- Harm :: Injure
- If :: only
- On my own :: once
- She said :: I love you meemaw.
- Illegal :: parking
- Broke :: always
- It’s a :: great day
- Chatting :: technical talking
- Cottege :: small house
- Podcast :: video for normal folks
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Sunday, February 28, 2010
Unconscience Mutterings #367 and dailies
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Senior Sunday
Dear Self,
Stop going to sleep for a nap at 7 pm and waking up at 11 pm to just be up all night. Your old age is shining! trying to Love you, Sandy
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Saturday Links
USNPL - This site gives you links for newpapers in every state, large cities and small towns included. I found my hometown, did you?
A fun thing- go to Wikipedia , type in your birthday, month and day only. It shows everything important thant happened on that day, people who were born and died on that die, very interesting stuff. I discovered Cleopatra died on my bd and that my bd is Mother's Day in Thailand.
How to grow square watermelons - enough said!
Track your Goals - Whether it be losing weight, organizing your life, daily living, whatever your goal is large or small, this is the place to keep track of them.
Every Life has a Story - Are you a writer? Keep a journal? Scrapbooker? This site is pure inspiration!
Jan Brett - For those of you with children, this is a great site with games and lots of printables.
From Design Sponge - Recycled cake plates.
A fun thing- go to Wikipedia , type in your birthday, month and day only. It shows everything important thant happened on that day, people who were born and died on that die, very interesting stuff. I discovered Cleopatra died on my bd and that my bd is Mother's Day in Thailand.
Track your Goals - Whether it be losing weight, organizing your life, daily living, whatever your goal is large or small, this is the place to keep track of them.
Every Life has a Story - Are you a writer? Keep a journal? Scrapbooker? This site is pure inspiration!
Jan Brett - For those of you with children, this is a great site with games and lots of printables.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Friday Fill-Ins #165
1. A cup of tea is just not my thing. Being a southern girl, I go for a tall glass of cold sweet tea.
2. Family photos makes a place feel like home.
3. Everything has its beauty but not everyone sees it.
4. Don't you just love the taste of strawberries?
5. Art makes me smile.
6. LOL I just noticed I forgot to mail my letters this morning.
7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to a soak in the tub and a good book, tomorrow my plans include cleaning house, hanging new grandkid photos, and date night with my hubby and Sunday, I want to bake and cook a good southern meal- fried chicken and potato salad!
Please join Friday Fill-ins HERE.
Today is.....
Michael Bolton's Birthday. He is 57.
Today is also Cookie Friday. Just made these yummy treats.
No Bake cookies
2 cups sugar
1/2 cup cocoa
1 stick butter
1/2 cup milk
1 tsp. vanilla
3 cups quick-cooking oatmeal
1/2 cup peanut butter
Combine sugar, cocoa, butter and milk in a saucepan. On medium heat, bring to a boil for one full minute.
Remove from heat. Stir in peanut butter ,vanilla and oatmeal.
Drop by spoonful onto wax paper. Let cool for at least 30 minutes.
Today is my Sophie girl's birthday. She is 2 months old today!
No Bake cookies
2 cups sugar
1/2 cup cocoa
1 stick butter
1/2 cup milk
1 tsp. vanilla
3 cups quick-cooking oatmeal
1/2 cup peanut butter
Combine sugar, cocoa, butter and milk in a saucepan. On medium heat, bring to a boil for one full minute.
Remove from heat. Stir in peanut butter ,vanilla and oatmeal.
Drop by spoonful onto wax paper. Let cool for at least 30 minutes.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Thursday Thunks
1. Who is the craziest person in your family? lol, that would be me
2. If you could make turtle shells any color you wanted, what color would turtles be? pink of course
3. How fast do hotcakes sell? Pretty fast I would think.
4. Can cannibals be arrested for being under the influence of alcohol if they have eaten someone who was drunk? Only in California
5. If I had my legs amputated, would I have to change my height and weight on my driver's license? of course, silly
6. Where do people in Hell tell other people to go? Heaven
7. Do you make stupid little baby noises when talking to your pets? yes I do
8. Is the light on in the room? YEP
9. Did the voice tell you that the light is on in the room? nope, I turned the light on
10. If you were to name an alcoholic drink, what would it be called? Sandyquasi Cooler
Play Thursday Thunks HERE.
2. If you could make turtle shells any color you wanted, what color would turtles be? pink of course
3. How fast do hotcakes sell? Pretty fast I would think.
4. Can cannibals be arrested for being under the influence of alcohol if they have eaten someone who was drunk? Only in California
5. If I had my legs amputated, would I have to change my height and weight on my driver's license? of course, silly
6. Where do people in Hell tell other people to go? Heaven
7. Do you make stupid little baby noises when talking to your pets? yes I do
8. Is the light on in the room? YEP
9. Did the voice tell you that the light is on in the room? nope, I turned the light on
10. If you were to name an alcoholic drink, what would it be called? Sandyquasi Cooler
Play Thursday Thunks HERE.
Celebrity birthdays for the 25th.... and Chili!
Barry Bostwick is 65 today.~~~~~~~~~~
Today is National Chili day. In honor of that..... here is my own very simple chili recipe.
Sandy's Easy Shortcut Chili
1 pd ground beef
1 small onion, diced
2 cans kidney beans
1 pkg chili mix
1 T chili powder
salt and pepper to taste
1 can diced tomatoes
1 small can tomato sauce
1 can tomato soup (+ 1 can water)
1 can drained whole kernel corn
Brown meat and onion together. Drain.
Add everything else in a big pot. Bring to a boil.
Simmer 30 minutes.
We have this at least twice a month. Yummy!
Desert Fire by Shannon Van Roekel First Wild Card review
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
Kregel Publications (September 22, 2009)
***Special thanks to Cat Hoort of Kregel Publications for sending me a review copy.***ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Shannon Van Roekel has volunteered on the mission field in both Africa and Mexico and much of this novel is influenced by her experiences. She published works in Guideposts 4 Teens and The Upper Room and now lives with her husband and five children in British Colombia.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $15.99
Paperback: 304 pages
Publisher: Kregel Publications (September 22, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0825439221
ISBN-13: 978-0825439223
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Dear Julia,
I want to die better than I’ve lived. So I ask you, please read this letter to the end.
It’s the only one I’ll send.
Cold, fluorescent light shone down on the metal desk where Fred Keegan sat. His hair was closely shaven along a massive neck between a pair of muscle-bound shoulders. He hunched over white notepaper, his right hand engulfing the pen.
A sigh escaped him, a moment passed, and then the pen scratched its way across the paper again:
If you receive this, it will mean I am gone from this world—so you can relax, I won’t come and disturb your life.
There are some things, however, that I’d like you to know about me.
One is that I’ve always loved you. I guess your mama didn’t spend much time talking about the father you probably had no trouble forgetting. I don’t blame either of you for having nothing to do with me. I was a real jerk. I was guilty, as charged, for the crimes I committed. That life, I am ashamed of, and I paid a high price. Thirty years in the slammer. And counting. I won’t bore you with the sorry-old-me stuff. Mostly, I want to tell you about the last eight years. Something important happened, and you should know not just who I was, but who I got to be and the Treasure I found. This is why I write to you.
I’ve got a picture of a cute kid taped to my wall. You’re missing your front teeth and have two of those pony things. You’re a cute gal and no mistake. Pretty, like your mama. The picture came in the last letter with the divorce papers.
Fred stopped, head bowed, eyes squeezed shut. The memories of that day still filled him with remorse. The rage he’d felt and his inability to control it. Two guards had taken the brunt, both of whom still carried scars marking the event. Two weeks in solitary was his punishment. Regrettably, not long enough to cure him of his anger-management problem.
Picking up his pen again, he gazed at the photo. The tape had yellowed with age. The girl never aged. She smiled back with sweetness and youth.
I guess you were seven in that photo. That means you’d be thirty-three now. I wonder if I’d know you if I saw you today. Can a man walk past his own kin and not feel the bond of blood that connects them? Recognize the spirit in the other who shares his same history, ancestors, and perhaps God? Maybe that’s why we get goose bumps. Maybe I’m a crazy old fool who’s had too much time to think about the inner workings of this thing we call life.
“Keegan, you got a visitor.”
Fred looked up as the guard unlocked the steel door and stepped aside, allowing a tall man access into his cell. His frown at being interrupted from his writing smoothed immediately into a grin when he recognized his guest.
“Mr. Lawyer, good to see ya.”
“Good to be seen, Keegan. How are you feeling today?” Joel Maartens returned Fred’s grin with one of his own.
“Feeling? I guess I’m fine. I’ve got things to do, and that helps keep my mind off the pain.” Fred tried to ignore the pity in Joel’s eyes.
“Let me guess, you’ve got new books?”
Fred followed Joel’s gaze as he glanced at the bookshelf on the opposite wall. His cell was compact: bed, desk, chair, toilet, sink. But the bookshelf reaching from floor to ceiling was the focal point.
“Nah! Not books this time. I’ve got a letter to write, and it’s not an easy thing to do, Mr. Lawyer.” Fred folded his large frame into a sitting position on the edge of his bed so Joel could take the chair. “That’s why I asked to see you. I need some help with its delivery.”
“You need a letter mailed?” Joel asked.
“Not mailed, delivered,” Fred explained.
“Got an address, Keegan?”
“Well, no. No, I don’t. But it’s to my daughter.”
