Sally J. Smith's Blog

The Magic Castle in the hills above Hollywood Boulevard is the headquarters and private clubhouse for the Academy of Magical Arts, Inc., a worldwide organization devoted to the art of magic. Its membership consists of amazing magicians as well as those who just love magic. If you ever have the chance to go there for the evening, DO. It’s mysterious, haunting, spellbinding, a little creepy, and fun like nothing else.

The Magic Castle was the inspiration for the Mystic Isle Mysteries, our new series debuting this fall from Gemma Halliday Publishing with Mystic Mayhem. Our series takes place in the bayou near New Orleans, Louisiana on Mystic Isle where The Mansion at Mystic Isle is open for guests to check-in. As to whether you’ll be checking out, that remains to be seen. It’s a resort similar to the Magic Castle only Mystic Isle is dedicated to not only all that’s magical but also the paranormal. Its guests experience the skills of magicians, mediums, fortunetellers, astrologers, and much more. Of course, none of it is real—or is it?

The Evidence Suggests: Things aren’t always what they seem in the Louisiana bayou or maybe in the Hollywood Hills either.

Well, spring is around the corner. I bet all you folks east of the Continental Divide are breathing a sigh of relief. Out here in Arizona, we’ve been blessed with spring-like weather the entire month of February. No sour grapes, please. Believe me when I say the shoe will be on the other foot come June.

The warm weather in the high 70’s and into the 80’s sent me to my closet to switch out the sweaters and sweatshirts for tees. A lot of the older ones found their way into the trash, or (if they were still fairly nice) a Goodwill box. But there were indeed still a few whose better days were many, many years ago, that I still can’t bear to part with.

You know the ones: Rock the Planet—YOLO—Don’t Worry, Be Happy—Shit Happens—NYFD XXL—Don’t Mess With Texas—Hard Rock Café (fill in the appropriate city). And then there are those with graphics for the message: Mickey Mouse—the Superman “S” Shield—the Union Jack—the Happy Face emoticon. I could go on for days.

Message tees make a statement. They voice our culture, our politics, and our passions. We buy them and wear them and grow so used to displaying our attitudes on our chests, we sometimes forget we’re transmitting messages to the world around us.

I don’t wear them much anymore, but 2 in particular that I dug out of my closet reminded me of stories worth telling.

Let me set the scene. Fade in: Interior – Borders Books (Ah, yes, remember?) Coffee Bar – Morning: Our heroine, me, has a meeting with our other heroine, Jean Steffens, (who has no lines in this script, but will play herself in the movie). I hand the barista, a 50-something balding man with an incredibly good-looking salt-and-pepper moustache, a five-dollar bill to pay for my grande half-caff skim latte. “Have a nice day,” I say, smiling.

He squints one eye and screws up his face. “Arrr,” sez he.

I know I have that clueless look on my face as I repeat, “Arrr?”

“Aye,” he reiterates as his glance lowers. “Arrr.”

I look down. Now I get it. “Oh, right. Aye, matey. Arrr.”

My tee bore that certain iconic skull and crossbones along with the philosophy, “A pirate’s life for me.”

Then there was the time back in the day when I was a purty young thang and thought I was too awesome for mere mortal man. A well-thought-of tekky company was installing a blow-out stereo in the snazzy new ’83 Caddy my husband had bought me. After several days it was ready to pick up. I couldn’t wait to pop in my Police, Thriller, and Flashdance cassettes (yes, it was that long ago). I stood talking to the owner of the company, who was nearly as excited as I was about the state of the art, custom installation. After a few minutes, I noticed he wasn’t looking directly at me while we were talking but kept looking down at my chest. Really? And yes, even if I say so myself, I was nicely stacked back then. But how tacky is that? And with a customer yet? Well, thank God I didn’t say anything to him. I would have embarrassed him and made a fool out of myself–because back home, I passed by a big mirror and noticed my tee announced my fave movie of the moment, Stephen King’s Christine. And guess, just guess where the bright and shiny headlights of the big red Plymouth Fury’s grill had unfortunately landed on my anatomy. Yep, no wonder the guy kept looking. High-beams no less.

The Evidence Suggests: While some may wear their hearts on their sleeves, others wear their minds on their chests.

Be well, and as one of my favorite tees suggests: Have a Nice Day.

