LOL MARINE FORCES RESERVE BAND SANTA MEETS SOUSA TOUR

Here, as promised, are a couple more decorating pics. None, alas, as unique as yesterday's Chesapeake Crab.

The words, from Wall Words, go up the stairs; the village is Dickens in the den, or, as it's called around here, The Wood Room because it's paneled jury style in Birds Eye maple. Very English gentleman's club look, which is why I decided Dickens fit.

We are still, btw, after 10 years, deciding what to cover the brick with. We've gone from the idea of travertine marble, to dark green marble, to green granite, and now we're thinking about a pretty tan marble. While nearly everything in the house has been changed, including the bordered wood floors you can just barely see at the edges of the hearth, the brick remains. Sigh.

Now here, from a reader, Carolyn Smith, who's taught me a LOT about the Marines -- is a LOL video of the Marine Forces Reserve Band's 2008 Santa Meets Sousa tour, which raised a bunch of money for Toys for Tots. Carolyn's son is in the band, though not in this video, and she's justifiably proud of him. Did you know that Marine band members are "REAL" Marines. . . as in they don't just play instruments, but they're also, like every other Marine, trained riflemen?

Carolyn's son was in Saudi Arabia during Desert Storm and the whole band at Camp Lejeune was in Iraq for 8 months in 2006. The band's mission is to provide security for Headquarters Battalion. As well, they are excellent muscians, some even with bachelor's and master's degrees in music.

So, thankfully, they shoot better than they plan their song selection. (Just kidding, Carolyn!) Truly, it's a fun video. Enjoy and merry, merry.

CRABBY CHRISTMAS!!

I've always loved the Christmas season. I decorate every room, partly even by themes. For example, all the Christmas in the City buildings on the sideboard in the dining room are restaurants and all the tiny people -- except for the Salvation Army choir -- are delivering or selling food.

Thanks to the wonderfully creative folks at Wall Words, I even get to write holiday greetings on my walls, then peel them off after New Years without leaving a trace. And not only are they more affordable than the ones you see in the stores these days, they even allow you to choose your font, sizes, and colors and will custom make them for you. While they have thousands of quotes that are super for everyday, the holiday ones are even more fun. Here's one I've put up this year; it's right above the doorway transom on the two-story foyer wall leading into the living room. I'll be posting more words along with some other Christmas decorations over the next few days leading up to Christmas.

When our son was younger, I'd begin planning our outside display in July. I'd draw the figures on plywood, and he and my sweetie would cut them out, then I'd paint them and we'd put them up on our roof. Patrick must've been influenced by this because he created his own yard decoration this year in the front yard of his new home. It's not your typical holiday decoration, but then again, he lives in Alexandria, Virginia, where, apparently, the Chesapeake Blue Crab is a big deal. This poor guy was obviously boiled to make him turn red, but Patrick decided that having an actual blue crab on his lawn might be pushing the neighborhood's taste limits. According to my granddaughter, Marisa, next year he plans to expand to a Crustacean Choir with lobsters and shrimp. Stay tuned.

I also watch all the movies -- Charlie Brown's search for the true meaning of Christmas; the Grinch trying to steal it; Miracle on 34th Street, which I based my Dear Santa novella in Silver Bells on; It's a Wonderful Life; White Christmas; Holiday Inn. . . Name a warm and fuzzy Christmas movie and I've probably watched it at least a dozen times. Some probably hundreds.

But there's one movie I watch year after year and is my all time fave. And, actually, while being funny and wise, in the way only Tim Burton can be, it's also the most romantic. And that's The Nightmare Before Christmas. Here's the trailer. Enjoy, and merry, merry. . .

THINKING ABOUT GRAVY

Newsflash!

You don't need drippings to make great gravy!! From Christopher Kimball, host of America's Test Kitchen, here's a fabulous recipe that can be served with any type of meat or poultry. (I know. It sounds too good to be true. But trust me. It works!) Better yet, it can be refrigerated in an airtight container for up to 4 days or frozen for up to 2 months.

I cut it out of USA Today two years ago and we were skeptical, but my sweetie made it and it's so delicious, it's become our go-to recipe on those rare occasions -- such as Thanksgiving or Christmas -- we need gravy. It is, as my house chef points out, a bit time consuming, but if you make it a day or so ahead of time, you've one more thing out of the way on Christmas.

Ingredients:

3 Tablespoons unsalted butter (I've gone ahead and used salted on those times we didn't have any unsalted in the house, then left out the salt at the end.)
1 carrot, peeled and chopped fine
1 rib of celery, chopped fine
1 onion, minced
1/4 cup all purpose flour (when I make it, I use Wondra to prevent lumps, but my sweetie has used All Purpose with no problem.)
2 cups low sodium chicken broth or stock
2 cups low sodium beef broth or stock
1 bay leaf
1 teaspoon minced thyme or 1/4 teaspoon dried
5 whole black peppercorns
salt and pepper

To double, use a Dutch oven or stew pot to give the vegetables ample room for browning and increase cooking time by roughly 50%.

