Zack has watched Cole and his mate Syndee and wants to find his mate as well. Unfortunately, when Zack does find his mate, she isn’t accepting him as her mate and, she could be their enemy. Zack may have to make a decision between his best friend and his mate. Included in all of this is the ever present threat of the humans who are trying to capture and experiment on them.

I love writing shifter novels. Their entire world is so open to almost anything you want to throw at them. For this series, I let the characters write the book and tell me about their world. I was surprised with a lot of it. For one thing, they are happy being shifters. They don’t want to be human. I tried to incorporate as much of natural feline behaviors as possible into the books and did a lot of online research on Jaguars and Leopards and their nature. Their world is fascinating to read about.

In doing research, I utilize every recourse available to me. My favorite one is the Internet of course but I also enjoy talking to real people. With this book, I wasn’t able to talk to anyone about the big cats like I would have enjoyed doing. But, I did use my muses. I have seven of them. J  They were more than happy to fill me in on the domestic cat’s take on my characters.

I blog with them on weekends so if you want to learn more about them and what I am up to, you can always check them out at www.maryalicepritchard.com/blog

Leopard Dreams is available for presale right now at The Wild Rose Press www.thewildrosepress.com  It will officially be out July 30^th in both e-book and print. I hope you will check it out and don’t forget Jaguar Nights, the first book in the series. You can learn more about my other books and short stories at www.maryalicepritchard.com

Here is an excerpt for your enjoyment.

Warm scented water lulled her into a pleasant lethargy. It was her only defense at missing the scent of another weir at her bathroom door.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Kristen’s eyes flew open. The sight of the tall dark haired stranger lounging in her doorway stole her breath. His hazel eyes captured hers with an intensity that stopped her heart. It took her two tries to answer.

“Taking a bath.  What are you doing in my house?”

“Watching you take a bath.” His eyes never left her face.

She sank deeper into the water wishing the suds hadn’t begun to dissipate. The water covered up to her neck, but the tops of her knees protruded in protest. The sight of him so comfortable leaning against the door frame stirred her anger.

“Get out of my house,” She growled

“Not until you tell me what you’re doing here.” He took a step into the room and towered over her.

“None of your business,” she ground out between clenched teeth.

“Well that’s where you’re wrong. It is my business. I’m first to the King of the Southern Cats, and you are not part of my pard.”

Kristen swallowed and scrambled to think of what to say. “I’m on vacation. I won’t be here long.”

“You know the rules. You contact the pard leader when you’re in his territory. So, again, why are you here?”

“I’m looking for my brother.” Why did she tell him that? What was wrong with her?

“Who’s your brother?”

“His name is Ethan.” Why did she just tell him her brother’s name? She refused to say anything else, just glared at him gritting her teeth.

Before she could second guess herself, Kristen lunged from the tub and hit him square in the chest.

He staggered under her weight before he caught himself on the door frame. She swung and missed. He used her momentum to twist her around and pin her back against his chest. His hands shackled her wrists.

“You should have approached Cole and asked him about your brother. We’ve had several join us in the last month.” His voice curled around her like a warm blanket.

“I’ve asked around. You haven’t had a leopard join.”

“Hmmm, leopard. I should have known. You’re feisty,” he said.

His comment renewed her resolve to get away and she struggled in his arms. It only made matters worse. Her wet body plastered his clothes to his body, and she became aware of his solid chest and the hard muscles of his arms as they held her wrists tight against her stomach. And, she felt the hard length of him pressed against the small of her back. It was enough to freeze her in mid-twist.

 “Fuck you!”

“That’s the usual result when a female is hot for sex.” He leaned in and sniffed along the side of her face. “I can smell your arousal.”

“Let-me-go.”

“I think not she-cat. You’d only go for my eyes.”

“No, you have it all wrong. I’d go for your crotch, with teeth and nails.” She promised in a calm voice.

“Hmmm,” was all he said as he rubbed his face against hers, his hot breath caressing her cheek and temple.