Sally

CLICK HERE and check out our CHRISTMAS CARD   ***WATCH THIS!***

I heard about a little boy who spent a lot of time watching the Travel Channel with his grandma. He asked Santa for one of those humongous cheese wheels. Santa probably left it on the porch because he couldn’t deliver it via either the chimney or front door.

Then there was the Disney kid who wanted a lamp with a “real, live” genie inside. Of course the parents would be required to interview the prospective genie for suitability. Wouldn’t it have been fun to be at that kid’s house on Christmas morn to see what or who was under the tree?

The jolly old man had to take the sleigh through the drive-up window on Christmas Eve when the 10-year-old son of vegetarian parents asked for a Quarter-pounder–with cheese, of course.

A puppy-less 6-year-old thought it reasonable to ask Santa to install a doggy door at his house in case any furry little guys decided to stop by for a visit. Hope the word didn’t get out to the local skunks and raccoons.

A 4-year-old in a Cinderella princess dress sat on Santa’s knee and solemnly named an acetylene torch as her heart’s desire. What more needs to be said?

There are always those who year-after-year request peace on earth. Funny how St. Nick seems to have misplaced those letters, or maybe he forwarded them on to a higher power.

When putting together this month’s post, we decided to reveal our own Christmas wish lists—just in case anyone out there needs a suggestion or two. Hint. Hint.

Jean: Just two items on my list:  A shiny new red Honda Pilot to cart the hockey gear around. It would look swell in the garage and match my son’s jersey.

If Santa can’t quite manage that this year, I’m thinking someone to do the cooking and cleaning would be nice.

Sally: My list is short and sweet. 1. Health, Love, Happiness and Prosperity to those I love. (And just so you know I’m not a saint.) –ALSO– 2. A winning Power Ball ticket on the exact day the jackpot’s up over a hundred million. It isn’t as greedy as it sounds. Have you taken a look at the tax rate in that bracket?

And if you have the ear of the Lord, dear Santa, join us in asking Him to FEED THE CHILDREN, HEAL THE SICK, AND, OH YES, LET THERE BE PEACE ON EARTH.

The Evidence Suggests:  God bless us every one!

Purple Sage: botanical name, salvia dorrii, is a perennial shrub that was used as both a food source and a medicinal plant by the native peoples of Nevada, the Paiute, Washoe and Western Shoshone Indians. Please note: Not to be mistaken for the Jimmy Hendrix tune, “Purple Haze,” OR the cannabis that inspired it.

In 1912, Zane Grey wrote a violent book that he softened by setting the tale among the purple slopes of Utah. Riders of the Purple Sage is an ode to women of the West, their independence, and strength of mind and spirit, a testimonial to the fact that bullies don’t always win. Too, it’s Grey’s opus to the wild beauty of the rugged country that a century later still shelters and nurtures the delicate purple flower thriving in an inhospitable environment and painting the desert with color.

Purple sage is native to the high desert and mountainous areas in the Western United States. On the trail, cowboys tossed sticks of aromatic sagebrush into their campfire to keep mosquitoes at bay. We’re told the leaves can be dried and used for tea. But don’t try this at home without verifying it via a more reliable source than Wikipedia.

Birds and butterflies are drawn to its intense aroma and protective shade.

Westerners plant the Xeriscape-friendly bushes in our yards. It’s hardy and drought resistant, but that’s not to say sagebrush doesn’t sigh in relief and rejoice after a rainstorm with the rest of the parched desert. The plain, dusty-looking shrubs burst into life with small purple flowers with delicate petals, and they’ll flower off and on throughout the year—like now, during our Arizona monsoon season.

If Arizona strikes your fancy, check out Stealing the Moon & Stars, a romantic suspense novel set in Arizona—the heat is on for a pair of  Scottsdale PIs.

http://www.amazon.com/Stealing-Stars-Jordan-Welsh-Marino-ebook/dp/B00K6RJAL2/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&sr=&qid=

And strictly for the entertainment value, link up to a little campfire music from some old pros.

The evidence suggests: The high Arizona desert isn’t a barren place at all. Purple sage is only one of many unique and beautiful plants native to the area. Zane Grey knew it, too, and maybe even Jimmy Hendrix,  although the jury is still out on that.

On a Tucson summer’s night about a century and a half ago when I was in high school, a boy I knew asked me to go to a campfire sing—kind of a group thing. He was a really nice guy, although not the type of person I usually dated. But I’d broken up with my boyfriend a month or so earlier and up ‘til then the summer had been a total drag. I said, “Sure. Why not?” There were several other kids in the car when they picked me up. One of them was a nice-looking dude with deep brown eyes and a great laugh. His name was Dale, and, OMG!, he was the lead guitarist in a local rock band.

