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Wednesday, March 13, 2013

I Met Him in the Ladies' Room by Michelle Stimpson

Tour Date: March 8, 2012

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<div style="font-weight: bold;">
 </div>
Product Details: 
List Price: $6.49 
Paperback: 102 pages 
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform (January 17, 2013) 
Language: English 
ISBN-10: 1482002337 
ISBN-13: 978-1482002331 
 
<div style="font-weight: bold;">
 </div>
 
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER: 

 
 
<div style="height: 307px; overflow: auto;">
 
Christmas was the only “religious” thing we did as a family, if you could call what we did religious. Somehow, a six-pack of beer and a stolen Atari system under the tree seemed to detract from the sacred nature of the celebration. 
 
How did I know it was sacred? They cancelled school for it. We also got out for Thanksgiving and Good Friday, but those two never quite caught on in my family. 
 
So, years later, when my roommate Stephanie printed off a vacancy announcement from a local church which stated one of the requirements for employment was Applicants must have accepted Christ as personal Savior and be committed to continuous spiritual growth I yelled at her, “Did you read this part?” 
 
“What part?” Stephanie asked, plopping herself down on my bed. Snatching the paper back from me, she pushed her jet-black hair behind both ears and took a second look at the post. 
 
“This part right here," I punched the paper to point out criteria number six, "about being a Christian.” 
 
She grabbed my hand and inspected my fingers instead of the job description. “You need a manicure.” 
 
In protest, I folded my hands beneath my armpits. “Get serious. I’ve got less than a year to get a job and get myself established.” 
 
“What kind of job do you expect to get with nails like these?” She smirked. “Gardener, maybe?  Ditch-digger?” 
 
I returned her smirk with what I thought was one of my own, but I’m sure it looked more like a smile. Stephanie, ever-cheerful, had jokes for everything. She also had good looks and a rich, functional family—attributes that totally escaped me. No wonder people like her were in love and engaged. The only wonder was how we ended up best friends and how she’d all but supported me since we graduated from junior college. Now that she was getting married to Ricardo, I had to be a grown-up. We’d both have to be grown-ups, we gathered. For her: no more running to Daddy. For me: no more running to Stephanie. Hence, my dire need for steady employment. 
 
Stephanie re-read the requirements and then announced, “Kerri, you can so be a Christian. It’s not that big a deal from what I can tell.  You believe in God, right?” 
 
“Yeah, me and every other heathen,” I joked. 
 
Stephanie smacked the papers on the bed, straightened her back, and walked me through her rationale. “Didn’t you, like, go to church when you were little?” 
 
“Nnnnnope,” the word slid out of me. 
 
“Okay,” she said with a clap of her hands, “Did you ever say bedtime prayers?” 
 
“Aaanck.” 
 
“Get baptized?” 
 
“Strike three, Stephanie, I’m out. You can’t just be a Christian. You gotta, like, take all these classes and stuff. You remember Danny?” I referenced an ex-boyfriend of mine who wasn’t necessarily spiritual but was definitely a repository of useless information. “He said you have to get this kit and memorize volumes of prose and drink wine before you can become a confirmed Christian.” 
 
Stephanie’s perfectly shaped eyebrows shot up an inch. “You’ve had wine! And remember that Catholic wedding we went to? We drank wine there.” 
 
“I am not a Christian, and I am not going to fake like one just so I can get a job. I might as well be…a politician or something,” I said. 
 
Fourteen days and six job rejection notifications later, I found myself running for the office of “Writer/Editor” at one of the largest churches in the Dallas area. Sure, my conscious bothered me. Actually, it did more than bother me, it harassed me. So much that I’d added “Become a Christian” to the top of my list of “Things to Do Today” every day for the last week. I never quite got around to it though, since I couldn’t get in touch with Danny for the books or the wine to get the job done. 
 
When the lady from the church called to confirm the interview, all I could do was hope like crazy I wouldn’t have to take some kind of Christian-test as part of the screening process. 
 
 
 
 
 
As I waited for my potential boss to call me beyond the reception area, I browsed the church’s magazine rack. Each issue boasted the picture of a distinguished, deeply brown-skinned man with the salt-and-pepper hair one only gets with years of wisdom. His wife, clad in an elegant dress suit, was equally impressive. Stephanie would say she was quietly wealthy. 
 
They were, upon further inspection, pastor and wife of Wesley Street Bible Fellowship; Pastor and Mrs. Scott. I had done some research about the church online, but the picture on the webpage didn’t do them justice. 
 
I flipped through one of the magazines, still awaiting my interview, and came across a brief clip entitled, “How to Accept Christ as your Personal Savior.” My heart screeched to a halt. Yes! I’d found it! I breezed to the bottom of the article to find the kit-ordering information. There was no time to lose. If I could order the kit before the interview, I would only have to tell a partial lie about this whole “being a Christian” thing. As long as my Christian kit was on the way, I was half-way home. 
 
I jumped from the cushy chair and approached the office secretary. She slung her floppy bangs away from her eyes and asked, “Yes?” 
 
“Sorry to bother you, but where’s the ladies’ room?” 
 
She pointed to the left. “Around this corner – two doors down.” 
 
“Thanks.” 
 
With the magazine still in hand, I entered the bathroom and rushed into the first stall, determined to break this secret code and find out how I could get my hands on the information. There had to be an 800-number or something! I re-read the clip in its entirety, slowly this time. Was it really that simple?  Say this prayer and then – POOF! –bad stuff be gone, you’re a Christian? 
 
It cannot be this simple. 
 
Whatever. If this is what they wanted, this is what they would get. I searched the bathroom with my ears, and when I determined there was no one else around, I whispered the printed prayer: 
 
 
 
Jesus, I come to you as a sinner, confessing my sins, and asking for your forgiveness. I believe you died on the cross for my sins, you rose again, and you are now seated at the right hand of God. I invite you to come into my heart and be my personal savior. Amen. 
 
 
 
Then I waited. I don’t really know why or what for, I just waited. After a few minutes, I realized I was probably waiting to be struck by lightning for doing such a bad deed. I didn’t know much about God, but I figured it was pretty safe to say that He didn’t like phonies. Who was I kidding?  I couldn’t take this job. Not like this. Not if I didn’t really mean what I’d said. 
 
