I’ve been on a bit of a weight loss kick for the past year and a half. Not so much that I’ve completely cut out the fries and vegetarian gravy, and of course I haven’t given up the occasional
glass bottle of wine or two. I’m not a health freak, after all, just trying to be, you know, healthier. What I have done has worked well enough but I’ve reached an impasse. I don’t think it would be possible for me to lose anymore weight without developing a workout plan or some sort of an eating disorder. I mentioned the more appealing option to my boyfriend.
“I’m thinking of developing some sort of an eating disorder.”
“Oh yeah? Which one?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe one of the weird ones, like I only consume things that are white.”
“You’d have to switch from red wine to white. I don’t think you could handle that.”
“Plus I’d be stuck with a lot of dairy. I hate dairy.”
“I think you should just skip the whole eating disorder plan. You’re thin. How much more weight could you lose?”
“But I’m not fit!”
“You’ll have to work out to get fit.”
“The hell you say.”
“We have two gyms in our building. Why don’t you just go to one of those?”
“All the girls there are so skinny! Every time I try to go, I just glare at those fit bitches and walk out. They know how to use the equipment and everything.”
“If you just stopped trying to wearing my gym clothes, you’d fit in with them. Go buy clothes that aren’t three sizes too big for you.”
“You want me to own gym clothes? I am not the type of girl who walks around in sweat pants.” sigh “It’s like you don’t even know me.”
“Go to that hula hoop lemon place and get some gym clothes that make you feel good about your body. Trust me, it will work.”
I was not convinced, so I asked my swimming partner. She’s quite fit so I was hoping she might have a better plan than owning stupid workout clothes and going to the gym.
“My boyfriend told me I need to start working out.”
“That asshole! Tell him he’s the one that needs to work out.”
“He does? I thought he was in great shape.”
“That’s not the point. Where does he get off calling you fat? It’s not even true!”
“Okay, maybe I should start over. I want to get fit. He told me I couldn’t do that by switching to white wine. He said I have to go to the gym but I’m hoping you have some better ideas.”
“I used to be a tennis instructor in Paris. Do you want me to teach you how to play tennis?”
“I feel like I already know a lot about tennis. I sit out on my balcony and drink red wine while watching people play a lot.”
“Well good then you already have a head start.”
“Okay, I’ll learn how to play tennis. I guess I’ll have to go buy a racket.”
“And proper clothing. You can’t wear your boyfriend’s sweats. You’ll trip.”
So that’s how I ended up at lululemon. I felt so uncomfortable walking in because everyone in the store was already wearing work out clothes, and they all looked totally fit, those bitches. A beautiful blond woman asked if she could help me find something.
“Um. Work out gear?” What the fuck else would I be looking for?
“Yeah but what kind? Yoga? Running? Cross-training?”
“I dunno. I want to play tennis. And maybe go to the gym once I’m fit enough.”
She gave me a quizzical look but said nothing as she directed me towards the back of the store. With her help, I blew three hundred dollars on one pair of pants, one pair of shorts, two tank tops with sports bras built in and a head band. I did not plan on buying so much but some sort of magical transformation happened in that change room. A somewhat in-shape woman walked into that cubicle and a totally fit-looking, tanned woman walked out (the saleswoman explained that the neon green colour of the shirt makes someone with even a slight tan look like a golden goddess).
Holy shit, I love these clothes. They are so comfortable! I almost walked out of the store to wander the Eaton Centre in those track pants. That’s right folks, for a moment I wanted to be one of those girls – you know, the ones who walk around wearing lululemon when they pretend that they are going to or coming from a work out.
I went for my first tennis lesson, which was totally fun, except for the part where my coach and I knocked heads and both ended up sprawled out on the court. Okay, I’m lying. The part where we knocked heads and ended up sprawled out on the court was the funnest part. After the lesson we went swimming. On the way to the pool, we stepped onto the elevator with two good looking guys who were headed to the gym, on the same level as the pool. I could tell the guys were checking me out, which made me feel confident enough to put on the outfit again after swimming and sneak into the gym, where I worked out on the elliptical machine for about half an hour. I didn’t actually know how to turn the machine on but someone helped me set it to some lower body endurance mode.
So here I am sitting on my couch still wearing my workout clothes. I do have to take them off before the boyfriend gets home, though. I’m not yet ready for him to know he was right.