The guy had a goofy sense of humor and made me laugh. I really liked that. I really liked him. So, yes, logistically I was with someone else that night, but I flipped my hair and batted my eyes a lot anyway. I mean, what was my “date” thinking when he invited me on an outing with an unattached rocker twinkling big brown eyes in the mix? I really did think of the other boy as just a friend even though I learned weeks later that wasn’t how he thought of me.

The campfire thing was okay, just so-so. I had more fun on the ride there and back talking to this Dale guy. When we got back to town, the chaperone left a few of us off at my friend’s house. The guitar player had wheels and offered to take me home.

He was cute and funny, and I could tell he liked me too. Dale, a couple of other kids, and I piled into the car. I called shotgun and, oh what a shame, had to sit thigh-to-thigh with Dale when a third person got in the front seat. He dropped the others off first then took me home last. I sent a strong signal by not scooting to the right side of the car when the  other person in front got out. Dale evidently got the message, asked our mutual friend for my number, and began calling me a couple of days later. We’ll be married 50 years next March. Turns out he was a keeper.

Sally

On a fine Chicago night in June twenty years ago at a bar called “The Living Room,” I met my girlfriend Jeannette and my mystery date for the evening. Jeannette had talked about Mike for some time, and I finally agreed to meet the mystery man. Being her old devilish-self, Jeannette failed to mention he was shorter than I. I wore three-inch red heels and stood 6′ tall that evening. If she’d given me a heads up, I would have worn flats.

Jeannette introduced us with a gleam in her eye. I smiled and took Mike’s hand, and he said, “I like my women tall. That way I can see them in a crowd.”

That broke the ice. I laughed and loved his sense of humor. I winked at Jeannette. She didn’t win this round.

Well, you know what they say, “Don’t judge a man until you get to know him. Tall, short, heavy, thin, whatever the wrapping may be.” Mike turned out to be the, funniest, smartest, and most caring man I ever met. He didn’t leave my side all night and asked for my phone number. The minute I got in my car he called me for our next date. I’m happy to say a year later we married. All I can say is thank you, Jeannette, for the sweet introduction.

Jean

The Evidence Suggests:  Whether it’s a planned or unplanned encounter, fate has a way of putting together two kindred souls. But wait, there’s more…

And here’s the way Jordan Welsh, our heroine in Stealing the Moon & Stars, met her business partner and lover, Eddie Marino. (Excerpt)

Gathering courage that didn’t come with her genteel upbringing, Jordan drew her gun, got out of the car and crossed the street, wishing she hadn’t indulged in that second chai tea latte.

Showtime.

Ten minutes later, she was inside the warehouse, every sense on the alert. The two men were there, somewhere.

She silently rounded a set of gorilla shelves at the far end of the warehouse. One of them knelt at a spot by the wall, using some kind of handheld monitoring device. In four quick steps, she had the drop on him.

“Don’t move, dirt bag.” Lord, she’d always wanted to say that.

If she hadn’t been shaking so badly, it would have sounded tougher.

He turned his head slightly to face her. Wow. Good-looking dude. The thought barely had time to cross her mind before her feet were swept out from beneath her, and she was on her back with the most gorgeous man she’d ever laid eyes on lying spread-eagled on top of her, holding her body and gun hand immobile—or trying to. She bucked and lurched like a wild mustang, but he held on.

“Be still.” His voice was husky and low-pitched.

She bounced a few more times then gave in to formulate a new strategy.

“Good girl, Jordan.”

That got her attention. “How do you know my name? Who the hell are you?”

“Eddie Marino. Pleased to meet you, gorgeous, and how.”

Today we’re participating in a blog hop. Our first. We had to think about it a while. Is it anything like a sock hop? For those of you born after 1970 who are scratching your heads, high school dances used to be held in the gymnasium, and they made us take off our shoes and dance in our socks to avoid scarring up the floor. Of course, we don’t actually know about sock hops first hand, just word of mouth – allegedly.

Maybe a blog hop is like the bunny hop – you know, hop, hop, hop.

Or better yet, what if it has something to do with the hops they use over at the local brewery when conjuring up our favorite draft. Nice!

The evidence suggests:  A blog hop isn’t any of those things. It’s an activity writers participate in, sort of like a chain letter or a game of tag, wherein we answer four questions about our own writing process then tag other writers to do the same. Yeah, we know what you’re thinking:  Boy, do they need to expand their universe.

