Sunday, 21 August 2016

CHARIOTS OF THE GUYS (More car humour...reprinted with permission from the places that pay me)



(Genuine photo of the car that Dave bought.  The family car.)


One of the things I hate even more than high school reunions is buying a new car.  It’s not that I don’t like cars.  I am really quite fond of them. Especially in winter.  What I don’t like is the buying process.  There is something inherently different about men and women when they go looking at cars in a dealership.  You even have to wonder if they are members of the same species.


Husband (reverently caressing cold metal with both hands):  “Look at this beauty!  4.0 litre, five speed, Recarro seats, mag wheels, racing suspension, electric moon roof, power mulcher, moog synthesizer, ballistic missile launcher…”


Wife:  “It’s red.  I hate red.”


This basic lack of communication goes right back to the way men and women look at ‘things’.  Amazingly, they can be looking at the same thing and see something entirely different. 


Men, for instance, will look at a car as if it something beyond a box with four wheels that moves forward and backward.  To them, it is not merely a car.  Nope.  It is the culmination of adolescent dreams, the elusive mistress of middle age, the Ben Hur of all chariots.  Me, I’m more concerned with whether it will get me to the shopping mall and back without falling into a million pieces.  Which is why we had this misunderstanding at the dealership last weekend:


Me:  “This car has two seats.”


He (enthusiastically checking the interior):  “Yes!  Aren’t they great?”


Me:  “I’m not denying they are very nice seats.  Beautiful, in fact.  But there are four of us.”


He (looking irritably at the kids):  “They’re young.  They’ve got legs.”


Kid One:  “But Dad…where are we all going to sit when we have to drive someplace?”


He (aghast):  Good Gad, you’re not actually expect me to drive this car on the road?  The paint might get chipped.”


Then he did what all men have been programmed to do from the beginning of time.  He kicked the tire.  I’ve often wondered about this practice.  And I expect Ben Hur’s wife pondered the very same thing two thousand year ago, when good ole Ben whacked the wheel of that Roman chariot with his leather sandal.  Exactly what purpose does this serve?


I’ll never understand it.  But as far as I can see, all of this started about forty thousand years ago when Urgh the slightly-brighter-than-normal Neanderthal invented the wheel.  Irma, his loyal wife, stood on the sidelines shaking her head, while Urgh enthusiastically painted on racing stripes.  “Argh urf org grunt bfff bfff,” she said (loosely translated to, “Oh dinosaur droppings, not another blasted toy.  When will this ever end.”)  And of course, it hasn’t yet.


Sunday, 14 August 2016

Life with a Gear-Head (in which Bad Girl...what the poop, just read it)

By Melodie Campbell (Bad Girl)




 I live with a gear-head.  I even sleep with him.  This has been going on for three decades. 

 

You‘d think I would be used to it by now.  And no, I’m not talking about the ‘shifting gears and vroom vroom’ noises during sex.


LOCATION: Campbell residence, late afternoon.  Gear-head is clutching cell phone in a death grip.


“OH MY GOD!!  NO! THAT IS TERRIBLE!” <hyperventilating, pacing, red face, horror struck eyes>


“What?”  I leap from the couch, heart pounding.  “What is it?  Is it one of the kids?  Are they hurt?”   


Gear-head turns to me, his face a painful sight.  He can hardly get the words out. “The Mustang has a flat tire.”


“Oh,” I say, turning back to my book.


There are advantages to being married to a gear-head.  For instance, you never have to worry about buying a car.  The gear-head will research the choices, preselect the possibilities, do the test drive, make the deal with the seller, and basically handle all parts of the buy-process. You, happily, just need to grab the keys from him.


This may be easier said than done.  Witness the following scene that took place after my (it’s in my name, dammit) recent purchase of a 2006 Corvette Convertible.  Which, incidentally, has been washed to within an inch of its life.


Me:  “Do you have the keys to the Vette?”


Him (suspiciously):  “Why?”


