This is Jack in his jeans. No, jack does not like wearing his jeans, although he doesn’t seem to mind his fishing shirt or his rain poncho. I imagine it might be because he thinks the jeans make his butt look big. They do, but I would never tell him. When he gives me that questioning look, I lie and tell him he looks skinny.

In fact, I tell a lot of little white lies. I had a friend once who bought a hideous green dress with beads all over the top and had some sort of floaty chiffon skirt. It reminded me of one of those dresses you see in little girl beauty pageants, only in an adult size 16. We were going to an awards event, not a pageant. When she asked me how she looked, I pasted a smile on my face and told her she looked great. I figured hey, she liked it enough to buy it. At some point she had to have looked at herself in the mirror, and she must have thought she looked wonderful. Why tell her the dress aged her about 150 years? Not to mention the shoes. They were hideous too, but of course I told her they were “great.” But what I was really thinking was, “How can a person walk into a shoe department filled with tons of beautiful shoes and leave with the ugliest pair? How is that even possible?”

I’ve lied to a friend about her hair, too. I told her her new hair cut looked super when it was really heinous. I’m talking very bad perm. I lied because what was she going to do? The only thing she could do to make it better was shave her head and I don’t think it would have been much of an improvement.

I lie a lot at dinner parties too. Just because a person can cook, does not mean they should. I’ve choked down some of the most horrid food while saying, “Wow, that’s tasty.” My mother’s spaghetti comes to mind. Although growing up, I might have mentioned that it was the worst spaghetti in recorded history. My sister’s potato salad sucks, and my sister-in-law . . . there just isn’t time to go into how much she sucks at cooking.

How about you? Do you tell the truth or are you a liar liar pants on fire? What was your biggest white lie?

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Congratulations are in order, my fellow goddesses! I’m a proud new mom. Please welcome the latest edition to my family – a 1200 pound, 3 year old (that’s a teenager in horse years) bay Warmblood mare named Riva, who will no doubt change my life forever.

I’ve had her a week and I love her already. She’s big and beautiful and smart and full of energy (as teenagers will be). And she rides like a dream (even though she has a lot to learn about leg and rein aids and ground manners!)

Her baby pictures are precious. Her breeder took these when Riva was a foal, and I’m posting them here so y’all can properly admire her (the gray is Riva’s biological mom, Nationale). I’m sorry, but Suzanne’s guppies just can’t compare to a horse in my affections!

…(click to enlarge)…

With her bloodlines, I expect Riva to be a champion someday and hope she’ll have a long and successful career as a show hunter to replace my beloved Irishbred jumper who’s retired.

Last week my hubby came out to the barn with me and took more photographs of our new kid to show family and friends and to commemorate the special occasion. My hubby has become quite a good photographer (he’s had a succession of digital cameras, starting when they first came out, and prints all his own photos). He’s also the nostalgic type. He creates artistic books of photographs and labels them by year, then reviews them regularly, while I stuff pics away in a box and never look at them again.

I really don’t need to have photos of the special times in my life. Instead I rely on the photographs in my mind. My favorite memories are almost as vivid as the day I lived them. Some of my best:

- Horseback riding in London’s Hyde Park when I was in highschool (and that was long before I became a writer and fell in love with the Regency period).

- A picnic and softball game on a lovely spring day with my college friends, which let us escape the grind of our engineering curriculum.

- Another picnic many years later with my hubby, enjoying wine and strawberries on a summer afternoon on a flower-covered mountainside.

- And of course I’ll never forget the day my new horse came into my life.

First, you’ve gotta properly coo over my new baby! And second, what are some of your best memories? Those special moments in your life that you’ll never, ever forget? Did you capture them on film or just in your mind?

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Let me set this scene:  I’m frantically trying to finish revisions on my latest manuscript, which is due before I leave for New York for Book Expo on Thursday at five a.m.  I haven’t sorted my clothes.  In fact some of them are still in the suitcase from the last trip I took. (I’m ashamed to admit this, but there it is.) 

Tomorrow I’ll get my hair done and pick up a few odds and ends for my trip.  Wednesday I’ll get my nails done because when I’m writing they look really bad.  I have to pack and pay my bills.

But FIRST, I have to get up early tomorrow morning and clean my house.  My house gets a thorough cleaning between books. (That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.)  While I’m writing, things kind of pile up.  Cleaning was on my list of things to do when I get back from New York.  So why am I cleaning tomorrow?

Because I have company.  Friends of my oldest daughter.  People I’ve never met before and may never meet again.  But I’m cleaning my house for them when I don’t clean for my family!  How bizarre is this?

Last week I put on makeup to leave the house and my daughter said, “Why do people try to impress people they’ll never see again?  You never wear makeup at home.  What do you care what strangers think of you?”

Well, isn’t that just a question for the ages?  Like the meaning of life or how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie-Roll-Pop.  I think the world will never know.

So do you doll up for strangers?  Clean your house for company?  Or do you truly make your guests feel “at home” by leaving the house as it was before they get there?  I suppose some of you out there actually keep your houses clean for your families every day.  How bizarre.

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Yee haa! Tomorrow’s the day! The fourth and final book in the Griffin family “Sin” series, Sins of a Duke, comes out tomorrow.

I look forward to each book’s release the way some people look forward to their birthdays. I send out invitations (to booksignings), I make a wish (to do better each time on the major lists – New York Times, USA Today, Publisher’s Weekly), and I open presents (emails from readers saying they enjoyed the book and from fellow authors wishing me well, and the good reviews).

This may sound odd, but I like looking forward to things. I like the feeling of anticipation, of not knowing precisely what will happen next. I like knowing I’ve done everything that I can and then having to let go to see things unfold the way they will.