It sounded like fun to us, so when Donis Casey, the author of the excellent Alafair Tucker Mysteries, tagged us, we agreed to participate. The seventh book in Donis’s series, Hell With the Lid Blown Off, has just been released by Poisoned Pen Press. Donis crafts a fascinating look at life in Oklahoma in the early 20th Century, and the mystery element of her novel keep you turning pages.

So our day has come, and here we are, answering four questions about our work – whether you were wondering or not. LOL.

What are we working on now?  Stealing the Golden Dream is about ready to send off to our publisher. It’s Book 2 in the Jordan Welsh and Eddie Marino series.

Jordan Welsh and Eddie Marino of Shea Investigations & Security are on the job at Arizona Heritage Museum in Old Town Scottsdale guarding the Golden Dream Dahlonega Gold Coin Collection valued at five and a half million dollars, but it all goes to hell. The coins are stolen. One of Shea’s employees is murdered.

Eddie Marino’s alibi doesn’t hold up and he is immediately under suspicion. Jordan knows it’s a frame-up. But how to prove it? The case tumbles down a path of betrayal and treachery littered with cheaters and liars, thieves and killers.

Complications arise when Eddie’s mother, Mama Rose, rolls into town unexpectedly with her smooth-talking main squeeze, Mark – or as Eddie calls him, Marky Mark. Eddie’s convinced the old geezer is after her money. Just what Eddie needs: missing loot, a murder to avenge, and his mother to babysit.

Jordan and Eddie need to solve the case before the police to save their firm’s reputation. The golden trail takes them from the Valley of the Sun to Tucson the Old Pueblo, to the State Prison in Florence, and finally to the dark side when Eddie is hijacked by an old enemy. Jordan is scared to death. Can she find him before his captor murders him? Will Jordan save the man she loves, the company she’s worked so hard to build, and the Golden Dream?

How does our work differ from other books in its genre? Our books combine romance, detective fiction, and suspense; drama and humor; yin and yang. When we decided to spin our stories around a team of detectives, we opted to alternate the main focus book to book – Book 1, Stealing the Moon & Stars, was about Jordan Welsh, our maverick heiress out to prove to everyone she’s a normal American pie sort of girl more than capable of taking care of herself. Book 2’s focus is more on Eddie Marino, Jordan’s sexy partner and a graduate from the school of hard knocks with a dark past. In our books, Jordan Welsh and Eddie Marino are hired to clean up one matter then find themselves in the middle of something more complicated than they ever could have imagined.

Why do we write what we do? We are voracious readers of mysteries, suspense, and romance. We love them. It wouldn’t make any sense for us to write space odysseys or war stories unless they, too, were full of mystery, suspense, and romance.

How does our writing process work? We work 3 days a week together, side-by-side, word-by-word, pounding it out. We aren’t “pantsers.” We use an outline and mostly stick to it. Setting a schedule and staying with it keeps us disciplined. For team writers, unless your partner happens to be as big a bum as you are, when she shows up at the appointed time, by George, you’re gonna write. And what we write together works.

That’s it for us, peeps. We’re tagging two (in reality 3) awesome authors: Lia Ferrell and Cathy Rogers. They’ll post their hops on the 30th. Their info and a little about them follows – to peak your interest. Check them both out, please. And while you’re at it, check out the first in our new series: Stealing the Moon & Stars –

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PZIQAn1U00c

then pick up a copy

http://www.amazon.com/Stealing-Stars-Jordan-Welsh-Marino-ebook/dp/B00K6RJAL2

Now…

Tag, you’re it, Lyn Farquhar and Lisa Fitzsimmons, writing as

 Lyn Farquhar is the mother of this mother/daughter writing team. She is a retired faculty member from Michigan State University where she was a professor in the medical school writing grants and conducting research studies. She has two daughters, six step children and to date, 12 grandchildren.

Lisa Fitzsimmons is an interior designer and muralist. She has two children and two grandchildren. We both have two dogs. Lyn’s dogs are Welsh corgis and Lisa’s has a Siberian Husky and a pug.

We are enjoying writing together and learning daily about the publishing industry.

One Dog Too Many, A Mae December Mystery by Lia Farrell from Camel Press

Mae December runs a successful dog boarding business in Tennessee. When her neighbor, Ruby Mead-Allison, fails to pick up her unruly Pomeranian from Mae’s kennel, Mae pokes around and discovers the woman’s body. It is clad in one red boot, and there is a vehicle counting cord around her neck.

