Book Blast & Giveaway: When Ice Melts

Age is Just a Number welcomes you to its latest Book Blast. Author, AlTonya Washington is giving away a $10.00 Amazon Gift Card, one autographed copy and one ebook copy of her latest release, When Ice Melts.

Blog Tour: Excerpt/Giveaway Red Ink by Kathi Macias - Day 4

You made it!  Welcome!

It's day number four of the Virtual Book Tour of Red Ink, Book #3 in the extreme devotion fiction series by award winning author, Kathi Macias.

Below is an excerpt of Red Ink to whet your appetite just a bit followed by instructions how to enter the giveaway to win a copy of Red Ink:

RED INK

By Kathi Macias

Prologue

Yang Zhen-Li was nearing thirty but at times felt twice that old. Her back was becoming permanently bent forward from the heavy pails she carried daily, one attached on each end of the thick bamboo rod that stretched across her shoulders, mirroring the heaviness of her heart. There had been a time when she’d been acclaimed as a beauty, but she could scarcely remember why…or imagine that it would matter.

She tried to fight the encroaching darkness, tried to hold fast to what she knew was true, but the constant lies and propaganda were taking a greater toll even than the physical labor and abuse or the burning, gnawing hunger. If her situation didn’t change soon, she knew she would never live long enough to see her husband or son again. And with nearly eight years of her ten-year sentence left to serve, the possibilities of her emerging from prison alive grew dimmer by the day.

For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain. She forced herself to focus on one of the many scripture verses she’d had opportunity to memorize between the time she accepted Zhu Yesu as her Savior and her arrest by members of the Public Security Bureau (PSB) on charges of teaching religion to children, including giving them papers containing religious writings. Even before her arrest, her parents had written to her—warned her, begged her, threatened her—and finally had her kidnapped in an attempt to convince her to go along with the government rules, especially the one limiting each family to one child. After all, she already had a healthy son. Why would she want another baby when they could scarcely afford to feed the first one? But though her abductors had forcibly aborted her second child, they had not succeeded in convincing Yang Zhen-Li to abandon the faith she had adopted before marrying her Christian husband. If anything, the ordeal had only strengthened her resolve to take a stand for the meaning of her name—Zhen-Li, “Truth,”—and spurred her to begin actively sharing the Good News of Yesu every chance she got. As a trained teacher, that quite naturally included talking with children about the gospel, a practice expressly forbidden by the government.

Excerpt: Connections

Connections – Date of Publication: July 2008

(Romantic Comedy)

Connections is a romantic comedy that’s perfect for today’s world where love is often found in Cyberspace.

Monday through Friday, for one hour a day, newspaper reporter Christianna Dayne’s life is wonderful. Despite her hectic life, she always manages to spend her lunch hour at Cyber Town where she can catch up with her best friend Samantha, grab a bite to eat, and most importantly, hook up with her cyber boo online. Christianna is definitely feeling LitGuy66, but she’s too afraid to meet him because she doesn’t want reality to come crashing down around her. What Christianna doesn’t know is she’s not in control; fate is, and when fate puts a flesh and blood man before her – a man who just happens to not only be her possible Mr. Wonderful but also her ultimate scoop – Christianna must decide whether to flee or stick around and pursue the endless possibilities.

EXCERPT

I smiled when I noticed my girlfriend, Samantha, working. I waved, skipping over to her.

“You’re awfully giddy today,” she said as she handed a customer his change.

Approaching the counter, I leaned over, widening my smile.

“Actually, no,” I replied. “I’m tired, pissed, and cold as hell, but you know I couldn’t miss my lunch date.”

“What did Dave do this time?”

Samantha and I laughed. Dave was brothers with Samantha’s stepfather, so she knew all the dirt on him—even what wasn’t fit to print.

“Sam, he has me doing yet another mission impossible which means I won’t be able to hang with you this week.”

Sam’s icy blue eyes widened before she slapped the counter and chuckled. “Um, excuse me,” she said in her hard born-in-New-York accent, which so contrasted with her epitome-of-American-beauty blond hair, blue eyes, and model figure. “When was the last time we went out? You never go out.” She wiped the counter and nodded, her long blond hair dipping over her shoulders. “Which explains why you haven’t dated in how long?”

I raised my eyebrow. “Sam, I didn’t come here to be reprimanded for being a spinster.” I sighed. “Besides, dear old Mom already beat you to this convo over the weekend.”