I always have issues coming up with guest blogging topics so it doesn't look like I'm only blatantly promoting myself and my books (even though I am *eg*). But, procrstination does wonders and I came up with a topic -- crying.

Not me crying, mind you. Other people crying. Namely they start crying while reading my books. O.O!

As a disclaimer, I do not set out to make people cry. I swear I don't. I have sad moments in my books to which I hope the reader will have an emotional response because they have bonded with the heroine and hero(es). While crying is an emotional response and a really big one, that was not my goal.

I expect for people to go, "Oh that's so sad," and that's it. I know being the writer has desensitized me to my prose only because I'm the one writing it. I have to write it, then rewrite it, then tweak it, and then edit it, and then re-edit, and so on and so forth. After poring over a book for months and months, most of the emotion the words may invoke goes right out of it for me.

I think because of desensitization, I tend to add more to a scene, thinking the emotion won't be there or the feelings of the heroine and hero(es) won't come across to the reader. Oh no! Is this sad enough? Is this happy enough? Will the reader really feel the emotion? Does this read flat? Let me add a little something else. Maybe that will help it along.

After all the augmenting and additions, the book is finally published and then I get something like this -- "The emotional journey is heart wrenching..." from Chocolate Minx at Literary Nymphs Reviews and "will have readers... dabbing away tears" from Danni at Nightowl Romance Reviews and "...a very emotional and a very heart-wrenching read..." from Tina at Two Lips Reviews and "...brings laughter as well as tears..." from Susan Mobley at Romantic Times BOOKreviews magazine.

(blatant plug ahead)

The book those reviewers are all talking about is Serenity my second full length novel published with Samhain Publishing. It is about Serenity (heroine and the book share a name), who has been charged, as a human princess of the most prominent human kingdom, to marry Melchior, the king of the bhresya, for the peace of both of their peoples. The humans routinely refer to the bhresya as demons because of their appearance (they come in technicolor with horns) but Serenity has never felt that way and she looks forward to her marriage to Melchior becoming one of understanding and love. Except, Melchior is determined to keep their marriage political, thus distant and cold. The more Serenity tries to get close, the more Melchior pushes her away until she lands in the arms of danger. Love is the answer but Melchior must admit to his before its too late.

Available in ebook and print -- Buy Now

Read the First Chapter

(blatant plug ended)

Those reviewers weren't the only ones. I had readers emailing me saying they had never cried so hard for a book before. O.O! Umm... I'm sorry. Of course, my fellow writers were estatic for me. "Good job! That's what you want," they said. It is? I guess it is, but I still feel bad making people cry.

(another blatant plug)

But, I keep chugging right along and writing books. I released Eris my third full length novel this past June with Siren Publishing. Lucien and Ranulf have lived centuries to be reunited with the woman who changed their lives and made them want better so they could be worthy of her love. There's only one catch, when they find Eris again, she doesn't know who they are because she's never before met them. This mainstream menage is an unorthodox time traveling paradox wrapped in love.

I bet you're wondering what a mainstream menage is. It is a menage written in the same style as a mainstream romance -- no explicit language. As for 'unorthodox time travel', I named it that because it is a time travel but that part of the plot doesn't happen until later in the book, thus making it unorthodox for a time travel romance.

Available in ebook and coming soon to print - Buy Now

Read the first chapter

(blatant plug ended)

I wasn't sure what to expect from the reviewers about Eris since it's got so much happening. It's not a typical menage and it's definitely not a typical time travel. I was on pins and needles hoping the reviewers wouldn't call it a wall-banger (people throwing the book at the wall in disgust).

Instead, I got "I cried for Eris, I raged at Lucien and Ranulf then I cried for all three of them..." from GJM at Rites of Romance Reviews. *Sigh* Crying again. Don't get me wrong. I LOVE the review. I love it to peices, especially since it is the first (and currently only) review. But that crying thing is going to just keep following me around.

I know for a fact my next two novels will have people in tears. There's no help for it. It's part of the plot. I'd plug those novels but they aren't finished yet and thus aren't contracted.

