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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

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

Congratulations, Contest Winners

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Congratulations to Tracey T of Gassaway, WV, Karen H of Colorado Springs, CO, and Jessica P of Norman, OK who knew that in Every Breath You Take, Cole saw that the old Alex was still there from the glimmer in her eyes.

The three winners will each receive coverflat keepsakes for my Victorian-set historical, Untamed and TWO signed copies of Strokes at Midnight — my winter holiday Blaze — one for themselves and one inscribed to a person of the winner’s choosing, perfect for a sweet and easy holiday gift.

And if you didn’t win this time ’round, don’t despair. Check out my new contest, which just started yesterday.

Let the merry making begin…

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

Halloween Wrap Up

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This year was my very first Halloween in the Big Apple, and I’m happy to report, it did not disappoint. I kicked off the day with a trip to Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx with my good writer buddy and Halloween enthusiast, Leanna Hieber. It was a gorgeous fall day, crisp but not cold. The colors were phenomenal, positively jewel-toned. Many of the monuments, notably the celebrated Woolworth tomb, include stained glass windows a la Tiffany, which were breathtaking to behold. Creepy though it may sound to some yes, we had a picnic. And yes, it was fun. I could say more but to save my typing fingers, check out Leanna’s Blog for the truly awesome photos.

Liz Maverick and Hope (as Goth Snow White).
Liz Maverick as Geisha Goldilocks and Hope as Goth Snow White.
Marianne, Hope, Leanna, and Stacey as fairytale femmes a la Goth.
From left to right, Marianne, Hope, Leanna, Stacey and Liz as fairytale femmes a la Goth.

Then it was back to Manhattan for a quick transformation (note: not transfusion). First stop: the Halloween Parade with my fellow Goth fairytale femmes: Leanna, Stacey Agdern, and the Rebels of Romance, Liz Maverick and Marianne Mancusi. Re Leanna as Dead Little Miss Muffett, check out those choppers!

The parade, though slow moving, was well worth the wait. The piece de resistance for me: the skeleton puppets, hulking dudes operated by multiple human hands (at least I think they were human). We rounded out the evening with a post-parade party in Murray Hill hosted by our good friends at Pacific TV. Morgan and her hubby put us through our paces playing trivia games long past the Witching Hour. Note to Self: less book reading, more TV watching and PEOPLE Magazine perusing.

Hope and Liz strut their stuff.
Hope and Liz strut their stuff.

On Saturday night, I joined friends at the Metropolitan Museum of Art where rock legend Patti Smith celebrated All Saints Day with an evening of poetry reading and of course, music.  Afterward, it was dinner at Les Halles on Park Avenue South. For me, the steak au poivre with frittes and yes, Bearnaise sauce, thank you very much! Finally, home for a soothing cup of peppermint tea, a quick glance at the second half of SNL and then, yes, bed.

Even a party ghoul needs her beauty sleep.

"Those trivia questions were pretty...hair raising."
"Hey, those trivia questions were pretty...hair raising."

To paraphrase the remarkable Patti Smith: to all our saints, to the unsaintly saints, both living and dead.

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