Sam reached across the counter and patted my hand.

“I’m sorry, chica,” she said. She brightened and added, “But you do have your date today. How long has this been going on, two months now, right?”

I broke into a jaw-hurting smile. “Yeah,” I said as if shy.

“Why don’t you two just get over it and meet? It’s not like it’s a crime to meet someone on the Internet these days or anything.”

I pushed my thick, wiry hair back from off my face and blew into my hands. “I never really thought about it. I mean, he sounds too good to be true, and this one hour of my day makes me so happy. I would hate us to meet and negative vibes pop off. Then, I wouldn’t have this…” I lifted my arms and spun in a circle before I pointed to my favorite spot in the café.

Sam’s eyes moved toward my PC in the corner and then back to me. “Chris, you need to stop playing what if. I mean this could be the guy for you.”

“What’s gotten into you, Sam?” I asked, laughing. “You’re hardly the advocate for Internet romance. I often wonder why you even work here because I can bet you that a lot of these people come here to talk to people they are interested in romantically.”

“I guess I just see you in here, every Monday through Friday, talking for your hour, and floating out of the door because you’re so happy. Maybe I’d like to see you happy for more than one hour a day, five days a week.”

I smiled at my girl, taking her hands in mine and giving them a squeeze. I glanced at the contrast of our hands—hers being alabaster and mine the color of cinnamon. I chuckled, thinking of how people often looked at our color; raised brows at our loud, usually not politically correct discussions; and refused to see that we were sisters beyond our hues. Since we hooked up and lucked out as roommates our first year of college, Sam and I had been joined at the hip. Not even full-time jobs or the daily grind of life could keep us from staying connected.

“Thanks, Sis,” I said. “I know you’re just worried about my so-called love life. Not all of us can be graced to have a love like you and Jake.”

“True, but you know Jake and I have our problems…”

I gave Sam a serious look, before asking, “So how are things, between you, Jake, Jax, and Jamaica?”

“It’s going,” Sam said, sighing. “Jake and I can do nothing but continue loving each other and watching out for Jax. Jax is so young. I don’t want to hurt her with her mother’s crazy issues. If Jamaica is going to act up, then we’ll just have to deal with it then. She’s been okay since we talked to her, but you never know.”

I nodded. Our conversation was halted as a guy approached the counter. Wow, I thought, he’s cute. I knew Sam was thinking the same thing because she offered me a smirk before helping him.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, looking rushed, “can I get a cup of coffee and a turkey Swiss croissant?”

“Sure thing.”

“Ditto on that order, Sam, but make my coffee a caramel latte, please.” She nodded and turned away. I drummed my fingertips along the counter, catching glimpses of the guy out of the corner of my eye.

“Hi,” he said, catching me glancing. I turned toward him, a blush rising in my cheeks.

“Hi,” I replied, embarrassed. Now looking directly at him, I was like Elvis, all shook up.

He was gorgeous, in that artsy kind of way, and his Hispanic heritage just added to his machismo factor. He had the most beautiful pair of brown eyes—after my own—and a nice full mouth. He ran his hand over his slightly spiky brown hair and offered the other to me.

Want to know what happens to Christianna and her cyber boo? Pick up a copy of CONNECTIONS today – it’s only $1.95 – enjoy it over a sweet latte.

This e-story by Shonell Bacon can be purchased via (Lady Leo Publishing)!

Once you read it, go check her out and let her know what you think! She'll post your comments!

Excerpt: Still Hot: The Uncensored Guide to Divorce, Dating & Sex

The following is an excerpt from the book Still Hot
by Sue Mittenthal and Linda Reing
Published by Running Press; March 2008;$12.95US/$13.95CAN; 978-0-7624-3112-0
Copyright © 2008 Sue Mittenthal and Linda Reing

Keyword: cheating

Be alert to suspicious activity surrounding your husband's high-tech gizmos. These are a dead giveaway. Especially if you know how to hack.

• Has his BlackBerry turned into a CrackBerry addiction?
• Is he up at two in the morning, IM'ing "the office"?
• Did he schlep a laptop on your family trip to the Grand Canyon ?
• And make nine secretive Airphone calls from the plane?
• As if he's the Secretary of State?
• On Air Force One?
• When he's really a Rite Aid pharmacist in coach?