I guess that was the part that got me – how could I believe in something I didn’t really understand?  Who exactly was this Jesus dude?  If he died and then got back up again, did that make him an angel like Grandpa Skeeter?  When Grandpa Skeeter died, everyone said he turned into a guardian angel. In life, he always carried a .45, which, I supposed, made him a prime candidate to be guardian of something or another. 
 
Who said I was a sinner, anyway?  Okay, I had bad credit, but that was all thanks to a former boyfriend who convinced me to add him to my cell phone plan and co-sign for a Nissan. Never mind that I couldn’t even drive it because it had manual transmission. No, I wouldn’t classify my credit score as sin. I’d just been plain old stupid. 
 
I heard the bathroom door swing open and listened as a pair of pumps stomped two steps inside. “Miss Dalee?” 
 
“Yes,” I answered. 
 
“Are you okay?” 
 
My mind scrambled back to reality. “Yes, I’m okay. I'm just…finishing up.” I reached behind myself and flushed the toilet for effect. Not quite sure what effect I was going for. 
 
“Mrs. Trenton will see you now.” 
 
“I’ll be right out.” 
 
Time to lie? Or not?  I stepped out of the stall and into a forced meeting with myself because the wall-length mirror was now directly across from me. My deep brown hair swung low at my cheekbones, accenting a sharp V-chin and nearly overpowering my face. 
 
Stephanie always said my hair was too big for me, as were my feet. Everything in between the two hadn’t changed much since the seventh grade. Makeup helped to bring out my hazel eyes a little, but Maybelline and Max Factor can only do so much. My only “interview” suit swallowed me and probably would have overcome me if I hadn’t pinned the skirt at the waist. 
 
The woman staring back at me was…well, I didn’t really think of myself as a woman. A woman has confidence. Wisdom. Girth. This girl in the mirror felt as insecure and silly and painstakingly skinny as I had ever been, only now I could safely add dishonest to my list descriptors. 
 
“No,” I said out loud to myself. This was as good a time as any for a pep talk. I stepped up to the glass and gave myself a what-would-Stephanie-say? lecture. “You prayed the prayer, you wanted to mean it…you just don’t know what it means. They can’t count off for that. You’ll find out what it means later. Now, build a bridge and get over it ‘cause you need this job, girlie.” 
 
I didn’t know what to say next, so I quoted my favorite line from The Lion King.  “It is time.”</div>

***************************************************************************

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:

Michelle Stimpson

and the book:

I Met Him in the Ladies' Room

CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform (January 17, 2013)

***Special thanks to Michelle Stimpson for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Michelle Stimpson is a national bestselling, multi-published author. She lives just outside Dallas with her husband, one kid left in the nest, and their weird dog.

Visit the author's website.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

Kerri Dalee didn’t grow up in a religious family. In fact, the last time Kerri went to church, she only attended for the cool door prizes and food served at Vacation Bible School. But when her wealthy roommate, Stephanie, gets engaged, Kerri’s finds that her only hope for financial survival is an editing job at a Dallas area mega-church. While waiting for her interview, Kerri makes a quick, desperate decision to meet Christ – in the ladies’ room, of all places – so she can fulfill every aspect of the stated criteria for employment. But can she fake her faith long enough to make it through the 90-day probationary period? How will her family respond? And, more importantly, will Kerri get more than she bargained for at this new job?

I Met Him in the Ladies’ Room is a fun, faith-filled novella that revisits the foundations of Christianity with humorous, light-hearted wisdom and wit.

Product Details:
List Price: $6.49
Paperback: 102 pages
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform (January 17, 2013)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1482002337
ISBN-13: 978-1482002331

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Christmas was the only “religious” thing we did as a family, if you could call what we did religious. Somehow, a six-pack of beer and a stolen Atari system under the tree seemed to detract from the sacred nature of the celebration.

How did I know it was sacred? They cancelled school for it. We also got out for Thanksgiving and Good Friday, but those two never quite caught on in my family.

So, years later, when my roommate Stephanie printed off a vacancy announcement from a local church which stated one of the requirements for employment was Applicants must have accepted Christ as personal Savior and be committed to continuous spiritual growth I yelled at her, “Did you read this part?”

“What part?” Stephanie asked, plopping herself down on my bed. Snatching the paper back from me, she pushed her jet-black hair behind both ears and took a second look at the post.

“This part right here," I punched the paper to point out criteria number six, "about being a Christian.”

She grabbed my hand and inspected my fingers instead of the job description. “You need a manicure.”

In protest, I folded my hands beneath my armpits. “Get serious. I’ve got less than a year to get a job and get myself established.”

“What kind of job do you expect to get with nails like these?” She smirked. “Gardener, maybe? Ditch-digger?”

I returned her smirk with what I thought was one of my own, but I’m sure it looked more like a smile. Stephanie, ever-cheerful, had jokes for everything. She also had good looks and a rich, functional family—attributes that totally escaped me. No wonder people like her were in love and engaged. The only wonder was how we ended up best friends and how she’d all but supported me since we graduated from junior college. Now that she was getting married to Ricardo, I had to be a grown-up. We’d both have to be grown-ups, we gathered. For her: no more running to Daddy. For me: no more running to Stephanie. Hence, my dire need for steady employment.

Stephanie re-read the requirements and then announced, “Kerri, you can so be a Christian. It’s not that big a deal from what I can tell. You believe in God, right?”

“Yeah, me and every other heathen,” I joked.

Stephanie smacked the papers on the bed, straightened her back, and walked me through her rationale. “Didn’t you, like, go to church when you were little?”

“Nnnnnope,” the word slid out of me.

“Okay,” she said with a clap of her hands, “Did you ever say bedtime prayers?”

“Aaanck.”

“Get baptized?”

“Strike three, Stephanie, I’m out. You can’t just be a Christian. You gotta, like, take all these classes and stuff. You remember Danny?” I referenced an ex-boyfriend of mine who wasn’t necessarily spiritual but was definitely a repository of useless information. “He said you have to get this kit and memorize volumes of prose and drink wine before you can become a confirmed Christian.”

