Guest Blogger Marta Stephens: A Christmas Presence

Sleigh bells ring…are you listening….Christmas is exactly one week from today, can you believe it? All that running around still isn’t done for a lot of good folks out there, but I’ve got a treat for you. Sit back, sip a hot toddy and enjoy a little Christmas story sent in by Marta Stephens, a writer I truly admire for a lot of reasons.

She’s been on a virtual book tour this month and I’ve hosted her at some of my other blogs, but what I have found that I didn’t know before was how great she is with people. She has hosted some of my authors on her blog, Murder by 4, and did so very graciously, never complaining when a blog post came late and never demanding anything really.

As her tour comes to a close, I asked her if she would like to send me a Christmas story so I could put it up at As the Pages Turn before she left. It’s going to be sad to see her go, but we’ve already become lifetime friends so at least I know this won’t be the last I’ll hear from her!

But, back to her story….if you love ghostie stories as well as Christmas stories, you’ll love this. Thank you, Marta, and have a Merry Christmas!

A Christmas Presence
© Marta Stephens 2008 all rights reserved

It was well after midnight before Ted, our two young children, and I returned home from my parents’ on Christmas Eve. Outside, a gentle snow drifted to the ground, the air was calm and the night was as peaceful as any greeting card promised this night should be.

Inside our century-old home, Sara and Jimmy, ages five and three, were wound up tighter than a timekeeper’s watch with the prospect of Santa’s impending arrival. I placed the near empty green bean casserole dish on the counter and tossed my purse onto one of the overstuffed chairs. It landed as gracefully as my husband had when he dropped into his recliner.

“Time for bed, kids,” he said, draping an arm over his eyes.
“Five more minutes.” The plea on Sara’s face was perfectly mirrored in Jimmy’s eyes.

“No, silly,” I said, as I hung their coats in the closet then shut the door. “You know Santa won’t come until we’re all sound asleep. Come on, straight to bed, you two.” They knew the drill, yet I wasn’t surprised at their repeated resistance. After all, Christmas was a once-a-year special event. It was about presents and bright colored lights, laughter and songs and a multiple of things that sent ripples of excitement through the evening air.

By the time Ted made his way into the kids’ bedroom, they had slipped on their pajamas but were still giggling and squealing with excitement. I kissed them goodnight and watched as he futilely tucked them in knowing they were nowhere near ready to sleep.

“S-h-h-h,” he said as he kissed them goodnight too then left the room.
I turned off their light and quietly closed the door. Tomorrow, I thought, our families would arrive by noon. My focus switched to the fifteen-pound turkey thawing inside the fridge that needed to go in the oven by seven a.m. The list of ingredients for my cranberry dressing had crossed my mind too when I saw Ted tiptoe down the stairs with an armful of presents.

“Come on,” he whispered and motioned with a nod for me to follow, “let’s get these under the tree.”

I leaned an ear toward the children’s room a final time. Certain they had fallen asleep, I picked up the pace, followed Ted down the stairs and into the living room. He had arranged his gift boxes beneath the tree and let out a sigh by the time I arrived with a load of presents that filled my outstretched arms clear up to my chin. The largest box in my hands was the miniature china tea set Sara had seen in a store the month before. Several smaller boxes contained shirts and sweaters that Jimmy would toss on the couch the minute he opened them. A quick tally of gifts encircling the tree assured me we hadn’t left any behind. I drew in a cleansing breath. With it came a sudden sense of tranquility—a peace I hadn’t felt since the shopping madness took over my life five weeks before.

Each year Ted and I promised not to cave in to the commercialization of Christmas and yet, the number of gift bags and boxes that encircled our artificial tree, the garland of Christmas cards hanging across the archway leading into the next room, and the diminished balance in our check book was a testament to our growing weakness. The holidays of my youth were far simpler, or so I thought, and in spite of our annual promise, we had fallen shamefully short of fulfilling our vow once more.

“If this old house could talk,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a hundred years old. Don’t you ever wonder about the families who lived here before us—who they were, what they did for a living?”

“Not really.” Ted stifled a yawn and rubbed his eyes.

“Do you suppose their children were anything like Sara and Jimmy?”

“Amanda …”

“Can’t you just imagine what Christmas must have been like in this house at the turn of the century?”

“Yeah, bitter cold and no modern conveniences.”

“Bet they were quaint.”

“You’re romanticizing it, my sweet. Come, on. It’s almost two.” He wrapped an arm around my waist and nudged me upstairs. “Let’s get to bed. We’re not going to get much sleep as it is and we’re in for a long day tomorrow.”

Unsure why that bit of nostalgia hit me just then, I surrendered to my husband’s urging. Christmas or not, my body ached for a few hours of sleep so I raced him into the bedroom, slipped on my night clothes and just as quickly slid under the covers and closed my eyes.

Ted did likewise and for a minute or two a wonderful silence engulfed us. That is, until we heard the pitter patter of footsteps going down the stairs.

“Darn those two! They’re up,” I said. “Ted … the kids.”

He sounded off a few unpleasant grunts, swung his feet out from under the covers and dashed down the hallway. I heard him thunder downstairs first, then followed the sounds of his steps as he returned to the second floor landing and into Sara’s and Jimmy’s room. I sat up expecting to hear another round of giggles, instead, Ted shuffled into our room and got back in bed.

“Well?” I asked. “What are they doing?”

“They’re sound asleep.”

“But I heard their steps—I mean, so did you, didn’t you?”