Fred watched Joel, wondering how his lawyer would respond to his proposal. They had known each other for the last five years, and during that time, he had learned to value the man’s opinion. Joel seemed less like his lawyer and more like a nephew.
Joel leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers laced together as he spoke.
“I wouldn’t think it should be too difficult. There’ll be a marriage certificate if your ex remarried—would she be the type to remarry?” As Fred nodded and grimaced, Joel continued. “And of course, school registration forms. Maybe with some help from the Web, I could find an address or addresses where you can send the letter—”
“No,” Fred interjected. “I don’t want to mail it. It’s taken me a long time, Joel, but now that I have something of value to offer her, I want to know that it’ll get put into her hands. I don’t know who else to ask. I thought this thing through till my head feels like I’ve got two tumors, not one, and I keep coming back to you. I need you to do this.
“My daughter, Julia, will be my only heir, and you will be the executor—if you agree to it, that is. This search shouldn’t be complicated, but if it is, you can take any funds you require for it from the inheritance provision that you will write up with my signature and a third-party witness. I’m not a rich man, but I’m not a poor one, either, thanks to some of the investments you’ve helped me with.” He stopped. His outburst had winded him.
Fred prepared himself for disappointment as he watched Joel struggle with the ramifications of his request. Things that should be simple and straightforward were sometimes the opposite. For a lawyer to take on the unknown with no guarantee was a leap, and Fred knew it.
Joel hesitated for a moment, then gave a quick nod.
“I’ll do it, Keegan,” he told him.
As they shook hands over the agreement, Fred sighed with relief. He knew Joel would see it through. It was enough.
I want to die better than I’ve lived. So I ask you, please read this letter to the end.
It’s the only one I’ll send.
Cold, fluorescent light shone down on the metal desk where Fred Keegan sat. His hair was closely shaven along a massive neck between a pair of muscle-bound shoulders. He hunched over white notepaper, his right hand engulfing the pen.
A sigh escaped him, a moment passed, and then the pen scratched its way across the paper again:
If you receive this, it will mean I am gone from this world—so you can relax, I won’t come and disturb your life.
There are some things, however, that I’d like you to know about me.
One is that I’ve always loved you. I guess your mama didn’t spend much time talking about the father you probably had no trouble forgetting. I don’t blame either of you for having nothing to do with me. I was a real jerk. I was guilty, as charged, for the crimes I committed. That life, I am ashamed of, and I paid a high price. Thirty years in the slammer. And counting. I won’t bore you with the sorry-old-me stuff. Mostly, I want to tell you about the last eight years. Something important happened, and you should know not just who I was, but who I got to be and the Treasure I found. This is why I write to you.
I’ve got a picture of a cute kid taped to my wall. You’re missing your front teeth and have two of those pony things. You’re a cute gal and no mistake. Pretty, like your mama. The picture came in the last letter with the divorce papers.
Fred stopped, head bowed, eyes squeezed shut. The memories of that day still filled him with remorse. The rage he’d felt and his inability to control it. Two guards had taken the brunt, both of whom still carried scars marking the event. Two weeks in solitary was his punishment. Regrettably, not long enough to cure him of his anger-management problem.
Picking up his pen again, he gazed at the photo. The tape had yellowed with age. The girl never aged. She smiled back with sweetness and youth.
I guess you were seven in that photo. That means you’d be thirty-three now. I wonder if I’d know you if I saw you today. Can a man walk past his own kin and not feel the bond of blood that connects them? Recognize the spirit in the other who shares his same history, ancestors, and perhaps God? Maybe that’s why we get goose bumps. Maybe I’m a crazy old fool who’s had too much time to think about the inner workings of this thing we call life.
“Keegan, you got a visitor.”
Fred looked up as the guard unlocked the steel door and stepped aside, allowing a tall man access into his cell. His frown at being interrupted from his writing smoothed immediately into a grin when he recognized his guest.
“Mr. Lawyer, good to see ya.”
“Good to be seen, Keegan. How are you feeling today?” Joel Maartens returned Fred’s grin with one of his own.
“Feeling? I guess I’m fine. I’ve got things to do, and that helps keep my mind off the pain.” Fred tried to ignore the pity in Joel’s eyes.
“Let me guess, you’ve got new books?”
Fred followed Joel’s gaze as he glanced at the bookshelf on the opposite wall. His cell was compact: bed, desk, chair, toilet, sink. But the bookshelf reaching from floor to ceiling was the focal point.
“Nah! Not books this time. I’ve got a letter to write, and it’s not an easy thing to do, Mr. Lawyer.” Fred folded his large frame into a sitting position on the edge of his bed so Joel could take the chair. “That’s why I asked to see you. I need some help with its delivery.”
“You need a letter mailed?” Joel asked.
“Not mailed, delivered,” Fred explained.
“Got an address, Keegan?”
“Well, no. No, I don’t. But it’s to my daughter.”
Fred watched Joel, wondering how his lawyer would respond to his proposal. They had known each other for the last five years, and during that time, he had learned to value the man’s opinion. Joel seemed less like his lawyer and more like a nephew.
Joel leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers laced together as he spoke.
“I wouldn’t think it should be too difficult. There’ll be a marriage certificate if your ex remarried—would she be the type to remarry?” As Fred nodded and grimaced, Joel continued. “And of course, school registration forms. Maybe with some help from the Web, I could find an address or addresses where you can send the letter—”
“No,” Fred interjected. “I don’t want to mail it. It’s taken me a long time, Joel, but now that I have something of value to offer her, I want to know that it’ll get put into her hands. I don’t know who else to ask. I thought this thing through till my head feels like I’ve got two tumors, not one, and I keep coming back to you. I need you to do this.
“My daughter, Julia, will be my only heir, and you will be the executor—if you agree to it, that is. This search shouldn’t be complicated, but if it is, you can take any funds you require for it from the inheritance provision that you will write up with my signature and a third-party witness. I’m not a rich man, but I’m not a poor one, either, thanks to some of the investments you’ve helped me with.” He stopped. His outburst had winded him.
Fred prepared himself for disappointment as he watched Joel struggle with the ramifications of his request. Things that should be simple and straightforward were sometimes the opposite. For a lawyer to take on the unknown with no guarantee was a leap, and Fred knew it.
Joel hesitated for a moment, then gave a quick nod.
“I’ll do it, Keegan,” he told him.
As they shook hands over the agreement, Fred sighed with relief. He knew Joel would see it through. It was enough.
My review:
Desert Fire written by Shannon Van Roekel
is an outstanding novel. It brings to light the atrocities being suffered in Sudan and how powerful forgiveness is in the midst of horrible suffering. This book is sure to change hearts with its message. I am looking forward to reading the next novel written by this author and hope she continues the story of Joel and Julia in the future. Desert Fire is definitely a Five Star Read!You can purchace the book HERE
.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Nothing but Trouble and Double Trouble Review
I am so happy to be a stop along the 
Nothing but Trouble by Susan May Warren blog tour. It is #1 in the P.J. Sugar Series. I could tell from the beginning that this ws going to be a very enjoyable read.
Nothing but Trouble by Susan May Warren blog tour. It is #1 in the P.J. Sugar Series. I could tell from the beginning that this ws going to be a very enjoyable read.It’s not fair to say that trouble happens every time PJ Sugar is around, but it feels that way when she returns to her hometown, looking for a fresh start. Within a week, her former teacher is murdered and her best friend’s husband is arrested as the number-one suspect. Although the police detective investigating the murder–who also happens to be PJ’s former flame–is convinced it’s an open-and-shut case, PJ’s not so sure. She begins digging for clues in an effort to clear her friend’s husband and ends up reigniting old passions, uncovering an international conspiracy, and solving a murder along the way. She also discovers that maybe God can use a woman who never seems to get it right.
You can purchace the book here
.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The story is filled with all the things I loved about the first book: P.J. getting herself into dangerous situations that she thinks she can handle by herself, but never can; two guys fighting both to protect, and love her--one a former Navy SEAL, and her boss-- the other, her high school sweetheart and fellow trouble-maker turned police detective. PJ Sugar roamed the world for ten years, getting in and out of trouble while having fun adventures until she realized that chapter of her life was closed; it was time to go home. She lives in her sister's house in Kellogg, Minnesota with her brother-in-law, his parents and their child; and works as an apprentice to private detective Jeremy Kane.Romance, mystery, and lots and lots of laugh-out-loud humor make this yet another of my favorite Susan May Warren books. It's a fun and entertaining read that holds your attention and leaves you wanting more. The heroine is trying to learn just who she is and who she wants without hurting Boone or Jeremy, which makes all three in diverse ways endearing to the audience although Double Trouble for PJ. The whodunit is intricately designed to insure the reader has Nothing But Trouble discerning who abducted Sugar acting as Dally. Needless to say, I loved it! Highly reccomended!This book was provided to me for review by Tyndale. I was sent this book to give an honest review and was not paid for my review.
You can purchase the book here
.
Today is........
Today is "Inconvenience Yourself Day"
I have a challenge for you. Inconvenience yourself for someone today. It can be something small, like sending a card or letter, baking cookies for someone, helping your neighbor with their trash, or giving someone a compliment they deserve. Just take a moment out of your day and even if it incoveniences you, be kind and help someone else be happy.
Then come back and comment on what you did, or write a blog post about it!
This website may help - http://www.inconvenienceyourself.com/index.html
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Today is also National Tortilla Chip Day!