Stephanie’s perfectly shaped eyebrows shot up an inch. “You’ve had wine! And remember that Catholic wedding we went to? We drank wine there.”

“I am not a Christian, and I am not going to fake like one just so I can get a job. I might as well be…a politician or something,” I said.

Fourteen days and six job rejection notifications later, I found myself running for the office of “Writer/Editor” at one of the largest churches in the Dallas area. Sure, my conscious bothered me. Actually, it did more than bother me, it harassed me. So much that I’d added “Become a Christian” to the top of my list of “Things to Do Today” every day for the last week. I never quite got around to it though, since I couldn’t get in touch with Danny for the books or the wine to get the job done.

When the lady from the church called to confirm the interview, all I could do was hope like crazy I wouldn’t have to take some kind of Christian-test as part of the screening process.

As I waited for my potential boss to call me beyond the reception area, I browsed the church’s magazine rack. Each issue boasted the picture of a distinguished, deeply brown-skinned man with the salt-and-pepper hair one only gets with years of wisdom. His wife, clad in an elegant dress suit, was equally impressive. Stephanie would say she was quietly wealthy.

They were, upon further inspection, pastor and wife of Wesley Street Bible Fellowship; Pastor and Mrs. Scott. I had done some research about the church online, but the picture on the webpage didn’t do them justice.

I flipped through one of the magazines, still awaiting my interview, and came across a brief clip entitled, “How to Accept Christ as your Personal Savior.” My heart screeched to a halt. Yes! I’d found it! I breezed to the bottom of the article to find the kit-ordering information. There was no time to lose. If I could order the kit before the interview, I would only have to tell a partial lie about this whole “being a Christian” thing. As long as my Christian kit was on the way, I was half-way home.

I jumped from the cushy chair and approached the office secretary. She slung her floppy bangs away from her eyes and asked, “Yes?”

“Sorry to bother you, but where’s the ladies’ room?”

She pointed to the left. “Around this corner – two doors down.”

“Thanks.”

With the magazine still in hand, I entered the bathroom and rushed into the first stall, determined to break this secret code and find out how I could get my hands on the information. There had to be an 800-number or something! I re-read the clip in its entirety, slowly this time. Was it really that simple? Say this prayer and then – POOF! –bad stuff be gone, you’re a Christian?

It cannot be this simple.

Whatever. If this is what they wanted, this is what they would get. I searched the bathroom with my ears, and when I determined there was no one else around, I whispered the printed prayer:

Jesus, I come to you as a sinner, confessing my sins, and asking for your forgiveness. I believe you died on the cross for my sins, you rose again, and you are now seated at the right hand of God. I invite you to come into my heart and be my personal savior. Amen.

Then I waited. I don’t really know why or what for, I just waited. After a few minutes, I realized I was probably waiting to be struck by lightning for doing such a bad deed. I didn’t know much about God, but I figured it was pretty safe to say that He didn’t like phonies. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t take this job. Not like this. Not if I didn’t really mean what I’d said.

I guess that was the part that got me – how could I believe in something I didn’t really understand? Who exactly was this Jesus dude? If he died and then got back up again, did that make him an angel like Grandpa Skeeter? When Grandpa Skeeter died, everyone said he turned into a guardian angel. In life, he always carried a .45, which, I supposed, made him a prime candidate to be guardian of something or another.

Who said I was a sinner, anyway? Okay, I had bad credit, but that was all thanks to a former boyfriend who convinced me to add him to my cell phone plan and co-sign for a Nissan. Never mind that I couldn’t even drive it because it had manual transmission. No, I wouldn’t classify my credit score as sin. I’d just been plain old stupid.

I heard the bathroom door swing open and listened as a pair of pumps stomped two steps inside. “Miss Dalee?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Are you okay?”

My mind scrambled back to reality. “Yes, I’m okay. I'm just…finishing up.” I reached behind myself and flushed the toilet for effect. Not quite sure what effect I was going for.

“Mrs. Trenton will see you now.”

“I’ll be right out.”

Time to lie? Or not? I stepped out of the stall and into a forced meeting with myself because the wall-length mirror was now directly across from me. My deep brown hair swung low at my cheekbones, accenting a sharp V-chin and nearly overpowering my face.

Stephanie always said my hair was too big for me, as were my feet. Everything in between the two hadn’t changed much since the seventh grade. Makeup helped to bring out my hazel eyes a little, but Maybelline and Max Factor can only do so much. My only “interview” suit swallowed me and probably would have overcome me if I hadn’t pinned the skirt at the waist.

The woman staring back at me was…well, I didn’t really think of myself as a woman. A woman has confidence. Wisdom. Girth. This girl in the mirror felt as insecure and silly and painstakingly skinny as I had ever been, only now I could safely add dishonest to my list descriptors.

“No,” I said out loud to myself. This was as good a time as any for a pep talk. I stepped up to the glass and gave myself a what-would-Stephanie-say? lecture. “You prayed the prayer, you wanted to mean it…you just don’t know what it means. They can’t count off for that. You’ll find out what it means later. Now, build a bridge and get over it ‘cause you need this job, girlie.”

I didn’t know what to say next, so I quoted my favorite line from The Lion King. “It is time.”

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Someone to Watch Over Me by Michelle Stimpson

Tour Date: July 13, 2011

When the tour date arrives, copy and paste the HTML Provided in the box. Don't forget to add your honest review if you wish! PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT ON THIS POST WHEN THE TOUR COMES AROUND!