Melt the butter in the large saucepan (we use a stew pot) over medium heat. Add the vegetables and cook until softened and well browned. About 9 minutes.

Stir in the flour and cook, constantly stirring, until throughly brown, about 5 minutes.

Gradually whisk in the broths -- keep whisking to prevent lumps -- and bring to a boil.

Add the bay leaf, thyme, and peppercorns and simmer, stirring occasionally, until thickened, 20-25 minutes, skimming off any foam that forms on the surface.

Pour the gravy through a fine mesh strainer into a clean saucepan or bowl, pressing on the solids -- we use the back of a flat wooden spoon -- to extract as much liquid as possible. Discard the solids. Season with salt and pepper to taste. (We didn't find the need to add anything.)

Tip -- the color and flavor of this gravy comes from cooking the vegetables until they're well browned. It may seem as though they're turning too dark, but it truly is a necessary step to produce the richly flavored and colored gravy. To reheat after refrigeration, heat over low heat, stirring to recombine, or microwave, stirring often, until warm and smooth.

To thaw, place the gravy and 1 Tablespoon of water in a saucepan over low heat and bring to a slow simmer. The gravy may appear broken or curdled as it thaws, but a vigorous whisking will recombine it.

One thing I've learned -- in order to make a bit thicker gravy and give it more of the taste of the meat, is to brown a bit of Wondra flour in a pan -- stopping just short of the color I want (lighter for turkey, darker for standing rib roast), because like all rouxs, it darkens as it cools, then stirring in a bit of the already made gravy with some pan drippings, then adding it back to the pot.

As I said, it's a bit of work. But well worth it because 1) you don't have to spend hours while your roast or turkey is cooking, worrying about whether or not you're going to have a decent amount of drippings, 2) since you can make it days ahead of time, you don't have everyone standing around waiting to eat while you're sweating over trying to make gravy right before serving dinner, and 3) it tastes so much better than any jar or envelope gravy you might be tempted to use as a shortcut.

Enjoy.

Don't forget, tomorrow is Funny Friday video day. This time I'm going to share a trailer for my favorite must-see holiday movie and a picture of what may be the strangest, but whimsical, Christmas lawn decoration I've seen in a long time.

BLIZZARDS AND BOOKS

I am so jazzed about this ad the NAL marketing folks created for SHATTERED, I just had to share. The book comes February 3rd, and I know hottie Army SOAR Night Stalker pilot Shane Garrett will warm up a lot of winter cold readers, but February release dates admittedly always make me nervous.

Years ago I had a book out during February just as blizzards hit all across America. Even ice storms down in the Deep South. The week the book hit stores was the same week all the news reports of cars skidding into one another kept showing up on the TV news. Night after night. After night. It was brutal. I pointed out one car with a woman driver stuck in a huge drift of snow and told my sweetie, "Look, there's no way she's going to be able to get to the store to buy my book!"

Well, he's known me since the week I turned fifteen and while there are times he can be a typically clueless male, he's learned certain set phrases, such as "I really like what you've done to your hair," and "No, that dress doesn't make you look fat."

This was one of those times when he knew just what I needed to hear because his immediate response was "No, you've got it wrong. She's on her way HOME from the book store and now she has your great book to read while waiting for the tow truck to come and rescue her."

Obviously I wanted to believe, because that had me feeling better. Until I shared his take on the situation the next day with my editor. There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then she said, "JoAnn, did you ever think that the truck carrying the books to the store couldn't get there in the first place?" Aaaargh!!

Speaking of blizzards, here's a photo of my sweetie trying to clear our driveway out to the Forest Service road at our Arizona mountain cabin. We were used to snow there, since we were at 7,300 feet elevation near a ski bowl and one year received about 160 inches. But this all fell on Easter weekend!! What you can't see is that my car is actually hidden beneath all that white stuff.

I'm still wistfully wishing for snow instead of all the dreary rain we've been getting here in East Tennessee. Just not quite that much!!

HOLIDAY EGGNOG BREAD RECIPE

A few years ago my former publisher sent me on a week-long Authors at Sea cruise along the "Mexican Riviera." I had a grand time hanging out with readers and other writers.

But, like most readers, I can become a fan when I have a chance to meet someone whose work I've enjoyed for years. For me, on that cruise, the writer was Eileen Goudge, author of many fabulous books including Garden of Lies, Blessing in Disguise, Such Devoted Sisters. As a bonus, she was warm and friendly, and I totally enjoyed chatting with her on the bus from the hotel to the ship and while sharing the fruit and wine basket my sweetie had arranged to have waiting in my stateroom.

What I didn't realize was that she's also written a culinary book based on her favorite family recipes. So here, just in time for the holiday season, is a recipe from Something Warm From the Oven: Baking Memories, Making Memories.

I've always been big on making new holiday memories along with celebrating old ones, so on Christmas Eve, before we go out for my daughter-in-law Laura's traditional Italian seafood dinner, the world's most special grandchildren, Marisa and Parker, and I will be making Eileen's scrumptious eggnog bread.

