Category: Meandering Musings

Live from New York–Real Live Celeb Sighting

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Okay, I just all but brushed shoulders with Matthew Modine (“And the Band Played On,” “Gross Anatomy”), one of my all-time favorite actors, and I’m just un-cool enough to hop online and report it.

I say “all but” because at six feet four he stood head and shoulders above me. I was dashing out to pick up my morning cuppa–okay, more like my afternoon cuppa but well, I am a writer–when I saw two men walking up Broadway toward me. The one was tall, good looking (make, that hot or better yet, sizzling), and wearing this uber cool turquoise tapestry vest over a white cotton tee, a look that seemed a lot more California than New York. The other guy was…well, don’t ask me. I’m sure he had a great personality.

And then I realized just who He was.

Like two ships sailing past one another in the night, Matthew and I brushed by. He never broke his stride or his conversational train-of-thought. I, on the other hand, was likely bug-eyed and slack-jawed, in the throes of a full-on Fan Girl Moment. But props to me, at least I was cool enough not to invade his personal space. I mean, it is Manhattan, not LA.

And Manhattan is well, pretty great. We city dwellers may live in apartments the size of the average workplace cubicle, but really, when the city is your oyster (shell), how much personal space do you need? Every time you walk out your building, there’s this amazing, butterflies-in-stomach feeling that something wonderful, magical, may just be around the next corner. It’s sort of like living if not in a fairytale then certainly a romance novel. You may have to slug through sidewalks stacked with garbage and wait in line with your fellow 1.2 million “neighbors” for just about everything but somehow that’s okay because you know, just know, there’s going to be something positive, something wonderful waiting at the end of it all, so long as you remember to believe.

Happy Monday,

Hope

Pining for Paris…

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Okay, the past s-i-x plus days of straight rain aside, springtime in New York is well, pretty great. Still, the grass is always greener, especially once you put the manuscript deadline to bed and pull the vacation pictures out.

This March, author buddy Liz Maverick and I decamped from a blizzard-stricken New York for Paris. Liz was the perfect traveling companion and Paris was…Well, let’s just say that if you like romance and beauty, amazing food and yes, the chance to consume copious quantities of wine and butter with giddy, unrepentant abandon, then Paris is definitely the place for you.

Let them eat cake--or better yet chocolate cake gilded with gold! Mariage Freres, Rive Gauche, Paris.
With French friend and impromptu guide, Bernadette, near the Louvre.
With French friend and impromptu guide, Bernadette, near the Louvre.

Highlights: taking tea at Mariage Freres, Paris’s oldest and most respected tea house and emporium, taking the ritual ham-man bath at the Mosque of Paris (you can ask but we won’t tell!), and indulging in Sunday afternoon champagne and caviar-level conversation with our delightful flat neighbor, Bernadette.

Friends and strangers alike can view the full album, which I’m adding to “as we speak,” on FaceBook.

A la prochaine,

Hope

With Liz Maverick on the (many) steps of Sacre Coeur, Montmartre.
With Liz Maverick on the (many) steps of Sacre Coeur, Montmartre.

PS Leaving Paris was hard, but we more than made up for it with another wonderful week–in London–where we met up with Scandalous Woman, Elizabeth Kerri Mahon. Sadly we have not a single photo!

PPS: Photos courtesy of Liz Maverick. Thanks, Liz!

Keeping It Real…

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I pride myself on being a positive, upbeat person. I like to see the glass as half-full, the donut as being all about the yummy cake. And yet sometimes the Universe puts even the most intrepid Pollyanna through her paces. Sometimes even the savviest spin doctor can only spin her own story but so much. Sometimes, my friends, life just really, really…

Sucks.

In the spirit of keeping it real here on hopetarr.com, here are a few primo examples of well, The Suckage.

You’re down to the wire on your manuscript deadline when the person in the apartment above yours decides to take up the mandolin. Preferred practice hours: midnight to 2:30 AM. Preferred practice location: the room directly above your bed.

You receive a summons for jury duty, and the trial date is set for not only the very week but the very day your manuscript revisions are due.