“Thought I did. It’s this house, could have been the furnace.” With that he turned on his side and pulled the covers up over his head again. “Good night.”

The first glimmer of dawn came much faster than I would have liked, but adrenalin kicked in to make up for sleep deprivation. Still in my robe and without bothering to put on my slippers, I began to get things in motion for our annual family Christmas luncheon. Soon, the smell of freshly brewed coffee permeated my kitchen as did the smell of finely chopped onions and celery intended to flavor the dressing. I basted the turkey with a wonderful cranberry glaze and shoved it into the oven where it would need to roast for several hours.

With a piece of buttered toast in my hand I poured myself a cup of some much needed coffee and went into the living room to plug in the tree. Bright colored ornaments reflected the twinkle of the tiny white lights we had cursed at some weeks before as we labored to untangle the mess of twisted wires. I pulled open the drapes to find it had snowed overnight. A glint of early sunshine swept over the snow-covered ground adding a splash of its color across the landscape. Not a footprint or tire track had scarred its sparkling surface. Just as in a Christmas of long ago, I thought. Ted’s words echoed back shaming me into dismissing the notion as utter nonsense. I moved back to admire the Christmas tree one last time before Sara and Jimmy came down and tore into their presents. The peace of the moment was shattered, however, by the excruciating pain in the ball of my foot from whatever I had mindlessly stepped on.

I looked at the metal jack in disbelief. It resembled those from a set of ten I used to play with when I was a little girl—the kind that came with a small, bright red rubber ball. I hadn’t seen one like this in years and the thought forced a million images through my mind. Sara’s jacks were big, plastic, and pink and no one had been to our house since I vacuumed the room the morning before. I couldn’t explain how this little jack had found its way to the spot in front of our tree.

A chill ran up my arms as I glanced back at the staircase and wondered what presence had visited our home on that Christmas morning. Had a special child’s spirit or a playful angel stopped for a holiday visit, intentionally leaving the toy behind as tangible proof of their existence? I couldn’t say. All I know is that I felt as if I was meant to find it in my own clumsy way. Inexplicable as it was, I might have imagined the sounds of those tiny steps, but I couldn’t dismiss the object in the palm of my hand. I don’t know if it was a sign or an incredible coincidence. Whatever the answer, it left me with a warm sense of connection and a renewed belief in Christmas magic.

The End

Marta Stephens is a native of Argentina who has made Indiana her home since the age of four. This mild-manner lady turned to crime with the publication of the first in her Sam Harper Crime Mystery series, SILENCED CRY (2007) which went on to receive honorable mention at the 2008 New York Book Festival and top ten in the 2007 Preditors & Editors Reader Poll. The second book in the Harper series, THE DEVIL CAN WAIT, will be released by BeWrite Books (UK) on November 3, 2008.

Stephens holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in Journalism/Public Relations from Ball State University (IN) where she is employed in human resources. She is a member of Sisters in Crime International, Sisters in Crime Speed City Indiana Chapter, and the Midwest Writer’s Workshop.

Stephens believes learning is a life-long adventure. Aside from her writing, she is trained in graphic and web design. She co-designed the award-winning book cover of her debut novel, SILENCED CRY with friend Scott Parkison (IN), created the book trailer, and designed/administers her website, www.martastephens-author.com, her personal blog, http://mstephens-musings.blogspot.com, and the authors’ blog, MURDER BY 4 http://murderby4.blogspot.com.

Stephens lives with her husband, daughter (22), and son (20). She enjoys oil paintings, gardening, the family’s pet Boston Bulls and mini Daschunds, and shared moments with family and friends.

Guest Blogger Kelly Epperson: Gotta Get My Jolly On

I have a guest blogger today! Her name is Kelly Epperson and she’s here as part of her virtual book tour this month, but we’re doing something a little different. With the holidays here and Christmas just…uh, let me count…NINE days away…and since she’s a talented and quite funny columnist and author, I asked her to send me one of her past Christmas columns, the funnier the better.

So, grab a cup of hot toddy, light the fire in the fireplace and enjoy…

Gotta get my jolly on (from December 2007)

Charles Dickens conjured the Ghost of Christmas Past; what I need is the Spirit of Christmas Fast. The holidays sort of snuck up on me this year. Maybe it was the mild weather we had in November. Maybe it was the fact that Christmas decorations hit the stores Labor Day weekend so I learn to ignore them. Maybe I’m just a little too busy. Whatever the reason, it happened. Bam! The holidays are here.
Trying to get my festive frolic kindled, I spent the entire day wandering the mall and in and out of every big box store wearing a hat with mistletoe mounted and dangling over my head. Not one single person kissed me. I’m kidding. Lots of strangers kissed me. Now I’m really kidding!

I don’t have a mistletoe hat, but I tempted to craft one. As an experiment in human behavior, of course, not because that guy at the bookstore is kinda cute.
The truth is that my merry is not as bright this year. We didn’t get Christmas lights put up on the house. We didn’t get a real tree. We didn’t make the roll-em-out, cut-em-out, frost-em-and-eat-em-up cookies.

It is my plan to make those cookies after Christmas. My boys are on school break through January 7 so we’ll have plenty of time after December 25. There’s no rule that states every celebration must culminate on that particular date. If the hype can start months in advance, a few days of holiday food after the deadline certainly is okay.