Eggnog Bread:

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
Grease and 8 1/2 x 4 1/4 inch loaf pan

Ingredients:

1 large egg, at room temperature

1 cup sugar

1 cup eggnog

1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted (or you can use regular salted, just omit the salt in the recipe)

2 tablespoons dark rum

2 1/4 cup all purpose-flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt 

3/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg


In a large bowl, beat the egg with an electric mixer on low speed. Add the sugar, eggnog, melted butter, and rum, and mix until well blended.

Sift together the flour, baking powder, salt and 1/4 teaspoon of the nutmeg.

Add to the wet mixture all at once, mixing just until the dry ingredients are incorporated.

Scrape into pan. Sprinkle with the remaining 1/2 teaspoon nutmeg.

Bake in the oven for 50-60 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. If the top is browning too quickly, lightly cover it with aluminum foil for the last 10 minutes or so of baking.

Let cool for 5 minutes before removing from the pan and placing on a wire rack.

Serve warm or at room temperature.

Enjoy.

FRIDAY FUNNY VIDEO -- JERRY, THE AMAZING FETCHING DACHSHUND

Giving dogs equal time after last Friday's engineer's guide to cat video, meet an amazing product of German engineering.

And no, Jerry is not a BMW, but an amazing dachshund. Having been owned by one ourselves, I can attest that despite their way short legs, it is impossible to outrun one. But ours never fetched like this!

Enjoy. . .

FRIDAY FUNNIES -- AN ENGINEER'S GUIDE TO CATS VIDEO

No excerpt today. But I do have a Friday Funny -- An Engineer's Guide To Cats.

Since along with being a hottie Air Force Combat Controller, Dallas O'Halloran, hero of Breakpoint, is a brainiac who compares making love with a woman -- which he excels at -- to solving differential equations and thinks of the heroine as a snowflake fractal (which, btw, has REALLY made me go back and relearn a lot of my math skills!), this one definitely struck home.

But did I mention that Dallas is HOT???? And these guys are, well, not.

But they are funny! Enjoy and happy weekend! (Oh, if you get the annoying google ad at the bottom, you can make it disappear by clicking on the little x.)





Go Titans!

BARBARA WALTERS AND ME

Barbara Walters saved my life. Okay, that's possibly an overstatement. But she definitely organized my life. Most of you probably remember Olympia Dukakis saying, in Steel Magnolias, that "the only thing that separates us from the animals is our ability to accessorize." Well, I've always agreed, going back at least to junior high when I had different colored Keds for every outfit, then dyed my shoelaces, too, so I'd be able to make combinations. If you do the math, with 9 pairs of shoes, I had a LOT of choices.

So, it's only natural that I'd have different colored purses to go with different outfits. But I was always leaving something behind when I'd madly switch bags at the last second before leaving the house. I'm notoriously prompt, but that doesn't mean there isn't chaos right before I leave because I'm also one of those last minute people. (I call it prioritizing. My sweetie, I suspect, has another name for it.)

Then I learned that Barbara Walters had these bags. These wonderful mesh bags that came in different colors, and all she had to do, when she changed purses -- and since Babs has a LOT busier life than I do, I imagine she also has a lot more purses and reasons to change them -- was take the mesh bags from one purse and dump them in another.

Brilliant, says I. Why didn't anyone ever think of that before?! So, I still believe in giving gifts to charities, but here's a gift every woman should buy for herself. I have a white long one I put bills in. I did have a smaller aqua one I put change in, but I moved the change into the white one, so my bills and change are all in one place. Since I tend to use my charge card -- and pay it off each month because I hate giving banks interest -- for miles and Amazon points, I don't carry all that much money anyway. Speaking of credit cards, I have a pink one that holds all my cards, including my driver's license, voter card and insurance I.D. The aqua one has become the traveling health bag, with advil, band-aids, Tums,my asthma rescue inhaler, various other small things. And the lilac makeup bag holds -- duh -- my touch-up makeup. That's it. Four bags and all I have to do is grab them and switch.

Lately, though, I've noticed that since I have both a small flip cell phone from Verizon, and my iPhone through AT&T (I like the iPhone because I can play video games while waiting in drs' offices or while my hair color sets, or give it to my sweetie to play games while I'm browsing in scrapbook departments. Also, I can check and answer my email and go on line and check out what's happening on MySpace) AND my digital camera (never know when you might witness a train wreck and want to send a pix into the TV nightly news), life's getting complicated again. So I'm going to buy a new yellow one for them. And maybe, thinking about it, I might buy a smaller black one for my iPhone to put inside the yellow one, so I don't have to worry about the camera lens scratching my pretty black touch screen.

Looking at the Walker Bags website, I just noticed they had double zip bags -- two bags in one! So I think I'm going to exchange my white money one for one of those to keep the change separate in the same bag. Then use the white one for receipts, which is where they go anyway.

They have bags for just about anything you'd ever need -- lipstick, knitting needles, a train type cosmetic bag for a lot of stuff, bags that are perfect for taking things to the beach, even a bag for your yoga pad. And did I mention they're having a sale until the 15th?