While delving into the mystery of Ruby’s death, Mae encounters handsome Sheriff Ben Bradley. Together they find no shortage of suspects. Ruby was standing in the way of a project that would widen their road and make the area safer. Was she killed by an angry neighbor? Her estranged husband? Her disinherited brother? The sheriff may not appreciate Mae’s amateur detective, but he does respond to her as a woman. Meanwhile the murderer thinks it’s time to put a permanent stop to Mae’s meddling.

 Two Dogs Lie Sleeping, a Mae December Mystery by Lia Farrell from Camel Press

It’s early August in Rosedale, Tennessee, and July December Powell is alone at the historic Booth Mansion, putting the finishing touches on the Showhouse room she designed for tomorrow’s grand opening. A loud bang draws her to the nursery, where a man lies dying. Not just any man, but Tom Ferris, the love of her life, who she hasn’t seen since he disappeared with no explanation some fifteen years earlier.

Who shot Tom in the back? What drove him away in the first place and made him stay away, even after his parents were killed in a car accident? What was he trying to tell July with his last breath?

The gossip mill is in high gear in the small town of Rosedale, and July is the sister of Mae, a dog breeder and kennel owner who happens to be dating the sheriff, Ben Bradley. Ben’s close relationship with the December family has thrown a wrench in his investigation, forcing him to rely on Detective Wayne Nichols, his deputies, and his office manager Dory to do most of the legwork. Meanwhile July’s marriage is imploding, and Mae already has too much to deal with—including a new corgi puppy and Ben’s four-year-old son. Mae is torn between loyalty to her boyfriend and her sister as she does her darndest to get the bottom of a case that just seems to involve more and more of their friends and neighbors.

June 30– Check out their post at: http://www.liafarrell.net/blog

ALSO—tag, you’re it, 

As an only child growing up in Cincinnati, Ohio, Cathy Ann Rogers spent her early years listening to vivid stories by parents, relatives, and other elders. After establishing her accounting and tax business, Cathy refined her writing craft through a series of published short stories. Her first novel displays her penchant for creating literary characters who imitate reality through their skewed sense of justice as well as their bittersweet victories. She lives in the Arizona desert, where she shares her home with two Bichon Frises, Whitney and Sophie. She us currently writing the next installment in the Pilar Sagasta series.

Here Lies Buried,  A Pilar Sagasta Mystery, by Cathy Ann Rogers

History! Mystery! Murder!

Looking for family among strangers, a woman finds that seeking out distant relatives can be deadly and that some Arizona mysteries are better left buried!

PILAR SAGASTA steps into a world of cunning deception when she travels to Arizona to connect with her late grandfather’s sister, Virginia. Eager for details of their Mexican history before the family fled the political turbulence in 1916, Pilar realizes quickly that she made a mistake. Far from the loving relatives she envisioned, she finds a group of odious characters who doubt her motives and want nothing more than to drive her away.

When Virginia dies suddenly, Pilar takes that as her cue to leave. But when she agrees to investigate after another relative is murdered, she discovers her family has a dubious past enmeshed in unsolved Arizona robberies, foreign politics, missing loot, and murder.

Secrets buried deep in the past reach to the present generation and obscure motives in a family where no one is who they seem and everyone has a secret to hide.

 6/30 - Check out Cathy’s Post at: http://cathyannrogers.wordpress.com

********

 Thanks, everyone for hopping with us.

Sally J. Smith and Jean Steffens

http://www.smithandsteffens.com

The trees and wildflowers bloom, and the desert comes alive. Springtime in the high Sonoran desert–still plenty of time to thrust dread thoughts of the coming hundred ten degree dog days and the much-needed, yet ominous monsoons to the back of the mind and revel in the mild temperatures and lush landscapes.

Come mid-April to mid-May, those of us lucky enough to live in just the right locations begin to notice little brown-speckled eggs under bushes and cacti and in the wells of big Terracotta planters. The more of those eggs we see, the happier Arizonans are because of the promise of a surge in the Gambel’s Quail population.

Gambel’s Quail hang out mainly on the ground, but can fly short distances—sort of. They’re not very good at it. These airborne journeys are reminiscent of Howard Hughes’s Spruce Goose. Initiating sudden agitated flapping of wings, the birds burst upward only a short distance then glide down.

