Just received the 400th review for my psychological thriller, THE MEMORY BOX (about a woman who Googles herself and discovers the shocking details of a past she doesn’t remember) on Amazon! And it was a goodie! Thank you Mtngrannie wherever (whoever) you are!
I am so grateful to all you reviewers out there! I read every single one. And since we all know that 1 in 87.3 readers write reviews for books, my calculations tell me that 43,962.7 people have presumably read THE MEMORY BOX. Whoa, my brain is exploding right now . . . (Not sure about any of those figures, honestly.)
It’s time for me to share some love right back atcha. Since today is Mother’s Day, I’m going to give away 5 signed copies of Not Your Mother’s Book On Being a Mom & Not Your Mother’s Book On Family. My story, Where Did I Go Wrong? was anthologized is this book of funny, poignant, sweet, irreverent stories about motherhood. For those of you familiar with my essays on parenting, it is chock full of insecurity and blunders, so you should not be disappointed.
I WILL CHOOSE 5 PEOPLE WHO SHARE THIS POST. (Choosing the winners will be at random while wearing a blindfold as my kids spin me around in my desk chair). If you share this post, you will multiply your chances of winning a signed copy by 87.3%. Whoa. Right? That’s what my calculations tell me. However, I don’t know for sure, actually. But I do know you can’t win it, unless you’re in it.
Isn’t this fun! It’s like a game show! Share this post and YOU COULD WIN! What have you got to lose? I will post the winners later this week. (And they will send me their address via private message, savvy?)
P.S. I should mention that I am also giving away a signed copy of THE MEMORY BOX on Goodreads, so get yourself over there to enter! Good luck everyone!
By the way, may I call you that? Pigs? It’s meant with the utmost respect, and after all, it is your name. Believe me, pig. I’ve never used your name in vain when referring to perverts or sleazeballs. I don’t know who started that. Uncool. Nor have I ever said, “Go clean up, you filthy pig!” to either of my kids or my husband. Even that time when they were so foul I wouldn’t let them in the house without hosing off in the backyard first. I’ve read that elephants and rhinos are much dirtier than pigs, but the dirtiest of all, obviously, is the dung beetle. Just so you know, whenever possible I do correct people by saying, “Go clean up, you filthy dung beetle!”
Okay, that’s not why I’m writing you. I need to talk to you about the state of pigs. Read more on the Huffington Post:
The other night at dinner, I sat at the kitchen table with my teenage daughter. Some nights, “family dinner” means just us two. I’ve been getting used to making dinners that are easy to scoop out and reheat in a flash. Teenagers are here one minute, gone the next. And I’m just referring to the dinner hour.
My daughter has always loved to ask the hypothetical questions. The “what-ifs” and the “what would you dos.” And as philosophical as they may be, she likes her hypotheticals quantifiable. She likes answers that are in percentages, or on her famous “scale of 1 to 10.”
Between forkfuls of asparagus risotto, she asked, “What if someone asked you to rate yourself as a mother? What would you say, on a scale of 1 to 10?” read more
Nestled peacefully under my comforter, I heard my bedroom door swoosh open with a sense of urgency. A second later, inches from my head, I heard, “Honey!” It was my husband’s aggressive whisper. The kind that’s meant to be in a hushed tone but comes out louder than a normal speaking voice.
I was in that perfectly-aligned-body-parts guaranteed-deep-glorious-sleep position. My limbs were at the melting-into-the-mattress stage. My mind was not far behind my body, already in a half-doze. The timing was crucial. I couldn’t move a muscle, lest I wake myself up. That included my mouth. Responding to my husband would be limited. A grunt was all I could offer.
He took the grunt as a sign to converse. “There’s a parental lock on one of the TV channels. What’s that about? When did we have a parental lock? What’s the code?” continue reading