Category: Meandering Musings

Happy Birthday, Bitsy!

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My very good friend, Elizabeth “Bitsy” Mahon of Scandalous Women Blog fame had her birthday this month. To be perfectly exact, she’s had it twice–so far. She may be on her way to having a whole Birthday Month. If so, she has my total support.

Hope and Elizabeth at The Dove. Check out that wallpaper.
Hope and Elizabeth at The Dove. Check out that wallpaper.

Bitsy’s actual birthday is November 2nd, but this Saturday night was the blow-out bash held at The Dove Parlour–and yes, that’s “parlour” spelled the proper, British way. I’d been to The Dove a time or two, and I’m happy to report that Saturday night did not disappoint. Situated in the West Village, The Dove has all the trappings of a top tier Victorian brothel–crimson flocked wallpaper, ceilings with gilded molding, couches upon which to recline in shall we say a supine state and yes, cocktails with deliciously wicked names like the one I ordered, The Cherry Tart. As for Elizabeth, she looked absolutely stunningly sublime. Translation: smokin’.

Afterward, we decamped to decidely less posh environs, The Pyramid Club on Avenue A. The Pyramid offers two dance floors. On weekends, the upper one features 80’s hits and the lower level caters to the goth folks. If you’re thinking 80’s retro dance music equates to the PTA crowd, you haven’t yet ventured out to The Pyramid. The DJ’s two…um…performance artists were a master and gimp decked out in classic leather bondage gear. The pantomimed B/S was all in good fun until the head honcho–I guess we’ll call him Master Dude–took the theme way over the top by spewing a mouthful of water (God, I hope it was water) on not only Gimp Boy but on the rest of us, too. At the risk of coming off as out of touch, I have to say I’m in no way sympatico with the spitting. Frankly, even before the spitting, I’m really not sure what this quasi comical duo added. I mean, couldn’t we just dance? That spitting was apparently part of the act, an act paid for with my cover dollars, is well, a lot to wrap my mind around. It’s one thing to charge me a cover, but then to use said cover to support spitting on me is well, not positioning me to be your repeat customer.

Nothing like champagne on a champagne occasion. Elizabeth gets the party started by pouring out the champers.
Nothing like champagne on a champagne occasion. Elizabeth gets the party started by pouring out the champers.

Yes, I get that “White Wedding” was playing when said episode occurred. And okay, maybe Master Dude was channeling Billy Idol. I don’t know and frankly, I don’t care. Generally I’m a “live and let live” person, but spitting on me, well, that crosses a line.

Memo to Master Dude: the next time you role play B/S scenarios with your Gimp, kindly have the courtesy to confine any body fluid exchanges, including spittle, to the privacy of your respective caves. Memo to Pyramid Club: you might really not want to invite a lawsuit as this being New York, that dance floor probably included more than one attorney.

Elizabeth and Liz bringing back...sultry.
Elizabeth and Liz bringing back...sultry.

On the positive side, the tunes were top notch and yes, we rocked the house. It’s been a while since I’ve “walked like an Egyptian,” let alone felt like it was “raining men.” In retrospect, though, the piece de resistance of the evening was trudging back to the subway with Elizabeth and Liz Maverick, our styling dresses completely sweat-soaked, our feet swelling out of our totally hot but by now totally painful shoes. But then the best part of any night out is the friends who share it with you.

Happy Birthday Month, Elizabeth. May this be your best year yet!

Hugs,

Hope

Super Dooper Tuesday, Election Wrap Up

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Okay, after I pulled what my buddy Liz Maverick is affectionately referring to as the Big Red Lever I more or less cruised through Election Tuesday waiting for the evening’s festivities to start. For me, said festivities meant a short subway trek out to Brooklyn where Megan Frampton of Risky Regencies fame and her husband, Scott, graciously agreed to host an Election Night party.

Elizabeth Kerri Mahon, Leanna Hieber, and Hope give their various "Price is Right" model imitations.
Elizabeth Kerri Mahon, Leanna Hieber, and Hope give their various "Price is Right" model imitations. Can I be Janice--please?