In honor of this here is my fave dip recipe:
Easy Mexican Dip for Tortillas
1 lb. hamburger, browned and drained
1 lb. Velveeta cheese
16 oz. can refried beans
1 small can Rotel
Mix and heat all ingredients, adding the cheese last in cubes. Can be kept hot in electric crock or fondue pot for 6 hours. Or you can reheat in the microwave. Serve with tortilla chips.
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Dakota Fanning turns 16 today.
I have a challenge for you. Inconvenience yourself for someone today. It can be something small, like sending a card or letter, baking cookies for someone, helping your neighbor with their trash, or giving someone a compliment they deserve. Just take a moment out of your day and even if it incoveniences you, be kind and help someone else be happy.
Then come back and comment on what you did, or write a blog post about it!
This website may help - http://www.inconvenienceyourself.com/index.html
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today is also National Tortilla Chip Day!
In honor of this here is my fave dip recipe:
Easy Mexican Dip for Tortillas
1 lb. hamburger, browned and drained
1 lb. Velveeta cheese
16 oz. can refried beans
1 small can Rotel
Mix and heat all ingredients, adding the cheese last in cubes. Can be kept hot in electric crock or fondue pot for 6 hours. Or you can reheat in the microwave. Serve with tortilla chips.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dakota Fanning turns 16 today.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Rainbow Brite CD Winners!
Winners of the Rainbow Brite CDS are:
Dawn
Susan
Heather
cstironkat
There were to be 5 given away, but only 4 people entered, so everybody wins.
I will donate the other one to a local childrens charity.
All winners have been emailed.
CONGRATULATIONS!
The Topless Prophet by Alan Markovitz review
One man’s story of what it takes to run a strip club empire –the dangers, secrets, pitfalls, surprises – and rewards –and the business lessons learned.
What is it really like to open and run a successful string of strip clubs?
“It’s not what you think it is,” reveals Alan Markovitz, author of a new book and owner of the nation’s leading gentlemen’s club.
Topless Prophet
: The True Story of America’s Most Successful Gentlemen’s Club Entrepreneur offers a rare glimpse into the world of gentlemen’s clubs, taking us behind the scenes of the operations of one of the nation’s most successful club owners. Where other books provide insight on the scandalous side of strippers, escorts, and x-rated entertainment, Topless Prophet is as much a business book and autobiography of an ingenious entrepreneur as it is an exploration of what goes into staying on top of an industry filled with cut-throat competition, corruption, celebrities, and beautiful women who make a living dancing.In this moving memoir of Alan Markovitz, who owns several Penthouse Gentlemen’s Clubs and the country’s No. 1 ranked adult entertainment club (The Ultimate Strip Club List (www.tuscl.net), The Flight Club, we are treated to a first-hand account of a Detroit businessman who has helped change and grow an industry while overcoming many challenges, some life-threatening, some business-endangering. He has spent nearly the past three decades reformulating the ultimate fantasy setting for men.
“The business of entertainment has a lot of glamour and glitz – and beautiful women for sure — but it’s filled with many forces that can challenge and chew you up in no time,” says Markovitz. “The key is to think ahead, exceed expectations, be ready for a fight, and be wise enough to know when to walk away.”
Markovitz’s story begins with humble roots growing up in the Jewish middle class neighborhood of Oak Park, Michigan, the son of a television repair shop owner. We come to learn of the vision, grit and gumption that he possesses – and is very much needed – to succeed in business.
There are 2,500 topless clubs in America with gross revenue exceeding $7.5 billion. Topless clubs entertain an estimated 1,000,000 customers every day and employ 350,000 workers to serve them. Topless clubs serve more alcoholic beverages (and, I would add, at a higher average price) than any other type of nightclub and are open more days and hours than any other type of nightclub. Of particular significance, topless clubs pay more state and local taxes than any other type of nightclub and receive less corporate branding than any other type of nightclub."
About the Author:
Born and raised in Detroit, Alan Markovitz transformed a modest bar on Eight Mile into the first prototype of the truly modern gentlemen's club and parlayed that triumph into a string of wildly popular and highly profitable topless venues that continues to expand today, both in Michigan and around the country. Backed by his father, an Auschwitz survivor, Markovitz has boldly and permanently imprinted his own special brand onto one of the oldest businesses in the world--wine, women, and song.
My Review:
I found this memoir to be facsinating. My ex and I at one point in time thought of opening a club such as this. Topless Prophet
by Alan Markovitz gives us all the gritty details about drugs, violence, sex, and drinking, biker gangs and mafia hitmen. I am so glad I talked my ex out of opening that club. Some of his stories are gripping and some are extremely funny. Alan Markovitz is a very successful man. He has accomplished quite a bit in the business world and in the topless industry. However, in his writing, that accomplishment comes across as arrogance. Though to be fair, he has quite a bit to be arrogant about.I recommend this book to anyone wanting to learn more about the perseverance needed to make it in the business world. This book is entertaining with all the behind-the-scenes stories and the lessons about good business practice.
Disclosure- I have received no compensation other than the offer of free product to review and/or giveaway. Any opinions expressed on here are my own. My reviews are never reviewed or edited in any way by sponsors.
National Dog Biscuit Day
It won't be long until Sophie's teeth will be strong enough for dog biscuits. In honor of "National Dog Biscuit day", here are a few recipes I used to make for my last dog Buck. They are easy and good.This one makes about 80 bones and they can be stored for about three months. -
3 c. all purpose flour
3 c. cornmeal
1 1/2 c. oats
2/3 c. non-fat dry milk
pinch of garlic powder
2 tsp. salt
3 1/2 c. beef broth
1 c. vegetable oil
2 lg. eggs
Glaze:
1 lg egg beaten with 1 tbsp. Worcestershire sauce
Position oven racks to divide oven in thirds. Heat oven to 300°F. Have 2 cookie sheets ready.
Mix flours, cornmeal, oatmeal, bone meal powder, garlic powder and salt in a large bowl. Whisk beef broth, oil, and the 2 eggs in a medium size bowl.
Stir broth mixture into flour mixture with a wooden spoon until blended and a soft dough forms.
On floured surface with floured rolling pin, roll out dough to 1/2 inch thickness. Cut in dog bone biscuit shapes (or any shape desired) with floured cutter or with floured card board pattern. Pale 1/2 inch apart on ungreased cookie sheets. Re-roll and cut scraps.
With a toothpick prick a line of dots down centers, if desired. Brush tops and sides of biscuits with the glaze.
Bake 2 cookie sheets at a time for 2 hours. Turn off oven and leave biscuit in 1-2 hours to dry and harden. Store, covered at room temperature up to 3 months.
Makes 80 4-inch biscuits or one hundred twenty 2 1/2 inch biscuits.
~~~~~~~~~
and Buck always liked this one best-
1 pkg. active dry yeast
1 c. warm chicken broth
2 tbsp. molasses
1 3/4 to 2 c. all purpose flour
1 1/2 c. whole wheat flour
1 c. cracked wheat
1/2 c. cornmeal
2 tsp. salt
2 tsp. garlic powder
1/2 c. non-fat dry milk powder
1 beaten egg
1 tbsp. milk
Dissolve yeast in 1/4 cup warm water (110-115 degrees). Stir in broth and molasses. Add 1 cup all purpose flour and the wheat flour, cracked wheat, cornmeal, salt, garlic, and milk powder. Mix well. On a floured surface, knead in remaining flour. Roll out, a half at a time, to approximately 3/8 inch thick. Cut with a dog bone cookie cutter or just cut into rectangles. Place on an ungreased cookie sheet. Mix egg and milk and brush on tops of dog biscuits. Bake at 300 degrees for 45 minutes. Let dry overnight in oven or on counter top.
Monday, February 22, 2010
All Things Hidden! by Tricia Goyer's
About the Book:
The past is brought to light...
Charlotte is cleaning out the basement of Bedford Community Church when she comes across a tattered and yellowed newspaper article. The clipping, published more than a century ago, implicates her great-great-grandfather in the loss of funds intended to help finish building the church. Charlotte has heard stories about the incident through the years, but now it seems the past has come back to haunt her. Is it just her imagination or are people treating her differently now that they think she's descended from a crook? Will Charlotte be able to clear her family's name once and for all?
Meanwhile, Sam is spending time with a new girl in town-and is keeping secrets from his grandparents about where they go. Christopher is trying to get an article published in the local paper, and Emily reluctantly partners with a foreign exchange student on a class project and eventually comes to see that they're not that different after all. As old secrets are brought to light, the whole family is reminded that the truth is often more complicated than it seems.
Come home to Heather Creek. Get to know Charlotte Stevenson, who is raising her grandchildren on the family farm after a tragic accident changes all of their lives forever. With the help of her husband Bob and a close-knit circle of friends, she will do whatever it takes to keep this fragile family together. See how God, who makes the sun rise and the crops grow, watches over our lives too.
About the Author:
Tricia Goyer is the author of twenty-three books including From Dust and Ashes, My Life UnScripted, and the children's book, 10 Minutes to Showtime. She won Historical Novel of the Year in 2005 and 2006 from ACFW, and was honored with the Writer of the Year award from Mt. Hermon Writer's Conference in 2003. Tricia's book Life Interrupted was a finalist for the Gold Medallion in 2005. In addition to her novels, Tricia writes non-fiction books and magazine articles for publications like Today's Christian Woman and Focus on the Family. Tricia is a regular speaker at conventions and conferences, and has been a workshop presenter at the MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) International Conventions. She and her family make their home in the mountains of Montana. http://www.triciagoyer.com/.