Since I broke tradition with an artificial, pre-lit tree, it’s also okay to keep my tree up longer. All year long, if I like. Decked in pink and white, it’s sparkly and glittery. Quite lovely and romantic, perfect for Valentine’s Day.
I wrapped all the presents in one whirlwind sprint. In my rush, I did not play my Christmas tunes. I did not go crazy with bows and ribbons. I did not have a coordinating colored paper theme. And it didn’t bother me. I didn’t feel Scroogey, just…normal.

I’m not Bah Humbug, but I wanted to feel a little more HOHOHO.

I had a gal paint quotes on my kitchen walls (Angie-the-Artist is Amazing). Facing the table is the instruction “Eat, Drink & Be Merry.” That’s not just a holiday only entreaty.

Every day is a day to eat, drink and be merry. I don’t have to feel festive because the calendar tells me that I must. I can be pretty darn jolly all year, with or without “seasonal” decorations.

As Christmas Eve hostess for my extended family, I added cage bingo to the mix of games and found some “fabulous” prizes. The mini Thomas Kinkade calendar was bought with my aunt in mind. It was my hope that my college-aged nephew would go back to campus with the Elmo plate that says “Hurray for you!” The armband tattoo would be a hoot for Grandma. Silly and jolly are synonymous for me.

The holidays have been less stressful because I don’t feel obligated to “do it all.” There is no quota for cheer. Or cookies. We can make merry and bright all year long. And to the guy in my neighborhood who keeps the Christmas lights on through March, I won’t say a word this year. Rock on, dude.

Charles Dickens’ famous ghosts have stood the test of time. His quotes have as well. “I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.”

Me too, Charles. Me too.

Kelly Epperson has been dubbed “Everywoman” and “Rare woman” in the same breath. Kelly’s style is uniquely her own, yet she can relate to all of us. Her weekly columns of life, real everyday life as well as travels through Europe, bring a warmth and a wit that we all long for.

Leaving her job at the IRS ten years ago (it was “sucking the life out of her”), she then embarked on a new career, and served as resident court jester, at a local nonprofit agency that taught English and reading to adults.

Kelly’s motto and quote that hangs over her desk is “To love what you do and feel that it matters – how could anything be more fun?!” After a year in France, Kelly returned to the states and launched a fulltime career of writer, ghostwriter, and speaker. Every day, she does the happy dance in her kitchen.

To maintain connection and spread a little joy with friends, family, and readers, Kelly recently started a weekly “happy mail” – When Life Stinks, Find Your Joy. To check it out, send Kelly an email to kel_epperson@yahoo.com.

Kelly lives in Loves Park, IL (city with a heart) with The Man of the Place, her two teenage sons, who are brilliant and witty of course, and a sweet dog Starburst who sheds like crazy. FYI-Kelly hates dog hair, hence, the essay, “It’s Not Easy Being Cruella DeVil.”

For more info, please visit www.whenlifestinks.com.

WHEN LIFE STINKS VIRTUAL BOOK TOUR ‘08 will officially begin on December 1 and end on December 23. You can visit Kelly’s blog stops at www.virtualbooktours.wordpress.com in December to find out where she is appearing!

As a special promotion for all our authors, Pump Up Your Book Promotion is giving away a FREE virtual book tour to a published author or a $50 Amazon gift certificate to those not published who comments on our authors’ blog stops. More prizes will be announced as they become available. The winner(s) will be announced at the end of every month!

Musing Mondays: On-the-Go

Today’s question asks:

Do you take a book with you? Do you take whatever book you’re currently reading, or do you have a special on-the-go book? And do you have a preference for a these types of book (paperback, hardback; short stories; poetry etc)?

Great question as usual! On the go is usually the only time I have to read and it’s usually the latest book that’s come in for review. I took it to work with me last weekend but I couldn’t even open the cover, drat it. So my preference is paperback or hardback, and whatever the latest one that’s come in for review.

Virtual Book Tour: Christmas in the Sierrras with Jenny McGill

I am happy to have Jenny McGill, author of Drama & Diplomacy: In Sultry Puerto Vallarta, here with us today at As the Pages Turn! Jenny is on a virtual book tour this month talking about her new book and her life in Puerto Vallarta.  Interesting!

Jenny would like to present to you a guest post she wrote especially for As the Pages Turn called Christmas in the Sierras.  You can visit her on the web at www.mjmcgill.com.

Enjoy!

Christmas in the Sierras by Jenny McGill

End of year holidays in small Mexican towns have a very special meaning. Folks come home. Milking cows and growing corn or coffee isn’t everybody’s idea of making a good living, so they try to realize their golden dream and head for the cities, but Christmastime and Mother’s Day call them back home.

The highways are bumper-to-bumper with folks coming home. They are loaded with gifts for everyone. You can spend a few lazy hours sitting in the plaza counting the different foreign-plated cars cruising down the street. Most of our returning visitors come from California or Texas. Occasionally, we see an Idaho, Montana or Oregon plate. Once in a while we might see one from British Columbia.

Home folks try to get their holiday decorations up by December 1 and they don’t come down until after January 7. Some folks keep their decorations up until after Easter, and I know a few who never take their tree down, although I’ve heard it’s bad luck to leave one up all year. There’s something about carrying last year’s devils into the new year.

Very few country homes are adorned with the Christmas tree most of us know. Way back last summer the family may have spotted a certain limb on a tree they think can be festooned for their house. This tree limb won’t have green leaves on it, and it may look like a gigantic twig. It will be decorated with whatever is plentiful in the house. It might just be tufts of white cotton and silvery, shimmering dime-store icicles, but it will be their Christmas tree.