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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRdT7neC65_evFoN5ybKnG8e-0qFvuQF8Qbyxc3fmqnD9hQr5F4ZOPZTcFkx6hO8B0JxukCCLKeu_0Cyiff4U79hSIMrYyjlkFxBy8S3V1oTP4tYcMYJ2VlW3YvH_VaZM981DmP1M8B-g/s1600/FIRSTWildCardTours2.jpg"><a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 145px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRdT7neC65_evFoN5ybKnG8e-0qFvuQF8Qbyxc3fmqnD9hQr5F4ZOPZTcFkx6hO8B0JxukCCLKeu_0Cyiff4U79hSIMrYyjlkFxBy8S3V1oTP4tYcMYJ2VlW3YvH_VaZM981DmP1M8B-g/s200/FIRSTWildCardTours2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480264388542368882" /></a></a>It is time for a <a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">FIRST Wild Card Tour</a> book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book! You never know when I might play a wild card on you! <div align="center">Today's Wild Card author is: </div> <div align="center"><a href="http://www.MichelleStimpson.com/">Michelle Stimpson</a> </div> and the book: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0758246889">Someone to Watch Over Me</a> Dafina; 1 Original edition (June 1, 2010) ***Special thanks to Michelle Stimpson for sending me a review copy.*** <div align="left">ABOUT THE AUTHOR: </div> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigd1Y_5w8hQgl9MpDjzEHMMwAarUYKYMGN_pnGz5OjhG7Ud0quOOWV0AX7YqFXmVOIiQfoT4lLt9k9I0vOQSeWUQxKsVKO8MwfhT1G9ekmhpC-4GsvEylPE6RNorYbW71zOYnWtDgqEPM/s1600/CroppedM+%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigd1Y_5w8hQgl9MpDjzEHMMwAarUYKYMGN_pnGz5OjhG7Ud0quOOWV0AX7YqFXmVOIiQfoT4lLt9k9I0vOQSeWUQxKsVKO8MwfhT1G9ekmhpC-4GsvEylPE6RNorYbW71zOYnWtDgqEPM/s200/CroppedM+%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627910269190022370" /></a>Michelle Stimpson is an author, a speaker, and an educator who received her Bachelor of Science degree from Jarvis Christian College in 1994. She earned a Master’s in Curriculum and Instruction from the University of Texas at Arlington in 2002. She has had the pleasure of teaching elementary, middle, and high school as well as training adults. In addition to her work in the field of education, Michelle ministers through writing and public speaking. Her works include the highly acclaimed Boaz Brown, Divas of Damascus Road (National Bestseller), and Last Temptation. She has published several short stories for high school students through her educational publishing company, Right Track Academic Support Services, at <a href="http://www.wegottaread.com/">www.wegottaread.com</a>. Michelle serves in the Discerning Hearts women's ministry at her home church, Oak Cliff Bible Fellowship. She also ministers to women through her online newsletter: www.womengrowinginchrist.com. Michelle tours annually with the Anointed Authors on Tour. She regularly speaks at special events and writing workshops sponsored churches, schools, book clubs and other great organizations. Michelle lives near Dallas with her husband, their two teenage children, and one crazy dog. Visit the author's <a href="http://www.MichelleStimpson.com/">website</a>. <div align="left">SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION: </div> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1hZ_Bgsf-6jjySk1_-VMUg9sXV9MRV_J7RP6S6JFP3UXBVgEq-UhkVFqW_NZqWQNDJ_rO4HkdK8kVXocc5Thdm-1xRXZERPGpcvfNCxI8txJrFYBHkT2Ae8F64gjCQtJWJdmYF4_mY_g/s1600/someone+to+watch+over+me.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1hZ_Bgsf-6jjySk1_-VMUg9sXV9MRV_J7RP6S6JFP3UXBVgEq-UhkVFqW_NZqWQNDJ_rO4HkdK8kVXocc5Thdm-1xRXZERPGpcvfNCxI8txJrFYBHkT2Ae8F64gjCQtJWJdmYF4_mY_g/s200/someone+to+watch+over+me.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627910274401606498" /></a>Tori Henderson is on the fast track in her marketing career in Houston, but her romantic life is slow as molasses and her relationship with Christ is nonexistent. When her beloved Aunt Dottie falls ill, Tori travels back to tiny Bayford to care for her. But when Tori arrives, she's faced with more than she bargained for, including Dottie's struggling local store, a host of bad memories, and a troubled little step-cousin, DeAndre. Worse, the nearest Starbucks is twenty miles away... Just as Tori is feeling overwhelmed, she re-connects with her old crush, the pastor's son, Jacob, who is every bit as handsome as to remembers. As the church rallies for Aunt Dottie's recovery, Tori realizes that she came to Bayford to give, but she just might receive more than she dreamed was ever possible for her. Product Details: List Price: $14.00 Paperback: 320 pages Publisher: Dafina; 1 Original edition (June 1, 2010) Language: English ISBN-10: 0758246889 ISBN-13: 978-0758246882 AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER: <div style="OVERFLOW: auto; HEIGHT: 307px"> I crossed my fingers in hopes they would name me Top Quarterly Producer for my department. I mean, every single one of my clients had experienced website traffic and sales above the projected estimates, and I had even received two letters from pleased customers. “Tori’s expertise made all the difference in our product launch,” one had commented. “We’ll be using NetMarketing Results for a long time to come!” Planning and implementing online marketing campaigns came with its own sense of fulfillment. After all, depending on who you asked, the Web pushes America’s economy even more than a good old-fashioned mall. But even as we stood around the conference room waiting for the announcement, I felt queasy. What if they didn’t name me? One look around the room sparked another dose of apprehension. Lexa Fielder was recently hired, yet she’d already managed to land a pretty impressive list of new customers for the company, though it was rumored she did quite a bit of work on her back. Brian Wallace was one of the older marketing representatives, but he still had a few tricks up his sleeve. Every once in a while, he pulled off a last-minute record-breaking month for one of his clients and caught management’s eyes. There were only four eyes I wanted to catch, and all of them belonged to Preston Haverty. Okay, he really only had two eyes, but he did wear a set of insistently thick glasses that took on life of their own at the center of his slight facial features. Every time I saw him, I felt like I was in a scene from The Emperor’s Clothes. Like, why won’t somebody tell Preston that those glasses are ridiculous and we do have technology to free us from such spectacles? Probably the same reason no one talks to Donald Trump about that comb-over. Anyway, Preston was good people, glasses and all. I appreciated his “hands off” management style – he didn’t really care where or how we worked, so long as we got the job done. I only hoped that I’d done a good enough job to add to my collection of blue and green plaques given to outstanding employees. Lexa and Brian aside, I appreciated being appreciated. And God knows I’d put in enough woman-hours to earn this recognition. “And February’s project manager of the month is…”—Preston announced as everyone in the room beat a drum roll on either the 16-foot table or some spot on the surrounding walls—“Tori Henderson!” My cheekbones rose so high I could barely see in front of me. Is that what it’s like to be Miss America? Everybody applauding, confetti flying, the runners-up on the sideline clapping wildly to distract themselves from their jealousy and impending mental meltdowns after the show? Okay, maybe it wasn’t that serious, but I sure felt like a pageant queen. My fellow co-workers, probably twenty-five people or so, cheered me on as I walked toward the front end of the table to receive my plaque. “Good job, Tori!” “You go, girl!” Their affirmations swelled inside me, feeding my self-esteem. If only my mother could see me now. Then maybe she’d forget about 1996. I shook Mr. Haverty’s hand and posed for the obligatory picture. In that moment, I wished I’d worn a lighter-colored suit. Black always made me look like a beanpole. Gave no testament of all my hours at the gym and the donuts I’d passed on to keep the red line on my scale below one hundred and twenty-five. I wasn’t going to pass on the sweets today, though. Jacquelyn, the lead secretary, retrieved a towering pink-and-white buttercream frosting cake and brought it forward now to celebrate my achievement. Preston offered, “Tori, you get the first piece.” “Get some meat on those bones, girl,” from Clara, the Webmaster. But the mention of meat and the sight of the cake suddenly made me nauseous. To appease the group, I took the first piece. Then Jacquelyn got busy cutting and distributing pieces as everyone stood around milking the moment before having to return to work. I sat in one of the comfy leather chairs and took and ate a bite of my celebratory sweetness. Almost instantly, my stomach disagreed with my actions. My hand flew to my abdomen, lightly stroking the panel of my suit. People were so busy devouring the cake they didn’t notice me catching my breath. Whew! I pushed the plate away from me, as though the pink mass had the power to jump onto my fork and into my mouth. This was clearly not the cake for me. I thought for a moment about how long it had been since I ate something so densely packed with sugar. Maybe this was like red meat—once you stop consuming it, one backslidden bite tears you up inside. No, that’s not it. I’d eaten a candy bar the previous week, before my monthly visitor arrived. Renegade cramps? I rubbed my palm against the aggravated area again. No. The pain was too high in my torso for female problems. This had to be some kind of bug. Whatever it was, it