Now I like to keep this blog not only bipartisan but apolitical, unless of course you want to debate the latest trends–in shoes. Peep toe booty: fashion forward brilliance or cruel joke played upon those of us who actually have to uh…walk outside in actual snow?

In this case I can’t dish on the fancy footwear because this being a roll-up your sleeves and plunk down on pillows on the floor kind of affair, most of us took our shoes off. So, I’ll do what I do (second) best, dish on yes, the food!

The Freedom Fries were a tad soggy by the night’s end, but the apple pie more than held its own. Fortunately we were all backing the same ticket, so no Humble Pie or crow need be served, and we could have our cheese sans the…whine. The Swirl cheesecake was Obama-licious and the McCain Fried Chicken was well, one tough old bird.

And yes, we partied like it was 1999 and then some!

Scott and Megan Frampton, our Fearless Hosts.
Scott and Megan Frampton, our Fearless Hosts.

By the time mes amies Leanna Hieber, Elizabeth Kerri Mahon, Liz Maverick, and Elizabeth’s visiting British friend, Simon, made it back into the city, it was well after three in the morning and yes, in my neighborhood, there was actual dancing in the streets, accompanied by “steel drum” playing on the newspaper stands. Tired but replete, we said our good nights and went our separate ways, joyous in the knowledge that the American Dream isn’t a myth, not hardly.

Hope

Happy Election Day!

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If you want to live in Manhattan, you’d better get used to standing in line, long lines and yes, for pretty much everything. Even though I’m used to it by now, well sorta, I have been known ahem…to complain.

But not today.

The line leading into my polling station was a proud sight to behold. The dedicated volunteers who’ve been “manning” this particular station for years exclaimed it was the largest turn-out in their personal histories.

Even though I went during what should have been a non-peak time, still it took me a little over an hour to get inside and about another 20 minutes from there to the actual booth. It was worth it. Throwing that lever felt, well, so gosh darned good.

So, if you haven’t made it out yet to cast your vote, stop reading this and go ASAP! Remember, our vote is our voice. If we don’t vote, we give up our rights to bragging and complaining in equal measure–and personally I love to do both. 😉

Happy Election Day,

Hope

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun?

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“I want to meet Mr. Big, get married, and live in New York.”

I am freezing my butt at the outside bar of the Bryant Park Grill, sipping shiraz, eating french fries, and fielding questions from two twenty-something German chicks who’ve come to New York for the first time, ostensibly on vacation. For tonight at least, they are on a fact-finding mission more so than a holiday. They want to know where to find Mr. Big and a good deal on American jeans–in that order.

The Dynamic Duo from Deutschland
The Dynamic Duo from Deutschland

The more animated of the two, or at least the one with the better English, is leading the charge. Even though she has barely touched her sweet-looking drink, she is more than slightly drunk. She waves her stick thin arms in the air a lot and slides her Size 0 butt around the stool a lot, and steals my fries when she thinks I’m not looking. So far, though, she’s more amusing than obnoxious, certifiably happy to meet me and anyone else who lives in New York. Even if it’s partly vodka-induced, that kind of unbridled, unjaded, over-the-top enthusiasm is well, kind of refreshing.

She smiles frequently and broadly, and I can’t help noticing her teeth could really do with a bonding. Still, she is lovely in that haphazard, waifish, just-breezed-out-of-my-bunk-at-the-youth-hostel sort of way, a look you pretty much stop being able to pull off the day you turn thirty-five. With her straight brown hair, full mouth, and pencil thin body, she also bears a striking resemblance to the 80’s supermodel, Paulina Porizkova. I’d tell her so only she probably wouldn’t know who Paulina is. You see, she was born in 1981.