There will definitely be a nativity scene over in the corner of the front room or in the center of the main table. It seems that the more humble the family, the bigger the crèche.
Father Antonio Corona, who lives in the shadow of the forty-foot statue of Christ, maintains a life-size crèche outside his front door year round. Visitors climb seventy-eight steps up the hillside to view this manger scene. Even though it is subtly lighted, he only flips the electric switch on during the Christmas season.

Doña Manuela dedicates more than half of her entire living area to a crèche every year. She picked up a stone on the beach, when she could walk, and called it the Rock of Gibraltar. Not only does she have the traditional sheep, but she puts chickens, pigs, dogs, donkeys, horses and cows in her manger scene. The Three Kings are there with their gold, frankincense and myrrh, but she puts in some little clay figures of men lying by the roadside with tiny, empty bottles of tequila in hand. She gleefully points out, “Look, they got drunk and couldn’t make it to see the Baby Jesus!” Doña Manuela fell and broke her hip about a year ago, so this Christmas she sits in her wheelchair and directs her great-grandchildren how to arrange her crèche.

Mexico has copied some of her northern neighbors’ habits in filling the stores with Christmas decorations and toys at about the same time they are displaying scary masks, plastic Jack O Lanterns and trick-or-treat bags. However, I see the lack of some of the excitement we experienced as children. What ever happened to Santa Claus? Is he still riding around in the sky with his reindeer and trying to get his bag of toys down the chimney? I’ve seen him in shopping malls in big Mexican cities, but he has never been on my street in the mountains of Jalisco.

Mexican kids get toys and new clothes at Christmastime, but they don’t practice the custom of waiting until Christmas Eve or Christmas Day to open gifts. “Buy it when you have the money and give it to them then” seems to be the motto. If you think about it, most of our country homes don’t have attics or basements where you can hide things from the children. Crowded living conditions in many of these homes also make it difficult to keep anything out of sight.

What we have that our northern neighbors don’t have are nine days of posadas, piñatas and street parties. It’s not uncommon to see an entire street blocked in smaller towns at holiday time. People bring their tables and chairs out to the street and line them up with their neighbor’s table. The tables are set with kerosene lamps, a bucket of ice, sodas, cold beer and a bottle of tequila. The menu is generally the same; a steaming bowl of cubed pork and hominy stew, pozole, topped with chopped radishes, cabbage, onions and hot green chilies, sprinkled with dried oregano. Many of our cooks add chicken to the pork also. One of my neighbors tells me his grandfather served pozole at the World’s Trade Fair in Chicago in 1936. Pozole is to Jalisciences like Dungeness crab to Washingtonians or creole gumbo to Louisianans. These parties may go on into the wee hours of the morning, or until they run out of food and booze.

For a true posada, you have to find a donkey. Usually, the youngest girl in the neighborhood who can sit on a donkey’s back is dressed up as the Virgin Mary. Ours wears a long white dress that used to be a table cloth and a blue mantel on her head. Saint Joseph, dressed in a yellow robe, that also used to be a table cloth, walks alongside her.
I don’t like to think that Satan was anywhere near Jesus’ birthing, but one kid is always costumed to represent the devil. Mary and Joseph lead the throng of kids from house to house, asking for ‘a room in the inn’. When they are finally admitted to the party-giver’s house, the piñatas are hung and the fun begins.

Making a piñata is an art. I’ve seen them so big they had to be carried on the back of a flat-bed truck. The base may be made with flour paste or a cardboard box. Many people use rounded clay pots decorated with colored crepe paper. The top of the pot has to be left open so it can be filled with candies or small toys. Occasionally, someone fills one with flour instead of the candy and toys. It must be fitted with a rope or strong twine for hanging from a tree limb or a suitable pole. The rope is usually strung through a pulley so an adult operating the game can tease the child trying to break the piñata. He will hoist it high or lower it, trying to avoid the pounding stick wielded by the kid.

I believe the traditional piñata was made in the shape of a six-pointed star, but today you are liable to see them in the shape of fruit, vegetables, flowers, or even people.

Little ones get first dibs on the piñata. Sometimes they are not even blindfolded like the big kids. They may need a bit of help in swatting it hard enough to break, but eventually it comes apart and the wrapped candies and small toys fall out. Then the scramble is on. Watching a piñata party is a bit like watching the Super Bowl Game. The main difference is our little players don’t wear shoulder pads or helmets.
We actually had a Miracle Birth at one of our posada in our neighborhood one year. The pregnant donkey carrying Virgin Mary up the hill was suddenly overcome with labor pains and we had a baby donkey on our hands at the fiesta. Perhaps that was a better education for the children than the piñatas cracking. The miracle was that Mama Donkey didn’t throw the little Virgin Mary off her back.
The young and the old are invited to the posadas. Chairs are provided for the grandmothers, who may be holding a three-week-old babe in her arms while the mother tries to keep track of her other four of five kids. The trick to semi-managing all this happy bedlam is to invite a few school teachers.

Most kids love their teachers and are willing to obey the ground rules even in the effusive joviality. The hot dog man has set his cart out of the way of the scrambling feet of the piñata whackers, but his hot dogs are ready. A fruitade is served from a huge hollowed out gourd, called a bule. The teacher blows a whistle for the children to line up. A more or less orderly procession begins; not too much shoving and pushing, their little faces aglow with the merriment and activity of the evening, they are all set for a bit of refreshment.