Today's excerpt is not from a work in progress, but from a published book that I just learned yesterday is spending its 5th week on the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists. It's my homage to The Miracle on 34th Street with a touch of The Grinch tossed in. From the back cover: Dear Santa. . . Mystery author Holly Berry's SUV has broken down in the little hamlet of Santa's Village, Washington. Holly hates the holidays -- that is until lodge owner Gabriel O'Halloran and his five-year-old daughter rekindle her belief in passion, magic, and Christmas wishes. Holly is who I imagined the Natalie Wood character in Miracle would have grown up to be if she hadn't met the "real" Santa until she was an adult. The book comes with three other stories by Fern Michaels, Mary Burton, and Judy Duarte, and since it's a mass market paperback, it's the perfect size to give as a stocking stuffer.

This is the scene where she and the man everyone claims to be Santa meet in his workshop where she's shopping for a gift for Gabe's daughter, Emma:

Holly was trying to decide between a fluffy panda bear and a pink and purple polka dot elephant when the door at the back of the room, which she guessed opened onto the actual workshop opened, and a tall, lanky silver-haired man wearing cowboy boots, jeans, and a western snap front shirt entered the gift shop.

“Well,” he said, on a western drawl that possessed just a bit of twang. “If it isn’t Holly Berry, come to pay us a visit.”

She’d begun, just a bit, to buy into the tourism aspect of the town, but if this was the guy they were putting forth as Santa Claus, someone obviously needed to call Central Casting.

“And you must be Sam Frasier?”

“That’s me.” He held out a huge hand that was nicked and scarred from a lifetime of carving wood. “Welcome to Santa’s Workshop.” He glanced down at the two stuffed animals she was holding in her hand. “Go with the elephant.”

“I guess you know that because, deep down, you’re Santa Claus?”

“That and the fact that the colors match her bedroom,” he said.

“And you’d know that how?”

“Because she’s one of those little girls who wakes up at the crack of dawn and can’t wait for the family to come over before checking out her Christmas presents. So, she and Gabe worked out a deal. Instead of hanging her stocking on the family room fireplace mantle, they put it in her room. That way, she’s allowed to look through it on Christmas morning while she waits for the adults to get things ready.”

He winked. “Last year I put in a coloring book and a set of crayons that kept her busy for a while. This year I’m thinking about a Game Boy. They come in pink now, you know. And there’s a Powerpuff game I think would keep her occupied until Gabe gets up.”

“Whatever happened to handmade wooden toys and baby dolls?” Holly waved a hand toward all the shelves.

He slipped his hands into the front of his jeans. Rocked back on the heels of his Tony Lamas. “Do you have any idea how many children there are in the world?”

“No.” She folded her arms. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“A bunch. So, sometimes the only choice is to outsource.”

“Of course.” She gave him a long look. “You know, you don’t exactly look like a jolly old elf.” In fact, now that she thought of it, he was a dead ringer for Paul Newman. The older, sexy one, not Hud.

“Yeah, I know.” He rubbed a shaven jaw that was nearly as broad as Gabe’s. “My wife put me on a low carb diet a few months ago. Said that with obesity becoming a such a serious problem among not just adults, but children, it’s important for Santa to set a good example.”

“You wife sounds very wise.”

“She’s smart as a whip,” he agreed. “Has kept me on my toes all the years we’ve been together. And while I occasionally miss potato chips, and still have cravings for Mrs. Fraiser’s apple cobbler, I’ve gotten used to it. For the children’s sake.”

It was a good act. But that’s all it was. An act. And for some reason, she couldn’t quite understand herself, although she felt a little ridiculous arguing the subject, especially in front of Gabe’s sister, who was watching with undisguised interest, Holly couldn’t just let his claim go unchallenged.

“You’re not really Santa Claus.”

Blue eyes narrowed even as the friendly smile stayed on his lips. “You’re sure of that, are you?”

“Of course.” Oddly, since it didn’t make any difference in the grand scheme of things, she was beginning to get frustrated. “I’m an adult. I know Santa doesn’t exist. That he’s merely a lovely myth told to children. Partly to get them to behave.”

Fraiser rubbed his chin. “That sounds vaguely familiar. Maybe you’ve watched ‘Miracle on 34th Street’ recently?”

“I don’t watch Christmas movies.”

“Actually, I know that,” he said. “Which is a shame. But I was merely pointing out a similarity.”

“Look,” Holly said on an exasperated breath. “I think it’s lovely that your family has run this toy shop for so many generations and that the things you make here bring children pleasure. I also think it’s great the way the town reinvented itself to bring in tourism.”

“Is that what you think we did?”

“Winnie Jenson, the clerk at the checkout at the market told me that the post office does a huge business postmarking Christmas cards with the Santa’s Village, America’s Most Christmassy town postmark.”

“That’s true,” Rachel entered into the conversation. “But it doesn’t bring in revenue. It also causes more work, which is why --”

“So many people in town volunteer to help out,” Holly interjected. “Mrs. Jenson already told me that. And, as I said, I think it’s a great marketing idea. But I don’t play games, Mr. Fraiser. I’m a realist.”