Can I just ask, why am I such an idiot? You’ve read my blog, right? You must have a basic understanding of how my mind works. Where is the short circuit, the crossed wire, the defective part that needs to be returned to the manufacturer?
If you have read my past post, My Failed Attempts to Look Smart in Front of David Sedaris, you know that I really bunged things up the two times I’ve been in his presence. Last night, at a book signing at Indigo, I was supposed to have learned from my mistakes and presented myself brilliantly.
Yeah, that didn’t happen.
The one day that David Sedaris was in Toronto, I had to work an event in Mississauga. One of my wonderful friends acted as a placeholder in line for me while I rushed my ass back to the city. I got there about ten minutes before it was my turn to have my books signed. That was ten minutes to forget my arsenal of jokes, ten minutes to get a dry throat and sweaty palms, ten minutes to think about the fact that I had nothing interesting to say. Why do I get so nervous around celebrity? And, yes, I do consider David Sedaris celebrity. I wouldn’t give a flying fuck if I ran into Angelina Jolie or some other actor. Well, except Jason Statham but I wouldn’t have a chance to get nervous, and when the security finally found a spatula big enough to peel me off his body, I would have no regrets.
Anyway, I got to the front of the line.
“Hey, how are you doing?” I asked, silently congratulating myself for saying something normal people say.
“Good. Do you have Maple Leaf fever, too?” I’m sure he asked this because the woman who was in front of me in line had her signed Maple Leafs jersey on, and because the entire city was going nuts over the fact that they made the playoffs.
“Nope, not really.”
“I was worried about the turnout because of the game.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t think that would matter. Is it even a home game?”
“You’re asking the wrong person.”
We sort of looked at each other at that point and I could tell I had failed to impress him.
“Do you know any jokes?”
Fuck! Why does he always ask me that? But I did have a joke ready – What do you call a cow that just had a baby? De-calf-inated – and I swear I opened my mouth to tell it but instead something entirely different came out:
“My friend’s grandma is ninety years old. She’s at that stage in life where she just says whatever she wants. Anyway, the lady was on husband number three but he died. My friend went to visit her and said, “I’m sorry your husband died, grandma.” The old lady responded, “Well, that’s the way it goes, dear. One day they’re fucking you up the ass, the next they’re dead.”
He didn’t laugh.
I felt the urge to explain, “See, it’s funny because it’s a true story and she’s so old…” but we all know that if you have to explain it, it’s just not humorous.
“What’s the difference between a pedophile and a tortoise?” David Sedaris asked.
“They both want to come before the hare.”
Wait. He thinks that’s funnier than an old lady discussing butt sex with her granddaughter? Well, to each his own.
He gave me back my books, one signed to the the friend who held my place in line and the rest to me. I thanked him and took my leave to join my friend in the magazine section.
“What did you to talk about? You were chatting with him for a long time.”
“I told him that my friend’s 90 year old grandma likes ass sex.”
“Well, I’m glad you had a good time. Do you want to go get a glass of wine?”
“Yes. Yes I do.”
We settled on an overpriced French restaurant because all of the other restaurants, pubs and bars in downtown Toronto were packed with Leafs fans. We ordered a bottle of wine and then another. We could tell the Leafs lost when a brawl started outside.
At some point we realized that we hadn’t read the inscription in our books. My friend opened his first and read it out loud.
You are but a placeholder.
One of mine had a coloured drawing of a knife with blood on it. Another, an anthology for which all of the profits go to a tutoring centre in Brooklyn, said Thank you for helping the miserable children.
The third said Go mighty maple leaves.
We spent a lot of time debating this one. Was he referring to the hockey team or actual leaves? He didn’t capitalize maple leaves, and the plural for Maple Leafs is, well Maple Leafs. Plus, I did mention I wasn’t a huge hockey fan…
“I think he did it on purpose,” I concluded. “It’s funny.”
“Maybe you should just ask him next time he’s in town,” suggested my friend.
“But what if it is a misspelling? I’ll look like a passive-aggressive bitch when I point out his error in the form of a question.”
“Yes, you’re right. That would make a terrible impression. Stick to telling stories about ninety-year old women who take it up the ass.”
“Why don’t you go take it up the ass, you prick.”
“Well that just gives a whole new meaning to you are but a placeholder.”
“Hey, I should tell him that joke. That’s funny.”
Yeah, maybe next time I should just stay home.
