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A friend emailed me yesterday and told me that when she put “cherries in the snow martini” in Google, my blog came up first. (Apparently that is because of this post. And if you put in Fruity F*ckers–with the polite * instead of the u, I come up first again!) I wonder how many people are coming to my site looking for drink recipes? I figured the drink people would like the Saddam underwear pictures people, so that explains this blog entry title. :love:
PAX mug winner: Cheryl S! And autographed books are going out to everyone who asked for one! (If you won any of the games this week–don’t forget to send me your address!) I’ll be making a post office run on Monday! Thank you all for coming to the “Celebrating My New Design” fun this week. Please hang around and talk to me! And don’t forget there will be another fun, silly week in June to celebrate the launch of my PAX series!
My Dates to Remember countdown in the sidebar tells me that my book (PAX 3) is due in 10 days. IT IS NOT DONE.
Yesterday, my super-husband emailed me from work and asked me to write a grocery list. (He shops! He cooks! He leaps tall buildings in a single bound!) I felt like when you’re pregnant and someone says something innocuous to you like, we’re out of peanut butter, and you fall on the sofa sobbing. That’s how being asked to make out a grocery list made me feel yesterday. HOW CAN YOU EXPECT ME TO WRITE A GROCERY LIST WHEN MY BOOK IS NOT DONE?
::understatement alert:: I’m feeling a little Deadline Unstable.
I have my martini and Fruity F*cker cohorts, Emilie and Cynthia, on standby. This book goes in the mail, we’re going to lunch! I’ll also take a day off, stare at the TV like a zombie, and bake bread. (For some reason, baking bread makes me feel sane again when I come off a deadline.) What do you do to reward yourself when you get some hard-earned time off? I might need more ideas….. I’m planning to be really nice to me when this book is done!
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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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