You fly thousands of miles to see your long distance love interest, a man who for seven months has written you letters that would have Ovid reaching for the box of tissues, only to discover that, like the book says, he’s just not that into you.

I think there may have been a black fly in the chardonnay the other day too, but really in light of everything else, that’s pretty manageable.

Memo to Alanis Morissette: no, it’s most certainly not ironic. It’s just damned bad luck.

But enough about my charmed life. C’mon and spill some beans, dish some dirt. C’mon, be a sister, and give it up.

How has your life sucked lately?

Hope

Weekend On Tap–Oscar, Oscar!

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Okay, so Christmas and Hanukkah, New Year’s, and most recently Valentine’s Day are done deals and now it feels like we’re all on one giant countdown to spring.

But even bundled beneath the layers, there’s fun to be had, and Yours Truly has a great weekend on tap. On Saturday I have a date a deux with my good buddy, Dee. It’s Dee’s birthday and I have a hopefully fun and special evening planned for my dear Aquarian friend. I’d say more, but I don’t want to give away any surprises. (I’d say “buckle up, Dee,” but we’ll be walking and cabbing, so no worries).

Sunday night will be the The 81st Annual Academy Awards AKA Oscars AKA Hope’s Super Bowl. Author buddy and fellow Lady Jane’s Salon co-founder, Maya Rodale is hosting a small soiree chez elle and yeppers, I’ll be there with bells and boa. We’ll kick off the festivities with the 6:00 PM pre-show where celebs glide (in some cases stumble) down the red carpet in their designer duds later to be dissed or praised–fashion as blood sport, I love it!– and stay tuned through the bleary-eyed end when Best Picture is announced. Maya’s even doing a mini betting pool for the various categories–brilliance. I’m betting Slumdog Millionaire will sweep the awards, which given the film’s ten nominations seems like a pretty safe bet. Per Best Actor, it’s tough competition but Mickey Rourke is a strong contender, so to speak–and even The Academy loves a come-back kid. Of course, Brad Pitt was also amazing as the lead in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, demonstrating he’s much more than a pretty face. And per Button, if that film doesn’t bring home the gold for Visual Effects and Makeup, I won’t know what to think.

Assuming I can think. Uber yummy Aussie actor, Hugh Jackman is hosting, a bold departure from Oscar’s tradition of having a comedian as emcee. We’ll see how Hugh does but based on the preview commercials showing him in that tux, he won’t have to do all that much.

Okay, enough Oscar dishing from me. Anybody else planning to tune in?

Hope

Cosmetic (En)Counters

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Lately I’ve been watching the Show Time series, The Tudors via Netflix. While the British history buff in me rails against certain…shall we say, liberties taken with the historical record, Jonathan Rhys Meyers, the Irish actor who plays King Henry VIII is, unlike the actual Henry, decidely delicious.

Thanks to romance author Megan Frampton who alerted me to the fact that Jonathan Rhys Meyers was scheduled to appear at the Macy’s in Herald Square one Friday around 5 PM. In addition to portraying Henry VIII, JRM is the celebrity spokesperson for HUGO ELEMENT, HUGO’s “boss” new scent for men. For the bargain price of $65, the cost of a vial of said stuff, shoppers would get to meet JRM up-close and personal.

I’d like to say I shrugged and then went back to reading War and Peace, but I went. Of course I went. When you live in Manhattan, this is the sort of thing you do. I mean really, life is short.

JRM was seated dais-style in the midst of the Macy’s cosmetics department. Those who purchased the fragrance got to climb the short steps to the stage where they received a handshake (men) or a peck on the cheek (women). Though I didn’t pony up the $65 required for glad handing, I did get a respectable gawk. From “across the crowded room,” the actor appeared gracious and personable. He is also cute as a button (we could share jeans) and as smoothly polished as a Tiffany’s diamond, assertions I could prove if only one of the dozen or so photos I shot with my Blackberry camera had turned out.

It was well, a little bit crazy. Because of those blasted black suited security guards, we ladies could only stand about but so long. If you wanted to stay, you had to buy…something.

A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. In this case, I scuttled over to the Clinique counter to pick up some product. I mean, JRM isn’t the only one who needs to monitor his pores.

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

Ma’am? Ma’am!!!