In our neighborhood, no child goes home empty-handed. There is a gift for everyone.

Virtual Book Tour: Introducing Humor Writer and author Kelly Epperson

I am so excited about today’s guest author here today at As the Pages Turn!

Kelly Epperson, author of When Life Stinks, It’s Time to Wash the Gym Clothes, is here with a brand new v-log talking about her book in one of the most….um…unlikely places….in Santa Claus’ lap! You heard it right! Kelly is on a virtual book tour with Pump Up Your Book Promotion and had this terrific idea…I won’t spoil it…watch!

Wasn’t Santa a good sport????

Here’s more about Kelly and her new book!

About the Author:

Kelly Epperson has been dubbed “Everywoman” and “Rare woman” in the same breath. Kelly’s style is uniquely her own, yet she can relate to all of us. Her weekly columns of life, real everyday life as well as travels through Europe, bring a warmth and a wit that we all long for.

Leaving her job at the IRS ten years ago (it was “sucking the life out of her”), she then embarked on a new career, and served as resident court jester, at a local nonprofit agency that taught English and reading to adults.

Kelly’s motto and quote that hangs over her desk is “To love what you do and feel that it matters – how could anything be more fun?!” After a year in France, Kelly returned to the states and launched a fulltime career of writer, ghostwriter, and speaker. Every day, she does the happy dance in her kitchen.

To maintain connection and spread a little joy with friends, family, and readers, Kelly recently started a weekly “happy mail” – When Life Stinks, Find Your Joy. To check it out, send Kelly an email to kel_epperson@yahoo.com.

Kelly lives in Loves Park, IL (city with a heart) with The Man of the Place, her two teenage sons, who are brilliant and witty of course, and a sweet dog Starburst who sheds like crazy. FYI-Kelly hates dog hair, hence, the essay, “It’s Not Easy Being Cruella DeVil.”

For more info, please visit www.whenlifestinks.com.

About the Book:

Kelly Epperson, former IRS agent turned English as Second Language teacher turned writer and speaker, unabashedly tells it like it is, heartwarming and hilarious. From tales of life in France to going blonde to buttwear, you’ll bust out laughing, you’ll get a little misty, and you’ll be sad when this little book comes to an end.

When Life Stinks, It’s Time to Wash the Gym Clothes is a collection of her newspaper columns and no topic is taboo. From the “Job Hazards of Parenting” to “Mysteries of IQ Testing Revealed” to “The Scary, Hairy French Doctor,” you’ll share a hearty laugh as Kelly’s conversational style makes you feel you are a part of the happenings. She also grabs your heart with poignant tales of walking the D-day landing beaches, Grandma O, and her reflections as the days in France come to a close.

Kelly’s fans call her writing “witty, pithy, and real.” A freelance columnist since 2001, Kelly viewed her writing gig as a soul-fulfilling side job. The year in France was a break from reality that propelled her into a new career, that of fulltime writer, ghostwriter and speaker.

In an interview, Kelly states, “Ghostwriting – writing for others under their name – is a fascinating job, and I’ve written for New York Times best selling authors. But to have a book in my own name with no confidentiality clauses is a joy.” Kelly, always the dreamer, may see her name on the New York Times list someday.

Loyal readers are already screaming for more. “Words can’t describe how great your writing makes others feel.” Kelly’s essays are called charming and delightful, and her favorite, “a hoot.”

Some people devour her debut book in one sitting and others savor an essay a day. When Life Stinks, It’s Time to Wash the Gym Clothes reads like a letter to a friend because that is how Kelly sees her readers. In fact, she is now organizing a trip to Ireland with her readers!

Beautiful, inspiring, funny, When Life Stinks defies categories. Certainly women feel a kindred soul, but men too are captivated by Kelly’s writing. All ages too find a warmth and a wit that they can relate to; if ever there was a perfect gift for anyone at any time of year, it is When Life Stinks, It’s Time to Wash the Gym Clothes.

Excerpt:

The Message Is: “Look At My Butt”

They’re everywhere. I thought it was a passing fad, but this fashion statement is sticking around. Teenage girls wear sweat pants with words emblazoned across the rear end. No matter the word, “Cute,” “UCLA,” or “Pinch Me,” the real message is “look at my butt.”

I shake my head with envy. Do it while you can, girls.

My fashion consultants, my boys, tell me I could wear sweats like that. “BIG” or “WIDE LOAD” tickle their fancy. They think “Danger: Hazardous Gas” would be hilarious. I think “Made You Look” would be clever.

As women age, more words fit on the gluteus maximus. The classic, “Does this make my butt look fat?” could be popular. Depending upon my mood, I’d wear “Yeah, baby, I still got it,” or “Thanks! No one has checked out my butt since 8th grade.”

Mother-daughter sweats could become a trend. Daughter butt: CHEER. Mom butt: “Would you believe this butt used to fit into a cheerleader skirt?” Mess with minds by stating “Objects in sweat pants are smaller than they appear.” Just for fun, print in vertical letters: Cheek 2 Cheek.

Certain communities are banning billboards so I predict derriere advertising will be common in the future. Young girls can make bucks renting their rumps to Nike with a big swoosh on the tush. Your daughter could earn cash for college by plastering Heineken on her heinie. The Army could attract more recruits with “Be all you can be” brandished on All-American behinds.

