    I laughed in agreement, even though I had no idea what she meant.

  • LOST is losing me

    Another repeat episode. Again.

    Have the producers LOST the script? Is there even a script to lose? Or, are the writers making up the plot as they go along? Do I even care?

    At first, I tried to deny my waning interest, even to myself. When I fell asleep during the program last week, a new episode, I didn’t complain about the storyline not holding my attention–I blamed myself. Long day, tired eyes, a glass of wine with supper. Then, I accepted the sad truth, the show just didn’t grab me. I hate when that happens! I started off loving the concept of LOST.

    Note to LOST producers: I like symbolism, but please don’t hit me over the head with artistic invention until I’m comatose. A little subtlety is much appreciated. Oh, and while I’m on this particular rant–don’t start, then drop story threads!

    Dunno. Maybe that’s disappointment, dejection, disgruntlement talking. The repeat episode thing again.

    I think back to Masterpiece Theatre, to their excellent serialized programs, like Upstairs/Downstairs, like Poldark, like so many more, with a real sense of, well, loss. I just don’t think I have the patience for network series. DVD box sets have spoiled me. No commercials, no repeats, no delayed gratification.

    Hey, wait a minute. Maybe that’s the fiendishly diabolical plot. Maybe that’s the real secret behind LOST. DVD box sets!

  • Help! My Bed Squeaks At Inopportune Times!

    You hussy! Are you thinking what I thinking you’re thinking? If you are, that’s my problem.

    Whenever I move or turn over or get up at 3 AM to . . . er . . . powder my nose, my bed sounds like DH and I are having a helluva good time. Don’t get me wrong, this old Ethan Allen cannonball bed has held up its end of the bargain through its share of helluva good times, but this squeaking is so loud and embarrassingly . . . ahem . . . constant, I’m afraid the neighbors will either envy or, well, pity me.

    The squeaks started a month ago. As a matter of fact, right after buying a new mattress and box spring set. I don’t know if any of you have gone shopping for the aforementioned lately, but mattresses and box springs have grown in size from opulent to downright ridiculous. Because I would need either a stepladder or a hand-up from DH to get in bed at night with these new ridiculous dimensions, I elected to go with the “low-rise” box spring. The set is still fairly high, I still can’t sit on the edge to put my shoes on, but at least I won’t get a nose bleed while I sleep.

    And yet, my old bed frame still complains about carrying the unaccustomed load.

    Two weeks ago, I started looking at new bedroom sets. I don’t know if any of you have gone shopping for the aforementioned lately, but beds have grown in size from the opulent to downright ridiculous. I would need to move to accommodate one of these new huge bedroom sets.

    Last week, I started looking at new homes. I don’t know if any of you have gone shopping for the aforementioned lately, but new houses have grown in size from the opulent to downright ridiculous. I would need to quit writing and go back to work full-time to afford one of these new mini-mansions . . .

    Today, I went to Home Depot and picked up a few 1×4’s to make into slats to place under my new mattress and box spring set. Hopefully, the additional support will do the trick and my bed will stop squeaking.


  • Transitory Beauty

    ice-716593With the roast beef and lasagna in a slow oven and a 60 minute window of opportunity before both the stuffed mushrooms went in and the company was to due to arrive, DH and I headed out for our usual 2 mile walk along the designated scenic route on which we live. The house on the other side of the stream is circa 1720 or so; the one across the street was a way-station on the Underground Railroad. It’s a walk right out of Currier and Ives, past old stone walls, farm houses, a small church, and an ancient cemetery.

    Every year, a neighbor along the route takes his power saw to a hunk of ice and carves out a Christmas card. But, the weatherman predicted 50 degrees for both yesterday and today, and for once his forecast was right on the money. We figured, no sculpture this year, too unseasonably warm. But there was the ice sculpture anyway.