Well, the A-Z Spanking Blog Challenge for 2015 is over. It' been fun and I will admit that some of my letters were not the best things I've ever written, but I finished it.  Yay!
Our little camping trip has been sidetracked by some dangerous weather here in  New York, so we decided to come home for the night and reassess the situation in the morning.  We left the camper right on the site and got out of Dodge.  We live at a high elevation and were very surprised when we got home to find fast running culverts and a rut right across the driveway.  Here are some pics from the drive home.

So you know it's going to break my heart to sleep in my own comfy bed tonight. If it's nice tomorrow, I'd love to go back and go out on the boat. There are a few fish that stole my worms today and I need revenge.
I'd like to thank, Celeste Jones, for hosting this blog challenge.  I hope it continues next year. 
Thank you to all who took the time to read my blog.  If you haven't made it around to all the others each day, and I admit I haven't been able to keep up, you can just search the archives and find the ones you missed.  Have a great holiday weekend!

Just to give you a clear picture of my husband, here's the conversation I just overheard with Bill talking to my brother-in-law.
"How's the camping trip going?"
"It's good, it's raining like a cow pissin' on a flat rock."

I  don't know about you, but this gives me a very clear picture in my head. The sad thing is he's not the writer!  How does he come up with this stuff, where did he hear it?  Must be his humble, country beginnings.  Apparently, I missed all that colorful, descriptive language growing up in the city.

Anyway, we're camping.  It's never been one of my favorite pastimes.  My idea of time away has more to do with room service,  romantic dinners and spectacular views.  By spectacular views, I do not mean sand in a kid's ass crack.

We did it all the time when the kids were small.  Mainly because it was the only vacation we could afford.  Our first camping trip was before we had any children.  It involved driving miles and miles back in the woods with tree branches slapping against the car.  At times I didn't even think we would fit on the trail, but we did and after a long time came to a clearing in the woods.  There were a number of people who had pitched tents and were drinking beer around some fires.  Think of countrified hippies.  One large bearded man tended the biggest fire all night.  They called him Igor, and he didn't speak much to anyone. When I finally got up the nerve to talk to him, I asked why he kept the fire going. He replied calmly with one word, "Bear."
Crap, really?
I suggested to Bill that maybe we should head on home.
"To late, to dark and the trail is to narrow."
Peachy.

Later we  progressed to tent camping, with children.  Dirt, bugs, dishpans, ugh!
Then we got a pop-up.  This was a little better and we used it a lot, until the fateful trip to Nick's Lake in the Adirondacks.  I should have paid more attention to the 'Don't feed the Bears' sign.
By the time I realized this was not a good place for me, it was too late. 
The kids were sleeping and I had just mowed down a Hershey's Bar while laying in our pull out bed that hung over the side.  Now as a conscientious mother, I'd made sure that not one scrap of food was exposed to temp a bear, then I realized that I was lying there with chocolate breath and the only thing between me and a bear was an old, worn screen. 
What if a bear smelled it?  Would his giant paw sweep in and rip off my face before having a meal of my poor children that likely had something sweet and sticky somewhere on their little bodies?
Climbing over Bill, (why do I always get stuck on the inside) I stuffed my feet into my sneakers, threw my hoody over my pajamas and grabbed the flashlight.  Traipsing through the pitch dark, I made my way to the bathroom and brushed my teeth.
There, all fixed!  No more chocolate breath, therefore, no bear.  Children safe, my work here is done. Getting back to the pop-up, I crawled over my sleeping husband, satisfied with my  mothering skills.  Then I tasted it, the mint of the toothpaste, crap!  Can they smell it? 
Grabbing my flashlight, I found a book and got up to read.
"We're leaving tomorrow," I informed Bill with an elbow in the cheek of his ass as I climbed over him.  He only grunted.

Then we moved up to a camper, well more like a tin can on wheels, but I let him have his fantasy.  Here's what my day consisted of with five kids and one husband:
Get up at the ass crack of dawn.
Make breakfast while juggling baby and trying not to trip over other children or camping neighbors.
Feed family.
Dress children and send them out while praying it does not 'rain like a cow pissin' on a flat rock'.
Heat water for dishes in pan on fire, wash and dry dishes, clean camper, start lunch.
Wash kids, feed family, wash kids again (getting sand out of hair and ass cracks), sweep sand from camper, repeat until bedtime.  Make smores, repeat again.
Bill's job: 
Find a big stick to poke fires.
Visit other campsites to visit brothers and brothers-in-law, poke their fires with his big stick.
Send someone for more beer.
Sit and tell lies about size of fish and other assorted body parts.
Have trouble starting fire, get fan and put to close to flames and melt blades, sleep in sweltering tin can with 6 others.
Go home and put an add in paper to sell camper!