It’s bumper stickers, plain and simple. My more mature bumper could work for Jell-o.™ See it wiggle; see it jiggle. Plastic surgeons could drum up business for lipo suction: 1-800-SUCK-FAT. Fitness clubs could do a dual campaign. Tight buns wear “Gold’s Gym.” Doughy buns wear “Gold’s Gym? Is that next to the donut shop?” Sort of the opposite of the old public service ad, “this is your brain/this is your brain on drugs.” This is your butt at Gold’s; this is your butt if you don’t go to Gold’s.

Certain songwriters think bigger is better regarding the backside. Their lyrics could result in size appropriate butt wear slogans. Small: “Bootylicious.” Medium: “I like big butts, and I cannot lie.” Large: “Fat bottom girls, you make the rockin’ world go round.”

“If you don’t use it, you lose it” does not apply to butts. If you don’t use it, you get a whole lot more of it. Sit on it and it will grow. My butt used to be a separate entity from my legs. Over time, they have merged into a new flesh I call the “bleg,” the combined area of drooping butt into upper leg.

I need a butt bra to lift and separate my butt from my leg, giving me back the fanny of my youth. Bleg be gone. Then I’ll wear words across the seat of my pants: “The butt stops here.”

Review:

Kelly Epperson proudly displays her dirty laundry on the pages of When Life Stinks, It’s Time to Wash the Gym Clothes. A collection of her famed newspaper columns, the book is a series of heartfelt observations and a well-balanced start for a brilliant writer. This is the kind of book that could easily launch an entire series of collections. It’s light and warm-hearted, yet unmistakably comprehensive and soulful.

–R. Pulfer, Rockford Review

WHEN LIFE STINKS VIRTUAL BOOK TOUR ‘08 will officially begin on December 1 and end on December 23. You can visit Kelly’s blog stops at www.virtualbooktours.wordpress.com in December to find out where she is appearing!

As a special promotion for all our authors, Pump Up Your Book Promotion is giving away a FREE virtual book tour to a published author or a $50 Amazon gift certificate to those not published who comments on our authors’ blog stops. More prizes will be announced as they become available. The winner(s) will be announced at the end of every month!

Nine-year-old publishes with Harper Collins

Is this the cutest little boy you’ve ever seen your entire life?

Thanks to Breeni Books for posting a video on her blog about it. I found this other one on YouTube because I couldn’t figure out how to post that particular video on this wordpress blog, but you need to watch this. He is the cutest thing!

Guest Blogger: Reb Bradley, Author of BORN LIBERAL RAISED RIGHT: Did the Republicans mess up the election of ’08?

We have an interesting guest today. Reb Bradley is the author of a controversial book out called Born Liberal, Raised Right: How to Rescue America from Moral Decline, One Family at a Time.

Reb has been all over the media..you might have watched him on Fox News where he explains what parents have been doing wrong and why families are falling apart.

Watch it here…

I asked Reb to be my guest here today at As the Pages Turn because I wanted to talk about a topic that was a little different from the Fox News interview. As I knew he was not only an author, but a political expert also, I asked him what he thought the Republicans did wrong this last election. I had watched CNN every single day throughout the coverage of the debates, then the official election (as I’m sure most Americans did) and I saw the Republican party fall and there was nothing – not even their savior Sarah Palin – that could bring them back up. Certainly the Wall Street crash didn’t help things and some people feel that that was one reason why more Americans chose to side with Democratic Barack Obama.

But Bradley feels as if there was another reason why people sided with Obama and it’s not what you might think. I’ll let him give his side of the coin to the question, “Where did Republicans go wrong?”

Reb says…

Some are proposing that Republicans “messed up” in the recent presidential race, and thereby lost Republican votes to Obama. Personally, I don’t think the Republican Party “messed up” anything – strategy-wise or candidate-wise. I don’t think any other Republican candidate would have had a better chance to beat Obama, or that any other strategies would have made a significant difference. I think Obama succeeded because he ran a different kind of race than had been run before. His appeal was not his track record, but his charisma.

People have grown discouraged with President Bush and the War. They were ripe for the campaign that Obama waged. “Give us a leader who knows our hearts,” the people said, “one who will make us feel secure and at peace. Give us a man of compassion who will take care of us – one who will bring about change and rescue us from fear and uncertainty. We want a man of hope who will lead us away from pain and into a new future of happiness and prosperity.” Even some professing conservatives voted for Obama because they were “inspired by his outlook” and “encouraged by his attitude.”

No, it wasn’t a Republican failure that lost the election. Barack Obama won this election, because he appealed to people’s emotions while his Republican opponent could only speak to their minds.

Unlike past Democratic candidates such as Kerry and Gore, Barack Obama won the hearts of people. That is why this race was so emotionally charged for Democrats, and why supporters of the Republican ticket were treated with far more intensity than in previous elections. Obama connected with people’s “passions” thereby evoking passionate responses in them. He became their “messiah” and any who stood against him had to be stopped.
It was passion not reason that drove this last election.

We live in an age in which the majority of people — even many professing conservatives — no longer make decisions based on reason, logic, or moral absolutes. Feelings are what drive them.
I have observed that it is younger conservatives who tend to think with their hearts rather than their heads. This is largely because of how they were raised. Reared by parents who did not train them against their “liberal natures,” these children have grown up to call themselves conservative, yet unbeknownst to them, their hearts are liberal.

In my new book, “Born Liberal, Raised Right,” I elucidate this concept of being “born liberal” in great detail, so allow me to offer here a brief explanation.

