Friday 29 March 2013

by Popular Request: a repeat of 'that viral blog' "I AM NOT A 'sexy porn gerl' (and other Twitter mishaps)

ROWENA AND THE DARK LORD Launch date APRIL 28! Details coming soon...

Now "The Porn Files" wants to follow me on Twitter. Did they get my name from the Berlin Brothel?

I AM NOT A “sexy porn gerl” and other Twitter Mishaps

By Melodie Campbell

It started with the Berlin Brothel.  Lord knows why a brothel in Berlin decided to follow me on Twitter.  I don’t live in Berlin.  I’ve never worked in a brothel.  Don’t think I’ve even typed the word ‘brothel’ before now.  I certainly haven’t said it out loud.

Then some wag from Crime Writers of Canada said: “Maybe they’ve read your first book Rowena Through the Wall.  That’s it!  The girls who work there have to do something in their downtime.”

Let me do a cyberspace blush here.  Okay, my first book is a little hot.  “Hot and hilarious” as one reviewer put it.  But it’s not x-rated.  It’s not even R, according to my daughter.  (Husband has yet to read it.  We’ve hidden it well.)

Then friend Alison said: “It’s a brothel!  Maybe your latest comedy, The Goddaughter, is required reading by the owners.”

But back to Berlin.  I didn’t follow them back.
Somehow, that didn’t matter.  The word was out.

‘Amateurvids’ announced they were following me.  Good, I thought.  I like nature films.  Take it from me, this outfit doesn’t film bunnies in the wild.  Well, maybe a certain type of wild bunny.

I didn’t follow them back.

Then ‘Dick Amateur’ showed up, wanting to connect. Friend Gloria read a few of his posts and then said: “You at least deserve a Pro.”

So I didn’t follow him back.

Next, I got “Swingersconnect” following me.  Swingers?  I get sick on a tire hanging from a tree!

I didn’t follow them back.

Then two days ago, an outfit specializing in ‘male penis enhancement’ turned up.  Now, I ask you.  Do I look like a male in my profile photo?  Is Melodie a male name?  And not to be pedantic, but isn’t ‘male’ in front of the p-word a bit redundant?  Is there any other kind?

Which brings me to the tweet in my twitter-box today:  “Hey sexy porn gerl!” (yes, that’s girl with an e).  Let me state categorically that I am not now and have never been a “sexy porn gerl” (with an ‘e’ or any other vowel).

You wouldn’t want me to be.  No one would.  For one thing, I can’t see two feet in front of me without glasses.  Things that used to be perky now swing south. And my back hurts if I bend over to pick up a grape. 

So I’m not following them back.

Tuesday 26 March 2013

Guest Author Post: Bad Girl is pleased to be part of the SUBMERGED Official Blog Tour

Sneak peek at Rebecca Kingston from SUBMERGED

My special guest today is international bestselling author Cheryl Kaye Tardif, and today she's going to share a bit about one of the main characters from her breathtaking psychological thriller, SUBMERGED.

Let me tell you a bit about Rebecca Kingston. She's a hardworking, devoted mother of two, with an abusive husband who has a gambling problem. And she's had enough. Though not an easy decision to make for most abused women, Rebecca knows she has to protect her children and herself. So she sets things in motion…

Here's a peek at the first time you meet Rebecca:

Chapter Two

Edmonton, AB – Thursday, June 13, 2013 – 4:37 PM

Rebecca Kingston folded her arms across her down-filled jacket and tried not to shiver. Though May had ended with a heat wave, the temperatures had dropped the first week of June. It had rained for the first five days, and an arctic chill had swept through the city. The weatherman blamed the erratic change in weather on global warming and a cold front sweeping down from Alaska, while locals held one source responsible. Their lifelong rival—Calgary.
"Can we get an ice cream, Mommy?" four-year-old Ella said with a faint lisp, the result of her recent contribution to the tooth fairy's necklace collection.
Rebecca laughed. "It feels like winter again and you want ice cream?"
"Yes, please."
"I guess we have time."
They hurried across the street to the corner store.
"Strawberry this time," Ella said, her blue eyes pleading.
Rebecca sighed. "Eat it slowly. Did you remember Puff?"
Her daughter nodded. "In my pocket."
"Good girl." Rebecca glanced at her watch. "It's almost five. Let's go."
Her cell phone rang. It was Carter Billingsley, her lawyer.
"Mr. Billingsley," she said. "I'm glad you got my message."
"So you've decided to get away," he said. "That's a very good idea."
"I need a break." She glanced at Ella. "Things are going to get ugly, aren't they?"
"Unfortunately, yes. Divorce is never pretty. But you'll get through it."
"Thanks, Mr. Billingsley."
"Take care, Rebecca."
Carter had once been her grandfather's lawyer and Grandpa Bob had highly recommended him—if Rebecca ever needed someone to handle her divorce. In his late sixties, Carter filled that father-figure left void after her father's passing.
Her thoughts raced to her twelve-year-old son. Colton's team was up against one of the toughest junior high hockey teams from Regina. With Colton as the Edmonton team's goalie, most of the pressure was on him. He was a brave boy.
She bit her bottom lip, wishing she were as brave.
You're a coward, Becca.
"You're too codependent," her mother always said.
Rebecca figured that wasn't actually her fault. She'd been fortunate to have strong male role models in her life. Men who ran companies with iron fists and made decisions after careful consideration. Or at least worked hard to provide for their families. Men like Grandpa Bob and her father. Men who could be trusted to make the right decisions.
Not like Wesley.
Even her grandfather hadn't liked him. When Grandpa Bob passed away two years ago, he'd sent a clear message to everyone that Wesley couldn't be trusted. Grandpa Bob had lived a miser's lifestyle. No one knew how much money he'd saved for that "rainy day"—until he was gone and Colton and Ella became beneficiaries of over eight hundred thousand dollars from the sale of Grandpa Bob's house and business.
Grandpa Bob, in his infinite wisdom, had added two major conditions to the inheritance. Money could only be withdrawn from the account if it was spent on Ella or Colton. And Rebecca was the sole person with signing power.
Wesley moped around the house for days when he heard the conditions. Any time she bought the kids new clothes, he'd sneer at her and say, "Hope you used your grandfather's money for those."
Once when he'd gambled most of his paycheck, he begged her for a "loan," and when she'd voiced that she didn't have the money, he slapped her. "Lying bitch! You've got almost a million dollars at your fingertips. All I'm asking for is thirty-five hundred. I'll pay it back."
She'd refused and paid the price, physically.

~ * ~

From Cheryl Kaye Tardif, the international bestselling author that brought you CHILDREN OF THE FOG, comes a terrifying psychological thriller that will leave you breathless…

"Submerged reads like an approaching storm, full of darkness, dread and electricity. Prepare for your skin to crawl."
—Andrew Gross, New York Times bestselling author of 15 Seconds

Two strangers submerged in guilt, brought together by fate…

After a tragic car accident claims the lives of his wife, Jane, and son, Ryan, Marcus Taylor is immersed in grief. But his family isn't the only thing he has lost. An addiction to painkillers has taken away his career as a paramedic. Working as a 911 operator is now the closest he gets to redemption—until he gets a call from a woman trapped in a car.

Rebecca Kingston yearns for a quiet weekend getaway, so she can think about her impending divorce from her abusive husband. When a mysterious truck runs her off the road, she is pinned behind the steering wheel, unable to help her two children in the back seat. Her only lifeline is a cell phone with a quickly depleting battery and a stranger's calm voice on the other end telling her everything will be all right.

Learn more about Cheryl Kaye Tardif at and follow her on Twitter.

Enter Cheryl’s March Giveaway – 60 Prizes!

Tuesday 5 March 2013

I'm a 38C long and I don't know what to do about it

Today, I’m going to talk about the uselessness of today’s undergarments.

I’ve always been a 38C. Okay, when the kids were born, I ballooned (more like watermeloned) up to some ungodly letter. But basically, we’ve been sauntering around the C mark for most of our lives, kind of ignoring the fact, like below average kids at school. (Note the school reference here. We cleverly come back to that in the last bit.)

This I’ve learned: if you’re sort of satisfied with something, you don’t even think about it. It doesn’t bug you, so it’s not on your mind. Occasionally some guy says, wow, nice rack, and you look down absently and think, oh yeah. Still there. Good show, mates. And then go back to worrying about your thighs.

I’m not saying ‘good show’ anymore. I’m saying, ‘what the hell happened to you?’

It all started in the lingerie shop. Big Fraulein is apparently a professional ‘fitter.’

Let me digress here. Did you know that there was a paying vocation for professional bra fitters? I didn’t. But I really have to ask: how do you train for this? Is it a college course, a distance course (unlikely) or do you go for hands-on training?

What if you don’t pass? Imagine the embarrassment.

Seems to me this would be a dream job for an eighteen year old guy. Or maybe even an eighty year old one. Or any age in between.

But I’m in the store and I don’t get Hans <sic>. I get Brunhilde.

She ordered me into the changeroom. Demanded I hand over the bra I was wearing. Took one look at the thing, said: “Deece is garbage.” Then she threw it into the waste paper bin.

Take my word for it, when you’re standing half naked in a skinny-mini change room with Brunhilde guarding the door, you are not inclined to dash out and recover your underwear from a garbage can.

And then I got the bad news. Here’s the thing: The numbers and letters are still the same. But according to Brunhilde we’re going to have to force the girls into a different shape than they naturally tend to occupy.

(Men, stop reading here.)

Sob! I’ve 'graduated' to a 38C Long.(There's that school reference.)

Apparently, I need winches.

My bra needs a bra.

And I need a drink.
Pass the Jack Russell. Wait a minute – that’s a dog. I meant Jack Daniels.