This is credible intelligence. Elevate the homeland security risk to SEVERE, and prepare for evacuation -- his.

Out of nowhere, his cell phone reception has permanently deteriorated -- but only at home. He now needs to leave the house in order to get a signal. He does this furtively and often.

You turn on the computer and notice his new screen name: "HotRod287."

Suddenly he has a weak bladder. Every time you go out to dinner, he uses the facilities at least three times. You catch him tucking away his BlackBerry as he emerges from the men's room.

Remember how you used to sit with your legs slung across his lap while you watched TV? Now his cell phone occupies your spot. Plus he leaves the room during the last four minutes of the Super Bowl because he just got a text message.

Does Liz's experience sound familiar? Before her husband went on a business trip, she asked how to reach him at his hotel. "I'll be in suite 1277 , but just call my cell," he replied. "I turn off the room phone because I get wrong numbers all night long." Uh-huh. Liz didn't have to be be Nancy Drew to figure out the following:

• He wasn't staying at that hotel.
• In fact, there wasn't a room 1277 at that hotel.
• Because there were only seven floors in that hotel.
• He wasn't even in the city where the hotel was located.
• His business associates weren't coming along.
• He didn't want to be disturbed.
• Particularly by Liz.

Every time you walk by, he immediately shuts down the computer.

When he goes to take a shower, he stashes his Black Berry in the pocket of his robe and locks the bathroom-door. It's a good fifteen minutes before he turns on the water.

While your family vacations at a lakeside cottage, he's pacing the dock. Every other day, he drives forty miles to an Internet café, claiming that "they have the only authentic espresso in the area."

You find him crunched in the closet, whispering on his cell phone while pretending to select a tie.

When you go online to Google a restaurant, you notice that the most recently visited website on the computer is russianladies.com.

And that he put a personal password on his Word documents. After you guess it in thirty seconds, you find drafts of letters to "Svetlana, my zaichik*."

Rifling through the filing cabinet, you spot a new folder marked "Travel." Inside, you find Map Quest directions from Minsk to Kiev.

Oh, sweetie. The worst is yet to come.

*Bunny Rabbit

Copyright © 2008 Sue Mittenthal and Linda Reing

About the Authors:
Sue Mittenthal has worked as both an editor and writer for newspapers and magazines. Her work has appeared in The New York Times, The Boston Globe, Esquire, Family Circle, Glamour, Ladies’ Home Journal, Reader’s Digest, McCall’s and Consumer Reports. She is currently a freelance writer in New York .

Linda Reing began practicing for a career as a stand-up comic at age 7. When she realized that this would mean performing in front of audiences, she quickly changed gears. Over the years she has continued to embrace humor as her means of coping with the world, as well as a way to entertain friends and family. She is a fundraiser and lives in New York City .

The authors met when their children were toddlers and reconnected when their husbands toddled off.

For more info rmation, please visit http://stillhotbook.blogspot.com/.

Excerpt: I Heart My In-Laws

The following is an excerpt from the book I Heart My In-Laws
by Dina Koutas Poch
Published by Henry Holt and Company, LLC;
June 2007;
$15.00US/$18.95CAN;
978-0-8050-8279-1

Copyright © 2007 Dina Koutas Poch
Regional Guide to In-Laws

There are seven territories of in-law personalities in this great country of ours. Each has its own unique flavor.

1. West Coast In-Laws

( California , Oregon , Washington )

Three words: Burning Man Festival. Your in-laws live where Manifest Destiny carried them. They come from a long line of gold hunters — those in search of a truer, richer way of life. Every single Napa Valley wine they uncork, or Starbucks coffee they brew; or macrobiotic muffin they bake, they judge you for not living the way they do. “Oh, West Coast people are more laid back.” Really? They’re ultra-aggressive about lifestyle choices and the 40-hour workweek! How do you deal with your West Coast in-laws?

Compliment their tan. Their sunglasses. Their shapely mountain-bike sculpted legs. They’ll eat it up (those egotists!). And coo when they mention how they fly seaplanes to their island house, and how the orca whales and “pristine wilderness” are their backyard. Blah, blah, blah. Make sure to note how very fresh the air is, even if it’s making your allergies act up.

Read up on renewable energy resources: wind power, solar energy, and corn-powered cars. Tell them that you’re already on the waiting list for one (a waiting list made of recycled paper, no less).

How to dress: In flannel and Tevas with thick socks.
What not to do: Smoke cigarettes. Joints, however, are cool.