I always tell people to 'Leave Your Reality Behind' when entering mine because I make up the rules as I go along. Preconceived notions of how you think the story will flow will only slow you down and hinder the experience. I think I need to tell people instead -- 'Leave Your Reality Behind, but bring a box of tissues'.

~ Renee
----------
D. Renee Bagby
Building New Realms of Passion...
http://dreneebagby.com
http://dreneebagby.blogspot.com/
http://dreneebagbypresentsfirstchapters.blogspot.com/

For most of my life, I’ve heard that love at first sight is ridiculous, absurd, a complete misnomer—after all, it didn’t exactly work out well for Romeo and Juliet.  And yet …  there’s something about it that appeals to me as a writer and a person.

Maybe it’s because my father asked my mother to marry him exactly one week after their first date.  She said yes, and they went to her favorite Chinese restaurant to celebrate, where she got a fortune cookie that said, Happy Marriage, fourteen children.  She looked at my father and said, “Maybe we should reconsider.”  Thankfully, they didn’t, and they were married for twenty-six years … and would be married still if my father hadn’t died unexpectedly a number of years ago.

Fast forward twenty-five years, to a little after my twenty-first birthday.  I was a graduate student in New Orleans, with my whole life road-mapped in front of me—which included three graduate degrees, a teaching career at a prestigious university and a side job writing novels.    I’d been dating a guy for well over a year, and though we’d been separated for half of that—which was causing a lot of problems between us-- we were still talking about the school we would go to in the future, where he could get his M.A.  in journalism and I could get my Ph.D in American Literature.  While every once in a while, I thought about where our relationship would end up—marriage and kids hadn’t even entered my mind.  After all, we were young and the future was a long way away.

Anyway, the day I want to talk about was in February (the 21^st to be exact), and a friend invited me to a dinner party at her apartment.  I rushed home from class, threw on some make-up and a dress and hurried to her apartment, thinking I would be the last to arrive.  Turns out I was the first.

A few minutes later there was a knock on the door and she asked me to get it as she and her husband were busy in the kitchen.  I opened the door and to this day, I swear I was struck by a bolt of lightning.  Or an arrow from Cupid’s bow, seven days too late.  Whatever it was, it seemed to be affecting the man on the other side of the threshold as much as it was affecting me.  We kind of stood there for a minute, staring at each other, eyes wide and mouths slightly agape.  When I finally regained my senses enough to let him into the apartment, he delivered his hostess gift to my friend (something I hadn’t thought to bring) and then spent the rest of the evening sitting next to me and asking as many questions as possible.

We talked for hours that night, and through it all, my heart was pounding like a metronome on high.  All I could think about was how handsome he looked in his blue polo shirt and how smart and funny he was and how good he smelled … you get the idea.  It turns out he was spending a lot of the time thinking about unbuttoning the long row of buttons on the front of my burgundy Victoria’s Secret dress, but that’s another story, LOL.  When he left without asking for my number, I was devastated, despite the fact that I already had a boyfriend.  I consoled myself by hoping he would ask his friend (my friend’s husband) for my number.  Alas, he didn’t (the fact that I had a boyfriend scared him off), and two days later I couldn’t help myself.  I called him.   We arranged for him to pick me up at my apartment the next night after work, and within minutes of hanging up the phone, I called my boyfriend and told him we needed to talk … It turned out, he’d been thinking the same thing, thank God, so the talk went very easily.

Anyway, the new guy took me out to dinner and a 12:30 movie and I was so tired from studying for mid-terms that I fell asleep on him right in the middle of the movie.  I figured that was the end of it—I mean, who falls asleep in the middle of a first date?  But he was really nice about it and after I kissed him (did I mention he was a little shy) he asked me out for the next afternoon. 