When the eggs hatch, the cheeping and chirping is constant. The babies, fuzzy dorky little things but cuter than heck like most baby creatures, look as if they’re strung together like beads. Where one goes, all go. Short little legs carry them in frantic circles around the adult male and female. Pretty sure all the noise is just quail-speak for, “Mama! Papa! Mama! Papa!” and “OMG, feed us now!”

The monogamous couples are such good mommies and daddies. Both parents herd the babies around like little sheep. If a head count comes up short, the adult bringing up the rear circles back for the straggler—like the Marines, no one left behind. Their street crossings are similar to a mama duck and her young ones heading for the pond.

When the chicks are older, the families join up with others in quail communes. Our yards become “beehives” of activity. Dozens of quail adults and chicks scurry here and there–busy, busy, busy, until it’s time for the families to split up as the young adults go off to mate and start their own families. Makes you want to sing “The Circle of Life,” doesn’t it?

They have so much personality, how could our heroine of Stealing the Moon & Stars, Jordan Welsh, resist painting them? Obviously, she couldn’t.

The evidence suggests: Just one family of Gambel’s Quail in the bush is worth at least four dozen other birds in the tree.

WANNA MEET A FAMILY OF GAMBEL’S QUAIL? CHECK OUT A VIDEO EXCERPT FROM STEALING THE MOON & STARS.

Jordan Welsh, Scottsdale PI and maverick heiress, is the heroine of Stealing the Moon & Stars. She’s also 5’10”, just like Jean Steffens. In the writing partnership Jean is “Mutt” to Sally J. Smith’s “Jeff.”

Jean’s memories of being the tallest girl in her class inspired many of the scenes in our book. There’s nothing more painful to an adolescent girl than being the one who’s different from the others. At seventeen, it wasn’t exactly easy to find a guy who could look her straight in the eye and that made for some dates she’d rather forget. But we’re so glad she didn’t. Now she looks back on those days with the confidence and good humor that comes with age and with knowing her own self worth.

Mementos from her first big high school dance never made it into her keepsake book, and chances are, they never will.

It was springtime. The night was starry. The moon was full. It was the first night Jean had ever worn shoes other than flats on a date.

The young man who called for her was only about 5’8”, not exactly short, but when he stood next to our statuesque beauty in the silky royal blue formal and two-and-a-half inch heels, he might as well have been a Danny DeVito clone. When the photos her parents took came back from the Walgreens, Jean had to beg them not to have blow-ups made and distributed to all the relatives. She and her “date” looked more like baby-sitter and charge than peers.

Once they arrived at the dance it turned out that HE was the target of most of the jokes, not SHE. Think it had something to do with the plaid corduroy suit the sartorial genius had chosen for the night of the big dance? While all his buddies wore dark suits or even the odd classic tux or dinner jacket here and there, Jean’s guy looked like Pee Wee Herman.

When we wrote the scene where Jordan takes a stroll down memory lane recalling her first prom, elements from that first disastrous high school dance took Jean down the same path. Although, Jean admits she definitely had a better time at her dance than Jordan Welsh seems to have had at hers.

See what you think.

(Excerpt from Stealing the Moon & Stars (Camel Press) Sally J. Smith & Jean Steffens.

Unpleasant memories of Jordan’s tragic junior prom came creeping in. It was an event she did not care to recall.

 It was the first time she wore high heels, but there were several other reasons she’d never forget prom night. First, it was the millennium year 2000, and the whole world glittered with the rosy promise of a new age dawning. Silly, giddy fools. I mean, come on. Look how things are turning out? Meet the new age, same as the old age, maybe worse.

 It was also one of the many times during her high school years she tested the turbulent waters of rebellion and went directly against Mary’s wishes. It was all about the dress. Mary’s choice was a flowing royal blue Grecian full-length gown. Jordan’s choice, multiple layers of colorful netted petticoat over a short strapless bodice. It looked like a suitcase full of confetti exploded all over it. It was sexy and flirty and young. Jordan begged Mary to buy it for her, but Mary ignored her plea and went with the blue gown. Not to be thwarted, Jordan bought her chosen frock on the sly and had her BFF, Winnie Marlow, bring it and meet her in the girls’ restroom, where she changed clothes.

 The main reason for regret was the choice of Brandon Allen as her date.

 By age fourteen Jordan had reached her full height, five feet ten in her stocking feet. In the spring of 2000, just before her seventeenth birthday, she was too young to be okay with it. Nevertheless, she was used to dating shorter boys when asked, which wasn’t often at that stage of the game.