didn’t like strawberry cake so, I quietly tossed my piece in the trash on the way back to my desk. An hour later, I felt like I could throw up so I sat perfectly still at my desk because…well…any movement of my torso sparked a pain in my side that might trigger this upchuck. I just didn’t feel like I wanted to go through the process of throwing up. I would never tell anyone this, but I find vomiting an altogether traumatic experience. Such a nasty feeling in one’s throat. And the aftertaste, and the gagging sounds. Not to mention getting a close-up look at the toilet seat. It’s just not humanlike and should be avoided at all costs, in my opinion. Thank God I made it all the way to my apartment before I finally had to look at the inside of a porcelain throne, only this time I hadn’t even eaten anything. Bile spewed out of me, but the pain in my side was probably up to 7 on a scale of 1 to 10. Now that I’d done the unthinkable and temporarily lost all self-respect, perhaps my body would relent. I could only hope the worst of whatever this was had passed (albeit out of the wrong end). I managed to thoroughly brush my teeth and gargle a great number of times, assuring myself it was safe to swallow my own spit again. The image staring back at me in the mirror was normally me after a good workout—kinky twists dampened slightly at the base by my sweat, light brown face glowing in the accomplishment of burning hundreds of calories. Today, however, my sagging eyelids told the story of a woman who’d…vomited. I tried smiling, elevating my cheekbones even higher. No use. Maybe my mother was right when she’d told me, “You’re not that pretty, Tori, but you can keep yourself skinny and, when you turn fifteen, I’ll let you wear makeup. Fourteen if you’re really ugly by then.” I closed my eyes and pressed fingers onto my temples, reminding myself that people told me I was cute all the time. One time, I went to this women’s empowerment event my client was hosting and I won a T-shirt that read I’M BEAUTIFUL with some Bible verse on it about being beautifully and wonderfully made. I wore that shirt to Wal-Mart and a total stranger walked up to me and said, “I agree.” So why did the only voice ringing now belong to my ever-beautiful, timeless Margie Carolyn James who bragged of still being carded at age 40? My side still ached enough for me to call off the evening’s kickboxing class. Good thing Kevin was out of town working. He probably would have called me a wimp and dared me to run at least two miles. And I probably would have at least attempted to make him eat his words, despite the pain now radiating through my stomach. After downing a dose of Advil, I trudged to my bedroom, changed into a night shirt and gently lay across the bed. I didn’t have the energy to answer my landline when it rang. I could only listen for the message. “Hey, I’m gonna layover tonight. My flight comes in at seven, I leave out again tomorrow morning at eight. See ya.” I was hoping that by the time he got home, I would have awakened from a refreshing nap, totally healed and ready to finish up some of the work I’d had to bring home with me in light the unproductive afternoon I endured. Yet when Kevin returned, he found me hunched over the toilet seat again. “What are you doing?” “What does it look like I’m doing? Uuuuck!” The wretching produced another plop of bile into the commode. “Are you okay?” “Perfect.” “What’s going on?” “I’m pregnant,” I quipped, though the hint of mockery escaped my tone thanks to the reverberating bowl. “Oh my God, Tori, you’re kidding, right? You know how I feel about kids,” he yelled. “How could you—” “Stop freaking out. I’m joking.” He balled up his fist and exhaled into the hole. “Don’t give me a heart attack.” “I ate some cake today at work and got sick.” He backed out into the hallway. “Let me know if you need me.” I rested an elbow on the toilet seat and looked up at Kevin. Six foot one looks even taller from my bathroom floor perspective. His deep sandy skin contrasted perfectly with his ivory teeth and hazel eyes which, according to him, had won over many women back in the day. I wasn’t one of those eye-color crazy girls, but I was definitely a sucker for track star legs, and Kevin had those for miles and miles. Watching him unveil those limbs when he undressed was definitely the greatest benefit of moving into his condo eighteen months earlier. Well, the legs and the free rent. And the sex, when my mind cooperated. Kevin was the modern, metrosexual type when it came to clothes, but he had some pretty old-fashioned ideas about finances. Who was I to argue with him? He paid the major bills. I handled groceries, the housekeeper, dry cleaning, and all things communication-related since I needed high-speed everything for my job. I often wondered if he was just being chivalrous or if he never obligated me to a substantial bill because he still thought of the condo as his place. At first glance, our living quarters resembled a bachelor pad. Simple furniture, mix-and-match bath towels. Not one picture of us on display, though I had plenty on my computer and stored on my camera waiting to be downloaded someday. Either way, I’m no fool. Thanks to our financial arrangement, I had a growing stash of rainy-day money I’d earmarked to start my own business after an early retirement. My stash was chump change compared to Kevin’s anyway. I’d seen a few of his paystubs lying around the condo from his work in telecommunications sales. Made my college degree seem like a huge scam to keep the masses from getting rich, maybe. Thoughts of my master plan to retire well and get rich later compelled me to hoist myself from the floor to a semi-standing position and shuffle back to bed. Sick or well, I needed to get some work done. Kevin did check on me, but only be default as he changed into his running clothes. There went those strong, milk chocolate legs again. “I’m going for a jog at the track. Might head over to Cameron’s after to watch the game.” I gave my best big-brown-doe-eyes routine. “But you’re leaving again first thing in the morning. Can’t we spend time together?” He held up a cross with his fingers. “I don’t want to catch whatever this is you’ve got. You looked pretty distraught in that bathroom there a minute ago.” “Thanks so much, Kevin.” “Any time, any time,” he smirked. “I do feel bad for you, if that helps.” “It doesn’t.” “You need me to get you anything while I’m out?” “A new stomach.” “No can do, babe. How about Pepto-Bismol or Sprite? That’s what my mom used to give me when I was sick,” he recommended. I scrunched my face. “Didn’t your mom also make you swallow Vicks VapoRub?” “Yeah,” he supported the madness, “makes you cough the cold up. Worked every time. If you’re getting a virus, you might want to give it a shot.” My stomach lurched at the thought. “No. I don’t want anything else coming up out of me tonight. Just…call and check on me.” He detoured to my side before walking out of the room. A gentle kiss to my forehead was his first affectionate gesture since he’d walked into the place, despite more than a week’s passing since we’d seen each other last. I suppose it would have been hard for him to kiss me since I was engulfed in the commode earlier. Still, I wanted him to rub my back or something. What I really wanted was for him to stay home and…I don’t know, watch me suffer. Hover like they do when women are giving birth in those old movies. Put a damp towel on my forehead and encourage me, “You can do it! You can do it, Tori!” Who was I kidding? Kevin would hire a birthing coach before he’d subject himself to my labor. Not that I’d ever find myself in a position to give birth so long as Kevin stubbornly refused to father a child. I held hope, however, that things would change after a few of his friends settled down. Sometimes guys are the only ones who can convince other guys to grow up. It’s a sick reality. I decided to put the suffering out of my head for a moment. The Advil had taken the edge off the pain, so I carefully reached onto the floor and pulled my laptop bag onto the bed. The sweet challenge of work carried me into a trance that dulled the pain for a while. I tapped on the mouse to wake my computer and then resumed toggling between the open programs on my computer desktop, making sure my client’s newsletter matched the updated blog content precisely. Next to update their social media networks with useful information about the company’s new products. With reviewing several press releases still on my agenda, I really didn’t want to stop working. But the pain in my midsection returned with new vigor, biting into my concentration. I powered down my computer for the night and made my way back to the restroom for another bout with bile and a double-dose of Advil. If the pain wasn’t any better by tomorrow, I’d have to miss a little work so I could visit the doctor. Kevin rolled in a little after eleven to assess me again. He slipped a hand beneath the comforter and rubbed my backside. “You all right now?” “No,” I groaned. He nibbled on my ear, a sure indication of his intentions. “Mind if I make you feel better?” “That won’t help.” “Marvin Gaye says sexual healing is the best thing for you.” “Marvin Gaye never felt this bad. Besides, I might have germs.” Kevin tried again, lapping my neck with his tongue. “I don’t care. I miss you.” Now he doesn’t care about the germs. His hand moved around to my stomach, warranting a stern reaction. “Kevin, I cannot do this tonight. Move your hand.” He jumped up from the bed. “Fine. Fine. I understand. I’ll be on the couch.” </div>