ABOUT HOME TO HEATHER CREEK Series:
Charlotte Stevenson's world is turned upside down when her daughter, Denise, dies in a tragic car accident. She ran away at eighteen and Charlotte has never forgiven herself. Now, Denise's children, abandoned by their father, are coming from California to live on Heather Creek Farm in Bedford, Nebraska.
My review:
I was pulled in from the start with this book. All Things Hidden is the 18th book in the Heather Creek series and is the first one I've read. I now intend to read the other 17 begining with #1. Several authors have written books for the series, allowing readers a variety of perspectives on the family and their surroundings. Tricia Goyer has written four of them. I've read that each book just gets better and better, and after reading this one, I believe it. I love how she pulls you into the story, like it were my own hometown.
Things are not always what they seem in the book but God's presence is always there.
Tovisit some of the other blogs on this tour, click : http://ow.ly/14nQc
BUY THE BOOK!
http://www.guideposts.com/heathercreek/
Thank you LitFuse Publicuty for sending me this book to review. As always, I was sent this book to give an honest review and was not paid for my review.
Celebrity birthdays for the 22nd..../ Be Humble Day!
Drew Berrymore is 35 today.~~~~~~~~~~
Today is also "Be Humble Day".
Steps on How to be Humble:
1. Appreciate your talents. Being humble doesn't mean you can't feel good about yourself.
2. Conduct an honest evaluation of yourself. Honesty with yourself is the best policy. Accept yourself as you are.
3. Understand your limitations. No matter how talented you are, there is almost always somebody who can do something better than you. Recognizing your limitations does not mean abandoning your dreams, and it doesn't mean giving up on learning new things, or improving your existing abilities. It does mean coming to terms with the very real limits of your abilities.
4. Recognize your own faults. We judge others because it's a lot easier than looking at our own faults. As a practical exercise, try to catch yourself in the act of judging another person or group of people, and whenever you do, judge yourself instead and consider how you could improve yourself.
5. Stop comparing. Let go of meaningless, simplistic comparisons, and you'll be able to enjoy doing things without worrying about whether you're better or worse at them than others.
6. Appreciate the talents and qualities of others. Challenge yourself to look at others and appreciate the things they can do and, more generally, to appreciate people for who they are.
7. Don't be afraid to make mistakes. Never be afraid to admit that you made a mistake. Part of being humble is understanding that you will make mistakes.
8. Don't be afraid to defer to others' judgment. It's easy to acknowledge that you make mistakes and that you're not always right. Somewhat more difficult however, is the ability to acknowledge that in many cases other people--even people who disagree with you--may be right.
9. Rejuvenate your sense of wonder. Be amazed like a child and you will not only be humbled; you will also be readier to learn.
10. Seek guidance. Contemplate moral texts and proverbs about humility. Pray for it, meditate on it, do whatever it takes to get your attention off yourself.
11. Help others! A big part of being humble is respecting others, and part of respecting others is helping them. Treat other people as equals and help them because it is the right thing to do. It's been said that when you can help others who cannot possibly help you in return, you have learned humility.
12. Practice gentleness. Gentleness of spirit is the sure path to humility. Absorb the venom from other's attacks and react with gentleness and respect.
Spring Value Tour reviews
Secrets by Robin Jones Gunn is a sweet romance story of a young girl trying to be on her own and away from the influence of her domineering father. She comes into Glenbrooke hiding her secret, and meets Kyle, the handsome paramedic.
I enjoyed the book because I love a good love story. Having said that, though, the most important thing I got from the story was the message that keeping secrets about our past or running away from life can be destructive. Both Kyle and Jessica discover this as their relationship unfolds. It doesn’t help anyone — especially yourself — to hide the truth. You can’t hide from God because He knows our hearts. Hiding it does nothing but hurt the one carrying the burden but we are freed when the truth is known. This story illustrates that fact as well while telling a good love story.
The characters come to life in this book and become your best friends. By the end, you wished you lived there. I loved this book!
About the Author:
Robin grew up in Orange County, California and has lived in all kinds of interesting places, including Reno and Hawai'i.
She and her husband currently live near Portland, Oregon and have been married for 30 years. They spent their first 22 years of marriage working together in youth ministry, and enjoying life with their son and daughter who are now both grown.
As a frequent speaker at local and international events, one of Robin's favorite topics is how God is the Relentless Lover and we are His first love. She delights in telling stories of how God uses fiction to change lives.
Robin is the recipient of the Christy Award, the Mt. Hermon Pacesetter Award, the Sherwood E. Wirt Award and is a Gold Medallion Finalist. She also serves on the Board of Directors for Media Associates International and the Board of Directors for Jerry Jenkins' Christian Writers' Guild.
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This is the second book in a four book series titled "The Heirs of Cahir O'Connor" (the first one, also excellent, is titled the Silver Sword). In this book Aiden O'Connor learns to survive and maintain her virtue when her father dies at sea, leaving her and her mother homeless and without money. Aiden, who has a God-given talent of drawing & painting, is given a chance to use her gift disguised as a boy on a ship. The book moves quickly, with secrets and dastardly plots. Aidan O'Connor seeks to escape her life in the slums by using her art. Her patron sees her talent and seeks to have it brought to the light of day. The story is an excellent example of how good overcomes evil and how one can rise (with God's help) above unfortunate circumstances.
About the Author:
Angela Elwell Hunt is a strong writer and a wonderful tool for Christ. Christy-Award winner Angela Hunt writes for readers who have learned to expect the unexpected in novels from this versatile author. With nearly four million copies of her books sold worldwide, she is the best-selling author of more than 100 works ranging from picture books (The Tale of Three Trees) to nonfiction books, to novels.
Now that her two children have reached their twenties, Angie and her husband live in Florida with Very Big Dogs (a direct result of watching Turner and Hooch and Sandlot too many times). This affinity for mastiffs has not been without its rewards--one of their dogs was featured on Live with Regis and Kelly as the second-largest canine in America. Their dog received this dubious honor after an all-expenses-paid trip to Manhattan for the dog and the Hunts, complete with VIP air travel and a stretch limo in which they toured New York City.
Her books have won the coveted Christy Award, several Angel Awards from Excellence in Media, and the Gold and Silver Medallions from Foreword Magazine’s Book of the Year Award. In 2007, her novel The Note was featured as a Christmas movie on the Hallmark channel. Romantic Times Book Club presented her with a Lifetime Achievement Award in 2006.
Also in 2006, Angela completed her Master of Biblical Studies in Theology degree. She completed her doctorate in 2008 and was accepted into a Th.D. program in 2009. When she’s not home reading or writing, Angie often travels to teach writing workshops at schools and writers’ conferences. And to talk about her dogs, of course.
These books were provided for review by the WaterBrook Multnomah Publishing Group (WaterBrooksMultnomah.com). I was sent these books to give an honest review and was not paid for my review.
Double Trouble First Wild Card review
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. (January 11, 2010)
***Special thanks to Stephanie Garvey of Litfuse Publicity Group for sending me a review copy. Also three cheers for Mavis Sanders of Tyndale House Publishers for getting the FIRST group the chapter needed for the tour!***ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Susan May Warren is the RITA award-winning author of twenty-four novels with Tyndale, Barbour and Steeple Hill. A four-time Christy award finalist, a two-time RITA Finalist, she's also a multi-winner of the Inspirational Readers Choice award, and the ACFW Book of the Year. Her larger than life characters and layered plots have won her acclaim with readers and reviewers alike. A seasoned women's events and retreats speaker, she's a popular writing teacher at conferences around the nation and the author of the beginning writer's workbook: From the Inside-Out: discover, create and publish the novel in you! She is also the founder of www.MyBookTherapy.com, a story-crafting service that helps authors discover their voice. Susan makes her home in northern Minnesota, where she is busy cheering on her two sons in football, and her daughter in local theater productions (and desperately missing her college-age son!) A full listing of her titles, reviews and awards can be found at her website.
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 352 pages
Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. (January 11, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1414313136
ISBN-13: 978-1414313139
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
PJ Sugar had been born to sneak up on people. She clearly possessed the instincts of a panther, with the ability to find her prey and slink up to them in the shadows, pouncing only when they least suspected.
Suspected adulterer Rudy Bagwell didn’t have a prayer of escaping.
“I’m telling you, Jeremy, we’re going to nail him this time.” She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to keep her voice to a hoarse whisper into the cell phone—or even to slink down in the bucket seat of her VW Bug. It wasn’t like Rudy or his cohort in crime, Geri Fitz, would hear her.
PJ glanced at the digital clock on the dash. It glared 2:14 a.m., a resounding gavel bang to Rudy’s guilt. After all, who would be sneaking around after midnight?
Without, er, a good reason. Like a stakeout.
“I followed him to the Windy Oaks Motel off Highway 12,” PJ continued. She glanced at the soot-dark picture window next to the peeling door of the ancient one-story motel. A brass number 8, slanted at a corrupt angle, glared against the parking lot lights as if spotlighting the sin behind the closed doors.
If she were picking a location to have a tryst with her old high school sweetheart, she might have aimed higher than a graying yellow motel edged with weeds, a broken swing set, a muddy sandbox, and a Dumpster stuffed with a ripped prison-striped mattress. Oh, the romance.