By now you're probably wondering why we are camping.  What can I say, I had a weak moment and bought him a used camper for Father's Day.  His health is not great. All of our kids are grown and we brought along our oldest daughter.  She's doing most of the work.  I cook, she cleans up.  Yesterday we spent a good part of the day out on a party barge fishing.  It was wonderful.  Our youngest son camps here seasonally and paid for us to have a waterfront site for 4 days.  Of course this camper has beds and a bathtub, hot running water and a toilet.  It's a far cry from the way things used to be.  I'm actually enjoying myself.

Most of the books I write are considered relatively sweet and mild, but I would still say they are  meant for those 18+. 
Yes, I swiped my mother's copy of Lady Chatterly's Lover when I was 14, but that's beside the  point.  Now that I have granddaughters, I know I would not want them reading my books until they are older.  The one exception is my oldest granddaughter who is 19.
In reality, they watch and read things that are much more graphic than anything I write. I would much rather have then read a book in which a woman gets disciplined by a loving man, than one in which a woman is raped and or murdered, yet movies like that are on shown on prime time TV all the time.
I'll never forget trying to watch, Sleeping with the Enemy.  It took me about 6 tries to get through the entire film and in the end I had to watch the last of it without the sound.  It totally creeped me out.
At the time, it struck me that many people think a spanking story is in some way not worthy of reading or perverted, yet a story about a man beating and terrorizing a woman is acceptable entertainment. Not that it wasn't a good movie, it was, and I realize that many women go through the horror of an abusive relationship and do not have the power or opportunity to shoot the son of a bitch. I just don't see spanking, domestic discipline or consensual BDSM in terms of abuse. 

Now that is my idea of entertainment.

Delbert Bertram Winston IV, is one of my favorite characters.  I don't know where he came from, but I fell in love with him the moment he entered my mind.
A loveable geek, he has absolutely no idea how to cope with someone like Bridget O'Malley.
I had so much fun writing him, I smile whenever I think about it.
Here's a little clip from The O'Malley Brides.

      Dell sighed in relief while walking up the sidewalk to the office.  Bridget was waiting for him to let her in and today she wore a long black skirt.  Thank God she decided to dress appropriately.  Ridiculously high heels aside, at least he would not spend the day trying to avoid looking at her ass in a mini skirt.  Her long heavy jacket covered the rest of her nicely, and Dell wished there was a way he could force her to wear it all day; it would certainly make his life easier.

      “Morning Winston,” Bridget greeted him cheerfully.  “No tickets today, I see,” she continued with a grin.

      “Certainly not, Ms. O’Malley,” Dell replied crisply unlocking the door.  Entering the office, Dell set his briefcase and umbrella down, turning to help her with her coat.  Her perfume wafted gently to him and he tried not to breathe through his nose.  Damn, she smelled good.

Moving to the closet, and hung up both their coats.  Bridget’s back was still towards him as she put her travel mug and purse on the desk before turning around.

      “You’re still coming for Thanksgiving Dinner next week?” she asked.  “My Mother is delighted and looking forward to meeting you.”

      Dell was speechless.  Oh, she had worn a long skirt alright.  He believed it was called a pencil skirt or some such nonsensical name, and it hugged her figure from her waist to calf.  The blouse she wore was sheer ivory silk with an ivory lace corset clearly visible underneath that was trying very hard to push her delectable breasts up and over the low neckline.  Long sheer sleeves ended in cascading lace that dripped over her hands.  Her hair was up; little tendrils escaped, making her neck look long and inviting.  Bright red lips matched her painted nails reminding Dell of the pin-up pictures from the 40’s.  Holy hell, and I thought yesterday was bad.

      A small smile played around Bridget’s lips and she watched Winston begin to sweat, tugging impatiently on the tie that frequently seemed to be choking him.  Didn’t it just do a girl’s heart good to have this kind of reaction from a straight-laced man?   Approaching him in feigned concern, Bridget rested her dainty hand on his chest.

      “Is anything wrong, Winston?  You don’t look so good,” she observed sweetly.

      “Good grief, Ms. O’Malley.  Do you own any clothing that isn’t suggestive of…?”

      “What are you implying, Winston?  I hope you’re not thinking I dressed this way for you?  This clothing is perfectly acceptable attire,” Bridget insisted, planting her hands on her hips.

      “In what parallel universe do you live, Ms. O’Malley?” Dell responded angrily, taking a step back lest her scent push him over the edge.  “You better be careful before someone gives you what you’re so obviously asking for.”