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Today's Wild Card author is:

Michelle Stimpson

and the book:

Someone to Watch Over Me

Dafina; 1 Original edition (June 1, 2010)

***Special thanks to Michelle Stimpson for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Michelle Stimpson is an author, a speaker, and an educator who received her Bachelor of Science degree from Jarvis Christian College in 1994. She earned a Master’s in Curriculum and Instruction from the University of Texas at Arlington in 2002. She has had the pleasure of teaching elementary, middle, and high school as well as training adults.

In addition to her work in the field of education, Michelle ministers through writing and public speaking. Her works include the highly acclaimed Boaz Brown, Divas of Damascus Road (National Bestseller), and Last Temptation. She has published several short stories for high school students through her educational publishing company, Right Track Academic Support Services, at www.wegottaread.com.

Michelle serves in the Discerning Hearts women's ministry at her home church, Oak Cliff Bible Fellowship. She also ministers to women through her online newsletter: www.womengrowinginchrist.com.

Michelle tours annually with the Anointed Authors on Tour. She regularly speaks at special events and writing workshops sponsored churches, schools, book clubs and other great organizations.

Michelle lives near Dallas with her husband, their two teenage children, and one crazy dog.

Visit the author's website.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

Tori Henderson is on the fast track in her marketing career in Houston, but her romantic life is slow as molasses and her relationship with Christ is nonexistent. When her beloved Aunt Dottie falls ill, Tori travels back to tiny Bayford to care for her. But when Tori arrives, she's faced with more than she bargained for, including Dottie's struggling local store, a host of bad memories, and a troubled little step-cousin, DeAndre. Worse, the nearest Starbucks is twenty miles away...