We started our date feeding the ducks at a nearby park, and when all the bread was gone, he took me over to one of the little gazebos near the pond and told me that he loved me and wanted to marry me.  My eyes almost bugged out of my head, needless to say.  I was only twenty-one, he was twenty-eight and while I had heard my parents’ story a million times, they’d been nearly thirty when they’d met.  I told him I barely knew him, blah, blah, blah, and yet didn’t go running screaming into the night.  Instead, I thought about his words for a week and when he asked me to marry him again, eight days later, I said yes.

We were married within two and a half months, and just about nine months later, we had our first child.  We now have three children, the oldest of whom is thirteen, and we just celebrated our fourteenth wedding anniversary.  Has it been easy?  No, of course not.  But has it been right—absolutely, and I don’t regret for one second throwing caution to the wind and marrying this man that I was madly in love with.

My friends at school thought it was crazy, my parents (who had no room to talk) cautioned me about making such a swift decision when I was so young, my best friend in the world told me I was freaking nuts.  And I did it anyway—why?  Because from the moment that first lightning bolt struck, I knew we were meant to be together. 

Maybe that’s why things always happen fast in the novels I write.  In almost all of them, my characters know pretty soon after meeting that they’ve met someone special, someone who is going to turn their lives upside down.  In my new novels Dark Embers, which is my first paranormal and the beginning of the Dragon’s Heat series, Dylan knows from the second he lays eyes on Phoebe that she is going to be someone important in his life.  Though she is human and he is a shifter and King of the Dragonstar clan, he can’t ignore the way she makes him feel.  She’s wrong for him, wrong for his clan and though he knows he’ll eventually have to let her go, he isn’t strong enough to do it yet.   Not before he knows what it’s like to be loved by her …

And in Beginning with Their Baby, my July Superromance, Matt and Camille have a strong, instantaneous attraction to each other that can’t be denied.  Matt knows pretty quickly that Camille is the one, but she takes a little longer … like nine months longer … to figure that out.

So what do you think?  Do you believe in love at first sight or do you think it needs to grow steadily for a couple of years before you leap into a serious commitment like marriage?

Don't Forget to Check out Tracy's new releases:

Begining with My Baby

and Dark Embers.

King Dylan MacLeod is one of the last pure-bred dragon shapeshifters in existence—and ruler of a dying race, the Dragonstar clan.  It falls to him to protect his people—and their ancient magic.  He has one more duty: to provide an heir.

Like all dragons, Dylan can only procreate with his destined mate—for whom he’s searched for five hundred years.  His dark, rampant sexual appetite has earned him quite the reputation, all in the pursuit of his one true match.

But his search is delayed when a deadly disease sweeps through the Dragonstars, and Dylan must venture to the human world to find a cure.  He tracks down renowned biochemist Phoebe Quillum, never imagining the beautiful scientist will be the mate he’s been seeking for centuries.  But no sooner do they meet then Phoebe and Dylan are besieged by an obsessive, overpowering sexual desire.

Their passion turns to something truer—and they know in their souls and bodies that they’re in too deep to get out.  And when Phoebe is kidnapped by Dylan’s oldest enemy, he must risk everything to reclaim the only woman he’s ever loved, or his clan will be wiped out forever.

Whether you prefer the old school Chi-Lites or MC Hammer, these words ring true. “Have you seen her? Tell me have you seen her?”

To muse or not to muse that is the question. Whether it is nobler in the….. Okay, okay, Hamlet and poor Willie Shakespeare are probably rolling their eyes at me. But Willie knows what I’m talking about. My muse. Yeah, that’s right. That spitfire version of your imagination that lives in Louboutins and scarfs down cookie dough ice-cream like it’s her job, somehow without ever gaining weight. You’re just as likely to find her sulking in a corner when she can’t have her way as you are to find her sprinkling magic fairy dust on your manuscript.

Now, while there are generally two camps to writers, the plotters and the pansters, none of us can deny the magic of when the words are flowing so well, you don’t even want to get up to go to the bathroom for fear you’ll send your muses into a snit. Though, in my current ginormous pregnant state, I don’t really have an option.