I’ve received some wonderful reviews for my latest release, The Wedding. These reviewers have totally made my day, and I’m hoping that if there is anyone out there debating on shelling out $1.97 for this super hot and totally amazing tale, these reviewer’s opinions will help tip the scales in my favour.
The Wedding, reviews on Amazon
5.0 out of 5 stars One Wedding + Two People with Blazing Chemistry = One HOT READ!
I can’t say enough how much I loved this story! Karen and Allen are two characters whose banter and chemistry are just perfectly balanced. These two characters definitely heat up the page! I appreciated the fact that Allen’s character was written with a little bit of wicked and sweet. At first I wasn’t sure whether Karen’s wild child personality was a good match for a man who was obviously recovering from a bad break-up, but the author somehow managed to make it work and had me rooting for these two to stay together (please I need more!).
It’s rare that I find a short story or novella where the chemistry between the two main characters doesn’t feel forced or contrived. Although this is an erotica/erotic short I never felt as if it was all about the sex. These two characters understand each other on a level that is usually difficult to convey in such a short amount of time, so I’m incredibly impressed that Ms. McMillen was able to pack so much into this great read! This story really was a pleasant surprise and I can’t wait to see what this author has in store next.
5.0 out of 5 stars Smexy wedding fun!
The Wedding is the new book out by D.C. McMillan. I read it, and it is delightful! Everything we have come to expect from D. C. It is a funny, sexy, and quick read.
Remember Karen and Allen from The Rental? They are back, and just as sexy as ever. Allen is going to be back in town, a friend is getting married and he needs a sexy and attractive date. With a little persuasion Karen agrees to be his date.
Let’s just say that confident Allen comes back at the wedding, and Karen makes use of the man she loves to have hot sex with, to upset his ex-wife as the she and Allen wonders out to the wooded area behind the reception.
This was a five star read and loved it completely. A must pick up if you like sexy couples and inappropriate sex that is just down right dirty and fun. Well done, Ms. McMillan.
5.0 out of 5 stars Frothy wedding fun
Ever been to a boring wedding, wishing you could escape the dull chitchat and cut straight to the icing on top of that layer cake? D.C. McMillen’s short erotic piece, “The Wedding,” skips all the filler and takes you right to the creamy center, with a sex scene that makes both Allan’s ex-wife and readers jealous. Enjoy this quick romp on a lazy Sunday, or skip a real wedding for a bit of frothy fun.
5.0 out of 5 stars Good steamy fun
D.C. does it again with The Wedding. The thing I like best about her books is the fun factor. It’s not just a down and dirty sex romp, it has a lot of fun, and great characters. Karen Valentine is one of my new favorites.
Admit it, the reviews have piqued your curiosity. It’s okay, it happens. Here’s the link. Go buy the book. I won’t tell anyone…unless you leave a review that I can’t help but share, of course.
I am not a parent. Frankly, I don’t know how parents do it. Or why they do it for that matter but to each their own. And because I’m not a parent, I try not to judge them. It doesn’t always work out that way but I swear I do try. For example, when kids are screaming their brains out in a grocery store or kicking and rolling around on a sidewalk because they can’t have another ice cream cone, I don’t judge. I simply assume that the kid is having a bad day and the parents are probably having an even worse one. After all, I can barely police my own actions, I could not imagine trying to control the actions of another living being all day, every day.
Sometimes, though. Sometimes when I am sitting in a crowded theatre trying to ignore an overtired, screaming infant, I do have to wonder what was going through a parent’s mind when they decided it would be a good idea to bring their baby to an eleven o’clock showing of an R rated movie. I have also had to stop myself from asking questions like, “What part of you thought it would be okay to bring a five year-old to a sushi restaurant two hours before midnight?” I mean, what could possibly be on a menu comprised of different kinds of raw fish that will appeal to a child’s palette?
See, I get that kids should not at any point in their childhood be expected to behave like adults, and if I want to leave my home during the day, I need to respect their right to exist. But, here’s the thing. Isn’t there a time and place? Like, if I go to dinner before 9pm, I should expect to share the restaurant with families full of kids. Likewise, if I put off dinner until after 9 or 10pm and I avoid family restaurants, or I put off my movie going until the late show and choose movies that have adult content, shouldn’t I be able to enjoy these experiences without overtired, misbehaving children? Am I wrong in assuming this?