The deep voice belonged to a burly male sales associate standing at six foot four or close to it and wearing the regulation Clinique lab coat. A man! Selling Clinique cosmetics while yes, calling me ma’am! Surely there was some mistake. Really, is nothing sacred? If a man must sell cosmetics, he can at least have the decency to be metrosexual. This guy was obviously a man’s man, a manly man. He’d probably sold Ducoti motorcycles before getting laid off.

“Try this,” he commanded without bothering to ask what I might want or need.

He grabbed my hand in his big man paw, again without asking, and started slapping on the cream Clinique was promo-ing.

“Here you go. All shined up. See.” Beaming at me, he returned my hand like it was chrome, and I’d just gotten the deluxe special at the drive-through car wash.

This is not, my friends, how women approach the purchase of cosmetics.

Ducking my head, I explained thanks but no thanks, I just needed some…some…some…lip primer.

Lip primer! To have to explain to a solidly hetero man, a man who under other circumstances might be considered datable that lately my lipstick has begun flaking, and I’m worried about “the appearance of fine lines” is wrong on so many levels.

I bought the lip primer, which this dude assured me he uses himself just before he applies his Chapstick–yeah right. Pity I didn’t stick around to get his opinions on exfoliating and waxing, but I had celebrity stalking still to do.

And when it came to the hand cream, I dug in my heels and held my own. Screw the up-selling. No dice, dude. 

Had Jonathan Rhys Meyers been behind that counter, I would have bought the hand cream–and some HUGO, too.

Hope

Kicky Come-Backs and Rousing Retorts

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A few weeks back I attended my weekly French group, where I usually look forward to practicing my flagging French language skills with my fellow Francophones and Francophiles, my parlance (hopefully) smoothed out by a nice glass of wine.

A common way to commence a conversation with someone new is to ask, “Qu’est-ce que tu fais?” What do you do?

Only on this particular meet-up, what is normally the beginning of a pleasant exchange became anything but.

I was chatting with an attractive German-born woman who was patiently deciphering my halting French when a man sporting a smarmy smile and a jacket the searing shade of blue associated with hard boiled eggs at Easter, strolled up to us. “You are the two prettiest women here,” he announced in French, adjusting his coat cuffs.

My conversation mate and I bonded over a mutual rolling of eyes. “You are a charmer, I see,” she said in flawless French.

“Ah, oui,” he replied, apparently not cottoning on to the subtext sarcasm. “C’est mon metier.” It’s my profession.

A professional charmer, really?

The German wisely faded into the backdrop and Blue Blazer zoned in on me like a homing pidgeon. “Qu’est-ce tu fais?” he finally got around to asking after rolling out a long laundry list of his own sterling attributes–the book on German philosophy he’d recently read, his impressive (to him) knowledge of the Art World, his generally high-minded thoughts.

I replied in French that I’m a writer, meaning to leave it at that. I’m enormously proud of the books I write, of the genre I represent, but generally speaking I don’t like talking shop on my nights off.

A salvo of Spanish Inquisition style questions winnowed my replies from the general to the specific: “books” to “novels” to “commercial fiction novels” to “historical and contemporary commercial fiction novels” to finally, “historical and contemporary romance fiction novels.” And that’s when the fun started.

Our exchange went something like this:

BB: “You write that stuff just for money, huh?”

Hope: “Well, I write what I love, what many readers enjoy reading, and yes, I do get paid.”

BB: “Ever try writing a real book?”

Hope: “I do write real books, books that are well-researched, well-crafted, and well-received. You might want to reference my previous remark about getting paid.”

BB: “I wrote a short story once. It’s really literary. What’s your email address? I’ll send it to you. I think reading it might really help you.”

Hope: Stunned silence, on the outside at least. My Inner Voice was far from silent. Uh-huh. Horrendous fashion sense and a narcissist. Now that’s hot–not!

Holding onto my temper–and stemware short of snapping the glass–I asked him if he’d ever read a romance novel. After considerable hemming and hawwing, he claimed to have read part of a romance novel Back in The Day, likely when he was a pimply-faced sixteen year-old trolling for “the good parts.” But apparently he felt so sullied by its silliness that he threw it away. In the garbage. 