“No, really, I want to know,” she persists, plumping her full lips into a pout which if I were a guy I’d probably find really hot. “Where do the Mr. Big’s go?” She tosses her bangs out of her eyes for the umpteenth time and slants her big round eyes at her friend, whom until now she seems to have forgotten. “We want to go there.”

Yes, well, good luck with that. Not that I say anything so remotely bitchy, of course. Instead I smile back and shake my head and admit it’s a worthy goal–and one hell of a good question.

Just what my friends and I need, another nubile twenty-something model look alike swimming in our dating pond which even though it’s Manhattan sometimes feels more like a puddle. Supposing I do know where Mr. Big hangs out? Does she really expect me to give it up out of what, the goodness of my heart?

The German educational system is reputed to be among the world’s best, but I’m thinking the curriculum must not include any Darwin.

To segue from science to literature–that’s litter-ah-chur–I’m reading or rather re-reading Candace Bushnell’s SEX AND THE CITY. It’s interesting how living in Manhattan has altered my perspective on the book as well as the HBO series. Before moving here, references to The Bowery Bar (B Bar and Grill now), Bicycle Boys, and yes, Modelizers seemed about as relevant to me as Ancient Egypt. I mean good to know, fascinating even, but really what does any of it have to do with my day-to-day? Now nine months into my Single Girl in Manhattan Life, I find myself sighing and shaking my head. And groaning occasionally. Okay, a lot.

The Paulina girl interrupts my momentary musing, her eyelids listing toward closed though her drink is more than three-quarters full. “You are Carrie Bradshaw, yes, but you have brown hair.”

I don’t smoke, either, but well, when you’re being compared, even remotely, to Sarah Jessica Parker, is it really any time to quibble?

Candace Bushnell, whom I met last month when she stopped by the Barnes and Noble in Union Square, is frequently likened to literary icon, Edith Wharton. The only Wharton books I’ve read are ETHAN FROME and THE BUCCANEERS and well, it’s been a while. (As for THE AGE OF INNOCENCE, so far I’ve made due with the Daniel Day Lewis film). For sure both authors offer an insider’s sometimes scathing perspective on Manhattan culture, though Bushnell’s take is a lot closer to the Age of Un-Innocence. And even though SEX AND THE CITY was first published in 1996, dating some of the references, it’s amazing how much of what she wrote in the 90’s still holds true. If you have any doubts, see my 9-22 blog on “Keeping It Real.” Believe me, modelizing is alive and well.

Fortunately, so are dreams. Yes, “girls” of all ages still want to have fun. But along with the fun, we want the fairytale. Sure, Prince Charming is now Mr. Big, the castle is now an Upper West Side high rise, and the glass slippers are Manolo slingbacks with some sort of really amazing detailing on the vamp, but otherwise the story, the fairytale, plays out pretty much the same.

And I for one am holding onto it with both white-knuckled hands. Even Bushnell’s Mr. Big got it right in the end, at least in the television and film adaptations of the book.

“Sometimes you just want to be with the one who makes you laugh.”

Happily Ever After–and Happy Halloween,

Hope

PS In celebration of the day-long Witching Hour, I’ll be pulling out my Inner Princess along with my ghoul-friends Liz Maverick, Elizabeth Kerri Mahon, Leanna Hieber et al as the Goth versions of popular fairytale princesses. I’m going as Goth Snow White and in addition to that Poison Apple, my costume’s corset is well, murder.

The Penultimate TR

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I had a double treat weekend last Sunday: seeing my high school buddy, Jenny Wiegand and getting to see her tremendously talented hubby, Joe Wiegand, perform his one-man Theodore Roosevelt show in honor of TR’s 150th birthday.

Jenny Wiegand, Joe Wiegand (as TR) and Yours Truly under a Watchful Eye.
Jenny Wiegand, Joe Wiegand (as TR) and Yours Truly under a Watchful Eye.