“Yet, you tell tales for a living,” Sam Fraiser pointed out.

Damn. He had her there.

He smiled. “Take the elephant,” he suggested gently, effectively declaring the topic closed. “She’ll love it. Meanwhile, it’s been lovely finally meeting you in person, Holly Berry.”

It wasn’t until the elephant had been rung up and wrapped in paper with a smiling, red-cheeked bearded Santa printed on it, and Holly was a block away that his words sunk in.

“What did he mean, finally?”

The question puzzled her until she’d turned onto Dasher Drive, headed back to the inn. From what Gabe’s sister had said, the gossip line worked at lightning speed in Santa’s Village. Obviously Fraiser had heard about her arrival in town.

That settled to her own satisfaction, Holly began thinking ahead toward the evening. . .

Dear Santa also features one of my personal fave heroes. Gabe's not only a hottie former ex-Marine, he's a single dad doing his best to handle all the changes life has thrown his way. I've received a lot of mail on it and here's a warning. . . most readers say it made them cry. But in a good way. So you might want to keep a few kleenex handy.

HOLIDAY LIGHTS, LOL CAT, AND BREAKPOINT EXCERPT

I love the holidays!!! Although I usually have a January 1st deadline (like any editor is actually going to read a manuscript on Jan 1?), I like to decorate every room, along with the front, back, and side yards. And while we're not one of those houses that buses drive past and annoy all the neighbors, I do insist on lots of lights.

While that's usually my sweetie's job, this morning I strung the garland on our front porch railing and put lights and 24 big shiny (plastic, so they won't break) ornaments on it. Then smaller balls and red velvet ribbons on our little porch tree. Expect pics when all is done. All the outdoor decorations are mainly for the kids in the neighborhood because driving around looking at lights with Christmas songs playing on the car radio was one of my favorite parts of the holiday when our son, Patrick, was little.

We'd always stop at a DQ and get milkshakes halfway through the evening. (It was Phoenix. Milkshakes didn't seem odd on a winter night there.) I'd bake bunches of cookies to take with us and one year I made rum balls along with sugar cookies. Neither Jay nor Patrick cared for them, which left them all to me. Which, since Patrick was five years old and Jay was driving, turned out to be a good thing because it was the first year I'd made them and I honestly hadn't thought about the fact that the alcohol wouldn't cook out since they weren't -- duh -- cooked. After eating my way through the entire batch, I was feeling hugely festive. :)

The grandbabies -- who are admittedly no longer babies, but, like their father, they'll always be my babies -- will be coming down from D.C. to our house this Christmas, and we'll drive around as we always do, including going to a lakeside park near our home where there will be many animated displays, hot cocoa (it's colder in the foothills of the Smokies than it was in AZ!), and sleigh rides.

Before the excerpt, here's a picture from my pal Bailey, whose blog, Long and Writing Road is really a fun read. Bailey introduced me to LOL cats, and this is one of my personal faves.

Now, here's the excerpt from Breakpoint, my wip, which is out in July. (After Shattered, which hits stores February 3rd, and boy, am I keeping my fingers crossed that week remains blizzard free!) Enjoy:



Somewhere in Afghanistan


The Afghan mountains had never been Tech Sergeant Dallas O’Halloran’s favorite part of the world, even before he’d had the bad luck to be on a Chinook shot down by an insurgent RPG not far from here.

But he’d survived that less than stellar experience and it wasn’t like he got to choose the missions. Nor did he have any control over the torrential rain that was pounding down like bullets, causing rivers to overflow their banks, creating mudslides, and turning the ground he was slogging through into a quagmire.

An Air Force Combat Controller, he was accustomed to operating at the sharpest point of the spear. The CCT motto was “first in, last out,” and since Hollywood didn’t make movies about them, like they did those showboat SEAL frogboys or Delta Force hotshots, very few civilians knew they existed.

Which was just the way Dallas liked it.

A self-professed adrenaline junky, he’d cleared minefields to allow copters to land, and had even kicked a boat out of a helo over the ocean in the dead of night, freefallen into the water, inflated the boat, then continued on his mission, occasionally pulling out his A-4 to help clear the area of bad guys, while still managing to juggle aircraft overhead to keep them from flying into each other.

More than one of his commanders had sworn he could think in four dimensions, and although he never boasted about his exploits, neither did Dallas argue the fact. Not wanting fellow SEAL and Delta Force team members --who could break spines with their bare hands -- thinking of him as some geeky brainiac, he also never volunteered that he liked to relax by playing three-dimensional chess.

While programming his laptop opponent, he’d added codes for a few illogical, off-the-wall moves – the kinds Captain Kirk or Doctor McCoy might’ve use to occasionally defeat Spock on the Enterprise – in order to present more of a challenge. Still, over the past six years, he’d acquired a winning record of 96.753 percent.

Tonight his mission was to scope out a village where a downed pilot and Aussie photojournalist were reportedly being held captive by members of the Taliban.