Just as Tori is feeling overwhelmed, she re-connects with her old crush, the pastor's son, Jacob, who is every bit as handsome as to remembers. As the church rallies for Aunt Dottie's recovery, Tori realizes that she came to Bayford to give, but she just might receive more than she dreamed was ever possible for her.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.00
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Dafina; 1 Original edition (June 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0758246889
ISBN-13: 978-0758246882

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

I crossed my fingers in hopes they would name me Top Quarterly Producer for my department. I mean, every single one of my clients had experienced website traffic and sales above the projected estimates, and I had even received two letters from pleased customers. “Tori’s expertise made all the difference in our product launch,” one had commented. “We’ll be using NetMarketing Results for a long time to come!” Planning and implementing online marketing campaigns came with its own sense of fulfillment. After all, depending on who you asked, the Web pushes America’s economy even more than a good old-fashioned mall.

But even as we stood around the conference room waiting for the announcement, I felt queasy. What if they didn’t name me? One look around the room sparked another dose of apprehension.

Lexa Fielder was recently hired, yet she’d already managed to land a pretty impressive list of new customers for the company, though it was rumored she did quite a bit of work on her back.

Brian Wallace was one of the older marketing representatives, but he still had a few tricks up his sleeve. Every once in a while, he pulled off a last-minute record-breaking month for one of his clients and caught management’s eyes.

There were only four eyes I wanted to catch, and all of them belonged to Preston Haverty. Okay, he really only had two eyes, but he did wear a set of insistently thick glasses that took on life of their own at the center of his slight facial features. Every time I saw him, I felt like I was in a scene from The Emperor’s Clothes. Like, why won’t somebody tell Preston that those glasses are ridiculous and we do have technology to free us from such spectacles? Probably the same reason no one talks to Donald Trump about that comb-over.

Anyway, Preston was good people, glasses and all. I appreciated his “hands off” management style – he didn’t really care where or how we worked, so long as we got the job done. I only hoped that I’d done a good enough job to add to my collection of blue and green plaques given to outstanding employees. Lexa and Brian aside, I appreciated being appreciated. And God knows I’d put in enough woman-hours to earn this recognition.

“And February’s project manager of the month is…”—Preston announced as everyone in the room beat a drum roll on either the 16-foot table or some spot on the surrounding walls—“Tori Henderson!”

My cheekbones rose so high I could barely see in front of me. Is that what it’s like to be Miss America? Everybody applauding, confetti flying, the runners-up on the sideline clapping wildly to distract themselves from their jealousy and impending mental meltdowns after the show?

Okay, maybe it wasn’t that serious, but I sure felt like a pageant queen. My fellow co-workers, probably twenty-five people or so, cheered me on as I walked toward the front end of the table to receive my plaque. “Good job, Tori!” “You go, girl!” Their affirmations swelled inside me, feeding my self-esteem. If only my mother could see me now. Then maybe she’d forget about 1996.

I shook Mr. Haverty’s hand and posed for the obligatory picture. In that moment, I wished I’d worn a lighter-colored suit. Black always made me look like a beanpole. Gave no testament of all my hours at the gym and the donuts I’d passed on to keep the red line on my scale below one hundred and twenty-five.

I wasn’t going to pass on the sweets today, though. Jacquelyn, the lead secretary, retrieved a towering pink-and-white buttercream frosting cake and brought it forward now to celebrate my achievement.

Preston offered, “Tori, you get the first piece.”

“Get some meat on those bones, girl,” from Clara, the Webmaster.

But the mention of meat and the sight of the cake suddenly made me nauseous. To appease the group, I took the first piece. Then Jacquelyn got busy cutting and distributing pieces as everyone stood around milking the moment before having to return to work.

I sat in one of the comfy leather chairs and took and ate a bite of my celebratory sweetness. Almost instantly, my stomach disagreed with my actions. My hand flew to my abdomen, lightly stroking the panel of my suit. People were so busy devouring the cake they didn’t notice me catching my breath. Whew!

I pushed the plate away from me, as though the pink mass had the power to jump onto my fork and into my mouth. This was clearly not the cake for me. I thought for a moment about how long it had been since I ate something so densely packed with sugar. Maybe this was like red meat—once you stop consuming it, one backslidden bite tears you up inside.

No, that’s not it. I’d eaten a candy bar the previous week, before my monthly visitor arrived. Renegade cramps? I rubbed my palm against the aggravated area again. No. The pain was too high in my torso for female problems. This had to be some kind of bug. Whatever it was, it didn’t like strawberry cake so, I quietly tossed my piece in the trash on the way back to my desk.

An hour later, I felt like I could throw up so I sat perfectly still at my desk because…well…any movement of my torso sparked a pain in my side that might trigger this upchuck. I just didn’t feel like I wanted to go through the process of throwing up. I would never tell anyone this, but I find vomiting an altogether traumatic experience. Such a nasty feeling in one’s throat. And the aftertaste, and the gagging sounds. Not to mention getting a close-up look at the toilet seat. It’s just not humanlike and should be avoided at all costs, in my opinion.

Thank God I made it all the way to my apartment before I finally had to look at the inside of a porcelain throne, only this time I hadn’t even eaten anything. Bile spewed out of me, but the pain in my side was probably up to 7 on a scale of 1 to 10.

Now that I’d done the unthinkable and temporarily lost all self-respect, perhaps my body would relent. I could only hope the worst of whatever this was had passed (albeit out of the wrong end).

I managed to thoroughly brush my teeth and gargle a great number of times, assuring myself it was safe to swallow my own spit again. The image staring back at me in the mirror was normally me after a good workout—kinky twists dampened slightly at the base by my sweat, light brown face glowing in the accomplishment of burning hundreds of calories. Today, however, my sagging eyelids told the story of a woman who’d…vomited. I tried smiling, elevating my cheekbones even higher. No use. Maybe my mother was right when she’d told me, “You’re not that pretty, Tori, but you can keep yourself skinny and, when you turn fifteen, I’ll let you wear makeup. Fourteen if you’re really ugly by then.”