Many of us remember the Rough Rider in the context of Cuba and San Juan Hill and the Dakotas but TR was a native New Yorker and his birthplace is in the Gramercy Park area of Manhattan at 28 East 20th Street. Sunday’s festivities, a block party, pony rides, and Rough Rider reenactments culminating in Joe’s masterful one-man show, were held at the TR birthplace, an elegant 1920’s brownstone reconstruction of the actual birthplace, sadly razed in the service of so-called progress.

Joe’s roughly 1.5 hour show was to quote TR, “tremendous” and “bully fun.” The three of us had planned to go to dinner afterwards but wouldn’t you know it, the Wiegands got a better offer.

Dash it, but representatives of that rascally George W called.

It seems the White House had a hankering to celebrate TR’s birthday as well and who better than Joe Wiegand, the penultimate Theodore Roosevelt, to lead the charge? I was disappointed, of course. Still, if one must be stood up, how many of us can say we were jilted in favor of yes, the Leader of the Free World?

I could say more and you know me, it wouldn’t take much. Still, the clip: Joe Wiegand as T.R. at the White House says it all and then some. (FYI, he comes in at about minute 14 after First Lady Laura Bush).

Enjoy–and remember, it’s good to know some history because invariably it repeats.

Hope

Life According to Alda

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Earlier this month, I had the profound privilege of hearing award-winning actor, director, and yes, writer, Alan Alda address a membership event at The New York Public Library. I’ve been a fan of Mr. Alda’s since his eleven-year stint as wise-cracking, martini-mixing, soul-searching surgeon Benjamin “Hawkeye” Pierce on the iconic television series, M*A*S*H. (For any kiddies out there, MASH stands for Mobile Army Surgical Hospital–okay, my job is done).  The show lasted longer than the Korean War on which it was based, and yet I still remember filling up during the final episode in yes, 1983, because eleven years didn’t feel like nearly enough.

This grainy photo is Alan Alda working the room-trust me.
This grainy photo is Alan Alda working the room-trust me.

Mr. Alda’s two memoirs to date are NEVER HAVE YOUR DOG STUFFED: AND OTHER THINGS I’VE LEARNED and most recently, THINGS I OVERHEARD WHILE TALKING TO MYSELF.  The latter raises the question, “What makes a meaningful life?” The book, which I’ll admit I haven’t read–yet–is now topping my to-buy list or my Christmas wish list, take your pick.

In the course of his hour chat–and yes, it felt like an interactive conversation, not a lecture–Mr. Alda relayed his near death experience five years ago during a vacation trip to Chile. I won’t go into grizzly details–like me, you can read the book. Basically while he was touring Chile, he was seized with sudden, terrible abdominal pains and rushed by ambulance to the nearest hospital, which happened to look a lot like the set for the field hospital in M*A*S*H. He easily could have died. Obviously he didn’t. Ultimately his life was saved by a canny, skillful surgeon who correctly and quickly diagnosed the problem and working under, by Western standards, very primitive conditions, fixed it.

The experience, however, left the actor not only asking, “What makes a meaningful life” but with a living-in-the-present focus that is truly delightful and dazzling to behold. Apparently this…immediacy, for lack of a better word, is common among many people who come close to dying. For most, though, the feeling gradually wears off. Not so for Mr. Alda.

After the lecture, he opened the program to questions from the audience. Johnny on the spot at microphone #1 was a pint-size lady with the demeanor of a flame-spewing dragon and yes, the mouth of the lion that roared.

“I was a fan of your father,” she began–and yes, she likely was a contemporary of Robert Alda, too. “But I wonder about these celebrities today who use their celebrity status to tell us all what to think and how to vote and how to act as though we need them to tell us how it is…Blah, blah, blah…Yada, yada, yada… And well, I’d be very interested to hear your thoughts.” (Note: Her invective was a lot longer and a lot nastier, but I’m summarizing lest my hand cramp).

