“Nice guy, not my type.”

That was my initial reaction when friends asked Chuck to be the fourth for racquetball. We played a few sets, ate pizza, drank beer, and had a good time, but I’d just gotten out of one relationship. The last thing I wanted was to jump into another one.

A line from a song should’ve run through my head: If you want to hear God laugh, tell him your plans.

Fast forward a few weeks and most of my friends were graduating. I need three classes to wrap up my degree, but of course they were in the same time slot in the fall. So I was headed to summer school.

Bummer.

Bored, I remembered the guy who’d played racquetball started grad school that summer. Sweet! Something to do! I wandered into the maze of cubicles hidden in the depths of the Engineering Building and startled the all-male crew. The rest of the summer passed in a blur – teaching the international students to ski on the TVA lakes, picnics in the Smokies, learning to ride a dirt-bike, dinners in my tiny apartment, throwing his first surprise party. By the end of the summer, we were inseparable.

Fall quarter brought the next reality. I’d already accepted a job in Philadelphia. Chuck had several years of grad school to finish. We wanted to get married; our parents were having heart-failure.

Of course, we did the sensible thing. We ran off to the courthouse in the next county and discovered it’s not as easy to get married as it appears in the movies. A diligent, very sweet, clerk hunted all over the courthouse and finally found someone to legally marry us. She’s one of our witnesses. Some guy hanging around in the hall served as the other one.

Did I mention our parents were freaking? Count on your fingers, first date in July, engaged in October, married in December. But 30 years later, it’s still the best decision we made. We knew going into the marriage we’d always work at the relationship, or as Chuck put it, “We’d always try.”

What about you? Was yours a whirlwind romance? Or a long (7-year!) process like our friends

who dated through high school and college? Would you throttle your kid if they married someone they’d known roughly 5 months?

And this is for Becky – what is it about guys and red cars?

One of my first guardianship clients was a fellow named Harold. Harold was ninety-six, and quite sharp in many regards, but his memory was faltering. He’d outlived two wives and his only son, and thus had no family to help him make the important decisions.

Harold also had no feet, diabetes having taken a toll on his circulation.

He had little in the way of worldly goods—he hadn’t planned on living nearly a century—and he resided at a nursing home when I met him. He wheeled himself into the lobby, smiling hugely, hand extended.

“Hello, there young lady! My name’s Harold.”

The resident dog loved Harold, all the old gals at the home loved Harold, and the staff loved Harold. The guy was always smiling, always checking up on whoever had just come back from the hospital, always asking how everybody else was doing. He was a good listener, and not prone to making judgments about people for being less than perfect.

Harold in some regards was circling the drain. His health was precarious, his finances were precarious, his memory was precarious.

And yet, as Valentine’s Day nears, I think of Harold. I’ve lived through a lot of Valentine’s Days as a single mom. Poor me. I’m the only one of seven siblings not married. Woe is me. I’ve never gotten flowers on Valentine’s Day. Alack, alas. If I’m not hearing hoofbeats, then the handsome swain is probably still not making an appearance on his mighty charger. Lament, lament.

Oh, fer cryin’ in a bucket. What has that stuff to do with what matters?

Harold knew what matters. If you have love to give, if somebody loves you, if you can brighten somebody’s day, hold their hand, or comfort them in their fear, loneliness and sorrow that’s Valentine’s Day enough. Romance is wonderful, and I’ve had a share of that, but Harold has his priorities straight: We’re here to learn how to love and be loved. Romance can be part of the education, but it’s not the most important part.

Harold had courage, determination, and a great smile, but most of all, he had a loving heart. Should it befall me to live 96 years, I want to grow up to be just like him.

Have you come across some Harold’s in your life? How did they light up your heart?

Welcome to Day 6 of our Valentine’s Day giveaway. Commenting on this blog between Feb. 1 and Feb. 14 will put you in the drawing to win a fabulous gift basket from Blame It On the Muse authors.

The year was 1986. I was Maid of Honor for a college friend. The wedding was over and it was halfway into the reception. I was tired. I had a long drive home ahead of me. My feet were killing me in my stiletto heels. The bride saw me sitting alone (planning my escape) and said, “One of my friends has the hots for you and wants to meet you.” Oh, great, I thought. I’ve met some of your friends.  [No offense, Ellen, if you’re reading this LOL] But I succumbed and went off with her to meet this guy, thinking I’d leave right after the introduction. She introduced me to Dan and said, “You guys are perfect for each other. You both play baseball.” Uh, yeah. He played for the Pittsburgh Pirates and I’d played a few innings in my office’s annual softball tournament that summer. He played with Barry Bonds. I played with Bob from tech support.