Me:  “I’m going to the hair salon.  It’s a nice day.  The Vette could use some exercise.” 


Him (aghast):  “You’re going to DRIVE it?  On the ROAD?”


Me:  “I certainly plan to stay on the road.  Anything else would be called ‘an accident’.”


Him (choking):  “You’re going to park it in a PARKING LOT?”


Me (sighing on schedule):  “I generally prefer that to ditches.  The keys please?”


Him (turning away): “Not sure where I put them.”


Me: “I can see them right there on your bureau.”


He grasps them to his chest.  What ensues then is a to-the-death struggle that only breaks up when I change strategy and grab the keys to HIS car off the shelf.


“No fair,” he says gasping for air.


“All’s fair in love and cars,” I reply philosophically.

Sunday, 7 August 2016

BAD GIRL HITS AN AGE MILESTONE (head on, and fully fueled by hootch)



 I celebrated a birthday recently.  I didn’t celebrate it very well, mind you.  In fact, I don’t celebrate anything well anymore.  I don’t know how to, primarily because the only time I stay up past midnight is with sick kids.



The thing is, nobody needs birthday parties in order to feel older.  Our Drivers License photos do it perfectly well on their own.  Besides, you know you’re getting older because the cops keep getting younger and younger.  Soon they’ll be putting little cub scouts in uniforms and sending them out with toy guns to man the speed traps.

 

Getting older is particularly discouraging when you realize what other people have accomplished by the age of 35.  Attila the Hun had conquered most of Europe before he was old enough to vote.  Cleopatra had vamped the entire Mediterranean coastline while tossing Caesar Salad on the side, and Beethoven managed to write all sorts of world class symphonies and go deaf before he was my age.  Actually, he was dead by the time he was my age.



The worst thing about growing older is not the weight you gain, but the dreams you lose.  For instance, I’m having trouble coming to terms with the fact that I may never become a major Vogue model.  For one thing, we older broads can’t walk in high heels anymore without toppling over sideways.  Something to do with the weight distribution further up.  For another, we can’t see five inches ahead without our glasses.  So unless Vogue wants a model crawling along the catwalk on her hands and knees, modeling is out.



On the bright side, one of the minor irritants of aging is you tend to forget things.  This has certain advantages.  I haven’t weighed myself in weeks.  I've already forgotten my age.  And any day now, I might forget I am married… 



 



Saturday, 30 July 2016

Tales from North of Fifty by Bad Girl


We tried to have a dinner party a while back.  Years ago, this wouldn’t have been a big thing.  I love cooking. (I love eating even more, which should be obvious.)  We have a decent size dining room with enough chairs.  And we actually like the people we were going to invite (itself, a great
accomplishment.)


So we went ahead and invited the people (step 1.)  Next we had to come up with a menu (step 2.)  And that’s when the trouble started.


If you are not over 50, perhaps you haven’t experienced this yet (she chortled fiendishly.)


“We have a few culinary restrictions from our guests,” I said to DH.  “I hope we can serve more than water and a toothpick.”


“What requests?” said DH.


I looked down at the list. “Nothing with gluten or beans.”


“Beans?”


“Cathy requested that.  Because of Phil and his proximity to the other guests.”


“Gotcha.” DH shivered.


“No cilantro, peppers or fresh garlic.  Nancy is sensitive,” I said.


“How about your famous lasagne?” said DH, with hunger in his eyes.


“No good.  Both Lainy and Bob are lactose intolerant.”


“Rib eye steaks?” he said.  “I can do them on the barbie.”


“Tim has to watch his cholesterol.  So do you,” I reminded.


“BBQ chicken then.  With a nice bourbon sauce.”


“Tiffany is a vegetarian,” I reminded.


“We can throw some shrimp on the barbie for her,” said DH, in a generous mood.


“Vern is allergic to seafood.  It couldn’t be the same barbeque.”


 “Running out of ideas, Babe,” said DH. 


A pause.  “Peanut butter?”