I find my muse usually makes her guest appearance during my first draft, but goes noticeably absent when the real work of editing begins. She occasionally appears to pitch a fit over my attempts to cut out sections that don’t work insisting, that all the magic lies in that one little scene. In this process of publishing my first book, I’ve discovered that edits and reedits and yet more reedits oft have nothing to do with my muse. Though if she should appear, I’m grateful to see her. Often times clutching her to my chest like that ratty old teddy bear from my childhood.

Though, my sisters (and brothers) I have heard tale of the non-believer. The writer who does not believe in the vixen of prose. Those who are apparently able to pull out sparkling text whenever they desire, without the assistance of a stiletto clad muse. Who are these blasphemers you ask? Well the queen of romance herself is one of them. Pulling the quote from last year’s nationals, She said: “Every time I hear writers talk about ‘the muse,’ I just want to bitch-slap them. It’s a job. Do your job.”–Nora Roberts

Clearly one of the most prolific romance writers of our time, Nora, if I may be so bold, has looked her muse in the eye and ripped the stillettos right off her feet. Effectively stripping the temperamental chicky of her power.

How much control do our muses really have over us? Or rather how much control should they have? As a stalwart plotter, I’ve often wondered what it would be like to declare “You can’t control me!” like a snotty sixteen year old who’s been told she can’t date Butch from the motorcycle club. But I must admit, I’m too terrified of the results. Miss Thang would surely abandon me for eternity.

But maybe Miss Roberts has a point. Because, as I and sit here in front of my latest MS praying for the appearance of my muse, I discovered that crazy heifer ran off to Bali and didn’t invite me along for the trip!

Have you seen your muse today?

Picture this, Sicily, 1946….Okay, so I’m not exactly Sofia from the Golden Girls, but as I waddle and roll into my eight month of pregnancy, I find I have a few words to share….

To the kindly woman at the grocery store….I know my belly has the gravitational pull of Saturn. Yes, I understand that I vaguely resemble an alien being and you almost can’t help yourself. Nevertheless, I must ask that you refrain from touching my ever growing bump. I promise you won’t like it if I have to go all Buffy on your well meaning though cruising for a bruising behind. While we’re at it, I’m going to ask you to refrain from squealing too. It’s loud and it’s piercing and it frightens the little one in my belly.

To the teller at the bank, I know you mean well, but I can do without the unsolicited advice, especially when it’s clear I’m in a hurry. Of course you have a sister, mother, friend who insists a glass of wine daily is good for the baby, or bourbon in the breast milk will help baby sleep. Unless your name is Doctor Bank Teller, I don’t want to hear it. And you are likely to earn yourself an annoyed look. I’m very capable of asking when I want advice and heavens knows I'll need it, but probably from mama or someone who spent a whole bunch of years in school learning all about babies.

And finally, your opinion on my baby’s name, or my reluctance to share it, while interesting, is highly irrelevant. I know you would love to offer up your name as an option or tell me how you’ve always loved the name Peyton, or Apple, or Snuffleupagus. I know this will sound harsh, and I’m sorry, but I, Don’t, Care. Yes, that’s right, I said it. I. Don’t. Care. It has to be said. When you have your baby, you can name her/him whatever you like. Stop stealing my baby naming thunder. If my heart is set on naming my baby Stripper Devine or Alien Baby, your opinion doesn’t matter. Mommy, I hate to say this, but this means you too.

The constantly kicking alien parasite inside my stomach reminds me hourly that in about two months or so, my life is going to undergo a ginormous change. Some changes, I’ll probably love, like the anticipated smiles and giggles and baby smell, cause, let’s face it, who doesn’t love that smell? Some changes, I can probably do without, like the sleepless nights, incessant crying and changes to my body, cause I’m keeping it real, I’m vain enough to care. But all in all I’m up for the adventure and I can’t wait. I just hope I get to do it in style, wearing a fabulous pair of

Christian Louboutins and riding in a Bugatti Veyron.