All humans are born with the same predisposition toward life. We may each be born with our unique personalities, but we have the same “bent” — by nature we are all born liberal. I propose that liberalism is, in fact, the natural condition of the human heart. For us to grow into conservatives, we must be trained against our nature. Left untrained, all children would grow up liberal in their outlook.
To be born liberal means that we are born emotional, passionate beings. We come into the world determined to survive and we vehemently express ourselves to get what we need: “Waaa!” and Momma feeds us; “Waaa!” and our diaper is changed; “Waaa!” and we are put down for a nap. As infants, our strong will can keep us comfortable and alive—the more outspoken we are, the more our needs are met. However, as we start to grow, we no longer cry for necessities—we crave pleasure, also.

At nine months old, if it’s Uncle Bert’s watch we want, we grab on and scream when he does not give it to us. Uncle Bert might laugh and marvel at our strength, but he easily pulls his watch away, sparking our anger. We are so furious that if we were seven feet tall and coordinated, Uncle Bert would be dead, and we would have his watch. The will-to-survive that kept us alive as newborns is revealed as a will-to-be-gratified the older we get.

A grasp of liberal as well as conservative outlooks requires that we understand the self-centered drive of human nature. From birth we are all driven by passion—we want what we want, when we want it, and we refuse things we do not want. Hence, as young children we beg or scream for ice cream, and turn our noses up at Brussels sprouts. By nature we hate having to wait and demand immediate gratification—we throw fits when we do not get our way. From our first year of life we want to gratify ourselves, and loathe the idea of reaping consequences for our actions. It is our parents’ job to train us to have self-control—to teach us that we can find contentment and security in life without fulfilling all our passions. They must work diligently to teach us that we do not need to be ruled by our “will-to-be-gratified.”

What do you suppose might happen if a child’s “will-to-be-gratified” continued unimpeded into adulthood? That is, if it is human nature to be self-oriented and obsessed with pleasure, what might happen to a child who is not taught self-restraint during the early formative years. What might happen if he is allowed a voice in all parental decisions that affect him, and indulged with that for which he cries, pouts, and sulks? How might a child turn out whose parents do not teach him to wait patiently for what he wants, or who is never forced to suffer through the common hardships of childhood, such as picking up his toys or eating whatever food his parents choose for him? Might not such a child grow up with an over-exalted sense of his own importance; and, consequently, a grand sense of entitlement, little gratefulness, and minimal ability to delay gratification?

A society whose children are not raised to have self-control will be out-of-control. Theft escalates in any culture in which the children are not trained to say NO to their covetous hearts and respect other people’s property; murder increases in any community in which children have not learned from their parents to respect others’ right to life; out-of-wedlock pregnancies and incidents of sexual assault increase in any land in which children are not trained to say NO to their passions. It is interesting to note that since people began taking Dr. Spock’s advice to soften up on their parenting, the rate of violent crime in the U.S. has risen more than 300%.

Think about it — what might happen to a child permitted to escape the consequences of his actions, whose parents clean up his messes and pay for the windows he breaks? He will grow up with “entitlement” thinking, believing that it is the government’s duty to protect the immoral from the consequences of their actions, which means clean needles for drug abusers, welfare for the lazy, and condoms for the promiscuous. And if many of his friends are raised the same way, might they not share a consensus that pursuit of personal pleasure without consequence is their supreme right?
Children start off life with a will-to-be-gratified, and if it is not brought into check when they are young they will arrive at adulthood with the same self-focused, passion-driven worldview they had as toddlers. This outlook on life will affect their relationships with their families, their employers, and their communities. It will also determine their approach to politics and government.

I would like to offer what will be a radical thought for many—at the very core of liberalism is passion. A liberal perspective, at the deepest level, is rooted in the heart—not the mind. The liberal mindset stems from emotions and feelings, which might include compassion for the needy, but more universally expresses itself in the desire for gratification, along with a refusal to suffer the consequences of those desires.

So, do you understand how people were drawn into throwing their support behind a man, even though he stood against so many of their traditional morals? America, many conservatives included, is becoming a nation of liberal-hearted people. Obama bypassed their minds and seduced their hearts.

I realize that many will object to my assessment of their heart motives, but just as a physician diagnoses a chronic disease from observing physical symptoms, as a counselor I look at moral and behavioral symptoms to diagnose a soul. The diagnosis is not that difficult to make.

What is disconcerting about Obama is that he spent his childhood feeding his liberal nature, and then learned to justify his passion-based worldview under the tutelage of Marxist and socialistic thinkers. In January we will not only have a president whose reason is overruled by emotions, but whose philosophy of government is more leftist than any president in our nation’s history.

What makes matters worse is that the heart bonds he has developed with the American people may cause them to tolerate more governmental oppression and controls than they ever dreamed possible.

America, buckle up — we are in for the ride of our lives. However, we cannot set our sites on trying to “survive” and hold our ground the next four years — we need to take ground! For our nation to return to its roots and restore its former greatness, the changes must start with conservatives. It is my hope that “Born Liberal, Raised Right” will clarify for them the path they need to walk.

What’s your opinion? Do you believe Reb is right or way off base? Leave your comments!