“I can’t read that stuff,” he said, with an emphatic shake of head.

I told him he had no right to make denigrating comments about a genre of fiction, or indeed about any topic, on which he was obviously completely uninformed.

“Oh, c’mon,” he said, flicking a stubby-fingered hand inches from my face. “I know that stuff. I know what that stuff is all about.”

There it was, that word again. Stuff. For a would-be writer, he really ought to look into expanding his vocabulary.

And then he ratcheted it up one level further and added another word. Garbage.

And something in me snapped and thankfully it wasn’t the wine glass I was clenching. I drew back my shoulders and hoisted my chin exactly as my fictional heroines have done countless times when family or personal honor or both were at stake.

“You, sir, are stunningly ignorant and boorishly rude, and until you read an actual book–a whole one–I don’t have the time or patience to educate you.”

The packed bar floor parted like the Red Sea. Mr. Blue Blazer and I stared each other down like two bulls, locking eyes if not horns. And finally, flush-faced and stammering, he dropped his gaze and turned away. First.

And you know, ladies and gents, it felt really, really good.

Energy Vampires, they don’t just come out at night. You can encounter them at anytime, anywhere. They set out to suck our energy and drain us of our belief in ourselves. At their worst, they can cause us to question our talent, our very sense of worth. Ordinarily I give energy vampires like Blue Blazer a broad berth. But there are times, and IMHO this was one of them, when you have to stand up straight and tall and not let the bullies get away with it, no matter how sharp their fangs or…blinding their attire.

Wouldn’t you know it, the very next day I was flipping through the November issue of “The Romance Writers Report,” the monthly membership magazine of Romance Writers of America when I came across an article on just this very topic. In “Snappy Comebacks,” fantasy romance author Eilis Flynn poses the question: what do you say when someone takes a dig at what you write?”

Quoted in the article is my fellow Harlequin Blaze author, Julie Leto, who knows a thing or two about vampires, fictional and real. “The key to the snappy comeback,” says Julie, “is to not censor yourself. Actually say what you’re thinking.”

Wise words from a wise woman. And I for one am taking that advice to heart–and on the road.

“Stunningly ignorant” and “boorishly rude.” Yep, that pretty much sums it up. Who knew serving up raw honesty, sushi-quality raw honesty, could feel so downright good?

Savor the Simplicity,

Hope

Happy Thanksgiving

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I’m just back from Baltimore where I celebrated Thanksgiving early with my mom and then spent several wonderful hours visiting with my friends, Mike and Lisa and yes, getting to meet for the very first time their not quite month-old twin girls.

For the day itself, I plan to mix old traditions with new ones. I’ll take in a bit of the famous Thanksgiving Day Parade–I mean, when in Rome–and then later I’m meeting up with a friend to see the new Hugh Jackman-Nicole Kidman epic flick “Australia.” A movie about Australia actually acted by Australians–how novel! Afterward, any feasting will more likely take the form of smoked salmon than traditional turkey bird but you know, that’s okay.

As I get ahem…older, I realize we each have two families, the one we’re born into and the one we create for ourselves along the way. And on this most special day, I’m mindful of how very thankful I am for both.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Hope

Blissed Out on the Buzz…

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Winter’s here, I’m telling you, and for those of us who are solidly outdoor runners–I loathe treadmills–this whole plunging mercury thing makes running rather a challenge. On my last windchapped outing a few days ago, I came to grips with the cold (literally), hard fact that strappy just wasn’t cutting it. Running along the Hudson wasn’t going to happen again for me until spring, it just wasn’t, so I’d better come up with a seasonal alternative and fast.

For kicks, why not run up to Central Park, around said Park, and then back?

The Pond at Bryant Park.
Skaters enjoying The Pond at Bryant Park.

The deal buster in my plan was Midtown. To get to CP, you gotta go through–there. You see, I detest crowds–and yes I realize that sounds crazy coming from someone who moved to Manhattan on purpose even. But it’s true, which is why ordinarily I avoid Midtown like well, the proverbial plague. Problem was, I was desperate, jones-ing for that Runner’s High. Unfortunately, off-hours in the Big Apple are hard to come by. With the city decked out for the upcoming holidays, checking out Midtown wasn’t just my good idea. The sidewalks were thronged, three-deep, making me feel like I was in some sort of virtual reality pinball machine. At times, I just had to give up the ghost and walk it. So much for my much anticipated endorphin boost.