Now, Mr. Alda’s political beliefs and past activism, including his ardent campaigning for the Equal Rights Amendment, are matters of public record. I have my opinion about all that and yes, I’ll leave you to yours. What I will say is that if you’re going to a) invite a person to speak to your organization and then b) spend your own good money to attend said speech, insulting your guest is just well, damn bad manners. And memo to the “lady” of whom I speak, madam just because you were hatched when dinosaurs walked the earth doesn’t automatically make you wise. And FYI, we came that night to hear “Life According to Alda,” not life according to you, so next time mind–or better yet, close–your crochety yap.

But back to Alan Alda.

Obviously Mr. Alda has put on some years since his MASH days. Then again, so have I. And yet that smile, that sparkle in his eye, that lance straight stance and yes, that wonderful voice are still there in full force, the essence of a man who not only lives in the moment but has given so very many of us so very many moments that are truly memorable. 

Hope

PS: And yes, I had a Fan Girl moment. Shaking his hand at the evening’s end was as close to weak kneed as I’ve come in well, some time.

PPS: Next time, as promised, “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun…”

Food for Thought: Recalling all Facsimile Foods

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Okay, the Tasti D Lite that used to be mere steps from my building is now The Lite Choice and, heads up, I’m less than pleased. The Lite Choice–talk about a misnomer. I didn’t get a choice, a say,  and certainly not a vote.

But then I’m pretty fed up with what as of now I’m calling “facsimile foods,” low calorie, low-carb, low-fat faux foods that ape the look and yes, texture of the Real Deal and yet still manage to taste like…nothing. Bio-engineered sesame seeds perched atop my crackers–where will the madness end?

Okay, I get that The Lite Choice is supposed to be not only low-fat but also organic and yes, kosher. The question for Yours Truly isn’t what they left in–but what they took out. Hint: show me the cream!

Our grandparents ate real food and though some of that fare would be dubbed a heart attack-on-a-plate by today’s standards, let me point out that Back in the Day people actually moved their bodies, climbing real stairs rather than stair masters, hefting real bales of hay rather than bench pressing Nautilus machines. And yes, when mealtime rolled around, they sat down and enjoyed their very real food. Sans apology and most importantly, sans guilt.

I’ll withhold any additional direct comments on my Lite Choice vanilla cone lest I be sued–though in that event I’d remind you that real turnips don’t bleed. Suffice it to say that Mr. Softee, my former Plan B alternative, has just moved up to the top slot otherwise known as Plan A.

Mr. Softee? From a product branding standpoint, are we sure we’re sending the right um…message?

Food for thought: eat something real and savor it.

Hope

Taking a Bite Out of the Big Apple

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For most of my adult life, I’ve lived by the mantra that we eat to live, not live to eat. That thinking served me in good stead–until I moved to Manhattan.

Food–gloriously good food–at all price ranges is available everywhere at all times.  At any given hour a good half of the pedestrians pushing past me on the busy streets are eating on the go. Once I saw a young woman, dressed to the designer nines, clicking down Fifth Avenue eating sushi. Okay, it was California Roll but still…

Apple 2000/01 by Stephan Weiss (1938-2001)
Apple 2000/01 by Stephan Weiss (1938-2001)

I’ve been playing gastronomic tourist since February–and grooving on every bite. Just as you can walk out your door and easily hear five languages other than English being spoken, you can step out onto most city blocks to a smorgasbord of cuisines from around the world. And if you don’t feel like going out, you can get any or all of those diverse cuisines delivered to your door. It’s well, pretty great.

I’m a seriously big list maker, and I have a food-to-try list just as I have a list for practically everything else. Topping my to-do’s since moving here was to partake of yes, a cupcake from the West Village’s Magnolia Bakery.  Sounds like a modest enough goal, right? If so, then you’ve never seen the line, which is usually not only out the door but wrapping around the corner and snaking up 11th Street. And yet the other day when I was walking home from my run at what should have been peak time, there was no line.  Nada. Peering through the storefront glass, I spotted two, maybe three, customers max.

My first thought was to ask what my fellow city dwellers must know that I didn’t. Were we talking evacuation? Armageddon? A return trip by Benicio Del Toro with me missing him yet again?