As soon as he and the two SEALs accompanying him ensured that the intel from a captured terrorist -- in whose home the pilot’s dog tags were found -- was correct, he’d radio in the coordinates and set up his ISLiD, which was military-speak for image stabilization and light distribution unit.

Finally, with the sight lit, he’d use the roll of detonator cord he carried in his rucksack to blow the grove of trees at the edge of the village so that one of the three hovering copters, configured for medical evacuation, could land.

Normally, the SEALs and D-boys carrying out the door-busting part of the operation would fast-rope down to the ground then, after liberating the captives, would carry them back up to the hovering bird.

But both the journalist’s legs were reported to have been broken in the crash, so HQ had tossed in some Rangers and Marines to help prosecute the mission.

They weren’t planning to take the village; the purpose of extreme force was to provide distraction (actually scare the freaking daylights out of anyone who might be foolish enough to try to get in the way) and security while the SEALs did their search and rescue thing.

Meanwhile, an Air Force Predator would monitor the area, providing a real-time sensor feed.

It had been slow going as they plodded, stumbled, and crawled across mountains once traveled by Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, and Marco Polo.

The SEALs’ faces were not just covered in their usual camouflage, but also streaked with mud. Covered from head to toe in the stuff himself, Dallas figured he probably looked just as bad.

The good thing about the lousy weather was that the clouds had blocked out the moon and lacking military night vision goggles, it was unlikely any of the townspeople, driven inside by the storm, could spot them.

Also in their favor was that the enemy wouldn’t expect anyone to be out in such a duck-strangler of a rain.

Anyone other than a freaking madman.

Or a Spec-Ops guy. . .

Have a super day! Tomorrow I'm going to share something that I learned from Barbara Walters (and no, I'm not one of her most fascinating people, but from the way her yearly list keeps getting less fascinating, I expect to be in 2011) that literally changed my life. For $13. Well, actually, I spent more like $30 because I bought multiples and different sizes. But believe me, I'd rather have someone take my microwave away than these.

GOOD DEED, GREAT GIFT

If you're like me, you've received a slew of catalogs and emails offering you deals on "Must Buy" gifts for the holidays. But since I already have all the stuff I need or would ever want, I always ask for donations to the USO or the Marine Graduation Foundation, which helps pay for families who could not otherwise afford to attend their Marine's graduation. They always need the money; last month they were only able to help three of seventeen families and with a day to go to the December 12th class deadline, they're still $2950 short to help seven families.  (Although it's tragic to contemplate, there's always the fact that because we're fighting two wars, this could be the last time families see their Marine, so their "Because No New Marine Should Stand Alone" slogan really has an emotional meaning for my sweetie and me.)

If neither of those suggestions ring your silver holiday bells, there's another super way to do a good deed and buy a great gift. The folks at Changing the Present allow you to browse 350 gift options to make the world a better place in numerous categories. For instance, $25 will provide an hour of support to the National Coalition for Homeless Veterans, whose website receives more than 45,000 visits each month from veterans in crisis and concerned family members who want to help them.

$20 will vaccinate a child; $25 dollars will give parvo vaccine to a rescued puppy, and $15 will clear 10 square meters of land of landmines, returning it to productive agricultural use while saving lives and limbs.





So, this is one time when shopping 'til you drop is a GOOD THING!!

Here's today's clip from my work in progress for Breakpoint, High Risk #4, which will be out in July, following Shattered, which, don't forget, is due in stores February 3rd:

The last time he’d seen Navy JAG Lieutenant Julianne Decatur, she’d been attempting to court-martial his buddies, and now fellow Phoenix Team members. Although he’d managed, just barely, to restrain his disgust over the entire situation, he’d been declared a “hostile” witness. Which was pretty much how he’d felt about the proceedings.

He rocked back on his heels. “Talk about your small worlds,” he said. “You’re looking well, Lieutenant.”

Better than well.

Look up “babelicious” in Websters’ and there’d be a picture of Lieutenant Julianne Decatur nearly wearing that wet-suit tight black dress that displayed her feminine attributes, which were downright incredible, in all their fabulous glory.

Her tropical lagoon eyes frosted as she skimmed a judicious look over him. Unlike most of the other women on the lawn, who’d been giving him frank, come-do-me-big-boy glances since he’d arrived at the hotel, she was looking at him as if he were something she’d scraped off the sole of those skyscraper stilettos.

“I’d thought you’d left the Air Force.” It was the same tone she might have used while prosecuting an axe murderer.

“I did. I’m working for a private security firm these days, but, as someone well versed in military regs, you undoubtedly know I earned the right to wear my old uniform for formal dress occasions. Which this seems to qualify as.”

Since she hadn’t held back while giving him the murderously sharp icicle eyeball, he took an equally leisurely time checking her out from the top of that pale blond head down to her toes, painted in a coral shade that reminded him of the reefs off Maui where he’d spent some fine R&R scuba diving over the years.

“And may I take this opportunity to thank you for not wearing your uniform, Lieutenant.”