I'll be going to be blogging tomorrow at Pop Culture Divas.  Please come check me out and leave a comment!

I couldn’t be happier.  Not knowing what to expect as a first time writer, I anticipated horrors when it came to the cover, but was pleasantly surprised.

So drum roll please……

Thanks so much for all the support!

2010 is shaping up to be a great year so far.  I’ve been outlining my butt off and finishing drafts.  Keep up with my progress meters and keep the good vibes coming.  All I need now is my release date. 

How are your 2010 goals shaping up?



Trench Coat Seduction 

Any spy worth her secret decoder ring must have a fabulous trench coat in her closet.  I personally have several and love them all, but in writing my Super Agent Series, I had yet to put one of my lady spies in a trench.

Until now. Brigit Kent, the no nonsense psychologist who moonlights for Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service in my latest novel, Proof of Life (Super Agent Series, Book 3), is perfect in a trench. She isn’t a fashionista by any means, but she has deep, dark family secrets and is playing with fire when it comes to blackmailing the deputy director of the CIA, Michael Stone. While I didn’t want her hung up on clothing labels, she was part 007 and part traditional ingénue, and I wanted her to have a signature piece.

Enter the trench. With Brigit’s dark looks, I imagined her as a modern day Audrey Hepburn, using her trench to its fullest. It was sexy and classic, just like Brigit’s character, and both the coat and the woman held the perfect combination to attract Michael.

Moving to the window next to Brigit, Michael tried not to stare at her peaches-and-cream skin, or her thick, dark hair, free of its ponytail and brushing her shoulders. He tried not to examine the way her trench coat molded to her waist and flared out at her hips, emphasizing both. Her body hummed with energy and his happily tightened in response.

The trench worked as a symbol of Brigit’s growth in the story as well as a handy accessory. In the opening, she uses the trench to hide her gun and her generous curves. Internally, she’s also hiding her insecurities and family secrets. As the story goes on, the trench and Brigit take a beating when Brigit is shot at and nearly blown up in an airplane. The coat gets mended and cleaned, and so does Brigit when she divulges her secrets to Michael and saves her sister from a terrorist group.  After all that, she was ready to take more chances, and at one point, I had fun letting her pull a classic Marilyn Monroe when she attends a meeting with the President of the United States.

The trench coat still had the plastic bag over it from the cleaners. She ripped it off and shrugged the coat over her shoulders. The silk lining brushed against her skin, and she wondered if she really had the courage to go to the White House in such a Marilyn Monroe style.

Hell, what did she care? No one would know unless the Secret Service felt her up.

Through the whole story, the trench helped me keep Brigit mysterious and desirable. She needed to be a puzzle Michael had to figure out, or if not completely figure out, at least enjoy trying.

Without a knock, she burst through the door with Helena on her heels and a set look on her face. A look Michael had seen repeatedly from Ruth’s house to Ireland. The soldier was ready to take on the world.

His heart stuttered and then stopped in wonder for a split-second as he took her in from head to toe. The wavy dark curls, the baby doll eyes, the bright lipstick. The gaudy earrings, the expensive trench, the moderate heels. She was still a conundrum. Still beautiful.

The trench coat seduction works and Michael finally understands Brigit and what a future with her holds.

The future stretched out in front of him with endless possibilities. Brigit understood who he was, what he did for a living, what he had survived. She could relate and love him for all his faults, for all his regrets. She gave him hope, and most of all, she gave him back his desire to live again. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, let her go. “Call me as soon as you can get away.”

“Is that an order?”

“Yes,” he said, grinning again so hard his cheeks hurt. “And wear the trench. I like it.”

She squeezed his hand before pulling her own away and saluting him. “Yes, sir.”

I was thrilled when the cover artist for Proof of Life found a dark-haired model wearing a trench for the cover. What makes it even better is the way the woman is lifting the collar to partially hide her face.  While trench coats are often associated with spies, Brigit’s trench coat showcases her personality and symbolizes her internal struggles rather than turning her into a clichéd stock character, and that made her all the more fun to write!

