After yesterday’s post about donating to the libraries, I’d like to offer all of YOU a chance to win a copy of each of these books from me, too.
As an aside, I am still collecting names/addresses for libraries in need of two very scandal-ridden, juicy historical romances, so feel free to keep them coming.
But now it’s time for a confession…
I am often the victim of myself. I’ll admit it, more often than not, I am my own worst enemy. A wonderful example of this happened last Friday.
I was in a hurry to get dressed and drive my kids to school so I could get home before the ladies who were coming over to clean our house (hey, after you’ve had the flu, you want to take no chances of a lingering germ). So, like most mornings, I threw on my clothes, made my kids breakfast, packed their lunch, then took them to school.
I came back and walked through the house to make sure toys were picked up and all laundry was in the hamper, etc. Then I waited. About nine, two ladies arrived to clean an I showed them around and was walking here and there. Then I sat down and did some writing, got up, walked around, moved this, moved that, tried to be helpful.
About eleven, my husband comes home from school and we go into his office area to chat for a few minutes. Mid-conversation, the rude man has the nerve to ask me if I’d put my pants on backwards. Outraged he’d even suggest such a thing, I tell him no, they’re just pants without pockets. Ladies wear them, you know. He drops the conversation and we go back to talking about whatever, then I turn to leave and my husband who rarely laughs just starts laughing uncontrollably. When I asked what was so funny, between bursts of laughter he says, “Your parents are on backwards and not only that, but your fly is down!”
I reached back there and about died of mortification when I realize he was right! For the last two hours, I’d been walking around in front of people I don’t know with a gaping hole in the back of my pants. (At least I was wearing panties, I did feel better about that, but still…) Now, I tell this story, only because A. I live in fear that any embarrassing thing I do will wind up on the Internet anyway because some people live to make fun of others; and B. it might seem that writers are these fabulously presented, flawless creatures who live the life of glamour and are all around perfect, but we’re not. We’re a bit dingy, too–probably more so than average, even.
All right, I don’t really know exactly how you can comment back to this as my mortification is still present and I had the strangest urge to crawl under my desk as I wrote this; but if you can manage some sort of comment, and even better yet, if you can top my story–and it doesn’t have to be one where you’re the star–then I’ll enter you into random.org and select three random winners to win signed copies of both books on Friday.