GUYS TOGETHER! More stand-up comedy, reprinted with permission

Men may watch football and play sports together, but there are a few things they don’t do together.  For instance:

1.       SHOPPING

Women shop together. It’s a rite of passage.  Part of the hormonal cocktail.  It’s also self-preservation. This way, you never end up looking like a sausage stuffed into a yellow lycra mini-skirt, because it was ‘on sale.’  Fortunately you aren’t allowed to buy anything your women-friends don’t like.

Barb: “Sorry Mabel, but you look like a worm in the bathing suit.”

Trixie: “More like a pregnant slug. Why don’t you try that 118 lbs slimmer model with the steel breastplate?”

You never see guys doing this.  Guys don’t stand around each other in Harry Rosen’s saying things like:

Bill: “Yuck, Ron. That mulberry colour is so…soo.”

Ron: “Bloody?”

Bill: “At least you won’t notice if you cut yourself shaving.”

Ron: “I’ll take three.”

2.       BATHROOM

It is a well-known biological fact that women go to the bathroom in herds.  One female gets up from the table with her purse-cum-suitcase and all us other females within hailing distance yell: “Hold on Trish, I’m going with you.”  And off we traipse en masse, blabbing all the way to the can.

Men don’t do this.  Nope, when you’re out to dinner at a fancy resto, you never hear one guy say to the other,

Roy: “Hey Bill, I have to go visit the little boys’ room.  Want to come with me?”

Bill: “Sure, Roy. Back in a minute, Girls.”

In fact, if Roy did say that, Bill would probably get up from the table and take off to find a washroom in a different building.  Maybe even a different city.

Welcoming another FUNNY GIRL to these pages! Meet Chris Redding

Five Things You Don’t See in a Romance Novel

1.     Farting: No one farts in a romance novel. No one has Mexican for lunch and forgot their Beano and are worried about letting one loose in the confines of heroine’s compact car. 

2.     Burping: Same thing. No one eats too fast and has to let off some steam to make room. 

3.     Morning Breath: The hero and heroine wake up after a night of lovemaking to start all over again. Don’t either of them need a little Listerine before that happens? 

4.     Eye Boogers: I have yet to read that a heroine wakes up and the hero lovingly hands her a tissue so she can wipe those suckers out of her eyes before he bangs her like a screen door in a hurricane.

5.     Going to the bathroom: Now, I recognize that most heroines are young and never had a baby. But for those of us who are neither of those things, we need to get rid of something first thing in the morning. Way before we can think about sex. And the heroine will get drunk, but the hero never has to help her to the bathroom.

What is up with that?

Bio:

Chris Redding lives in New Jersey with her husband, two sons, one dog and three rabbits. She graduated from  Penn State with a degree in journalism. She teaches online writing workshops and a creative writing course for a local continuing education organization. When she isn’t writing or teaching, she works part time for her local hospital.

Buy Links to Blonde Demolition:

Amazon: http://tinyurl.com/7olwvhs

Blurb:

You just can't hide from the past...

Mallory Sage lives in a small, idyllic town where nothing ever happens. Just the kind of life she has always wanted. No one, not even her fellow volunteer firefighters, knows about her past life as an agent for Homeland Security.

Former partner and lover, Trey McCrane, comes back into Mallory's life. He believes they made a great team once, and that they can do so again. Besides, they don't have much choice. Paul Stanley, a twisted killer and their old nemesis, is back.

Framed for a bombing and drawn together by necessity, Mallory and Trey go on the run and must learn to trust each other again―if they hope to survive. But Mallory has been hiding another secret, one that could destroy their relationship. And time is running out.

Amazon in print: http://tinyurl.com/87qdaam

Chris Redding Links:

www.chrisreddingauthor.com

http://chrisredddingauthor@blogspot.com

www.facebook.com/chrisreddingauthor

www.twitter.com/chrisredding

ROWENA THROUGH THE WALL is free today!

Free on Thursday and Friday, Aug 9-10
click here

Farewell to the Original Fashionista

My mother was the original fashionista.  From the day I was born, she dressed me like a princess in petite designer knock-offs.  So it’s no mystery why my latest mystery A PURSE TO DIE FOR (co-written with Cynthia St-Pierre) has a fashion theme to it.

From the time I was five, I can remember happy Saturdays with Mom travelling the subway to Eaton’s in Toronto.  I would gaze at the super stylish manikins in the picture windows at Eaton’s and Simpson’s (both long gone) with pure delight.  It was the 60s and fashions were ‘mod’.  Colour sizzled. Makeup was bold.  And Mom was a gorgeous diva who turned heads everywhere. 