I went to a restaurant at 10pm a while ago. The boyfriend and I both left the table to wash our hands before eating. When I returned, a little kid sat at my seat, finishing off my drink. “What the hell are you doing?” I shouted. The kid immediately started bawling and the parents looked up, startled. There were at least three other kids at their table and one crawling around under the it. The mom grabbed her son and begrudgingly told me she would buy me another drink. “But that’s not the problem! There was three ounces of booze in there, and your son just sucked it down! Is he going to be okay?” This bit of information did not make the mom happy. She acted like it was my fault for leaving such an enticing, fruity looking beverage unattended. And maybe it was my fault but I’m not a parent, how am I supposed to know these things? Maybe if she took her kid to The Spaghetti Factory at 7pm, she would sit next to a table full of people who know better than to leave a triple tequila sunrise at their table while they go tot the washroom. This is why I try to avoid situations that put me in direct contact with children; I’m afraid I’ll inadvertently kill them.
I even do my grocery shopping late at night. I fucking love 24 hour grocery stores! I can wander the aisles without children or adults who act like children (except for the occasional drunk or high person) getting in my way. There are pretty much zero crowds, children or otherwise, at Loblaw’s at midnight. Which is why this next experience threw me off guard.
The boyfriend and I were in the grocery store minding our own business. He was in the next aisle, perusing the Ben & Jerry’s selection when a little
jack ass kid turns down my aisle pushing his mom’s cart, his mother trailing behind. He races the cart around, knocking into the shelves on purpose, backing up and then knocking into the opposite shelves, leaving a trail of fallen products in his wake. The mom lets him do his thing, ignoring the mess and occasionally catching up to the cart to toss items in it. When he gets to where I am, he starts ramming his cart into mine while laughing like this is a hysterical thing to do – once, twice, three times. I reach out and firmly grab the cart. Just as firmly, I say, “No. This is not how you act in public.” The mom gives me a dirty look, I stare her down.
She finally shrugs and says, “Kids. What can you do?” At this point, the kid is ramming my cart again. My boyfriend appeared just in time to hear me respond, “I know exactly what you mean. We used to wonder what to do with our kids.”
“Then we beat them to death,” the boyfriend quipped, without missing a beat.
“Problem solved!” I offered my most radiant smile.
The kid stopped ramming my cart. The mom’s eyes widened. Oh sure, she acted disturbed but I bet she was thinking about it.
My good friend and fabulous writer Erica Lucke Dean is stepping under The Spotlight to promote her very first release ever! I’ve had the pleasure of beta reading some of the sexy stuff in this book let me just say that this book is a MUST READ.
In an effort to get the word out on To Katie With Love, Erica has written about a billion guest posts in a very short period of time. In an effort to give her a bit of a break, I decided that instead of a regular author interview or guest post, we will instead play a fun game of Would You Rather. For those who don’t know the rules to this game, let me clarify. I will pose a series of two unlikely, questionable or distasteful scenarios and Erica will have to choose which one she would rather do and then tell us why. Simple, right?
Okay, let’s jump right in.
Erica, congratulations on your latest release and welcome to the e-rotica blog! Now, would you rather….
- Give up chocolate or sex?
Wow, you don’t mess around do you? How can I choose between sex and chocolate? That’s like choosing between Edward and Jacob…no, I’d always choose Edward. Ok…I’d give up chocolate. No sex. No definitely chocolate. Final answer.
- Let a durian fruit salad sit in your kitchen for a month or not eat cupcakes for an entire year?
Again, tough call. I think I’d rather give up cupcakes. I’m only saying that because in a technical sense I can still have cake as long as it’s not in cup form. J
- Sing the national anthem at a little league game or take your top off at a concert?
That’s easy. I’d totally sing the national anthem. But I’m a singer, so I think I could pull it off. Then again, I have a nice rack, and no one I know would be at a concert. I hope.
- Change a filthy box of cat litter or cook an entire Thanksgiving dinner from scratch for the in-laws? Yes, this includes dessert.
I’ve changed my share of nasty cat boxes in my day, and it’s definitely easier than spending a day with the in-laws. I’ll take poop for $100 Alex.
- Go full Monty on a nude beach or get a back massage from Olga from Zoolander? Um, before you answer, you should know that this character was actually played by Andy Dick.
OMG…neither choice is appealing. I burn easily, so the idea of exposing my sensitive skin to the sun…or Andy’s dick…gah…horrifying options either way. Do I get a pass? Can I skip this one? No? Damn! Ok…I’ll go for Olga for the win.