But, mes enfants, when given the lemons, sometimes it is best to make the lemonade, or in this case, the holiday lemon curd…

Rather than gnashing my teeth and vocalizing some very non-brotherly love type expletives every time my shoulders got bumped, which was a lot, I decided to dial it down and just go with it. Smell, if not the roses, then the vendor hotdogs and roasted chestnuts.

Manhattan decked out for the holidays is truly a sight to behold. Fortunately I had my trusty Blackberry tucked into my runner’s arm band and I used the camera of said BB to snap some photos.

First stop: The New York Public Library. After paying my respects to Patience and Fortitude, I ran up the library steps Rocky style just because I could. Duly oxygen deprived (hmm, perhaps source of aforementioned Runner’s High isn’t endorphins at all) I circled back behind to Bryant Park. Not much running there given the temporary buildings set up for winter but fortunately lots of good photo ops. There’s even a small skating rink called The Pond. After watching for a while, I think I like this one better than Rockefeller Center’s. Not as grand for sure but somehow it just seems more friendly, more approachable. Then again, maybe I’m influenced by the signage: “The Perfect Antidote to the 9 to 5.” I haven’t had a 9 to 5 job in years, thank goodness, but if I did, I’m sure I’d need an antidote.

Rockefeller Center. No Christmas tree yet but an angel and a fish fountain are almost as good.
Rockefeller Center. No Christmas tree yet but an angel and a fish fountain are almost as good.

And of course, since I was in the hood, I had to stop in at Rockefeller Center, which is yes, really quite spectacularly beautiful despite the proud dad who didn’t seem to understand why I objected to his learning-to-walk toddler stomping on my beloved Blackberry, which I’d set down on the wall–for like less than a minute.

Peace and love,

Hope

Shaken, Not Stirred

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I’m deep “in the soup” as my writer buddy, Liz Maverick is fond of saying, so immersed in my work-in-progress that if it weren’t for the occasional vocal intervention of hungry cats, I’m not sure I’d register the time of day.

Still, you know what “they” say about all work and no play. In this case, it makes Hope a dull girl and well, when you’re a writer of romance fiction and a purveyor of Happily Ever Afters, you can’t have that.

I took time out this Friday to meet friends for the opening of the new James Bond flick, Quantum of Solace, and I am ever so glad I did. First off, though, I have to cop to the need to eat a little crow. Before seeing the film, I had doubts, vocally expressed doubts, about Daniel Craig pulling off the classic role of Fleming’s uber suave British secret agent. Even though I’m a fan of the film series, I missed out on seeing the 2006 prequel, Casino Royale, Craig’s debut in the role. Not to cast aspersions on Mr. Craig’s acting abilities and well, obvious attributes, but he’s no Remington Steele, and make fun of me if you will, but I really liked Pierce Brosnan in the role. And Craig is blond, which seemed like it might work against the character’s edgy, dark vibe.

After seeing the film, I have to concede that the critics are right on the money this time. Daniel Craig is the penultimate James Bond, at least since Sean Connery passed on the revolver. As for edgy and dark, well, his performance may give new meaning to those words. I think he may be the most tortured Bond yet–and anyone who’s read my Men of Roxbury House trilogy books: Vanquished, Enslaved or Untamed knows I go for tortured heroes in a big way.

Afterward, we decamped to an Irish pub around the corner where we tucked into a booth, ordered pints and pub grub, and settled in for a recap. Those shoulders, that chest, those burning blue eyes, those oh so chiseled if somewhat implacable features…Oh yeah, and the movie was really good, too.

Will Daniel Craig be the prototype for the hero of a future Hope Tarr novel? I’d say it’s a strong bet he will. An historical, I’m thinking, and yes, definitely British-set.

Okay, enough about me and my new Daniel Craig obsession. Anybody else do anything cool this weekend?

Hope