Many years later, I took my own trips down the runway in Vancouver and Toronto, as an occasional fashion model for Marilyn Brooks and others.  And trip is the right word!  Sometimes those high heels were a little too stiletto.

Now, my own daughter Alex rules the runway, and has taken over as the family fashion Diva.  Why?

One of the tragedies of my life is that my mother died mere months before A PURSE TO DIE FOR was published.  It was my gift to her – a fun and heartfelt thank you for the brightness she created in my life.  Mom was the sun around which this family spun.  Her love of beauty in art and clothes reflected the beauty of her soul.

Our heroine Gina in A PURSE TO DIE FOR has the same fashion addiction, and the same big heart.  What Gina recognizes – and what my mother so effortlessly portrayed – is that fashion is just down right fun, and we should take joy from it.

So to my dear Mom who walked the Rainbow Runway just months before A PURSE TO DIE FOR came out – this book is for you.  Miss you every day.

A PURSE TO DIE FOR #5 on Amazon.ca Bestseller list! (Women Sleuths)

A PURSE TO DIE FOR is now available in paperback!

http://www.amazon.ca/A-Purse-Die-Melodie-Campbell/dp/1926997727/ref=zg_bs_949964_14

BATHING SUIT HELL or My War with the Madonna Suit

Last week I had to do something that engenders the kind of enthusiasm that might be associated with a mass accident on the Gardiner Expressway.

I went shopping for a bathing suit.

“Do you have anything with winches?”  I say to sweet little Clerkette.

“Is that a brand name?”  She squeaks back.

It is obvious from the start this isn’t going to work.  Clerkette looks all of sixteen.  She comes back with a two piece that might possibly fit a Barbie Doll.  A real one, not life-size.

“Let me make this clearer,” I say patiently.  “Things have happened to my body in the last twenty years.  I may be a little hard to fit.”

“No problem,” she says cheerfully.  “We have just the thing.”

I look around the store.  Walls of colorful bathing suits on racks, all looking about size 2.  The price tags, however, are size 20.  Why is it that the smaller the article, the greater the cost?

Clerkette comes back with a couple of fuchsia ribbons hanging from her fingers.  “Try this,” she says.  “It’s a Tanga.  They fit everyone.”

I squint at the ribbons.  “Where is it?” I say.

Men don’t have to deal with this.  No, indeed. Here’s what happens when a man goes into a store:

Man:  “I need a bathing suit.”

Clerk: “Do you want blue or red?”

Man:  “Blue is good.  How much?”

But back to Clerkette.  I try again.  

“Do you have something that is a little more structured, if you know what I mean.  Something that ‘lifts and redistributes’.”

“Ah!” says Clerkette.  “You want our ‘Madonna’ model.”

She hands me a steely black suit with hard cups that looks something like a medieval torture device.

“Perfect!” I say.  I go into the wee change room to try it on.

What ensues is a monumental battle between me and the suit that lasts about fifteen minutes.  (Shoppers: 0, Fiendish Designers: 1)  Finally, various bits of me have been forced into the chambers allotted to them.  Breathing is possible, barely.  I look in the mirror.  The result is not bad.  

Which is a good thing, because there’s not a chance in hell I’ll ever get out of it.

I'm Not Fat - I'm Post-Pregnant

Recently, someone asked me if I were pregnant.  First came the shocked silence.  Then fits of maniacal laughter rocked the table (thanks a LOT, Jan and Christa…)

I have determined there are only three ways to handle this (beyond the obvious one of homicide. Hey – I’m a crime writer.)

1.       Admit to a Fashion Crime.  “It’s the top,” I say, shaking my head ruefully.

Or to quote my daughter: “Mom, baby-doll tops are so – like – last year.”

Hopefully, I was wearing a baby-doll top.  Where can I buy more?

2.        Admit to being Post-Pregnant

Take it from me: it’s perfectly legitimate to laugh charmingly and say, “Oh I’m not pregnant anymore, but I’m still carrying a little weight from my last pregnancy.”

This is absolutely true.  I am.  Never mind that my kid is now shaving and reading The Globe and Mail. 

3.       Take it as the Real Compliment it is

Always look on the bright side, says I.  This stranger thinks I could be pregnant.  HA!  This deluded stranger thinks I look young enough to still have a baby?  Ten years ago, I wasn’t young enough to have a baby.  Are they blind?

Never mind!  BINGO!  Note to self: Continue with the anti-aging strategy.

Keep eating until all the wrinkles fill out.

Works for me.