I’d seen Dan around earlier that day—I’d noticed his laughing blue eyes. They literally sparkled as his gaze met mine.

We spent some time together talking, laughing and dancing. Then I needed to go out to my car for something. I wanted to go alone, because I was embarrassed of my piece-of-crap Datsun with the peeling vinyl top. I was trying so hard to be “cool” and wanted to impress him. My car was so not cool. Dan volunteered to walk me outside. Damn. What to do?

My college roommate and I used to play a game with guys we thought we’d never see again. We’d lie. The bigger the lie, the more fun the game. What the heck, I thought. I looked around the parking lot and saw this hot little car nearby. A red RX-7 sports car. “There’s my car,” I told Dan.

“That’s your car?”

I nodded and smiled, feeling only a little guilty.

He whistled under his breath. “Nice.”

I fumbled through my purse, pretending to look for my keys. “Oops,” I said. “I must’ve left my keys inside.” I turned to head back to the reception.

Dan reached into his pocket, pulled out his keys and said, “Here, I’ll get the door for you.” And he proceeded to unlock the doors of that hot little red car. I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. I was certain he’d never want to see me again.

We married a year later. This year, we’ll celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary.

Barry Bonds might’ve gotten the better contract that year, but I’m quite certain I got the better man.

You can learn more about Rebecca and her books on her website and her blog.

A funny anecdote on secrets to a happy relationship has been circulating the internet last couple of months. Led me to ponder how much alcohol plays a role in romance. Wine at a dinner date, wedding toasts, anniversaries, or just a quiet night to rekindle a spark after the kids are down for the night. Certainly not everyone subscribes to it, but it does seem to show up a lot.

We can wax on for hours on the reasons a good stiff drink comes into play. Some will even take deference to the subject as something we shouldn’t espouse. Let’s face it, it’s a major player in some form whether you want it to be or not. So in the spirit of Valentine’s (no pun intended), let’s explore the fermentation of fruit and grain (we’ll skip honey, flowers and other yeast enabling materials as minor players) and its presence in romance, written or real.

 
• Wine is historical, even biblical. It stands out as the drink of choice for most women. It lends elegance to a table. It embodies specialness in a new relationship. To savor it is akin to love: inhaling the fragrance, rolling it on the tongue, judging how it “finishes”. Nothing sexier than a wine glass with a lipstick imprint. It’s also low calorie.

 
• Beer is also historical, but preferred by the testosterone gender. It has roots to youthful exuberance. It’s American and popular with country fans. It’s low cost. But it’s also high carb, and I think women drink it primarily to get past the male shield and really see what’s behind curtain number two.

 
• Whiskey has European roots, of which came over with the settlers (though not the puritans). Though it does occur in country music, you rarely see a couple engaging the lively art of romantic positioning while “tossing back a couple of Jack Blacks”. This behavior tends to be after separation from said relationship and accompanied by creative cursing and ample comparisons of anatomical parts.

 
• Vodka is more modern (unless you’re Russian). Fifty years ago, vodka was stored on the same shelf as corn liquor. Today, it has added a degree of roguish sophistication for women while allowing men to participate in like. It comes in many flavors. It encourages a slow savor. It comes with props, like olives or fruit on a toothpick to play with.

 
• Liqueurs play a small role. It adds sweetness, something that effects in the same manner as chocolate. Just don’t expect the males to join in.

 
• Spirits that fill in the very crowded field of choices come and go. Screwdrivers, Gin & Tonic, Rum and Diet Coke, the list is endless, but nowhere as popular.

 
So why do we do it? Well, spirits lower the barriers. Take you off Defcon three. Loosens the lips. Puts you in the mood. Ah, the danger. Just look at our subject in the picture. Like romance, spirits can make you blush, make it feel like the first time. If we don’t find a way to keep the spark alive without it, the reason we do it becomes spark itself.

 
So what’s it for you this year? A bottle of wine to celebrate the love? A six pack toast?

 
Now where the hell did my muse hide the vodka bottle?

They say a picture is worth a thousand words.  So, let me kick today’s blog off with this beautiful image:

Yes, I write contemporary romance, but I have a real deep addiction for English heroes.  Given this fact, it was probably only a matter of time before I decided to send an Englishman to Last Chance.  And that’s exactly what I do in Last Chance Beauty Queen, which hits bookstores this week.

