Kristin Billerbeck has made me laugh, cry and sigh. I didn't get the "back to life" in time to read it for review, but I've read enough of Kristin's other novels to know I'm going to find a lot to like. Here is the book premise and a link to read chapter one. And then go here to visit Kristin's site, click on the book cover to go to Amazon, and here to see her trail at Scrambled Dregs. (Scroll down, there's lots to look at.)
About the book:
Lindsey realized when she married Ron, a man 17 years her senior, that the odds were he’d see heaven before her, but she never expected to be a widow at 35. There’s too much of life left for her to just sit around in mourning. But she can’t seem to kick start the rest of her life.
That is until she gets some help from Ron’s first wife, Jane, who shows up unexpectedly at her door one day as the executor of her husband’s estate. Jane is everything Lindsey’s not… independent, stubborn… and a lot older. Plus she has one surprise after another… including a son named Ron Jr. (she insists he’s not “really” Ron’s son). But an unlikely friendship develops as each woman begins to reevaluate what is really important, and owns up to the mistakes they’ve made in the past.
Told in the alternating voices of Jane and Lindsey, and with the return of many of the witty characters of The Trophy Wives Club, this book is a lighthearted, relatable read for when life goes in a direction you never planned. With faith and friends, there’s always light at the end of the tunnel.
If you would like to read an excerpt of chapter 1 of Back To Life, goHERE.
Kim wonders if she's missed something about me. Like maybe I'm a bit off. (It's okay, Kim, I read between the lines. Creative license for this here milking of the cat e-mail forward...)
Well, they do say what we know we assume to be "normal." (Actually, they don't say that, I did, which is probably why you just had to go back and give it another read or three before understanding dawned.)
As a five-year-old child my pet was a black and white cat named Lucy. (Creative spelling by yours truly -- Lousy -- but that's another story and my first book.)
Lucy birthed kittens. I discovered a delightful yet kind of disgusting thing about kittens. Their breath. Kittens have sour milk breath. Yes, it's true. How would I know this you might ask. Because I became addicted to smelling kitten breath. If I picked them up, and there were a bunch of them, they'd meow and I'd sniff. Ahhhh. Olfactory nirvana. I even became so intent on sniffing kitten breath that I remember squeezing a little kitten tail now and again to force a meow. I did try to sniff Lucy's breath because squeezing kittens seemed mean somehow. Hoo boy. Did that once.
Good news! The kittens survived and were likely even stronger because of my involvement in their nurture. And I got over the whole kitten breath thing when they began eating Friskies. Trust me.
However, have you smelled a human baby after it eats Cheerios. Smells almost as good as sweaty toes.
Jenny, Jenny, Jenny. Here's something that can make your life much easier. You don't need a skeleton pattern for poor Howard kitty. Voila. Skeleton kitty paint- by-number kit for your perusal.
Alas, no pigs for Aunt Fatty catty, but I love the plaid. You could make her resemble a footstool.
For Feral. Hmmm. This is tough. With the excessively long fangs I don't think cutesy or storybooky would work. I think a maroon bolero jacket and poofy cream pants. I'd paint a silver curved dagger looking thing to dangle at his side.
Then, new idea here, I could decorate my bandages with varicolored Sharpies and make cool rectangular temporary tattoos.
Pat sent me the following pictures in an e-mail forward.
Gotta love this new art form. (Unless you are a member of PETA. In that case you are likely not amused.)
Feral Will (you remember him, the wild cat who lives with us) entered the bedroom this morning as I was staring mindlessly at a wall while suffering from lack of caffeine. I began to pet him. Usually he avoids sinking the world's largest fangs into the soft meaty part of my hand that early in the morning. When he's affectionate, well, he's affectionate.
Feral has the most beautiful glossy black fur. As I stroked the softness I decided it was almost the texture of black velvet. (This was before I looked down at the sheets and realized he'd left a deposit of it behind...but I digress.)
Can you guess where I'm headed with this? Think bullfighters, Elvis....anyone, anyone?
If I actually am dumb enough to follow through with my black velvet cat painting I will take pictures.
Hollywood appeals to us -- even when it doesn't. On some level we envy or harbor a tiny lust for money, attention, admiration and even drama. I may call it love or something a little nobler, but I still hunger for something I can't find in my every day life that I think could be fulfilling -- if only. If only I had a personal trainer for eight hours a day, or a nanny. If I had the perfect car, or an unlimited budget life would be so sweet. How about the love of an amazing person, or at least one who looks amazing standing next to me?
We read about stars knowing they have some slice of life that we can only hope for, and somehow attach importance, as if they possess a special touch. Oprah has loads of wisdom. Why? She makes authors. Why? Does their book improve if she's read it? Brad and Angelina are the perfect couple. Really? Is that true?
So why do we even consider that anything celebrities say is of better quality than what our neighbor down the street thinks? Money, fame, beauty? Do pretty lips make truth?
Then there's the flip side. The hunger for the dirt. We love to see our celebrities fall. And we often act so surprised. Like uberattention, scads of money, socially liberating substances and all the flesh money can attract are good character builders. Madonna is getting divorced. This shocks us. Maybe it's the sick uncontrollable desire like when we drive by an accident. Must look, don't want to see anything awful, must look. Remember the intro to the old Wide World of Sports show on Saturdays. The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. I don't remember the thrill shots, but the agony...who can forget that poor guy. Yeah, the gold medal winners get the victory circle, but the amazing failures join them in notoriety.
I suppose a daily dose of superstars won't kill us but it's not exactly a multi-vitamin either, is it?