 The only boy brave enough to invite her to prom and risk the certain ridicule of his classmates for dating “the Amazon” was Brandon Allen, charming and all, even kind of cute, but unfortunately barely five-six. The evening of her junior prom was the first time she ever dared to wear high heels. Although she imagined herself quite grown-up and sexy in them, their added height put her at well over six feet. It would be a fiasco. Her parents took pictures with their fancy new digital camera. She and Brandon looked more like mother and child than peers.

 As Brandon led her out for the first dance and put his arms around her, his face was level with her breasts. Things went from bad to worse as the band swung into Boyz II Men’s “I’ll Make Love to You” and he rested his head on her bare décolletage—a definite disadvantage of the confetti dress. Things went completely to hell when they tried a fast dance to “All Star,” and he kept ducking and turning beneath her arms. Couples around them giggled and teased.

“I don’t feel well,” she told him. “Could we just go?”

 But Brandon was having a good time and didn’t want to leave. Jordan spent the majority of her junior prom sitting in his car in the parking lot waiting for him to come out and drive her home. It didn’t do any good.

 By Monday morning she was so mortified she couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Needless to say, photos from her junior prom never made it into her memory book. (End of excerpt)

The Evidence Suggests: No matter how awful things seem in high school…it DOES get better. And that’s the long and the short of it.

Our book Stealing the Moon & Stars, to be released on May 15 from Camel Press, is set in Scottsdale, Arizona, “where the wild west meets Beverly Hills.” And, oh yeah baby, truer words could not be spoken, or written, for that matter.

There isn’t much that exists in this old world you can’t get your hands on in Scottsdale. Rolls Royce? Bentley? Lamborghini? Just up the road.

Looking for that snappy little Bombardier jet to haul you and several of your closest friends to a Broadway weekend in the Big Apple? No problem, just head on over to Scottsdale Airport. Someone there will be glad to hook you up.

Diamonds? Whatcha got in mind? White? Yellow? Black? Chocolate? Pink? Blue? A veritable rainbow sparkles in the brightly lit, impossibly clean cases of the local jewelers.

Art? Antiques? Rare books and collectibles? Furs—OMG, does anyone still do that? You name it, you can find it somewhere in Scottsdale. It’s a Mecca—or a disaster, depending on your point of view—for the old pocketbook.

Fashion? We have that here, too. Boy, do we, all the best names from eccentric to elegant, haute couture to shabby chic. Every label and price tag—easily found and purchased in “the West’s Most Western Town.”

Rock stars, sports figures, Hollywood celebrities, Fortune 500 CEO’s and their wives all know about Scottsdale.

While doing some online research we discovered the thing to do if you’re numbered in that magical percentile able to spend indiscriminately is to book a shopping tour. Yep, a shopping tour. A limo would come to pick you up at the designated location. Your personal shopper/stylist, whom you’ve probably already consulted with, would travel with you throughout the day, advising you on color, design, etc.

You might have chosen a luxury tour if you’re in the market for a gold and diamond watch with a crown or wings on the face, or perhaps a brilliant tiara of D-flawless sparklers.

If you’re in the mood to decorate the homestead, your limo and shopping adviser will haul you hither and yon to ye olde home décor specialty shops. You spend your day comparing centuries-old Persian rugs, trying a copper bathtub on for size, or resting your tootsies on a gold footstool.

Fashion? In the mood to be as spoilt as Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman? You can be fawned over and indulged at your very own exclusive fashion show in any number of high class boutiques and stores. The manager and staff will serve you Cristal in Tiffany flutes, catering to your every whim while they offer you their special back room, only the best-of-the-best merchandise.

Our character Mary Welsh, heiress and high society royalty, might engage such a luxury tour in the second installment of our Jordan Welsh and Eddie Marino Novels, Stealing the Golden Dream. But if you don’t choose to wait, you can meet diva Mary Welsh, mother of PI Jordan Welsh, in our first novel, Stealing the Moon & Stars, available for pre-order on Amazon.com.

http://www.amazon.com/Stealing-Moon-Stars-Sally-Smith/dp/1603819835

If you decide to treat yourself to one of these extreme shopping jaunts, please let us know. We would absolutely love to hear about it, which will probably be as close as we ever get to one.