I shook my head.  “Marilyn.  Allergic.”


“Oatmeal!  We could have Haggis.”


“Not in my lifetime.”


Silence.  We stared at each other.


“Pea soup?” he said, in desperation.


The phone rang.  I ran to get it.


I came back to the kitchen.  “Barb just phoned.  Phil has a colonoscopy scheduled for Monday, so he can only have clear liquids.”


“Back to water and a toothpick,” I said.


“That’s pretty cheap,” said my Scottish husband, gleefully.

Monday, 25 July 2016

Welcome to a card-carrying Bad Girl - Liza O'Connor!

Wanna meet another Bad Girl?  If ever there was a writer who deserved to be on the Bad Girl blog, it's Liza O'Connor.  You could almost say it was 'meant to be.' (grin - You'll see!)

 

I first ran into her name when both our trailers were featured the same day on USA today.  (Mine was for Rowena Through the Wall.  Hers was Worst Week Ever.)

 

Three years later,  here she is.  Yup, meet the gal who ALSO writes about the mob!  (Okay, not from the inside, like I do.  But I've just started reading A Fortune to Die For, and I can tell you already that I can't wait to get back to it.)  Humour, suspense, and a heroine with brains and a heart of gold.  My kind of gal.

 

Ever wondered what it would be like to win really big in a lottery?  Welcome to Hellsville with humour. 

 


Mafia in Iowa?
As Chicago became overrun with mobsters, their tentacles reached to nearby states. The most infamous mobster in Iowa was Louie Fratto. He was the original Teflon Don, never convicted of a crime. He also went by the names Lewis Ferrell and Cock-eyed. He had a brother, Frank, who was an assassin for the mob and went by the nickname One Ear. (Probably not a good idea to make fun of his missing ear.)


Everyone needed a legitimate business to launder their money. Frank had an aluminum siding and storm windows business. Another brother, Rudolph, had a garbage disposal business. Once prohibition was over, Lou Fratto’s ‘legit’ business was beer distribution.
In 1932, Fratto was connected to the Fiore mob in Chicago. The Fiore mob would muscle in on Speak Easies and cabarets, demanding 50% of the profits while doing 0% of the work. The owners who illegally ran these establishments had no choice but to comply.
In 1933 Fratto was listed as the Secretary and Treasurer of the Wardrobe Check, Washroom Attendant and Doorman Union. Sounds like such a boring job.
In 1934 Fratto was sent to Milwaukee Wisconsin, another suburb of Chicago. Unfortunately, he was soon arrested for gambling. To escape the charges, Lou was sent to Des Moines Iowa, where he worked for his good childhood friend and fellow Mafioso, Cherry Nose Gioe. By 1936 Lou Fratto took over running Iowa while Gioe was sent back to Chicago. (Later when Gioe tries to take control of Iowa back from Fratto, he has unfortunate accident.)
So much for ‘good friends’.
Fratto’s business front was the Iowa distributor for Canadian Ace beer. He had tentacles in the police, the prosecutor’s office, the local courts, and local state politicians. So he was sitting pretty. No one could touch him.
In 1958 he was subpoenaed by a congressional committee to bring all his financial data for their perusal. He arrives with a briefcase, only it’s locked, and because they had not subpoenaed the key, the briefcase remained locked. He took the fifth on a great deal of questions that day. At one point, Fratto got annoyed with their questions and asked the congressmen if they were getting their information from imaginative spacemen. (Generally speaking, you don’t get sassy with congressmen unless you know you are untouchable.)
In 1967, Fratto was still considered Iowa’s #1 boss. However, to be called #1 implies there were other bosses in Iowa as well. Keep that in mind as Fratto’s story turns south.
Some fellow said disrespectful things about Fratto and later ended up with a chest full of bullets. Fratto was charged with the murder, and this time he was going down. But before he could be brought to trial, he died of cancer, thus remaining the Teflon Don to his death, never convicted of a crime.
So what happened next? Did all the mafia in Iowa disappear in a puff of smoke?
I seriously doubt it. I believe over time, they simply found it more economical to go partially legit.
Are annoying people still being wacked?
In fear of being wacked, I’m not answering that.