“I’m no longer in the service, either. Which, like you, allowed me a choice.”

Dallas was surprised by the newsflash that she’d left the Navy. She’d definitely seemed suited to her job. Sort of like those interrogators back during the Spanish Inquisition. While she’d never brought out physical thumbscrews, he’d gotten the impression that she would have been perfectly happy to see all the members of that failed Afghan mission end up on the rack.

“You chose well.”

“It’s my sister’s.”

His already overloaded hormones practically blasted off into the stratosphere as she skimmed a hand down her side, from breast to her slender hip. The part of his mind still working wondered if she knew the effect she was having on him, and was torturing him on purpose. Which wouldn’t have been out of place for the woman who’d spent the better part of three very long days grilling him during her pre-trial investigation.

“Merry’s a designer who’s begun developing some buzz. I’m staying at with her and her Marine husband over in San Diego while I find someplace to live. She pitched a small fit when I was about to leave for this shindig tonight in my uniform. Since she’s seven months pregnant with twins and subject to wide hormonal swings, plus, she’s always looking for an excuse to show off her clothes, I decided to play along with her Project Runway fantasy.”

“That was nice of you.”

If the sister-in-law’s husband wasn’t some bulked up jarhead, Dallas would’ve been tempted to drive across the Coronado bridge and kiss Merry Whatever-her-last-name-was on the mouth.

“It was expeditious,” she corrected, as if being nice was a cardinal sin. Or maybe a military offense, along the lines of, say, breaking the rules of engagement, which he'd been admittedly guilty of doing. “Given that wasting time arguing would’ve made me late to this bash, it made more sense to just change.”

“Hooah for expedience."

She didn’t respond.

As an uncomfortable silence settled over them, she began looking around the lawn, as if seeking an escape route.
Since lifting her over his shoulder and carrying her back to his room, caveman style, probably wouldn’t have won him any points, Dallas’s mind kicked into high gear, seeking something, anything, to say to keep her from walking away.

“Did you know this lawn was named after the Duke of Wales?”

“So my sister told me. Apparently local legend has it that this hotel is where he met Wallis Simpson. For some reason, she finds the idea of a king giving up his throne after a dalliance with a merry divorcée wildly romantic.”

Obviously sister Merry wasn’t alone, since the couple’s story continued to intrigue people nearly a century later.

“Must be those runaway hormones,” he suggested.

If looks could kill, Dallas figured he’d be six feet under the lush green grass.

“I’ve always wondered something,” she said.

“And what’s that?”

“Does the military put some sort of secret chauvinism chemical in Special Operations MRIs? Or is there perhaps a Stone Age cave hidden away in a distant jungle where they find you guys?”

“Hey.” He held up his hands. “You’re the one who brought up your sister’s hormones.”

“Only to explain the dress.”

Meaning she could diss her sister, but he couldn’t. Which, although he and LT Julianne Decatur hadn’t agreed on much of anything – make that nothing – during their days locked in a military interrogation room together, he could sort of understand that. And decided it was probably time to change the subject. . .

That's it for today.  Winner of the first drawing was Sherry -- aka anonymous.   So, if you send me your mailing address and which backlist book you'd like, we'll get that out to you.  

Next drawing is on the 15th, so please check back.  Besides, you wouldn't want to miss the excerpts, would you?   Or Friday Funny Videos.  

Oh, and for those who'd like to know how we choose the winners, although the newsletter list has long outgrown our former fave method, we've gone back to printing out all the names and tacking them up on the garage wall.  Then I blindfold my sweetie, spin him around three times, then he throws one of the darts we bought years ago at a smoky pub in Ireland at the wall.  So, if you ever feel a prick late in the evening on the 1st or 15th of the month, you just may be a winner.  :)

SWEET CIRCUS ANIMALS VICTIM OF ECONOMY

It's no secret that our economy is in a mess, and while I can argue both sides of the auto bailout question (though I do believe the next time those arrogant CEOs go to Washington begging for money, they should carpool from Detroit in a Prius), I don't believe I fully realized exactly how bad things were until I read the tragic news about Mother's cookies abruptly closing up shop, shuttering its doors and laying off all its workers.

It's true. . . you never really know how much you love something until you lose it. I'll admit that I haven't done my part to keep them in business. But those pink and white frosted Circus Animal cookies will forever be linked in my mind with the most fun days of my childhood. I tried to make them part of my son's, as well. And my grandbabies'. Maybe they weren't the fanciest cookies in the world. But I defy anyone not to smile when you first open a pack. I've heard stories of people running out and buying the cookies to hoard, so if you're a fan, you might want to pick yourself up a bag or two before they disappear from the shelves.


Or, if you'd like to try to duplicate the experience yourself, Williams-Sonoma believes it has the solution with its $20 set of Circus Animal cookie cutters. They even have a recipe and a video about how to make them on their website, but I seriously doubt those lions, elephants, and bears would taste quite as sweet if you had to make them yourself.