Thanks to Nana for inviting me to guest blog today. In celebration of Proof of Life releasing this week, I’m giving away an ecopy of the story to one lucky reader. Just post a comment or a question and I’ll add your name to the hat.

Misty Evans is an award-winning, multi-published author of CIA thrillers and paranormal comedy. Visit her at www.readMistyEvans.com or join her Yahoo! Group at http://groups.yahoo.com/group

There are some things I love about getting older.  That’s right, I said love.  Okay make that one thing.  Wisdom.  Wisdom to know not to take some things so seriously. Wisdom to not be in debt.  Wisdom to know that some dumb guy not reciprocating feelings is a matter of taste and not because he thinks I look like a purple Snuffleupagus.

Other than that, you can take the rest.  The suddenly sagging parts. The five extra pounds you can’t ever seem to get rid of, no matter how many miles you put on the treadmill.  The gray hairs you either pluck out with a vengeance or dye as if each strand is a symbol of your dwindling youth.  The weird dimple in your ass you can’t seem to get rid of no matter how many squats you do.

As a former athlete, I always swore that as long as I kept working out, I would be one of the few to escape cellulite.  In my twenties I figured as long as the gray hairs in my head were buried far in the midst of my think black hair, I needn’t worry about them.  In my youthful naiveté, I thought as long as was armed with the right Vicki’s lingerie, I could counteract the effects of gravity. 

But one day after my thirtieth birthday, I got out of the shower and looked in the mirror.  My body looked the same as it always did….almost.  There were some gray hairs at my temple.  Nothing a trip to the salon wouldn’t fix.  Was it me, or were the girls not as perky.  Oh well, I could get another bra with better support.  No need to be alarmed.  And then I turned around and saw it.  My booty.  It wasn’t as I last remembered it.  Sure, it was still firm…..ish.  I ran and worked out and did squats.  But it wasn’t as I remembered it.  And to make matters worse, there was now a funny looking dimple in my left thigh that looked remarkably like cellulite.  What?  How could this be?  Where had the bounce quarters off of it booty of 16 gone?  Somewhere over the years it had been replaced by its ‘in shape but certainly not bounce worthy’ booty of my thirties.  When the hell had that happened?

On my way up to Carmel this weekend, as I waited for my flights I came across two distinctly difference creatures.  One, with her lined skin, kind voice and toddler bouncing on her lap was as familiar to me as chocolate chip cookies and old dusty books.  The other with her Botox and Collagen injected face, perfectly smooth and surprise frozen skin, murmuring to the toddler in the seat next to her that he mustn’t call her grandma but instead call her Judy.  Two very different women, they looked different, acted different, so far on the opposite sides of the spectrum.  Which one would I be? 

Now I never thought I’d be one to want to age gracefully.  I figured I’d be kicking and screaming the whole way.  Living in Southern California It’s easy to see the products of plastic surgery and not even blink twice.  Adverts for the latest plastic surgery procedures are on television every day.  I’ve always been a proponent of if you don’t’ like something, then fix it, but am I ready for the plastic parts the frozen smile and the forever surprised eyebrows?  God only knows.  One thing I’m certainly not ready for is the Brazilian butt implant.  Yes, women are inserting something into their buts to now have the booties of Brazilian women.  Do I want my sixteen year old ass back that badly?  Maybe that’s a step over the line.

In Ghana there is a saying: “You too go grow.”  Not surprisingly you always find some elder woman muttering this under her breath to some sassy young girl who has not a care in the world and inhales chocolate like it’s religion.  I’ve always thought the saying was mutterings of bitter old women in search of their sixteen year old booties.  But maybe I was wrong.  There’s inevitability to age.  You can greet it happily with open arms, but who wants to do that?  Or you can line up for your Brazilian booty implants.  Either way you’ll have some wisdom and like it or not a couple of wrinkles.  Are you going to spend your life worrying about how to stave off crow’s feet or are you going to live every minute of it.  Soak it up and enjoy it?