Just sitting in the greasy parking lot made her itch, as if she might be the one engaging in the skulduggery.
Now that she was a PI in training, she got to use words like that. She had even highlighted this one in the Basics of Private Investigation manual Jeremy had assigned her to read as part of her apprenticeship. She had read the “Stakeout” chapter three times. And, if she did say so herself, had the “Tailing Your Suspect” techniques down to a science.
Nope, Rudy wasn’t getting away with cheating on his wife. Not with PJ Sugar on the job.
“Are you sure it’s him?” Jeremy spoke through the gravel in his voice, obviously dredged from a deep sleep.
She heard a faint siren on the other end of the line and did the math. “Are you sleeping at the office again?”
“I worked late. Are you sure it’s Rudy?”
“Of course it’s Rudy. He’s exactly the same dirtbag he was in high school—pockmarked face, a permanent scowl. He was even wearing his leather jacket, which seems suspicious given that it’s August and about seventy degrees out . . .”
“PJ . . .”
She heard him sigh, could imagine Jeremy running his wide hand over his face, through the dark grizzle of his late-night shadow and over his curly, thinning hair. “I’m not sure that I’m up to your PI prowess tonight. Have I ever told you that you’re hard to handle?”
“Every day. Now, get out of bed and bring your camera equipment. Oh, Cynthie is going to be thrilled! I promised her we were going to take down her cheatin’ husband.”
And Cynthie wasn’t the only one to whom she’d promised results. She’d also made a plethora of private promises to herself. A brand-new job, a brand-new life . . . this time she wasn’t going to quit or take the fastest route out of town. She was getting this done, no matter what the cost.
“See, this is your problem, PJ. You make promises you can’t keep. Two weeks, and Rudy hasn’t been seen doing anything more notorious than ordering extra whip on his macchiato. I’m thinking Cynthie is dreaming his affair. And speaking of dreaming, that’s what I should be doing. And you too. Get home. Go to bed.”
“I’m on the case, Jeremy. A great PI follows her instincts, and I know Rudy’s hooked back up with Geri. You should have seen those two in high school—in the halls, wrapped in each other’s arms, making out by the lockers—”
“I don’t want to hear this.”
“I’m just saying, they were an item, and sparks like that never die.”
Silence throbbed on the other end of the phone.
PJ closed her eyes.
“Really.” The word from Jeremy came out small, without much emotion, but PJ felt it like a jab to her heart, even put a hand to her chest.
In some cases, she wanted to add. But not always. Or maybe, yes, always. She wasn’t sure, not with her return to her hometown of Kellogg, Minnesota, right into the bull’s-eye of her high school heartthrob, Daniel “Boone” Buckam, bad boy–turned–detective, who had decided their old flames might be worth stirring up.
PJ had spent too many years roaming the country with his name still simmering in her heart to ignore the fire there.
But Jeremy Kane, PI, had given her a job, even though so far, two months into her gig, Jeremy still hadn’t let her run with her instincts, hadn’t let her handle her own cases. She knew she could be his right-hand gal if he’d just give her a chance.
So she couldn’t find the right reply for him now, as she sat in the darkness of her Bug, alone, knowing she’d been driven out of her bed and from a sound night’s sleep by the stirring desire to prove herself. And maybe something else . . . something she didn’t especially want to talk about. At least not with Jeremy, her boss.
Boss. She needed to write that word on her hand or something. Jeremy was her boss.
“We got ’em, Jeremy. And if we can get pictures, then we’ll have done our job. So get over here.”
“PJ, sometimes . . .” But she heard silence on the other end before she had a chance to tell him that she would surely appreciate some Cheetos and a Diet Coke. Investigative work made a person hungry.
Thirty minutes later Jeremy tapped on her window, looking bedraggled and annoyed.
But because he could read her mind, he held in his hand two cold sodas.
“Scoot over,” he snarled as he climbed in beside her, handing her a soda. His scowl only enhanced his hard-edged former Navy SEAL persona, all dark eyes; wide, ropy-muscled shoulders; trim waist; and long legs. He wore a black T-shirt, a pair of dark jeans, and black Converse shoes that made him melt into the night.
In fact, he sort of matched her, something he made note of as his gaze slid over her. “Is this Sneaky PJ? Black from head to toe? Where are your Superman pants?”
“Hey, a girl has to dress the part. You taught me that.”
Only, in her black leggings and oversize black sweatshirt, she looked more sloppy than dangerous. Apparently only Jeremy could pull that off. She’d first discovered the black ops side of Jeremy Kane the night he’d cajoled her into sneaking into the Kellogg Country Club. She’d nearly been caught when she froze in the bright lights of near discovery.
On the spot, Jeremy, the person she’d believed to be a pizza delivery guy, had morphed into GI Joe, scooping her into his arms and hiding her behind boxes of golf shirts, gripping his flashlight like a lethal weapon.
The memory still sent a forbidden thrill through her, one she didn’t know how to interpret.
And she still, on occasion, called him Pizza Man.
Jeremy didn’t smile, just opened his own soda with a hush, took a swig, and wiped his mouth with his hand. “So, any changes?”
“Rudy hasn’t ordered out for pizza, if that’s what you mean. Did you bring the camera?”
He shrugged a strap off his shoulder and dumped a bag onto her lap, then levered his seat back and closed his eyes. “I’ve created a monster.”
PJ opened the bag and began fitting the long-range digital camera together.
Three hours later, she nudged Jeremy awake. She’d quietly sung through the score of The Phantom of the Opera as well as her complete knowledge of the Beatles and ABBA repertoires, then played “I’m going to the beach and I’m bringing . . .” from A to Z twice and tried to read the chapter titled “How to Find Missing Persons” with the neon blue light attached to her key chain.
She’d even rummaged through her canvas purse that Jeremy referred to as “the abyss,” found a bottle of pink polish, and refreshed her pedicure.
Still, a gal could sit in silence for only so long.
“Smile, this is for posterity.” PJ held the digital camera out as far as her arm would reach, leaned her head in toward his, and depressed the button.
Light flashed like a bullet, shooting her vision with dots against the gray pallor of morning.
“What are you doing?” Jeremy whipped out his arm and snatched the camera from her hand. “Are you trying to get us made?”
“Oh yes, I’m sure they’re glued to the window as we speak.”
He scrolled through the previous shots. “What is this—pictures of your toes?”
“I have cute toes. And I was bored. Delete them if you want.”
Outside, dew glistened on the car hood. She’d rolled up her window, wishing she’d brought along a jacket when she tiptoed out of her sister’s house in the wee hours of the morning, and now shivered. She clamped her hand over a yawn. “I hope they’re not late sleepers.”
“I can’t believe he hasn’t snuck out back to Cynthie yet.” Jeremy popped his seat up and reached for his now-warm soda. PJ said nothing when he noted it was nearly gone.
“Is that what the cheaters usually do—sneak out for their trysts and then back to their wives before dawn?”
“Sometimes. Depends. The ones who work downtown usually disappear at lunchtime.”
“Is PI work always so . . . slimy? I feel a little dirty, like I need a shower or something.”
“I have news for you, PJ. You do need a shower.”
“Seriously, don’t we get to solve a real crime? like a murder or something?”
In the receding shadows, Jeremy looked less menacing, although she’d once seen him shoot a man. “Be thankful for the boring ones. They don’t hurt.”
She didn’t respond. But she had thought that being a PI—or rather a PI’s assistant—might be more, well, fun. Instead, she’d spent two tedious months parked behind a desk, filing reports, answering Jeremy’s calls. Only recently had he invited her to keep him company on his stakeouts.
She longed for high action. Undercover ops and maybe even some karate. In fact . . . “Maybe I should sign up for one of Sergei’s tae kwon do classes. I think it would help.”
“What—in understanding Korean? or maybe Russian so you can help Connie with the in-laws?”
“Very funny. No, in taking down criminals.”
Jeremy ran a finger and thumb against his eyes. Sighed. “Why don’t I send you on a mission?”
“A mission? I’d love to—”
“Get us some donuts.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Good Mornin’ Donuts’ light just went on.”
“Is that all I am to you—a delivery girl?”
The minute the words left her mouth, PJ knew she was asking for trouble. Jeremy wore the inklings of a very devilish smile. “Oh, don’t get me started.”
Perhaps Boone wasn’t the only one trying to kindle a flame.
Jeremy held her gaze and shook his head. “Maybe stakeouts aren’t such a great idea.”
“I’ll get the donuts.”
Since she’d parked next to a wall deep in the shadows of the Chinese takeout place, she had to wait for Jeremy to climb out of the Bug before she piled over the driver’s seat. He held open the door for her and she scrambled out without looking at him.
“I’ll take a bismark.”
“What is that—the battleship of all donuts?” She laughed at her own joke.
Jeremy rolled his eyes. “A donut covered in chocolate and filled with custard.” He shook his head as he climbed back into the Bug and closed the door.
Sounded like a long john to her. If they were going to work together, they’d need to nail down their donut terminology.
The cool air raised gooseflesh on her skin as she jogged across the parking lot toward the donut shop. The sun, just a sparkle of hope on the horizon, edged into the metal gray sky, and she smelled summer in the tang of grass freshened by the morning dew. Her Converse slapped against the concrete as she hustled to the doors.