In this story, my heroine Rocky Caroline Rhodes is a well-put-together professional with a high-powered job working for a U.S. Senator.  But her bedtime reading is almost exclusively romance novels — and she definitely prefers the ones that feature slightly arrogant English dukes.  Of course the real men in her life have names like Bubba.   But, hey, a girl can dream, can’t she?

And then one day Rocky’s boss sends her home to Last Chance to unsnarl a land development problem for Hugh deBracy, the 23^rd Baron Woolham.  The Baron is thinking about building a factory right there in Last Chance.  Of course having romantic notions about a real English Baron is  both ridiculous and risky.  But, hey, the guy looks like this:

And Rocky is weak, let me tell you.  And Hugh is charming.  And, of course, he comes equipped with all the talents any good Englishman needs when mucking about in the swamps of South Carolina.  Not to mention that he knows how to waltz.  The waltzing is definitely a turn-on, as you can see by this short excerpt:

“Well, it appears to be a waltz, doesn’t it?” he said, his eyes smiling but his mouth remaining quite serious. “Now you will see just how badly I managed in cotillion classes.”

Cotillion classes?  He had to be joking.

Fear swept through her. “Um, ah, I didn’t go to cotillion classes. The truth is I don’t know how to waltz …” She let her voice trail off.

But Hugh placed his hand at the small of her back, lower than she expected, his palm pressing over her spine in a move that was utterly possessive, even though he was not very close to her. He adjusted her left hand down from his shoulder onto his upper arm, where her palm connected with the skin, just below the edge of his shirtsleeve. The warmth of it jolted through her, just as he took her right hand in his left.

His hand caught her by surprise. An aristocrat’s hand should be soft, but Hugh’s hand was dry and rough and seemed to have more than a few calluses on it. It enveloped hers, and her pulse climbed right into the stratosphere.

They stood almost eighteen inches apart. And yet she had never been more aware of a man in all her life. God help her, she had the hots for this guy, and that was a ginormous problem.

I had an absolute blast writing Last Chance Beauty Queen.  It was probably the Colin Firth wallpaper I slapped up on my computer during the duration, but but let me say that Hugh deBracy is the cutest darn hero ever.

In celebration of my release day, I’ll be giving away two copies of  Last Chance Beauty Queen to non-muser commenters.  Also, remember that anyone who comments at Blame it on the Muse between February 1 and 14, will be eligible to win our Valentines basket, which will include the entire Last Chance series.

Happy first of February to everyone!  In honor of the Month of Love, Blame it on the Muse authors will be blogging from now until February 14^th on thoughts, traditions, and themes surrounding Valentine’s Day. If you’ll drop us a comment, you’ll be in the running for a Valentine’s gift basket chock full of all kinds of goodies from books to baubles.  (We’ll be telling you more about that in the next few days.)  Meanwhile, what better way to start a series on Valentine’s Day than with a smidgen of history? No worries, this isn’t boring history – it contains bits of legend, a dose of intrigue and, of course, a whole lotta love.

Nobody knows for sure when, where or how Valentine’s Day got started. The Catholic Church claims three saints named Valentine. One was a priest from Rome. One was a bishop from Terni. One died in Africa. All three are said to have died on February 14. Freaky, huh?

Most church history points to the Roman priest Valentine, martyred in the third century, as the Valentine for whom the holiday was named.  Lost history, enthusiastic story-telling, and those legendary “mists of time” have made tracing the exact truth impossible. But three main legends have survived to explain the beginnings of our modern Day of Romance.

The first claims that in In 496 AD, Pope Gelasius decided to turn the Roman festival of Lupercalis/Lupercalia, a pagan fertility celebration observed on February 15, into a Christian celebration to honor martyrs of the faith. He named his holiday after St. Valentine and moved it to February 14^th, the day before the old celebration.

A second story, one embraced by both Catholics and Protestants, says Valentine was a bishop during the time of Claudius II, who amassed huge armies of young men to help him in defending his vast empire. Claudius II believed that married men made poor soldiers because they missed their families and fought half-heartedly, so he banned marriage.  Bishop Valentine disagreed with this policy and took pity on lovers who desperately wanted to be together. He would bring young couples to a secret place and unite them in marriage.  When he was caught and imprisoned, he refused to renounce his faith or his belief in the rite of marriage so he was put to death for his beliefs.