ClothMoth, a cool company whose slogan is Clothes + Kindness, celebrates the life of the original Circus Cookie, with a T-shirt featuring a parade of the legendary confections, eulogized with the simple text, “Lights down, little cookies”. I ordered an oversized one to sleep in, which arrived Saturday. I've worn it the last two nights, and while it may just be my imagination, I do believe my dreams were sweeter.

And now, as promised, here's a brief excerpt from my work in progress, Breakpoint, High Risk #4, which will be published in July. (Next up is Shattered, which will be out Feb. 3rd.) Since this isn't the absolute final draft, it's subject to change, but it should make it into the published book:

Telling herself it was time to move on, that she had a job to do, Julianne squared her shoulders and walked through the cloud of blue smoke toward the bar. Apparently the customers hadn’t received the memo about Oahu’s no-smoking law. She also suspected there wasn’t a cop on the island who’d be willing to bust them. Or bureaucrat who’d dare try.

A Marine the size of a Giant Sequoia moved in front of her, effectively blocking her way as she made her way past the pool tables. "I believe you’re in the wrong place, Ma’am.”

“Excuse me.” She tilted her head and looked a long, long way back up at him. “But I’m not sure you’re the one to be telling me that.”

He tensed. Bulked-up neck. Rock hard shoulders. Tree trunk arms.

“Evening,” Dallas somehow nudged her aside without so much as laying a finger on her. “The lady and I just stopped in as guests -- ” he jerked his thumb toward their driver – “of the Master Sergeant to pick up something to eat before we head over to the lodge at the MCB.”

Gunmetal gray eyes narrowed. “If you’re Marines, I’m friggin' Rambo.”

“Actually, I’m a former Air Force Combat Controller.” Dallas flashed what she’d come to realize was his trademark grin. The Texas drawl had deepened to an aw-shucks, good ole boy twang. “Ms. Decatur is former Navy. JAG,” he said significantly. “Now, we’re both still working for Uncle Sam, but in a civilian capacity.”

He paused just a beat to let that sink in. “I’m not exactly sure how things work in this new gig. I could show you my badge, if you’re really going to insist. But then I might just have to kill you.”

“You and whose army, flyboy?” the Marine challenged, even as he swayed, suggesting that the beer he was holding in his hand wasn’t his first.

Dallas sighed. Plucked a pool cue from the wall rack and began casually moving it from one hand to the other.

Left.

Right.

Left.

“You really don’t want to do this son.” His tone was reasoned. Patient. But laced with an edgy warning that all the other Marines who’d gathered around, obviously ready to rumble, couldn’t miss hearing.

Right.

“Because not only would you lose, you’d end up spending the rest of your liberty in whatever serves as a brig over at the MCB. Which,” he said, glancing over at the MA, who’d taken up his own cue stick, “wouldn’t be all that much fun and would end up costing Ms. Decatur and me our supper.”

Left again.

His attitude remained casual, but his hand had fisted around the cue, causing the muscles in his arm to tense. Why hadn’t she ever noticed how big his biceps were? Probably because during those times she'd been interrogating him, he'd been wearing his Air Force dress jacket.

“And you’ve no idea how junkyard dog mean we oil patch Texas boys can get when we’ve got a heavy hungry on.”

Julianne wasn’t sure if the Marines were actually afraid the two men could come out on top in a bar brawl. Which, while she wouldn’t put anything past them, was still unlikely, given the odds. More likely it was the reminder that getting arrested by the Shore Patrol could put an end to whatever fun they’d had planned for the evening that had Sequoia guy stepping aside, while the rest of the group parted like O’Halloran was Moses and they were the waters of the Red Sea.

“Very well played,” she murmured, after he’d tossed the cue onto the table and they continued across the floor covered with sawdust and peanut shells. “But it seems, rather than risk a brawl, it would've been simpler for us to have just shown them our I.D.s. Which, I gather, pretty much give us the right to go anywhere we want.”

“That may be. And while you were explaining the intricacies of the Homeland Security Act, that guy’s buddies would’ve started bashing bar stools over the MA’s and my heads,” he said. “I’ve always figured there are two ways to accomplish something – the easy way and the hard way. Sometimes, granted, you don’t have a choice. But if you find yourself in a situation where they’ll both get you the same end results, to my mind, it’s best to go with easy.”

“Which doesn’t exactly why you became a CCT,” she said. “Choosing to be First There, rather than staying back at some Stateside base or at the Pentagon, playing with your computer behind a nice, safe desk.”

“Good point,” he said, changing back into Mr. Agreeable, making Julianne wonder yet again which was the real Dallas O’Halloran. “Of course, the goal is to get first in and out again without getting involved with the bad guys. The better you are at your job, the less likely you are to get into serious trouble.”

“And you were good.”

“Darlin’, I was the flat-out best.”

The devastating dimples she suspected had caused women all over the world to drop their panties, flashed again. The morph was complete. The Spec-Ops guy who’d stood off a group of half-drunk Marines had disappeared, and his place was this slow talking, easy-going Texas babe magnet.

And the damnable thing was, although she never would have believed it possible, Julianne found herself admiring -- and liking -- them both.