The reception area inside remained dark in the early morning shadows. Lifeless. Void of donuts. She cupped her hand over her eyes and peered through the glass, her stomach clenching in dismay. “Hello in there!”
No one. She knocked on the glass door and then spied someone inside wearing a white apron, moving around in the baking area.
“Hello! We need donuts!”
From the back, a body appeared—a teenager with dyed black hair, a lip ring, and darty black eyes, his apron strings wrapped twice around his noodle-thin body (the boy needed to consume his own product). PJ banged on the window, and he jumped as if she might be wielding a rocket launcher.
Good grief, she just wanted a donut. “Are you open?”
The boy drifted toward the front of the store almost surreptitiously, as if he might be letting in the Mongol horde through the gates of the castle.
He unlocked the door, cracking it just wide enough for his lips to fit through. “We’re not open yet.”
PJ wrapped her arms around herself and tried to appear as waiflike as possible. “Oh, please, please, I’m starved.”
He eyed her warily.
“I spent the night in my car.” She added a little shiver. Looked pitiful. Smiled.
He might have believed her—and now her less-than-dangerous attire might have actually worked in her favor—because he opened the door. “Quick. In the back.”
PJ slunk in, the ever-present danger of a raid hovering over the moment. But never let it be said that when Jeremy sent her on a mission, she returned empty-handed.
She scampered into the back room, where she discovered trays of glistening amber donut holes, freshly glazed. The entire room smelled of baking bread, sugar glaze, and the heady indulgence of chocolate. “I’ll take a dozen holes and a bismark—” she glanced at his name tag—“Phillip.” She held out a ten-dollar bill, intimating that he keep the change.
After all, that’s what PIs did . . . paid for information. Or donuts.
Whatever it took to complete the mission.
Phillip boxed up the holes and the bismark, took the ten, and honest Abe that he was, headed to the front to make change. He stopped short at the threshold to the front parlor. “It’s my boss,” he whispered. He turned and, for a guy already sorta pasty, went even whiter. “Hurry, please . . . go out the back.”
She’d never been kicked out of a bakery before. But to save her new hero . . . she turned and pushed on the metal door, letting it swish shut behind her.
PJ was standing in the back alley next to a Dumpster, a beat-up red Honda, and a pile of old, broken pallets, holding the donut box and giving serious contemplation to digging in right there, when she spied him—Rudy Bagwell, sneaking out a back window of the Windy Oaks Motel.
Oh, she was good at this job.
From this angle she watched Rudy hit the ground and skirt along the back of the motel unit, on the way to freedom.
Sneaky. But not too sneaky for her, the Panther.
PJ hiked the box under her arm and crossed the road, hoping Jeremy saw her angle toward her quarry. Even if he couldn’t spot Rudy from his angle, a guy with a eye out for his donuts should know to wake up and grab his camera.
Rudy had stopped at the edge of the motel, leaning away from the wind to light a cigarette.
She slowed her pace and strolled up to him as if she’d just been out early for a donut run. “Hey there.”
He glanced at her, and for a second she wondered if he would recognize her—after all, she did have one vivid recollection of a wild high school beach party when he’d passed out and she and Boone had buried him to his waist in sand.
He grunted at her and blew out a long stream of smoke.
“Beautiful morning.”
He grunted again, rolling the cigarette between two fingers. He didn’t look like a man who’d spent the night in the arms of his beloved high school sweetheart. In fact, he had a rather ugly welt on his chin, and also, if she looked closely—although she didn’t make it obvious—a splatter of blood down his white shirt, maybe from a bloody nose. Or his lip—it looked a little puffy.
She took a step back, glancing toward Jeremy. Movement in the VW parked in the shadows across the lot was too difficult to discern from here. But Rudy would have to cross in front of the motel to retrieve his Camaro. Jeremy could get the shot then.
So why had Rudy come this way—around the back, away from his wheels?
“Is there something you want, babe?” Rudy cocked his head at her. “Don’t I know you?”
She shook her head. “No, I—”
His eyes widened. “PJ Sugar.” He said it slowly, with a hint of a snarl—maybe he did remember the beach party—and pushed himself away from the building. “I’d heard you were back in town. Cynthie said she saw your picture in the paper. You solved Hoffman’s murder . . .” His gaze went from her to the parking lot.
“Want a donut?” She shoved the box toward him.
Rudy turned back to her, his smile now gone. “What are you doing here?”
“Getting donuts.” Only it came out more like a question. Oops, she’d have to work on her lying.
He took a step toward her . . . and that’s when she saw it. Right above the waist of his jeans, small and black, hidden by the leather jacket that, despite the chill in the air, still didn’t belong in an August wardrobe.
A gun. As if it had claws, it tore at her gaze and PJ couldn’t wrench it away.
A gun.
Blood on his shirt. A bloodied lip. A crime of passion? She added up the facts as quickly as it took Rudy to move another step toward her and snake out his hand to grab her.
But he wasn’t the only one with a weapon. She shoved her hand into the box just as Rudy’s grip closed around her elbow.
With everything inside her, PJ slammed the bismark into his face. Pudding squished between her fingers as she crammed it into his eyes. Then, clutching the box to her chest, she yanked her arm from his grasp and ran.
“Jeremy!”
Footsteps slapping the pavement behind her made her dig into the box again. Her hand closed around a donut hole, and she pitched it behind her as she raced across the parking lot. “Jeremy!”
Another hole, followed by an expletive from behind her. Thankfully, Jeremy had finally come alive, because he emerged from the Bug, staring at her as if she’d lost her mind.
“He’s got a gun! He killed her! He killed Geri!”
Another naughty word from Rudy and the footsteps changed direction. She turned to see Rudy flinging himself toward his Camaro. He Bo Duke’d across the hood and climbed in the window, turning the engine over even as PJ threw another hole at him.
It landed with a splotch of sugary goo on his windshield.
He gunned the hot rod across the parking lot.
PJ dropped the box, her breath wheezing out of her even as she watched him escape.
Or maybe not. As Rudy mowed over a parked Harley and smacked against a Ford Fiesta, she heard another car gunning to roadblock him.
She turned too quickly, wishing she had more time to brace herself.
No.
No!
She nearly flung her body in front of Jeremy as he screeched past her in the VW, a laser streak of lime green on course to intersect with its target.
“Jeremy, stop!”
But Jeremy didn’t know that, one, she hadn’t paid her insurance for over a month, and two, the brakes on the Bug were a little on the spongy side, because he didn’t even slow as he T-boned Rudy’s Camaro and pinned it against the metal pole hosting the Windy Oaks sign.
The sound of metal ripping and the dying whine of her beloved Bug buckled PJ’s knees. She went down hard in the gravel, gulping a breath, watching Jeremy leap from the car, dive over her hood, and rip the gun out of Rudy’s grip before he could even clear his head.
Pinned, he screamed at the top of his lungs.
PJ slumped in the gravel of the lot. Not the Bug. Her Bug. The one remaining possession big enough to hide inside. She reached into the box and pulled out her remaining donut hole, considering it for a long moment as her mind faintly registered the wailing police sirens in the distance. Or maybe the noise came from her, from the keening inside.
Jeremy sauntered toward her, a smug smile in his evil eyes, shaking his head. “I don’t suppose there’s a bismark in that mess, is there?”
PJ leaned back, cupped her hand over her eyes, and hurled the donut hole at his arrogant smile.
Suspected adulterer Rudy Bagwell didn’t have a prayer of escaping.
“I’m telling you, Jeremy, we’re going to nail him this time.” She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to keep her voice to a hoarse whisper into the cell phone—or even to slink down in the bucket seat of her VW Bug. It wasn’t like Rudy or his cohort in crime, Geri Fitz, would hear her.
PJ glanced at the digital clock on the dash. It glared 2:14 a.m., a resounding gavel bang to Rudy’s guilt. After all, who would be sneaking around after midnight?
Without, er, a good reason. Like a stakeout.
“I followed him to the Windy Oaks Motel off Highway 12,” PJ continued. She glanced at the soot-dark picture window next to the peeling door of the ancient one-story motel. A brass number 8, slanted at a corrupt angle, glared against the parking lot lights as if spotlighting the sin behind the closed doors.
If she were picking a location to have a tryst with her old high school sweetheart, she might have aimed higher than a graying yellow motel edged with weeds, a broken swing set, a muddy sandbox, and a Dumpster stuffed with a ripped prison-striped mattress. Oh, the romance.
Just sitting in the greasy parking lot made her itch, as if she might be the one engaging in the skulduggery.
Now that she was a PI in training, she got to use words like that. She had even highlighted this one in the Basics of Private Investigation manual Jeremy had assigned her to read as part of her apprenticeship. She had read the “Stakeout” chapter three times. And, if she did say so herself, had the “Tailing Your Suspect” techniques down to a science.
Nope, Rudy wasn’t getting away with cheating on his wife. Not with PJ Sugar on the job.
“Are you sure it’s him?” Jeremy spoke through the gravel in his voice, obviously dredged from a deep sleep.
She heard a faint siren on the other end of the line and did the math. “Are you sleeping at the office again?”
“I worked late. Are you sure it’s Rudy?”
“Of course it’s Rudy. He’s exactly the same dirtbag he was in high school—pockmarked face, a permanent scowl. He was even wearing his leather jacket, which seems suspicious given that it’s August and about seventy degrees out . . .”
“PJ . . .”