2. Rocky Mountain In-Laws

( Colorado , Montana , Idaho , Utah )

Your rugged in-laws know a thing or two about machinery. They can plow. They can drive a tractor. They can dig a deep hole with a backhoe (and I’m talking about Aunt Trudy on dialysis here). They can also wrangle sheep on a mountain without the help of a gay lover (no matter what that movie said). How do you impress in-laws that live in winter for nine months a year and are known to wrestle bears for sport?

If your weenie job as an economics professor hasn’t prepared you for life with these in-laws, buying a picture book about tractors and trucks — something a five-year-old boy would drool over — will help. At least you’ll know your trenchers from your dozers and your grapple log skidders from your pipe layers.

Pick an alpine sport: ice climbing, fly-fishing, kayaking, mountain climbing, trekking, snowshoeing, skiing, or mountain biking, and excel at it. It doesn’t matter if you live in Florida , you need to train so you can join your in-laws in death-defying “leisure sports” at high altitude (with no bleeping oxygen!).

How to dress: In jeans and a warm jacket, because you’ll be outside shoveling hay.
What not to do: Mention how your gay brother in Boston just got married and a drag queen performed the ceremony.

3. Southwestern In-Laws

( New Mexico , Arizona , Nevada )

There are two kinds of ex-hippie in-laws in the Southwest: those with boatloads of money and those with a jar of pennies. Figure out which one your in-law is. The former has a perfect golf swing, and the latter reliably has peyote.

When your Southwest in-laws hug you, they practically blind — the sun glints off their turquoise jewelry and belt buckles, sending signals miles into the sky. (Duh, that’s how the aliens found Roswell .)

Your in-laws are into spirituality with a capital S. Every inch of wall space is covered with pottery depictions of Kokopelli and watercolor drawings of pueblos and adobe homes in rust and muted orange hues. They subsist on roasted green chilies and yerba mate. They also don’t age. Is it the desert? The dry heat? Each time you see them, they’re younger. In fact, they’re twenty-five years old right now. It’s terrifying.

How do you ingratiate yourself with southwestern in-laws?

Go hot-air ballooning with your in-laws! Everyone in the Southwest does it. How else do you pass the time in l00-degree heat? Remember, hot-air balloons aren’t just for Dorothy & Co. They’re for you, your in-laws, and nineteenth-century explorers.

Vegas, baby! Anyone? Slot machines? Showgirls? People-watching? Shark tank at Mandalay Bay ? (These are rhetorical questions. You don’t have to answer them.) But you may want to propose them to your in-laws, when they bust out the tarot cards — again. Hey, why don’t you use those tarot cards to predict some winning hands of blackjack? As they say in the movies, it’s just crazy enough to work, boss.

How to dress: A brightly patterned sundress and a necklace made of the largest beads known to man.
What not to do: Say you prefer modern art.

4. Texan In-Laws

Your Texan in-laws are smug about one thing: being Texan. We know you were once a republic! And everything’s bigger! Six flags, the Alamo , that 72-ounce steak, and especially the hats. Fine! Texas is big, “American,” flashy, and the center of the world.

If your Texan in-laws aren’t gorgeously well-manicured people from Houston or Dallas, or cultured Austinites, they’re ranchers and they don’t give a damn about you, “the en-vi-ro-mentalists,” and “the gov’nment.” After all, the rest of the world is just not Texas .

Of course, you’ll meet a second cousin-in-law that uses her panty hose to strain motor oil, but the rest of the family isn’t too proud of her. So how do you deal with the Texan in-laws?

Accept that a lot of people you’ll meet in the Lone Star State will have nicknames like Joe-Bob, Billy-Bob, Jim-Bob, Little John, Big John, etc. You’ll be expected to know about their souped-up truck and new gun rack in intimate detail.

Respect the laws of the Barcalounger. Your Texan in-laws don’t have normal chairs; they need something with a footrest. Succumb to the relaxation factor of holding conversations while horizontal.

How to dress: A “Don’t Mess with Texas ” T-shirt with a Stetson hat, only because your in-laws gave them to you upon your arrival.
What not to do: Forget to send good wishes to your in-laws on Texan holidays like Texas Independence Day, the start of Deer Hunting Season, the Opening Day of high school football practice, and the day the new model year of Ford F-150s hits the market.