In November, we will be married for 40 years.  Yeah, I can hardly believe it myself.  We will be together 44 years, that sounds even stranger.  That makes me 60!  Seriously!  Sixty years old.  I don't feel it, well maybe I do, physically now and then, but mentally, I'm still around 16. 
I don't know how this happens.  How you can look in the mirror one day and say "What the hell happened?"
Now I know there are women who are sixty and look like they are about thirty.  I figure they either have a lot of money for medical upkeep, have an abnormal genetic code, or have lived a life with very little stress of any kind. 
Um...that's not me.  I'm definitely showing some wear, in several areas of my body that I'd prefer not to talk about.  It seems to me that with medical science being what it is, they should be able to make a small incision in each shoulder and sort of lift everything back up where it's supposed to be. I'm not asking for several feet, just a few inches, so maybe I could see my nipples now and then without a mirror.  Just saying.
Getting back to being very married.  I think for the first twenty years or so, we were basically married. You know the drill. 
"What do you want for dinner?"
"When was the last time I asked you if I had any clean clothes?"
"If you do that and pull the covers over my head just one more time, I'm going to slap the shit out of you!"
Bill used to eat candy at night, sitting on the side of the bed.  One night I fell asleep and suddenly the entire bed fell on his side.  It was a pretty high bed, so I was sort of hanging on to my side at an awkward angle..
Half awake, I cried out in shock, "What the hell happened?"
Very calmly he replied, "Must have been that last candy bar."

After about twenty years we became 'very married'.  We started finishing each others sentences, finally liked the same music, (he was always country, I was rock and roll), he started watching movies I like, musicals and chick flicks.  I think it was because he intended to fall asleep on the couch anyway, but it was still decent of him.  Now he saves the 'shoot 'em ups' for when I'm in my office.
He learned how to feed himself.  Nothing spectacular mind you, but eggs and soup, that kind of thing.  Of course the invention of the microwave was a huge help.
Medications forced us to sort of quit drinking, what a bummer!  Not that we were a couple of lushes, but we did go out now and then a have a few, oh and dance!  I loved to dance.  Now it's in the kitchen to the oldies now and then.
One thing I'm grateful for, is we didn't start to look like each other.  Not that I don't think he's still a handsome man, but he's partly of American Indian decent and he's pretty 'weathered'.  On a man, that looks good, but I'd prefer to glop on my lotion and sunscreen.  The last time we went to the casino for our anniversary we went up to get our free play for our anniversary.  The girl at the counter looked at us and said, "Are you married?"
I said, "yes, for 38 years."
"To each other?" she asked, looking back and forth between us.
I laughed, Bill scowled.
"You'd better get a haircut," I said as we walked away.
"Yeah, funny," he growled.

Okay, I'm done.  I've had a migraine all day.  Bill has taken very good care of me, probably because we're very married and he knows he couldn't survive without me.  On the other hand, I can't imagine my life without him.  He still makes me laugh every day and always has my back. What more could I want?"

Oh, these last pictures are just because I like them.

Sorry I'm late with my 'U' post.  Life is always unpredictable, but for some people it's downright chaotic.  I'm one of those people.
If you're read a few of my posts you'll see that what I plan almost never happens.  There are to many variables in my world.  That does not stop me from making plans, I just always have to keep in mind that they will change in some way or another.
Keeping up with this blog challenge has been more difficult this year.  I think I'm busier than I was a year ago.  I have more friends, therefore I try to help promote more books.  My husband's health has been an issue as well as my horrible case of Shingles, but for whatever reason, I'm dragging.
The nine people I had living with me earlier this month has dwindled down to 3-5 with the occasional overnight or weekend guest.  I say guest, but I mean family.  It's all good.  They're all welcome, but the house is in a constant state of change.
My writing is unpredictable too.  Just when I have an idea where the story is going, things change, I change. Suddenly I'm just along for the ride, waiting to see what will happen.
In my new series, The Marriage Market, I intended to make Amelia's mother-in- law a real a wretch.  She was going to be a secondary characters who was more annoying than anything else.  Funny thing, from the moment she pulled up to the wharf in her carriage and alighted to welcome her son and his new wife, I loved her.  I have no idea why or what happened, but as I wrote her, I saw her. This lovely French woman, so misunderstood by her husband and sons, yet so full of love and life, with so much to give.  More than that, I understood her, what she needed, the pain she felt, her motivations.  It all became crystal clear in my mind. I knew her, inside and out, right to her soul. 
She was every woman, unpredictable.  What you see on the outside, the image she/we present to the world is often far different from who is inside. Our fears and needs are usually kept far below the surface.  We put a far higher priority on the needs of others than we do our own. God forbid we should be seen as selfish, demanding, controlling, or even worse, whiny.
As an author, I can put it all out there.  The reader can see who Tempest is, feel her struggles and her relief when her husband finally begins to see the woman behind the facade. 
I wonder if anyone ever really knows us. My husband would say, he absolutely knows me.  My children would agree, but it's not true. How can they when I am always changing?  Life is unpredictable.  We're just along for the ride.