Blurb
Megan Clarke had a good life until she wins the Mega Times Lottery and discovers the prize comes with a curse. Worse than the many money-hungry suitors, a serial killer has her in his sight. She changes her name and moves to Iowa with plans to buy their last major forest of white oaks and turn it into a State Park. Unfortunately, the Lottery Curse doesn't stop at state lines and someone there wants her dead, as well. Good thing a disturbingly handsome law officer is just as determined to keep her alive.

 Excerpt
Megan realized it was going to be a while before Steve would refocus on the package. “Can I get you something to drink? Green Tea with lemon grass?” He looked health conscious. Actually, he looked like a movie star with a crew cut.
He glanced up. “Sounds good.” He then glanced around. “Any place I can sit and read these?”
“Seriously? There’s got to be over two hundred letters in there.”
“I know. Which is why I’d prefer to do this sitting down.”
“Okay, but if this package blows up on a timer, I’m going to be grumpy when I reach the afterlife.”
He chuckled at her warning, set down the letter he was reading, and picked up the package. “If I open this in the next room, will you be safe from blasts?”
“The room is steel-lined, so I think so. But wouldn’t you rather have some sort of robot handle the matter?”
His adorable grin returned. “Oddly, we don’t have one of those.”
“I could buy you one… You could just take the package somewhere safe and leave it unopened until the robot arrives. I have no problem donating the money to get you guys a bomb robot, given this probably won’t be the last time I need one.”
He studied her a long moment before replying. “You know how I got to be a detective so early in life?”
She almost replied that good-looking people lived a charmed life and received promotions more often than less attractive people, but realized he wouldn’t appreciate her observation. So she behaved and answered, “No.”
“I’ve very good instincts. For example, before you replied, you were thinking something…something I wouldn’t like, so you wisely kept it to yourself.”
Her face burned. Busted! “And your instincts tell you the package is safe?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then take it in the other room and open it.”
Despite his confidence in his instincts, Megan remained on pins and needles for the excruciatingly long half-hour that crawled by as she waited for Detective Williams to return.
Or blow up.

BUY LINK
A Fortune to Die For

Free with Kindle Unlimited
About Liza
Liza O’Connor was raised badly by feral cats, left the South/Midwest and wandered off to find nicer people on the east coast. There she worked for the meanest man on Wall Street, while her psychotic husband tried to kill her three times. (So much for finding nicer people.) Then one day she declared enough, got a better job, divorced her husband, and fell in love with her new life where people behaved nicely. But all those bad behaviors has given her lots of fodder for her humorous books. Please buy these books, because otherwise, she’ll become grumpy and write troubled novels instead. They will likely traumatize you.
You have been warned.
Mostly humorous books by Liza:
Ghost LoverTwo British brothers fall in love with the same young woman. Ancestral ghost is called in to fix the situation. And there’s a ghost cat that roams about the book as well. (Humorous Contemporary Romance)
Saving Casey— Cass wakes up in the body of a troubled teen who has burned every bridge imaginable. Her only choice is to turn this life around, but that’s much harder than she ever imagined.
Untamed & UnabashedThe youngest of the Bennet sisters, Lydia, tells her story. A faithful spinoff from Pride & Prejudice.
A Long Road to Love Series: (Humorous Contemporary odd Romance)
Worst Week Ever — Laugh out loud week of disasters of Epic proportions.
Oh Stupid Heart — The heart wants what it wants, even if it’s impossible.
Coming to Reason — There is a breaking point when even a saint comes to reason.
Climbing out of Hell — The reconstruction of a terrible man into a great one.
The Hardest Love Is to love oneself. Sam’s story.
The Adventures of Xavier & Vic Sleuth series: (Late Victorian/Mystery/Romance)
The Troublesome Apprentice — The greatest sleuth in Victorian England hires a young man who turns out to be a young woman.
The Missing Partner — Opps! The greatest sleuth in Victorian England goes missing, leaving Vic to rescue him, a suffragette, and about 100 servants. Not to mention an eviscerating cat. Yes, let’s not mention the cat.
A Right to Love — A romantic detour for Jacko. Want to see how amply rewarded Jacko was when he & Vic save an old woman from Bedlam?
The Mesmerist The Mesmerist can control people from afar and make them murder for her. Worse yet, Xavier Thorn has fallen under her spell.
Well Kept Secrets — The problems with secrets is that they always come to light, no matter how you wish to silence them.
Pack of Trouble — Changes are a part of life, but these changes almost kill Vic.
The Darkest Days — Muddled cases make Vic very grumpy.