5. Southern In-Laws

( Arkansas , Louisiana to Florida , and up to Kentucky and Virginia )

Your in-laws love NASCAR. If they don’t, their neighbors do. Your southern in-laws are either “refined city folk” or “simple country folk,” and they’ll want you to know the difference.

Your southern in-laws are suspicious of you. It’s not just you — it’s anyone outside their state. Your in-laws have never been “North,” and by that, they mean Delaware . It’s not that they don’t want to go, just why would they? People have been in their town for generations. It’s home, which is why you should move there. When you’re south of the Mason-Dixon Line, do as those who live south of the Mason-Dixon Line . . .

Learn the key players in “the Confederacy.” How many times have you met a southerner named Jefferson Davis? Billions? Every street, building, and public school is named after these folks: Stonewall Jackson, Robert E. Lee, Jeb Stuart, Alexander Stephens, P. T. Beauregard, or Nathan Bedford Forrest. But please never, ever mention the Destroyer-of-the-South, Yankee General Sherman. He’s still on their “list,” 150 years later.

Talk the talk. Know southern sport rivalries and which side you’re on with the Tar Heels vs. Blue Devils, LSU vs. Ole Miss, and Tennessee Volunteers vs. Kentucky Wildcats.

How to dress: Something bright and feminine from your mother’s closet.
What not to do: Don’t call it the “Civil War.” It’s the “War of Northern Aggression.”

6. Northeast Corridor In-Laws

(Ohio, Pennsylvania, and up through Maine )

If you or anyone you’re related to went to a fancy school, now’s the time to mention it. New Englanders love to think “they know better” and that “they are smarter” and that they “vote correctly.” They can push up their dark-framed glasses and snub you with their “Plymouth Rock” crap.

The crowded cities and suburbs of Philadelphia , Washington , D.C., Cincinnati , New York , and Boston mean one thing — your in-laws are the diversity in America . They smother you with affection because a hundred other relatives live down the street.

Join the rat race. You must keep up with the Joneses — the family that you can see from the bay window in your in-laws’ kitchen. Last week, the competition was about the house gutters. They won. This week it’s about you. Who has the sweetest daughter-in-law?

Your northern in-laws have summer homes in non-warm places like Nantucket . What’s the point?

How to dress: Like you just fell out of the J. Crew catalog.
What not to do: Mention that you didn’t vote in the last election

7. Midwest In-Laws

(Indiana to Missouri, up to North Dakota and Michigan )

If a giant, two-headed reptilian monster was heading toward your in-laws’ subdivision, they would smile and wave. Your in-laws are that friendly and nice. Sometimes it’s creepy. Like the time they offered a teenager a ride back to his college campus — it looked an awful lot like kidnapping.

Between the ice fishing, apple-pie baking, and dining at Perkins Restaurant and Bakery (which they nicknamed Pukins), your big-boned in-laws spend a lot of time driving (8 hours is short haul), using terms like “who gives a flying fig,” and asking “how ya doing?” followed by “okey, dokey!” So how do you get ahead with them?

Dig into dishes that involve massive amounts of melted cheese. Your in-laws will prepare cheesy potatoes, cheesy broccoli, cheesy asparagus, and fried cheese curds — which sounds awful, but c’mon, let’s admit it, a little melted cheese makes everything better.

“Live simply, so that others can simply live.” If your in-laws aren’t city dwellers, they’re farmers and they know how to birth a cow, mend a horse, or feed a pig. If you know zilch about farms, don’t fret. Praise the good bugs — ladybugs, lacewings, hoverflies, and honeybees — and chastise the potentially bad bugs — flea hoppers, lygus bugs, aphids, and mealy bugs. Impress your in-laws by differentiating good stinkbugs (they’re green) from bad ones (they’re brown).

How to dress: Something with an elastic waistband.
What not to do: Take shortcuts. Using life’s conveniences (leaf blower vs. rake, microwave vs. Crock-Pot, etc.) only means you’re not working hard enough!

Copyright © 2007 Dina Koutas Poch

Author Dina Koutas Poch holds a B.A. from Brown University and an M.F.A. from Columbia University . She is a writer and filmmaker living in New York City with her husband. Her in-laws live in Connecticut .

For more information, please visit http://iheartmyinlaws.com/

Age is Just a Number - The Serial is Back! - Vol II

Hi Folks,

For those of you who purchased, reviewed, proof read or commented on the blog posts for Volume I. Volume II is now about to begin.

