The winner of this week’s autographed copy of Her Man to Remember is ::drum roll:: Sheri! (Sheri, email me with your address!) But don’t go away–there are three more weeks and three more autographed copies of HMTR going out this month! All you have to do to throw your hat in the ring to win is leave comments in my blog in the coming week’s entries. 
Also, more spontaneous, ridiculous contests for PAX mugs!!!!!
Posted by Suzanne McMinn | Permalink
Today I have:
*Taken the children to church. There were no Fruity F*ckers harmed in the production of this event. There was no clapping, either. Our place in the Pearly Gates line is currently secured.
*Paid bills. Or at least the ones I wanted to pay. :hehe:
*Organized my writing materials.
*Cleaned the living room.
*Cleaned my bedroom.
*Washed clothes and ACTUALLY PUT THEM UP IN THE SAME DAY.
*Brutally tormented my husband by forcing him to help me plot on the way to church. He kept driving faster, whimpering, “Make it stop, make it stop!”
*Bid on Michael Jackson’s ex-wife’s wedding ring on eBay. NO, I DIDN’T. Just checking to see if you were paying attention.
I still have to finish the art fact sheet (online entry on Harlequin database) for PAX 2 cover art and back cover copy, clean my bathroom, and clean up the cat vomit from this morning. I REALLY DON’T WANT TO DO THIS ONE. MAKE IT STOP, MAKE IT STOP.
Then I’ll be back with this week’s winner of an autographed copy of HMTR!
Moving to North Carolina from Texas is like moving to a foreign country where they drive on the wrong side of the road, talk funny, and you can’t find a Wal-Mart. Only in North Carolina it’s that they make barbeque all wrong and you can’t find a Church of Christ. (The talking funny thing is the same.) In Texas, Church of Christs are like armadillo roadkill. They’re everywhere. In a 60-mile radius, we could find only two here. (Church of Christs, not dead armadillos. There are NO armadillos here, dead or alive. As far as I know.) The first, and closest one, was so small it was like going to church in a closet. Plus, they were crazy. They told us if we weren’t going to come on Sunday nights and Wednesday nights, we couldn’t go there. We found another one, requiring something of a drive, that would tolerate our slacker Sunday morning-only attendance. It’s bigger (by North Carolina standards) and pretty normal (by Church of Christ standards).
But THEY ARE SO UPTIGHT. No Church of Christ is REALLY normal, you must realize. But since we don’t have mental illness, alcoholism, or physical abuse in our family, we have to have something or how else would we perform our parental duty of screwing up our children? So we have the Church of Christ. Last Sunday, a guy got baptized and some people clapped. (First off, getting baptized in a Church of Christ is like entering a dunking booth, just so you know. It’s quite a production.) Now, I didn’t clap. I was born and bred in the Church of Christ. My dad was a Church of Christ preacher. I AM TOO MESSED UP FOR THAT. But my children, still innocent, clapped, and so did some other apparently rebellious adults. Later, the minister admonished the congregation. NO CLAPPING. Why no clapping? Aren’t people supposed to be happy when someone gets baptized? I hate seeing the clapping trained out of my children.
I think the next time someone gets baptized, I’m going to tell them to get up and do the Macarena. I’ll bring the Fruity F*ckers! Fruity F*ckers for everyone!
I know this will go over well.
Posted by Suzanne McMinn | Permalink
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"It was a cold wintry day when I brought my children to live in rural West Virginia. The farmhouse was one hundred years old, there was already snow on the ground, and the heat was sparse-—as was the insulation. The floors weren’t even, either. My then-twelve-year-old son walked in the door and said, “You’ve brought us to this slanted little house to die." Keep reading our story....
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