FOR MORE INFORMATION ABOUT
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Thursday, 21 July 2016

WHAT NOT TO SAY, 2 – Worst Ever Pickup Lines



Okay, I did another poll.  So shoot me.  (Before I shoot myself, after reading the results.)



It all started with the “What Not to Say” post I did some months ago, educating men re what NOT to say when a woman asks how she looks.  That post went viral.  Men were baffled.  (This is not a bad thing.  We like you in that state.)  Women wanted more.  More “What Not to Say” for different circumstances.  (Personally, I just think they appreciate a good belly laugh.)



Hence this post:  What Not to Say to a Woman in a Bar



Gals have been telling me for years that men in bars are useless – USELESS – at pickup lines.  So I asked women in my listserves to send me bad pickup lines for which they had been on the receiving end. 



Let me say that this was the most enthusiastic poll I have ever conducted.  Contributions came in at the speed of light.



First, let me explain the assumptions of this experiment:  that is, we pollsters have assumed that men in bars actually WANT to attract women, and have delivered the following pickup lines with the express purpose of enticing the female in question.  (And not to have them run screaming away.  Which could be a weird bar game that we are currently unaware of, but might better explain the results of the poll.)



So, in the interest of continued procreation of the species, I present the following No-Nos.  Lads, you have something to learn when it comes to attracting the female of the species.  Here’s the list.  Okay, I culled a few.  But it’s pretty stark. 



The Sweet but Infantile pickup lines:



 “If I follow you home, will you keep me?”



(Sorry, fella.  I don’t need another dependent to look after.)



“You're so sweet, you put Hersheys outta business.”



(I’m a Godiva chick, sweetie.  That should be obvious.)



“Were your parents Greek gods? Because it takes two gods to make a goddess.”



(Check your gender in that last sentence, smart guy.  Two gods would be two guys.)



The “Man, I am clever” Pickup line:

       "I'm not drunk, I'm just intoxicated by you." 

(I hope you’re not at the throwing-up stage.  These are new shoes.)



The Nerd Pickup line:

       "You make my software turn to hardware." 

Okay, I know some really great nerds who make terrific husbands.  They tend to do well in the salary department too.  But computer geeks, you need help in attracting females.  It’s not just the clothes.  Believe me.



The “What were you thinking??” Pickup lines  (Content Warning):



Why?  Why is it that some men think being crude is going to get women all romantic-like?  Are these the same guys who post photos of their ever-lovin' wee-wees?  The following are lines that women emailed me, as part of the poll.  Yes, they are ACTUAL LINES proffered to real women:



“Hey baby, wanna sit on my lap and we'll talk about the first thing that pops up?”   

“That shirt looks very becoming on you....of course if I were on you I'd be coming too.” 

“My face is leaving in 10 minutes... are you gonna be on it or not?”

Milder, but still asinine:



 “Hi, my name is 'Milk.' I'll do your body good.”
         “Hey I'm looking for treasure. Can I look around your chest?"



So men: the girl of your dreams is in the bar.  She’s just been gob-smacked by clueless guys delivering pickup lines. What should you say?  That’s easy. 

       "Can I buy you a drink?  Looks like you need one."