She heard him sigh, could imagine Jeremy running his wide hand over his face, through the dark grizzle of his late-night shadow and over his curly, thinning hair. “I’m not sure that I’m up to your PI prowess tonight. Have I ever told you that you’re hard to handle?”
“Every day. Now, get out of bed and bring your camera equipment. Oh, Cynthie is going to be thrilled! I promised her we were going to take down her cheatin’ husband.”
And Cynthie wasn’t the only one to whom she’d promised results. She’d also made a plethora of private promises to herself. A brand-new job, a brand-new life . . . this time she wasn’t going to quit or take the fastest route out of town. She was getting this done, no matter what the cost.
“See, this is your problem, PJ. You make promises you can’t keep. Two weeks, and Rudy hasn’t been seen doing anything more notorious than ordering extra whip on his macchiato. I’m thinking Cynthie is dreaming his affair. And speaking of dreaming, that’s what I should be doing. And you too. Get home. Go to bed.”
“I’m on the case, Jeremy. A great PI follows her instincts, and I know Rudy’s hooked back up with Geri. You should have seen those two in high school—in the halls, wrapped in each other’s arms, making out by the lockers—”
“I don’t want to hear this.”
“I’m just saying, they were an item, and sparks like that never die.”
Silence throbbed on the other end of the phone.
PJ closed her eyes.
“Really.” The word from Jeremy came out small, without much emotion, but PJ felt it like a jab to her heart, even put a hand to her chest.
In some cases, she wanted to add. But not always. Or maybe, yes, always. She wasn’t sure, not with her return to her hometown of Kellogg, Minnesota, right into the bull’s-eye of her high school heartthrob, Daniel “Boone” Buckam, bad boy–turned–detective, who had decided their old flames might be worth stirring up.
PJ had spent too many years roaming the country with his name still simmering in her heart to ignore the fire there.
But Jeremy Kane, PI, had given her a job, even though so far, two months into her gig, Jeremy still hadn’t let her run with her instincts, hadn’t let her handle her own cases. She knew she could be his right-hand gal if he’d just give her a chance.
So she couldn’t find the right reply for him now, as she sat in the darkness of her Bug, alone, knowing she’d been driven out of her bed and from a sound night’s sleep by the stirring desire to prove herself. And maybe something else . . . something she didn’t especially want to talk about. At least not with Jeremy, her boss.
Boss. She needed to write that word on her hand or something. Jeremy was her boss.
“We got ’em, Jeremy. And if we can get pictures, then we’ll have done our job. So get over here.”
“PJ, sometimes . . .” But she heard silence on the other end before she had a chance to tell him that she would surely appreciate some Cheetos and a Diet Coke. Investigative work made a person hungry.
Thirty minutes later Jeremy tapped on her window, looking bedraggled and annoyed.
But because he could read her mind, he held in his hand two cold sodas.
“Scoot over,” he snarled as he climbed in beside her, handing her a soda. His scowl only enhanced his hard-edged former Navy SEAL persona, all dark eyes; wide, ropy-muscled shoulders; trim waist; and long legs. He wore a black T-shirt, a pair of dark jeans, and black Converse shoes that made him melt into the night.
In fact, he sort of matched her, something he made note of as his gaze slid over her. “Is this Sneaky PJ? Black from head to toe? Where are your Superman pants?”
“Hey, a girl has to dress the part. You taught me that.”
Only, in her black leggings and oversize black sweatshirt, she looked more sloppy than dangerous. Apparently only Jeremy could pull that off. She’d first discovered the black ops side of Jeremy Kane the night he’d cajoled her into sneaking into the Kellogg Country Club. She’d nearly been caught when she froze in the bright lights of near discovery.
On the spot, Jeremy, the person she’d believed to be a pizza delivery guy, had morphed into GI Joe, scooping her into his arms and hiding her behind boxes of golf shirts, gripping his flashlight like a lethal weapon.
The memory still sent a forbidden thrill through her, one she didn’t know how to interpret.
And she still, on occasion, called him Pizza Man.
Jeremy didn’t smile, just opened his own soda with a hush, took a swig, and wiped his mouth with his hand. “So, any changes?”
“Rudy hasn’t ordered out for pizza, if that’s what you mean. Did you bring the camera?”
He shrugged a strap off his shoulder and dumped a bag onto her lap, then levered his seat back and closed his eyes. “I’ve created a monster.”
PJ opened the bag and began fitting the long-range digital camera together.
Three hours later, she nudged Jeremy awake. She’d quietly sung through the score of The Phantom of the Opera as well as her complete knowledge of the Beatles and ABBA repertoires, then played “I’m going to the beach and I’m bringing . . .” from A to Z twice and tried to read the chapter titled “How to Find Missing Persons” with the neon blue light attached to her key chain.
She’d even rummaged through her canvas purse that Jeremy referred to as “the abyss,” found a bottle of pink polish, and refreshed her pedicure.
Still, a gal could sit in silence for only so long.
“Smile, this is for posterity.” PJ held the digital camera out as far as her arm would reach, leaned her head in toward his, and depressed the button.
Light flashed like a bullet, shooting her vision with dots against the gray pallor of morning.
“What are you doing?” Jeremy whipped out his arm and snatched the camera from her hand. “Are you trying to get us made?”
“Oh yes, I’m sure they’re glued to the window as we speak.”
He scrolled through the previous shots. “What is this—pictures of your toes?”
“I have cute toes. And I was bored. Delete them if you want.”
Outside, dew glistened on the car hood. She’d rolled up her window, wishing she’d brought along a jacket when she tiptoed out of her sister’s house in the wee hours of the morning, and now shivered. She clamped her hand over a yawn. “I hope they’re not late sleepers.”
“I can’t believe he hasn’t snuck out back to Cynthie yet.” Jeremy popped his seat up and reached for his now-warm soda. PJ said nothing when he noted it was nearly gone.
“Is that what the cheaters usually do—sneak out for their trysts and then back to their wives before dawn?”
“Sometimes. Depends. The ones who work downtown usually disappear at lunchtime.”
“Is PI work always so . . . slimy? I feel a little dirty, like I need a shower or something.”
“I have news for you, PJ. You do need a shower.”
“Seriously, don’t we get to solve a real crime? like a murder or something?”
In the receding shadows, Jeremy looked less menacing, although she’d once seen him shoot a man. “Be thankful for the boring ones. They don’t hurt.”
She didn’t respond. But she had thought that being a PI—or rather a PI’s assistant—might be more, well, fun. Instead, she’d spent two tedious months parked behind a desk, filing reports, answering Jeremy’s calls. Only recently had he invited her to keep him company on his stakeouts.
She longed for high action. Undercover ops and maybe even some karate. In fact . . . “Maybe I should sign up for one of Sergei’s tae kwon do classes. I think it would help.”
“What—in understanding Korean? or maybe Russian so you can help Connie with the in-laws?”
“Very funny. No, in taking down criminals.”
Jeremy ran a finger and thumb against his eyes. Sighed. “Why don’t I send you on a mission?”
“A mission? I’d love to—”
“Get us some donuts.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Good Mornin’ Donuts’ light just went on.”
“Is that all I am to you—a delivery girl?”
The minute the words left her mouth, PJ knew she was asking for trouble. Jeremy wore the inklings of a very devilish smile. “Oh, don’t get me started.”
Perhaps Boone wasn’t the only one trying to kindle a flame.
Jeremy held her gaze and shook his head. “Maybe stakeouts aren’t such a great idea.”
“I’ll get the donuts.”
Since she’d parked next to a wall deep in the shadows of the Chinese takeout place, she had to wait for Jeremy to climb out of the Bug before she piled over the driver’s seat. He held open the door for her and she scrambled out without looking at him.
“I’ll take a bismark.”
“What is that—the battleship of all donuts?” She laughed at her own joke.
Jeremy rolled his eyes. “A donut covered in chocolate and filled with custard.” He shook his head as he climbed back into the Bug and closed the door.
Sounded like a long john to her. If they were going to work together, they’d need to nail down their donut terminology.
The cool air raised gooseflesh on her skin as she jogged across the parking lot toward the donut shop. The sun, just a sparkle of hope on the horizon, edged into the metal gray sky, and she smelled summer in the tang of grass freshened by the morning dew. Her Converse slapped against the concrete as she hustled to the doors.
The reception area inside remained dark in the early morning shadows. Lifeless. Void of donuts. She cupped her hand over her eyes and peered through the glass, her stomach clenching in dismay. “Hello in there!”
No one. She knocked on the glass door and then spied someone inside wearing a white apron, moving around in the baking area.
“Hello! We need donuts!”
From the back, a body appeared—a teenager with dyed black hair, a lip ring, and darty black eyes, his apron strings wrapped twice around his noodle-thin body (the boy needed to consume his own product). PJ banged on the window, and he jumped as if she might be wielding a rocket launcher.
Good grief, she just wanted a donut. “Are you open?”
The boy drifted toward the front of the store almost surreptitiously, as if he might be letting in the Mongol horde through the gates of the castle.
He unlocked the door, cracking it just wide enough for his lips to fit through. “We’re not open yet.”
PJ wrapped her arms around herself and tried to appear as waiflike as possible. “Oh, please, please, I’m starved.”
He eyed her warily.
“I spent the night in my car.” She added a little shiver. Looked pitiful. Smiled.
He might have believed her—and now her less-than-dangerous attire might have actually worked in her favor—because he opened the door. “Quick. In the back.”