BOOK SPOTLIGHT: THE BOOK OF NAMES by D. Barkley Briggs

The Book of Names
D. Barkley Briggs
Young Adult Fantasy
Navpress Publishing Group
397 pages
ISBN-10:160006227X
ISBN-13: 978-1600062278

It was supposed to be a routine Thanksgiving break. But when Hadyn and Ewan Barlow discover an ancient Viking runestone buried on their family farm, they unwittingly open a magical portal to another world. Fleeing grief and broken dreams over the loss of their mother, the two brothers find themselves hailed as Champions in the Kingdom of Karac Tor. But all is not well. Nemesia the witch is releasing shadows over the whole land. Names are being stolen from The Book of Names, the most sacred relic of the kingdom. Before long, the Barlows realize they must find the courage to fight, or they will never find their way home. There’s just one problem: even if they win, will anyone know how to send them back?

(By now, the chilling truth has sunk in: Hadyn and Ewan are in a strange, new world. It’s not a dream. As they journey toward the capital city of Stratamore, hoping to find someone who can send them back home to Missouri, they are attacked by an angry mob of birds and five drone-like teenagers who have been following them for unknown reasons. Accompanied by Sorge the Gray Monk, Asandra the mirling, and a grumpy, stouthearted gnome named Flogg, the brothers take temporary shelter in a small structure called The Stone House.)

Sorge glanced out the peephole cut into the wall, “The birds that attacked us are a Flight of Crows. Sorcery makes the birds fly swifter, with focus and greater rage. They even seem to multiply. It’s Nemesia’s doing, I’m sure. Ewan, lock the door. Everyone else up against the east wall. Stay flat and still.”

Scooting on all fours, Ewan found the latch and slid the bolt. They all pressed against the stone wall, though Flogg seemed more irritated than afraid. Outside, amidst scattered, low voices, a sound drew near. Feet crunching on pebbles.

Memory jarred Ewan. “Sorge, the hole you made!” he hissed.
Quickly, Sorge smeared the rock face with his fingers. The surface sealed under his touch as if made of paste. At the wall, he drew himself to his full height, staff in hand. Pacing feet now ringed the Stone House. Only the four walls stood between the hunters and the hunted.

The five outside circled the Stone House with slow, deliberate movements—once in full, then twice. The light sound of flapping wings returned. Claws scratched against the thatched roof. Squawking. On the third circuit, something like fingernails began scraping the rock wall. Inside, the air strangely thickened, so that Ewan found it hard to breathe. A strange heaviness began oozing under his threshold of conscious thought, like smoke slipping under a door, making it difficult to think clearly. He fought it, trying to focus on a spot on the far wall. Beside him, Haydn leaned hard against the stone, as if using it to hold himself up. Matted blood was stuck in his brother’s hair, smeared on his face. His ragged breath strangely comforted Ewan, to know he felt it, too. They were both fighting the same thing.

Though Sorge had counted five, only one voice arose from the artificial calm. It was creepy and directionless, drifting like a leaf in the wind, leeching through the stone, shiftless and flat.
“Who travels…so far?” the voice said. It was male, not old. He sounded neither curious nor fearful, stringing words together like pearls on an open loop before letting them tumble thoughtlessly to the ground, unclaimed. Other voices rose faintly in response, moaning like wind on a barren plain. “Who journeys…through…the skies to the home…of despair?”

More soft strides on padded feet. More scraping. More bird noises. Strangely, none of them even attempted to peer through the high windows. Perhaps they didn’t care. Perhaps this was all some bad dream, or a very bad joke.

When a hard fist suddenly rattled the wood planks, Ewan jumped. So much for that theory. Sorge reached out to his left and right, placing a steady hand on the shoulders of both boys. He put a finger to his lips to focus their thoughts. Shhh…

Another thump, this time harder, as if one of the people outside had taken a heavy stone from the pond, and was trying to smash the door apart.

“Who crosses the hidden…barrier…”

The door rattled again, a bone-jarring sound. Thwack!

“…to trouble holy men?”

Thwack! By now, the birds had gone wild, dancing and squawking, flapping and pecking.

“Plans come to nothing. Yours…ours. Nothing. The world will…come to nothing. Hide and prove us true. Emerge and join us. Fight and be consumed. We are…the Name—”

Thwack! Another blow and the door would surely shatter. Ewan found himself straining to concentrate. The what? What had he called them? The last word had drowned in the clatter, but Ewan thought he heard it: the Nameless. The boy’s voice had an gooey, sticky quality. The words formed questions, yet at the same time seemed passionless to any answer that might be given. Ewan’s head spun. The voice in his head felt foreign on the one hand, yet it entered his brain with a sense of relief, leaving a residue of thought he could not wipe away. He shook his head angrily, saw Hadyn making a similar gesture. Ewan wanted to scream, to force it out of his head. The same young man kept droning on:

“Do not think proudly, outlanders. You have come for no great purpose. Let me show you the beginning…of the way of peace: Nothing matters.”

The other voices joined in, creating a soft, uneven chant: “Nothing. Matters. Nothing.”
It seemed to crescendo. Ewan braced for the door to splinter. Wings flapped wildly. Sorge’s knuckles were white on his staff. Asandra’s face glistened in the half light.

“Nothing matters…”

Then, simply nothing. They were gone, the sound of their feet trailing away to the south, lost amongst the whispering grass and the generous curves of dimpled land; lost in the slow circles forming on the water where silver perch topped the pond, gulping for mosquitoes. Birds and voices alike—gone.

Hadyn sank to his knees. In the warmish light, his face was pale. “We shouldn’t have come, Ewan. We should be home right now, with Dad. Not here, wherever this is. I’m so sorry.”

Ewan struggled to catch his breath. He felt the same. But home was a long, long way away…