The third legend tweaks Bishop Valentine’s story. It says that once Claudius II found out about the secret marriages, he had Valentine arrested. While in prison, Valentine healed his jailor’s blind daughter and fell in love with her.  In a sadly Nicholas Sparks-ish ending, just before Valentine was put to death he sent his love a letter expressing his adoration. He signed it, “Your Valentine.”

Well, with my tissues in hand, I’ll tell you which of those stories, as a romance writer, I love the best. I have to go with the reverse Romeo and Juliet. The idea of a kind-hearted clergyman, willing to sacrifice himself so true lovers can live happily-ever-after just warms my soul a little. He’s my idea of a saint!

We’ve come a long, long way since then. Valentine’s Day is no longer a religious holiday and lovers the world over embrace the romance of the day. We’ve made chocolate (long associated with having aphrodisiac qualities), flowers, greeting cards and sexiness the hallmarks of February 14^th.  Statistics say that 190 million cards, 110 million roses and $1 billion worth of candy (75% of that chocolate) are purchased annually for Valentine’s Day.

It’s pretty amazing that, in light of what might seem like crass commercialism, the spirit of Valentine’s Day has never changed:  lovers, mentors and suitors bringing romance to a world that will never have enough of it.  And, gee, as romance writers and readers, haven’t we just known that forever?

How about you? What are you planning this year to commemorate the legends of Valentine’s Day?

Well folks, It’s that time of year again. Swimsuit season. At least in my house it is. That’s right, I joined the Y. I have swimsuits and towels hanging in front of the wood stove and gym bags lying in the middle of the foyer.

My day typically starts at 6:30 am, and I drop into bed around 11 pm. If I’m lucky, the TV will be off. With my busy schedule, I must be insane to add one more thing to the list. I’d say it cuts into my writing time, but frankly that’s not true. I don’t write after I get home from work. I’m too tired.

So why am I now schlepping to the gym? Because my boys. They need to get ready for lacrosse season. They need to build stamina. They need to work out. They need to get stronger, more powerful. Faster. Notice, none of those are my reasons for joining the gym. I’m there because I’m the driver and my youngest has to have an adult accompany him.

The first evening I walked onto the basketball court to shoot hoops with my kids and jammed my finger. Yes, I’m a dweeb. I can’t bounce a ball and I can’t do a lay out–not that I care.

The next night I tried a reclining bike. I thought, okay, that’s my speed. Fifteen minutes later, I dragged my wobbly butt off that sick and twisted piece of metal, vowing never to return.

I like the dance studio when there aren’t any classes going on. I can drag out a mat and take a nap. My boys found me there after the bike incident. I told them I was meditating.

My favorite part is the pool. I learned how to swim correctly in college and lost 36 pounds in six weeks. I swam four days a week and ate like a hound in a McDonald’s Dumpster.

I’m trying to relearn the proper breathing technique for the freestyle, but I’m so out of shape, I only lasted half a lap before I had to turn over. I’m much better on my back.

I think of this sojourn into the workout world kind of like polishing a book. Cutting the fat. Edit ruthlessly. Make every word count. It takes time. It doesn’t happen overnight. It starts with one sentence, then a paragraph, a scene, a chapter. But I’ll get there. With a little luck, hard work and perseverance, Me and my book just might be in shape by Nationals.

That’s my goal and I’m sticking to it. Even if it kills me.

The authors at Blame it on the Muse will be giving away a Valentines Day gift basket filled with all kinds of goodies from chocolate to lots and lots of free books.  To be eligible to win this basket, all you have to do is post a comment on the blog between February 1 and February 14.  Join us February 14th for a Valentine’s day party.

(Alix, hehe,  even a cat can do it, eh?)

My favorite season ends this Sunday with the SuperBowl. And even though my home teams, the Saints, Redskins, and Ravens won’t be going, I still love the games up to the last day and have a hard time even turning off Mike and Mike in the morning. No, that’s not a kids show. As I write this, I’m watching the ProBowl, saying “till next year” to the best players of 2012. A couple of my favorite metaphors came from watching reruns of the old SuperBowls yesterday. “Man, put some extra sauce on that pigskin,” and while making a goal line stance the commentator said, “Now, they just need to put on their big boy huggies…” Well you get the picture. Now don’t go switching channels yet, there’s a point to all this football talk.