I also worry, of course. The “Have I done everything I can?” or “Is there something I should have done differently?” mantra. Did I schedule a booksigning on a day when everybody’s out of town? Did the bookstore order enough books (okay, truthfully I don’t think that’s ever been a problem, but I do think about it)?

On the non-book side, I still love looking forward to things. The day before Thanksgiving, the day before Christmas, New Year’s Eve eve. The promise in the air, the anticipation of seeing relations I haven’t set eyes on for a year, the wondering if I found that perfect gift for each member of my family.

The events themselves are nice, too, but I just prefer the just before. What about you? Do you prefer the anticipation, or the event? What are the things you look forward to most? Are you going to buy Sins of a Duke this week? (Ahem.)

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Karen Hawkins asked me to post this for her as she’s hiding under a picnic table in Fairmont, WV, during the annual Hawkins Family Reunion. She promises to post comments via her cellphone, so feel free to blog away!

This is Memorial Day Weekend, the 11th anniversary of the great Hawkins Potato Salad Wars of 1996.  I would post the specifics but both my Aunt Bess and my Aunt Raye would hunt me down and kill me like a dog. They don’t agree on how it started and there’s no way I can tell you without making one or ther other of them furious.

Every year my family has a reunion. People travel from all over the country to a tiny park in Fairmont, WV, where they come to visit, catch up on news about family members, and argue over everything from who makes the best potato salad to who has the biggest engine in their Chevy pickups.

There’s nothing that a Hawkins family member likes more than a good row. Unless, of course, it’s an argument, a tussle, or an out-and-out fight.

Every time Uncle Bill lays into Uncle Rex for saying Chevys are crap and that Ford makes a better truck, everyone nods and smiles and, while the two are climbing back to their feet and staunching the blood flow from their split lips and swollen eyes, we all say, “Well! That certainly cleared the air. Want some cake?”

So many people. So many personalities. And so much history. Well, something is bound to happen and every year, like a clock, it does.

Sometimes I like the excitement. Sometimes I want to hide under the picnic table until things are a bit less contentious. Either way, I take lots of notes — this is great material for a book!

Is your family the same way? Do family gatherings at your house bring harmony and peace? Or are they a bit more Hatfield/McCoy/Hawkinsish? What’s the tensest moment you can remember from one of your family gatherings? Were you glad to be there or would you like to climb under the picnic table and sit with me for a while?

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It shocked me, overwhelmed me, reduced me to tears in my bathroom. I thought there was no way I could overcome. I didn’t know where to turn or what to do when my hairdresser wigged out and took off. He took off! The dude is gone.

I’ve been going to this guy for five years. In that time he transitioned my hair from a very dull brown with a little red and a bit of gray to a vibrant auburn with a little brown and no gray. He gave me a modern cut. He taught me about products they don’t sell in grocery stores and that I loved. He regaled me with bitchy tales of him and his partner and alternative clubs in Austin I never would have known existed were it not for him. He made me feel like I was hip—if only for a couple of hours every few weeks.

And then he walked out in a snit. No one knows where he went. He left me with a bad case of roots and no referral.

Hair is a big deal to me. Without proper attention, it becomes very huge and unruly. When someone points me to the right products, it actually looks pretty good. But these things are not intuitive to me. I need someone to say PUT THIS ON YOUR HAIR and DON’T WEAR IT LIKE THAT.

When I got over my shock—which was almost immediately, given my root situation—I began The Hunt for the new hairdresser. It’s almost as important as a new agent or editor (almost). I went to one place where she got the color right, but I did not click with the woman. She was proud of her teenage daughter and spent two hours telling me about her. Like any writer, I am interested in other people…but maybe not THAT interested. So next time, I went to another place—loved the guy, hated the color. He insisted the really dark brunette was perfect for me. I told him it was, twenty years ago. And the thing that really bugged me–the salon was nice but had a peculiar smell. Ick.

Two days ago, I think I might have found a new home. Good color, good convo, and it’s a nice salon, which I must have because I am very spoiled. I hope it works out. I have my fingers crossed. I never realized how much I took my stylist—and my hair—for granted.

What about you? Do you have a close, personal relationship with your stylist? Do you have a greater fear than losing your stylist? What’s your worst hair story?

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I am a very literal goddess. It’s why I have a hard time laughing at jokes. If my husband tells me a joke about an elephant and a chicken mating, I get all hung up on the logistics and the impossibility of such a thing. After Mr. G. delivers the punch line and laughs at his own joke, I have to interrupt his hilarity and tell him all the reasons why an elephant could never mate with a chicken. The most obvious being a chicken would take one look at that amorous elephant and run away. And even if the elephant is faster, he doesn’t have hands and . . . Usually at this point Mr. G. gives me that lookand tells me I can ruin a joke faster than anyone he knows. Which is true.

So since we’re all here, I’m going to ask a few burning questions that have been on my mind for a while now.

1. When reading a book or post, do you really LOL? I might smile or chuckle, but I don’t think l actually laugh out loud. And I’m quite sure I don’t ROTHFLMAO. Translated means, roll on the floor laughing my ass off. Not even if I’ve had a few martinis. Well, not that I remember anyway.

2. WORST BOOK EVER!!!!!!!!!!! Really? Rachel Gibson writes the worst books ever? Wow, considering all the books ever written, that’s quite an achievement. Do I get something cool like a statue? And did you read Hannibal?

3. Hurled the book against the wall. Has anyone actually hurled a book against the wall? I often set books down and never pick them up again, but a novel just doesn’t inspire that much anger in me. Not even Hannibal.

4. Falling head over heels. I picture head over heels as standing upright. If you’re falling, shouldn’t it be heels over head?

Perhaps some of you can answers these burning questions for me, and I can move on and obsess about something else. Or do you have burning questions that you need to talk about so you can move on?

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