Well actually the preamble began during NaNoWriMo 2006, however it fell by the wayside. So I’m now getting back to the vehicle that helped me create the first volume: blogging!

So every Thursday, I’ll begin posting the latest or edits of the previous chapter.

So without further ado, here’s the preamble - (Unedited so please don’t hold that against me):

Thursday, November 1, 2006, 8:00 p.m.

I never thought I’d be one of those twenty-five … again folk because I’m so grateful to be here, plus I’m so used to folk saying, “You have a twenty-one-year-old daughter? Stop playing!” that I got caught out there when it happened:

There I was minding my own business standing outside of the neighborhood Wal*Mart when the words I thought I’d never hear were spoken, “Excuse me ma’am?”

Ensconced in the surety that I wasn’t the one being addressed, I kept on searching, my eyes peeled for the “I heart Jesus” license plate that would signal the approach of my brother-in-law’s van when the words came again, “Ma’am, ahem, excuse me ma’am?”

Annoyed now that whoever was being addressed was being so rude, I whipped my head around to give that person the evil eye, when directly in my line of vision was a teenager looking hopefully at me.

I looked past him, sure that he needed my help to gain the attention of said ma’am, but alas there was no one close enough to us to whom he could have been referring but … me!

Pushing the ramifications of that to the back of my mind I focused on the stocky teenager as I asked, “Were you talking to me?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He answered. “Do you know what time the next whirly bird (our local bus) will be coming?”

After a quick glance at my watch, I pointed to the left and said, “The next bus will be by in fifteen minutes, but you’re standing in the wrong spot, the bus stop was recently moved you need to go down there, where all the other people are standing.” And in full parental mode I added, “Do you have exact change for the bus? It’s fifty cents to ride one way and two dollars if you need to transfer.”

“Thanks, ma’am, I’m good.” He said then jogged on down to where the other bus riders were lined up.

Now that he was gone, I could safely pull out that word and examine it. In less than five minutes, I’d been addressed as Ma’am four times … count it … four times. Yes, I know there are weightier issues, the upcoming elections, the plight of the poor, Jesus’ return – I get that but you see Ma’am just isn’t me.

I’m the cool parent, the one my daughter’s friends wanted to hang with. The one who had so much stamina she could dance all the teens under the table, show them how to do round offs, cartwheels or flips without batting an eye. Attend dance classes with teens and hit that split with nary a problem.

Ma’am is some overweight, forty-something woman, who’s not down with the slang of the day, has no clue as to the latest clothing or hairdo trends, wears shoes for comfort instead of to enhance the shape of her legs and doesn’t care if she’s wearing make-up or not.

I looked down at myself, cool boots—check, bootleg cut jeans—check, passed my hand through my locs—check, looked at my coat—okay X, licked my unvarnished lips—okay X … again, slang meter—check, weight—okay X, age—okay X again.

So by my own meter, created when I was ooooh about his age, I’d unknowingly metamorphosed into “Ma’am!”

What can I do to reverse that? When did it happen? Was it when I moved from New York to Pennsylvania? In my attempt to fit in had I compromised on my citified edginess?

I mean, just three years ago, I was the famous “Divine” of Age is Just a Number: Adventures in Online Dating fame. Younguns were coming out of my ears… well not sixteen year-olds … (don’t wanna get reported for child abuse … LOL) but twenty was not at all a stretch. Of course I verbally spanked them and sent them back to their mamas, but still … there was no “ma’am” on the horizon.

Is this what turning forty is about? If so … who do I have to annoy, bribe or pay to get off this rollercoaster to the land of decline?

Seriously though, I am thankful for every year that I’m here, for at fourteen with the onset of bipolar disorder I was ready to end it all, but for God’s intervention. However, how do I deal with the in-between stage in which I now find myself?

To hear me tell it, I’m still a hip, happening fool, however, when I use slang in her presence, my daughter quickly says, “Umm, mom … please don’t do that again.” Or when I attempt to go exercise in exercise clothes (brilliant blue spandex with a sweat shirt no less) she bars the door and asks, “You’re not going outside like that, are you?” When did spandex (exercise clothing) become déclassé?