I can never decide if trouble follows me, or if I go looking for it.  Nevertheless, it always seems to be just around the corner.  Most of the women I write about have the same problem. They just can't seem to stay on the good side of their mates for very long.  Of course, if they were 'Little Miss Perfect', how much fun would that be? 
Maggie forgets to pay the power bill and it gets shut off.  Bridget decides to give Dell new wallpaper on his court laptop, um, not one of her better ideas.  Tess redecorates Rory's house in a very unique style. I could go on and on. My heroines are not ones to fade into the background, and I don't want them to.  I want the reader to have a smile on their face long after they close the book.  So, here's my motto.

Of course, you will always run the risk of getting this, but hey it might be worth it.

SILENCE
No words are needed in some moments 
Their silence is a comfort 
Allowing her mind to be free 
Of every word 
Every thought 
Every emotion 
That came spilling from her mouth mere seconds ago 
He often doesn’t speak 
Not in the way others have 
No witty remark 
Or annoying assumptions 
Just a calm 
Beautiful 
Amazing 
Silence 
The words are absorbed into his skin 
He hears how much she hurts 
How much she needs his silence 
With every ‘I’m Sorry’ that falls from her lips 
He hears every 'I Hate you’ screamed at her face 
He feels every rejection brought by those around her 
He sees ever tear shed on late nights alone, while trying to rid herself of the memories
Their silence is always broken 
With a rant or a story 
Yet they always find their way back to the silence 
The Calm ~C.E. Brannock

I regret keeping my grief and fear all wrapped up in a tight little package when my mother was dying.  Afraid that if I let it out I would shatter into a million pieces and never find a way to put myself back together again.  I'll always wonder if she had any idea how much I loved her, and still do.

I regret telling my father he was going to be fine, when I knew it was a big fat lie and he was dying.

I regret sitting on my work for twenty years!  How dumb was that?

I regularly regret that I get myself in fixes that are hard to get out of.  Mainly because I am impatient, but sometimes because I am to quick to offer assistance.  I'd get you out of there if I could, buddy.

So what about you, any regrets worth mentioning?

Resurrected post:  Sorry, it's been a rough week. 

Most of my life, I've been in a hurry.  Patience is a virtue, not mine.  Do it! Do it now! Do it right or get out of my way and I'll do it myself!
 I wasn't always like this.  As a child I recall lazy summer days lying on my bed,the smell of  freshly mowed lawn and Lilacs drifting in my window as I day-dreamed or read.

I think it started when I began to have children. One, two, three, oh here comes four, oops five.  Suddenly, there was no time to dawdle.  There were clothes to wash, children to bathe, meals to prepare, doctor appointments, shopping and family gatherings.  No! Please don't pour maple syrup on your brother's head!  We don't have time for this!  Get that cleaned up, quickly now, we're going to be late. By the time the last child was presentable enough to leave the house, the first one had gotten dirty.  I remember being ready to walk out the door, frazzled, quickly running out of patience, only to find my son sitting on the toilet backward, marching in the water with his new sneakers on.  Really?

Over time I became a pint-sized Drill Sargent.  "Do you kids realize if I have to tell each of you 5 times to clean your room, I've said it 25 times!!!"
"If you call Mommy one more time, I'll change my name!  Go to sleep!"
 "Helen?"  (My name is NOT Helen, it really isn't)

I became the Queen of Quickies.  Seriously, I could climax 3 times in 10 minutes, maybe less.  We did it everywhere, went parking on the way to the store if we could find someone to mind the kids, in the bathroom, with me sitting on the washer (he's tall), we were quick and stealthy, like sex ninja's.

My job outside of the home was working with the frail elderly or disabled.  I was usually the first one in, assessing the situation and making referrals to the proper agencies.  I guess I was still kind of a Drill Sargent, not with my clients but with those who were to serve their needs.
"No they can't wait till next week!  They need it now, actually yesterday.  Yes I know your busy but this is critical. Are you telling me you won't take this referral?  I just want your name for my records so that the proper agency can bear the responsibility WHEN MY CLIENT FREEZES TO DEATH, OR STARVES OR DROPS DEAD FROM LACK OF MEDICAL ATTENTION!  Yes, thank you, see you tomorrow."

So, now that I'm older and my kids are grown you would think I would have more patience.  I'm retired for God's sake.  I should relax, take it easy, that sort of thing, but no. I hate waiting, I hate being shuffled to the back burner and I absolutely abhor having smoke blown up my ass, not literally of course.  If you tell me you're going to do it, do it now, do it right and if you can't, I'll get somebody who can or I'll do it myself.

End of rant.  Have a nice day.  Go visit some of the other blogs before I have to do it myself!
Just kidding.