The Evidence Suggests:  Your black American Express card can get a pretty good workout in Scottsdale, but if you don’t have one, you can sensibly fill your cart at Target, stay within your budget and still have fun reading about the extravagant ways of the wealthy.

Sally & Jean

Disney World. A chance for family togetherness, fun and relaxation. I planned for months.  What we would do every minute of every day, where we would eat, what we would buy. Organized down to the last minute.

But in the end, this is the way it went down.

Day 1 – We left our car at the airport for my niece to pick up when she flew in to housesit. Planned down to the minute, perfectly executed. We traveled all day to arrive just in time to go to bed. So far, no good—but well-planned. Don’t you think?

Day 2 – Rain, like you’ve never seen so much rain. Wait a minute. This is Florida, isn’t it? Sunshine? Oranges? What’s all this wet stuff?I mean I’m from Arizona. Holy smoke. Somebody better put out a hurricane warning. I looked at my travel itinerary. No rain was forecast. Consequently, no jackets or slickers were packed. Damn those weathermen. The forecast was 82 and sunny the whole week, not the low 60’s with wind chill and torrential rain. Didn’t go anywhere all day. Crap, behind schedule.

Day 3 – Good news. The weather straightened out and we went to the parks–and so did the entire free world. I forgot to plan for my advancing age. Why didn’t someone tell me I’m too old for this crap? Up at 7, out the door by 8, shuffling through the crowds, waiting in line an hour for a two minute ride, oh my aching back and feet. It was a lot of fun. Sure it was, but at least the day went according to plan.

Day 4 – My husband and son went to Kennedy Space Center. My daughter and I went back to Disney. Oh, yay, the monorail to the Magic Kingdom was down, and we were herded toward the ferry along with the entire population of Texas. The Magic Kingdom turned out to be fun but only because I figured out the system. If you tell them you’re leaving the park by 2 in the afternoon, the fast passes print out for earlier times. Finally, one break anyway. And we were sort of able to stick to the plan.

Day 5—The boys were going to—wait for it—a hockey game near Miami, Panthers and Coyotes. A three hour drive. Not exactly sure how one justifies flying 3000 miles then driving 200 more miles to see something one can see in his own hometown. But then again, I’m a chick not a hockey fanatic. This was the day my son lost his wallet—that definitely wasn’t planned.

Day 6—Finally–family day at EPCOT, but once we were there the macho guys didn’t want to see Captain EO or learn about hydroponics or talk to Crush, so we split up. Once again it was me and my girl—not what I’d planned. At least we all rode over and back on the monorail together and had a couple of meals together That sort of qualifies it as a family day, doesn’t it?

Day 7—Traveling again. All planned out. Rising at 6am and running out the door by 6:30 to catch a flight from Orlando at 9:20 a.m. Breakfast on the run at Mickey D’s—but wait. I suddenly remembered my Nook was still on the nightstand at the condo. Well, damn. Backtrack to the condo, arrive at the airport just in time to stand in line at the check-in counter for nearly an hour, race through corridors to the gate where we boarded with less than ten minutes of departure. Out of breath. Sweaty. Headache. Just shoot me now.

Wheels up. Phoenix, here we come.

Such a relaxing trip. Right. I slept four hours on the flight home, woke up with a stiff neck envious of all the folks around me who’d spent their four hours more productively, namely drinking.

We arrived on time at Phoenix Sky Harbor, but our luggage was apparently on its way to Boise, Idaho.

My niece had parked the car at the airport prior to flying home that morning. A set of keys was locked inside. No problem, we had a spare set with us. It was a great plan. Efficient. But remember I mentioned our luggage was taking the scenic route? Well, guess where that spare set of keys was—you got it, inside our bags flying to Boise.

I gathered my courage and told my husband the keys were locked in the suitcase. It was Biblical–there was much “wailing and gnashing of teeth.” But at least there was no violence. The airline graciously called a locksmith and we were finally on the last leg of our vacation with only a forty-five minute delay.

The highlights of the trip were the IHOP and New York pizza place across the street from our timeshare. At least that much was as expected. The Internet didn’t steer me wrong for breakfast and late night delivery.

Well-planned? Well, planned. Sort of.

Oh, and I almost forgot. My son found his wallet Monday morning when he put his boots on to go to school. He’d hidden it inside the boot for safekeeping but had worn his sneakers every day after that. It was safe all right, even from him.

THE EVIDENCE SUGGESTS:  Even the best laid plans of mice and Jean can go awry.

Jean

http://www.smithandsteffens.com