- Enter a televised no hands allowed pie eating contest or bob for hotdogs in a barrel at a county fair?
Bobbing for hot dogs might be fun. I could work with that. And the stories I could tell later. Yeah…I think I’d bob for weenies. J
- Give a speech about the menstrual cycle to a group of third graders or spend an afternoon washing dishes in a school cafeteria?
I think I’d have fun trying to explain sex-ed to third graders. Can I make up words? If I can make up words I’m in.
- Work at Wal-mart or a morgue?
I’ve been to a Wal-mart. Several , in fact. I’ll hang out with the dead people, thank you. As long as it’s not the night shift. Then again…night shift at Wal-Mart is way scarier.
- Swim with sharks (like you see all those crazy tourists doing) or let a tarantula crawl on your hand?
Really…there has to be a pass in this game. I’ll even play the lightning round if I can get a pass on this one. There’s no way I’d ever get into a shark tank. Not only are sharks super scary…and they poop in the water…but it’s underwater. I can’t breathe underwater, and the breathing apparatus frightens me. Then again, I have major arachnophobia. I’d have a panic attack and die before reaching this challenge. Or I’d have to wash out of the game. Nope. I’m taking a pass. Do with me what you will for punishment.
- Mud wrestle or Jello Wrestle?
Mud. Jello is sticky. I think. At least I could pretend I’m at a spa if I’m wrestling in mud. It’s good for the skin right? Wait…there aren’t any bugs in this mud are there? Bugs are a game changer. If there are bugs, I’ll take my chance with the Jello.
And here are a couple of one-word-answer bonus questions:
- Would you rather become a best-selling author or win the lottery?
Bestselling author. That’s like winning the creative lottery. ;)
- Ryan Gosling or Ryan Reynolds?
Gosling all the way. If I have to pick one.
- Bikini or one-piece?
One piece. It’s sexier. That’s my answer and I’m sticking to it.
- Heels or flats?
If I could walk in heels I’d pick heels every time. Not that I need them, I’m super tall, but heels are sexy. Then again, falling on your face in a crowd is rarely sexy, so you’ll find me in flats.
- Side salad or French fries?
Side salad of course. Then again, there are fries in my side salad. J
To Katie With Love, Blurb
Banker Katie James has a serious thing for romance novels. She’d almost rather settle for a fictional boyfriend than risk her heart on a flesh-and-blood man. Besides, the only real guy she’s remotely interested in is her rich, unattainable client, the mysterious Cooper Maxwell.
Looking less like the ultra-conservative man she knows and more like a drop-dead sexy character from one of her books, Cooper crashes Katie’s 29th birthday party. But one too many drinks lands Katie in uncharted territory… Cooper’s bedroom!
Drunk on love, Katie dives headfirst into the relationship only to discover that Cooper is keeping secrets… dangerous ones. As if things couldn’t get worse, her meddling mother makes a surprise visit, digging up a whole new set of problems.
Who would have guessed having an assassin for a boyfriend would be the least of her worries?
Erica Lucke Dean, Bio
“I’m an author of fluffy romance and paranormal romance novels, with a twist. I blog about life in my haunted farmhouse and other ridiculous things. And I laugh at myself when I trip. ”
— Erica Lucke Dean
After walking away from her career as a business banker to pursue writing full-time, Erica moved from the hustle and bustle of the big city to a small tourist town in the North Georgia Mountains where she lives in a 90-year-old haunted farmhouse with her workaholic husband, her 180lb lap dog, and at least one ghost.
When she’s not busy writing or tending to her collection of crazy chickens, diabolical ducks, and a quintet of piglets, hell bent on having her for dinner, she’s either reading bad fan fiction or singing karaoke in the local pub. Much like the main character in her newest book, To Katie With Love, Erica is a magnet for disaster, and has been known to trip on air while walking across flat surfaces.
How she’s managed to survive this long is one of life’s great mysteries.
This is the $16.45 lunch I bought today, which was then heated in a microwave and served to me with a plastic fork.
This is the super obvious warning I saw while waiting for my lunch.
These are the vegetable zombies that will forever haunt my dreams
This is the fruit that I did smell at my own risk, thank you very much.
That is all.
Anyway, it has been about a fortnight now and my boobs are still here. I am closely monitoring the situation, folks but I wouldn’t mind any positive vibes, voodoo magic or boob growing potion you may have on hand sent my way.