Well, if this is what turning forty-one has in store for me … I would rather reminisce a bit more. After all my past had much to recommend it: not only was I thirty-seven and thinner–everyone (the men and young men, i.e.) thought I was only twenty-five and were not shy in approaching me. What? I’m not kidding. Grabbing the journal:

My journal remembers…

Monday, April 21, 2003, 10:15 p.m.
PART XV: IS THAT A TYPO?

MEANWHILE, back at BV, I finally got around to reading the other note I’d received. After the disappointing outcome of my first attempt at dating, I was happy to see the words angel and music included in his alias, although the lost part made me wonder if I’d have to dig a lot to find him—or maybe he was looking for himself?

My fanciful imaginings aside, I clicked on the link and read the email. Well, let me tell you, it more than made up for the trespasses of Pete! It was complimentary without being effusive and poetic without making me gag.

He wanted to know how he could get to know me and if I would give him a moment of my time. I quickly looked up his profile and found that he was into music as well! A Christian to boot, but no pic—durn!

I continued reading. He had a management company and worked with Christian artists only. He had a link to his site which I, of course, clicked on. Upon viewing the site, I was impressed by his professionalism and straightforward, no holds barred attitude. That’s what I’m talking about, I said to myself, as I broke out in goose pimples.

I returned to his BV profile to get some more personal details. Six feet one inch, 185 lbs, Puerto Rican/Jamaican ancestry (waaa hooo) age 25, location, GA … Hol’ up! Twenty-five? Was that a typo? The three is right next to the two … maybe he hit two by accident—and when did twenty-five-year-olds start sounding so mature? Must be a typo.

I thought about it for a bit, did the math three times, but the outcome equaled a twelve-year difference every time. Must be a typo.

Well, only one way to find out. I penned an appreciative response, then segued to my main area of concern… the age thingy. Amid much kudos about the site and his witnessing I slipped in the question—“was that a typo?”—in such a way that it was quite clear that twenty-five was cute and sweet, but not in the running.

Strangely enough, I received no reply.

I checked back the next day and the day after that … nothing. In the meantime I re-read the email and his BV page, and you know what? After the third or fourth re-read, twenty-five was starting to not sound so harsh. Heck, I don’t even look thirty! (Or so folk keep telling me). He sounded so mature, and most importantly, he was a Christian and proud of it.

I re-read my response, and it did sound kind of condescending. So I sent another note, apologizing if I’d offended—I’d been caught off guard by the age thing. I guess that was the ticket, because a response came in mere seconds after I hit “send.”

He accepted my apology, and in essence told me not to get caught up in numbers, since age, after all, is just a number. He also included a few other numbers: his phone number at work…

Dang, I hate it when men do that… put the ball in my court by divulging their number first. I think it’s a new fangled strategy where they appear to be putting us in the driver’s seat, so that we feel safe or empowered. Personally, I just think it’s laziness on their part.

That occurred at 10:00 a.m. I spent an hour dithering over a promotional mailing to the subscribers on my mailing list, telling myself that I really wasn’t going to call. What would be the point? His age had been confirmed as a non-typo.

By 11:20 a.m. I was dialing the phone number. I got a voice mail for someone named Christine and dropped the phone like a sixteen year old. Dang, I’d already begun regressing. I’d swept right past twenty-five to arrive at sixteen.

Pressing the phone receiver against my hot cheeks while berating myself (you are soooo sad), I composed myself and redialed the number. This time I left a message stating that the message was for Bachelor Music Angel, and left my phone number.

I spent the next twenty minutes working frenetically. I jumped at every car horn outside my office window. Finally, the phone rang. Just to be sure, I answered it in my business voice: “Div’s Book Nook.”

It was him! He sounded so cute—voice all soft, sweet and melodious. We talked for about thirty minutes and then I had to take a business call. I promised to call him back.

Business taken care of, I returned his call. Twenty minutes into that conversation, he had to go. He then called me back. I asked him if all this phone time wouldn’t be a problem, and he said he was cool. He was just on a subcontract assignment while someone was out. (Okay … that explained the Christine on the voice mail.)

Next I addressed the fact that he had no picture on his profile. He told me that he used to have one up, but got too many crazy emails so he took it down.

Alrighty then! “So how does a sistah go about seeing one of those make-a-woman-lose-her-mind pics?” I asked.

He chuckled, “Just ask and it shall be given unto you.” Ooooh … Biblical flirting! I can get with this! I thought to myself. We continued chatting, while I waited for the pics to hit my inbox.

To Be Continued…