Sure, even one cupcake would pretty much cancel out the previous 6+ miles of cardio pavement pounding.  Then again if “Rome” was burning, was this really any time to be carping over calories or denying myself yummy carbs?

The bakery was even running a promo special: buy one Pink Ribbon cupcake and fifty cents of the proceeds would be donated to a popular breast cancer charity.  Scarfing down that high calorie, high carb cupcake wouldn’t just be physically satisfying.  It would be positively philanthropic! Social awareness blanketed in buttercream–really, does it get any better?

In the spirit of “an heir and a spare,” I bought not one but two cupcakes: a red velvet number and yes, the special Pink Ribbon promo.  The red velvet one I ate like a true New Yorker, which is to say while walking home.  Only unlike the uber cool chick with the sushi, I couldn’t pull it off. When I got home I looked like I’d been on the losing end of a paintball competition–assuming the game was played with pastry bags, not paint guns.

The cupcake was most certainly scrumptious.  Would I stand in line for it a really long time? Honestly, no.  But then at this point in my life there isn’t much in the way of food for which I would stand in line barring catfood and that assumes my fur-babies were down to their last collective can.

Other good eats for this week include lunch at Tea and Sympathy, also in the West Village, where I caught up with writer buddy, Dee Davis. Being what I like to call a “recovering vegetarian,” I’m not usually much for “British food,” so I gave the bangers and mash and like menu options a broad berth.  Instead I opted for the “Tweed Kettle Pie,” salmon and cod in a parsley sauce with a potato topping.  It was seriously delish.

And no New York City food report would be complete without pizza. One of my favorite stops is Amore’s on 14th Street though on the service end, the staff is starting to royally pi** me off. Memo to the young lady working late nights at the register: if I’m ever going to cross over to the Dark Side and embark on a Life of Crime, I’m a lot more likely to knock off the Manolo Blahnik store across from the MOMA than I am to scam an extra eighty cent pizza topping. Really. Maybe you might want to reward a regular customer with a little trust rather than making “her” untape and open her friggin’ pizza box every time like you’re the guard tasked with making sure the Crown Jewels don’t take a walk. If I say I ordered the white pizza, the one with the mozzarella only, then that’s what I’m packing–period.

Eat and be merry,

Hope

Laughing Out Loud (LOL)

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Last night my buddy Elizabeth Kerri Mahon of Scandalous Women blog fame and I turned out for the Film Society of Lincoln Center’s reception for uber actor, Benicio Del Toro.  The event was held at The Apartment on the 24th floor of the swank Hudson Hotel.  The hors d’oeuvres were fab, the white wine perfectly chilled, and the crowd styling.  But where oh where was the guest of honor?
From left to write, Hope, Stacey, Liz, Leanna, Elizabeth and Marianne celebrate Hope's birthday in style.
From left to um...write, Hope, Stacey, Liz, Leanna, Elizabeth and Marianne celebrate Hope's birthday in style.

Fortunately Elizabeth is a great date.  We noshed and chatted each up for a full two hours.  All the while I kept vigilant Famous Person watch on the room’s only entrance.

At least I thought I was vigilant.  Coming up on 10:00 PM and still no Benicio, it was pretty clear he must be sequestered in some VIP suite.  Or maybe he’d decided to take his entourage out for a night on the town?  Oh well, c’est la vie.  Give me an unlimited supply of mini crab cakes and yes, a second glass of wine, and well, after a while, I’m just happy to be there.

Elizabeth and I were deep into our current topic of conversation when the young woman standing next to us interrupted to ask, “Did you see Benicio? ” Her tone implied they were best buds, possibly even related.

“He was here!”  My eyes darted like a pinball machine gone beserk.  So much for playing it cool.

“Oh, yes.”  She nodded with lazy-lidded self-assurance, her smile so satisfied it was positively post-coital.  “Earlier, for a half hour.  He’s gone now.”