In a season that defined itself by players like Tim Tebow, I found myself appreciating how some of our favorite themes are played out in some of the less conspicuous moments – player struggles, losses, injuries and by some powerful egos. (My daddy who took me to Redskins games when I was growing up, would have been horrified at the depths to which O.J. sunk) Love it, hate it or care less, there’s something for all of us in the most popular sport in the world.

Love and Loss – In a hometown heartbreaker, the Ravens kicker shagged an easy kickwiiiiiiide left to ruin the teams chances of being in the SuperBowl. How do you describe disbelief? The looks on the players faces will be a classic, with one Ravens player mouthing clearly O.M.G. Heartbreaking for fans, yes, but for the first time I heard a player describe how it feels when the season ends in the playoffs.

The morning after the Ravens loss, Chris Carter, one of the top NFL receivers ever said essentially, when that ball didn’t go through the uprights – in that second, those players’ lives, that team, their hopes as that entity of close knit family striving for one goal, was forever changed. After the game, they would clean out their lockers not knowing if they’d ever see any of those family members or play with them again. He said he was glad to go into commentating and leave it behind because it was so excruciating to go through that year after year without ever completing the dream.

People can change

Because of the nature of the sport, football players have short career lifespans and therefore only a few years to make their mark on the game. So they must either bring to the game great character, determination and talent or develop it very quickly in the trenches.

49ers player Vernon Davis who was humiliated three years ago by his coach – told to leave the field in the middle of a game, and blasted after the game as a selfish player, not a team player. He made four huge catches two weeks in a row in 2012. Losing his composure completely on the winning touchdown against the Saints, Vernon buried his head in his coaches arms. Asked by a commentator about that humiliating experience, he said, “Back then it was all about me. What coach Singletary did was the best thing that ever happened to me, though it was hard and took some time for me to get to this place.”

What goes around comes around. A little picture for a little man. I love the phrase “Pride goeth before the fall” which you can see illustrated so well in all sports, but especially in some of the egocentric players on the football field, like the rookie for the the Bills, who went into the end zone on a touchdown with a celebration pointing his finger to his leg as if shooting himself, obviously making fun of at a player on the opposite team Plexico Burress, who had just spent two years in prison for weapons possession after shooting himself in the leg, soon after getting a 15 yd penalty which cost his team dearly. Well, Mr. ‘Class’ got his, when Plexico won the game on a tight reception in the end zone, and afterward gave his ball to his son, as usual.

Love conquers all. (This is my favorite, of course, I’m a romance writer.)

Every year some former football players are inducted into the the Hall of Fame. For those of you that don’t watch football this is like the Lifetime Achievement Award on the Emmys, or the Legends awards in Grammys or Country Music.

Shannon Sharpe whose brother Sterling, a previous HOF inductee, presented his award, gave the best acceptance speech of all.

He said “It’s my turn to bring my granny, Mary Porter to life. How do you begin to say thank you to a woman who gave you everything but life, to a woman who raised nine of her kids, and your mom’s three, and she sacrificed more for them than her own. See, my grandmother didn’t want much…” He told his mother he was going to buy her a Mercedes and she said, that’s great, son. He asked his grandmother what she wanted and she said a house. He said, “what kind of house?”

Shannon said, “I remember her answer from 30 years ago like it was yesterday.” She said,” I want to go to bed one night. And I want God to let it rain as hard as he possibly can, and I want him to rain all night long,” and she said, “I want to wake up and not be wet.” He said, “I remember putting the pots and pans on her bed, the ones we were going to cook in the next day. It broke my heart. My grandmother had to grandboys making millions of dollars and all she wanted was a house that wouldn’t leak.” He said, “That’s what drove Shannon. That’s what got me here. And as my granny was lying ther ein that casket, I asked her, Granny, am I the man you thought I would be? When you got on the train and you picked me up at three months, am I the man you thought I would be? Are you proud, cause everything I’ve done in my life I’ve tried to please ya. (This video is such a gift.)

I love this game. There’s so much to admire.

So if you’re not a football fan, have I helped you look on these players as more than money driven jocks?

If you’re among the lucky, are there any stories you’d like to relate? Any other themes you see illustrated in the game? Who are you rooting for in the SuperBowl?

(One commenter will win my new release, Fire In My Blood by Marcella Rose, a hot romantic adventure, which came out today!! Yey. Or you can check all of our books, get buy links, read blurbs and see videos by clicking on Books at the top of this blog.)

Go Pats!