PJ slunk in, the ever-present danger of a raid hovering over the moment. But never let it be said that when Jeremy sent her on a mission, she returned empty-handed.
She scampered into the back room, where she discovered trays of glistening amber donut holes, freshly glazed. The entire room smelled of baking bread, sugar glaze, and the heady indulgence of chocolate. “I’ll take a dozen holes and a bismark—” she glanced at his name tag—“Phillip.” She held out a ten-dollar bill, intimating that he keep the change.
After all, that’s what PIs did . . . paid for information. Or donuts.
Whatever it took to complete the mission.
Phillip boxed up the holes and the bismark, took the ten, and honest Abe that he was, headed to the front to make change. He stopped short at the threshold to the front parlor. “It’s my boss,” he whispered. He turned and, for a guy already sorta pasty, went even whiter. “Hurry, please . . . go out the back.”
She’d never been kicked out of a bakery before. But to save her new hero . . . she turned and pushed on the metal door, letting it swish shut behind her.
PJ was standing in the back alley next to a Dumpster, a beat-up red Honda, and a pile of old, broken pallets, holding the donut box and giving serious contemplation to digging in right there, when she spied him—Rudy Bagwell, sneaking out a back window of the Windy Oaks Motel.
Oh, she was good at this job.
From this angle she watched Rudy hit the ground and skirt along the back of the motel unit, on the way to freedom.
Sneaky. But not too sneaky for her, the Panther.
PJ hiked the box under her arm and crossed the road, hoping Jeremy saw her angle toward her quarry. Even if he couldn’t spot Rudy from his angle, a guy with a eye out for his donuts should know to wake up and grab his camera.
Rudy had stopped at the edge of the motel, leaning away from the wind to light a cigarette.
She slowed her pace and strolled up to him as if she’d just been out early for a donut run. “Hey there.”
He glanced at her, and for a second she wondered if he would recognize her—after all, she did have one vivid recollection of a wild high school beach party when he’d passed out and she and Boone had buried him to his waist in sand.
He grunted at her and blew out a long stream of smoke.
“Beautiful morning.”
He grunted again, rolling the cigarette between two fingers. He didn’t look like a man who’d spent the night in the arms of his beloved high school sweetheart. In fact, he had a rather ugly welt on his chin, and also, if she looked closely—although she didn’t make it obvious—a splatter of blood down his white shirt, maybe from a bloody nose. Or his lip—it looked a little puffy.
She took a step back, glancing toward Jeremy. Movement in the VW parked in the shadows across the lot was too difficult to discern from here. But Rudy would have to cross in front of the motel to retrieve his Camaro. Jeremy could get the shot then.
So why had Rudy come this way—around the back, away from his wheels?
“Is there something you want, babe?” Rudy cocked his head at her. “Don’t I know you?”
She shook her head. “No, I—”
His eyes widened. “PJ Sugar.” He said it slowly, with a hint of a snarl—maybe he did remember the beach party—and pushed himself away from the building. “I’d heard you were back in town. Cynthie said she saw your picture in the paper. You solved Hoffman’s murder . . .” His gaze went from her to the parking lot.
“Want a donut?” She shoved the box toward him.
Rudy turned back to her, his smile now gone. “What are you doing here?”
“Getting donuts.” Only it came out more like a question. Oops, she’d have to work on her lying.
He took a step toward her . . . and that’s when she saw it. Right above the waist of his jeans, small and black, hidden by the leather jacket that, despite the chill in the air, still didn’t belong in an August wardrobe.
A gun. As if it had claws, it tore at her gaze and PJ couldn’t wrench it away.
A gun.
Blood on his shirt. A bloodied lip. A crime of passion? She added up the facts as quickly as it took Rudy to move another step toward her and snake out his hand to grab her.
But he wasn’t the only one with a weapon. She shoved her hand into the box just as Rudy’s grip closed around her elbow.
With everything inside her, PJ slammed the bismark into his face. Pudding squished between her fingers as she crammed it into his eyes. Then, clutching the box to her chest, she yanked her arm from his grasp and ran.
“Jeremy!”
Footsteps slapping the pavement behind her made her dig into the box again. Her hand closed around a donut hole, and she pitched it behind her as she raced across the parking lot. “Jeremy!”
Another hole, followed by an expletive from behind her. Thankfully, Jeremy had finally come alive, because he emerged from the Bug, staring at her as if she’d lost her mind.
“He’s got a gun! He killed her! He killed Geri!”
Another naughty word from Rudy and the footsteps changed direction. She turned to see Rudy flinging himself toward his Camaro. He Bo Duke’d across the hood and climbed in the window, turning the engine over even as PJ threw another hole at him.
It landed with a splotch of sugary goo on his windshield.
He gunned the hot rod across the parking lot.
PJ dropped the box, her breath wheezing out of her even as she watched him escape.
Or maybe not. As Rudy mowed over a parked Harley and smacked against a Ford Fiesta, she heard another car gunning to roadblock him.
She turned too quickly, wishing she had more time to brace herself.
No.
No!
She nearly flung her body in front of Jeremy as he screeched past her in the VW, a laser streak of lime green on course to intersect with its target.
“Jeremy, stop!”
But Jeremy didn’t know that, one, she hadn’t paid her insurance for over a month, and two, the brakes on the Bug were a little on the spongy side, because he didn’t even slow as he T-boned Rudy’s Camaro and pinned it against the metal pole hosting the Windy Oaks sign.
The sound of metal ripping and the dying whine of her beloved Bug buckled PJ’s knees. She went down hard in the gravel, gulping a breath, watching Jeremy leap from the car, dive over her hood, and rip the gun out of Rudy’s grip before he could even clear his head.
Pinned, he screamed at the top of his lungs.
PJ slumped in the gravel of the lot. Not the Bug. Her Bug. The one remaining possession big enough to hide inside. She reached into the box and pulled out her remaining donut hole, considering it for a long moment as her mind faintly registered the wailing police sirens in the distance. Or maybe the noise came from her, from the keening inside.
Jeremy sauntered toward her, a smug smile in his evil eyes, shaking his head. “I don’t suppose there’s a bismark in that mess, is there?”
PJ leaned back, cupped her hand over her eyes, and hurled the donut hole at his arrogant smile.
You can read my review here and purchase the here
.I was sent this book to give an honest review and was not paid for my review
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Unconscience Mutterings / Sunday Stealing
- Teeth :: brushed
- Sweeten :: add sugar
- Demons :: angels
- Pizza :: Domino's
- Protector :: Husband
- Smooth :: baby bottom
- Coat :: fur
- Pebbles :: Flintstone
- Pregnant :: daughter in law
- Sing :: rejoice
Sunday Stealing
The Clown Meme - part 2
34. What do you like about the summer? everything, warm weather, the pool, flip flops
35. What do you like about spring? warm weather, flowers blooming, the excitement that summer is on its way
36. How many states provinces have you lived in? 7
37. What cities/towns have you lived in? Winston Salem, Athens, Cartersville, Los Angeles, Tucson, Phoenix, Las Vegas, Holly Grove
38. Do you prefer shoes, socks, or bare feet? bare feet (or flip flops- I am the flip flop queen of Arkansas)
39. Are you a social person? I used to be before I got sick and before we moved to the tiniest town in the world ( or so it seems)
40. What was the last thing you ate? Yoplait peach yogurt
41. What is your favorite restaurant? Garduno's at Fiesta casino in Vegas
42. What is your favorite ice cream? Baskin Robbinds nutty coconut
43. What is your favorite dessert? Butterfinger Cake
44. What is your favorite kind of soup? corn chowder
45. What kind of jelly do you like on your PB & J sandwich? grape
46. Do you like Chinese food? Love it!
47. Do you like coffee? Not a coffee drinker, don't like hot drinks of any kind, even hot chocolate.
48. How many glasses of water, a day, do you drink on average? 2 to 3
49. What do you drink in the morning? sweet tea
50. What non-banking related card in your wallet is the most valuable to you? considering all the doctors I see, I guess I would say my insurance card
51. Do you sleep on a certain side of the bed? left side
52. Do you know how to play poker? yes, and I like it
53. Do you like to cuddle? sometimes
54. Have you ever been to Canada? never been further north than Indiana
55. Do you have an addictive personality? sadly, yes I do. So did my dad and so does one of my sons... I believe it's a family trait.
56. Do you eat out or at home more often? home, 35 miles to the closest McDonalds... told you I lived in the boonies.
57. What do you miss about highschool, if anything? not one single thing. High school was a long time ago for me.
58. Do you know anyone with the same birthday as you? no I don't. August 12 anyone?
59. Do you want kids? I have 2 grown sons and 5 granddaughters
60. Do you speak any other languages? what I would call street spanish ( my sister in law is Spanish, so I try)
61. Have you ever gotten stitches? yes, with surgeries
62. Have you ever ridden in an ambulance? 3 times
63. Do you prefer an ocean or a pool? I love the beach, but I am a pool girl.
64. Do you prefer a window seat or an aisle seat? Window
65. Do you know how to drive stick? Nope
66. What is your favorite thing to spend money on? my granddaughters
Join up HERE.
Celebrity birthdays for the 21st....
Kelsey Grammar is 55.
William Peterson is 57. (Have not watched CSI since he left).
Tyne Daly is 64.
Rue McClanahan is 75.
Jenifer Love Hewitt is 31 (and vajazzled I bet).
Ellen Page is 23.
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