So I ask you, how does a person, say me, manage to stand in the same (modest-size) room with Benicio Del Toro for a full thirty minutes and manage to miss him entirely ?!?

But then Mercury is in Retrograde.  It’s the only explanation, or at least the only one I’m willing to entertain.  (The alternate one being that I am a complete idiot)!  You see, Mercury isn’t just in any ole Retrograde but  retrograde in my Sun Sign of Libra.   Allow me to take this opportunity to express my advance thanks for your support.  Seriously.  Last week my laptop hard drive crashed.  The other day I ordered, or tried to order, replacement bags for my vaccuum cleaner.  First online, then via the 800 number.  It didn’t go well.  Suffice it to say I’m looking into weaving them by hand.

Watcha gonna do?  Mercury goes into Retrograde just three times a year though when you’re in it, it certainly feels longer.  October 14th, the end of this quarter’s phase, isn’t that far away though personally I’m holding off on signing any contracts and purchasing electronics like say, that laptop I now need until October 20th.  I believe in giving Mercury Retrograde a broad berth.

In the meantime, I’m practicing self-therapy in the form of LOL–laughing out loud.  How many of us include “LOL” in our emails, not to mention all those smiley face emoticons, and yet rarely practice either?  Maybe we can’t literally laugh our problems away but for sure a good chuckle can go a long way in cushioning the blow.

I was walking along Central Park the other day when one of the carriage drivers called out to an apparently insufficiently cheery passerby, “What’s up wich you, boss?  Did you suck lemons for breakfast or what?  Give that puss a rest and smile, why dontcha?”

Hope mugs for the camera with Mr. Wall Street, a very ghoulish guy.
Hope mugs for the camera with Mr. Wall Street, a very ghoulish guy.
Good advice when you think of it.  To whit, see the picture of me mugging for the camera with Mr. Wall Street.  Last Friday my friend Dee and I were strolling the West Village, killing time before a dinner reservation came due, when we ran into this ghoulishly funny fellow stationed outside a local restaurant.  As for the group shot of my birthday bash at the Brandy Library last Thursday, well, I’m really not priming to punch someone out, promise!

Few things in life are free.  Fortunately laughter is still one of them.  So go ahead live it up, kick back, and have a laugh on me.

Hope

The One Who Got Away

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The One Who Got Away…We all have one, which is to say a “The One.” You know what or rather who I mean. The O-N-E. Maybe he was your first love or your first big love. Maybe he was both. Maybe you broke up with him–but I’m betting my next book advance he broke up with you. Maybe you never really had him in the first place…but again, I’m betting you did. At least long enough for a part of him to sink into your psyche and your soul. Like that tattoo you rethink years later, you can obliterate the image but not the experience. That shiny white scar is yours–for keeps.

Only by definition The One Who Got Away isn’t a keeper, or at least he hasn’t been so far. And yet who among us hasn’t been moved by those real-life stories of high school sweethearts who find each other on ClassMates.com or reunion night after years, decades apart and fall in love all over again, even marry, in mid- and sometimes late life?

In Every Breath You Take, my January Harlequin Blaze release, former FBI Special Agent Cole Whittaker and microbiologist Alexandra–Alex–Kendall meet again after five painful years apart. Like so many real life reunions, theirs is completely unexpected, the circumstances far from ideal. Alex is about to marry another man, the same man who’s hired Cole as a bodyguard to escort her on her upcoming overseas business trip. Crazy in love with her, Cole still can’t envision his life having room in it for more than The Job. And yet they have a chance, a slim one, to get it right this time: four days of 24/7, up close-and-personal togetherness in steamy Belize.

I hope you enjoy my newly posted sneak peek excerpt — it’s only going to be on my site for a blink of time, to be replaced by a more permanent excerpt in a bit, so don’t let it get away. When you get two ticks, please post a little note to let me know what you think. Or feel free to share a snippet of your One Who Got Away story, especially if he didn’t stay away forever. Happily Ever Afters, we like those around here. 🙂

Hope