I closed my eyes and pressed fingers onto my temples, reminding myself that people told me I was cute all the time. One time, I went to this women’s empowerment event my client was hosting and I won a T-shirt that read I’M BEAUTIFUL with some Bible verse on it about being beautifully and wonderfully made. I wore that shirt to Wal-Mart and a total stranger walked up to me and said, “I agree.” So why did the only voice ringing now belong to my ever-beautiful, timeless Margie Carolyn James who bragged of still being carded at age 40?

My side still ached enough for me to call off the evening’s kickboxing class. Good thing Kevin was out of town working. He probably would have called me a wimp and dared me to run at least two miles. And I probably would have at least attempted to make him eat his words, despite the pain now radiating through my stomach.

After downing a dose of Advil, I trudged to my bedroom, changed into a night shirt and gently lay across the bed. I didn’t have the energy to answer my landline when it rang. I could only listen for the message.

“Hey, I’m gonna layover tonight. My flight comes in at seven, I leave out again tomorrow morning at eight. See ya.”

I was hoping that by the time he got home, I would have awakened from a refreshing nap, totally healed and ready to finish up some of the work I’d had to bring home with me in light the unproductive afternoon I endured. Yet when Kevin returned, he found me hunched over the toilet seat again.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? Uuuuck!” The wretching produced another plop of bile into the commode.

“Are you okay?”

“Perfect.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’m pregnant,” I quipped, though the hint of mockery escaped my tone thanks to the reverberating bowl.

“Oh my God, Tori, you’re kidding, right? You know how I feel about kids,” he yelled. “How could you—”

“Stop freaking out. I’m joking.”

He balled up his fist and exhaled into the hole. “Don’t give me a heart attack.”

“I ate some cake today at work and got sick.”

He backed out into the hallway. “Let me know if you need me.”

I rested an elbow on the toilet seat and looked up at Kevin. Six foot one looks even taller from my bathroom floor perspective. His deep sandy skin contrasted perfectly with his ivory teeth and hazel eyes which, according to him, had won over many women back in the day. I wasn’t one of those eye-color crazy girls, but I was definitely a sucker for track star legs, and Kevin had those for miles and miles. Watching him unveil those limbs when he undressed was definitely the greatest benefit of moving into his condo eighteen months earlier. Well, the legs and the free rent. And the sex, when my mind cooperated.

Kevin was the modern, metrosexual type when it came to clothes, but he had some pretty old-fashioned ideas about finances. Who was I to argue with him? He paid the major bills. I handled groceries, the housekeeper, dry cleaning, and all things communication-related since I needed high-speed everything for my job. I often wondered if he was just being chivalrous or if he never obligated me to a substantial bill because he still thought of the condo as his place.

At first glance, our living quarters resembled a bachelor pad. Simple furniture, mix-and-match bath towels. Not one picture of us on display, though I had plenty on my computer and stored on my camera waiting to be downloaded someday.

Either way, I’m no fool. Thanks to our financial arrangement, I had a growing stash of rainy-day money I’d earmarked to start my own business after an early retirement.

My stash was chump change compared to Kevin’s anyway. I’d seen a few of his paystubs lying around the condo from his work in telecommunications sales. Made my college degree seem like a huge scam to keep the masses from getting rich, maybe.

Thoughts of my master plan to retire well and get rich later compelled me to hoist myself from the floor to a semi-standing position and shuffle back to bed. Sick or well, I needed to get some work done.

Kevin did check on me, but only be default as he changed into his running clothes.

There went those strong, milk chocolate legs again.

“I’m going for a jog at the track. Might head over to Cameron’s after to watch the game.”

I gave my best big-brown-doe-eyes routine. “But you’re leaving again first thing in the morning. Can’t we spend time together?”

He held up a cross with his fingers. “I don’t want to catch whatever this is you’ve got. You looked pretty distraught in that bathroom there a minute ago.”

“Thanks so much, Kevin.”

“Any time, any time,” he smirked. “I do feel bad for you, if that helps.”

“It doesn’t.”

“You need me to get you anything while I’m out?”

“A new stomach.”

“No can do, babe. How about Pepto-Bismol or Sprite? That’s what my mom used to give me when I was sick,” he recommended.

I scrunched my face. “Didn’t your mom also make you swallow Vicks VapoRub?”

“Yeah,” he supported the madness, “makes you cough the cold up. Worked every time. If you’re getting a virus, you might want to give it a shot.”

My stomach lurched at the thought. “No. I don’t want anything else coming up out of me tonight. Just…call and check on me.”

He detoured to my side before walking out of the room. A gentle kiss to my forehead was his first affectionate gesture since he’d walked into the place, despite more than a week’s passing since we’d seen each other last. I suppose it would have been hard for him to kiss me since I was engulfed in the commode earlier. Still, I wanted him to rub my back or something. What I really wanted was for him to stay home and…I don’t know, watch me suffer. Hover like they do when women are giving birth in those old movies. Put a damp towel on my forehead and encourage me, “You can do it! You can do it, Tori!”

Who was I kidding? Kevin would hire a birthing coach before he’d subject himself to my labor. Not that I’d ever find myself in a position to give birth so long as Kevin stubbornly refused to father a child. I held hope, however, that things would change after a few of his friends settled down. Sometimes guys are the only ones who can convince other guys to grow up. It’s a sick reality.

I decided to put the suffering out of my head for a moment. The Advil had taken the edge off the pain, so I carefully reached onto the floor and pulled my laptop bag onto the bed. The sweet challenge of work carried me into a trance that dulled the pain for a while.

I tapped on the mouse to wake my computer and then resumed toggling between the open programs on my computer desktop, making sure my client’s newsletter matched the updated blog content precisely. Next to update their social media networks with useful information about the company’s new products.

With reviewing several press releases still on my agenda, I really didn’t want to stop working. But the pain in my midsection returned with new vigor, biting into my concentration. I powered down my computer for the night and made my way back to the restroom for another bout with bile and a double-dose of Advil.

If the pain wasn’t any better by tomorrow, I’d have to miss a little work so I could visit the doctor.

Kevin rolled in a little after eleven to assess me again. He slipped a hand beneath the comforter and rubbed my backside. “You all right now?”

“No,” I groaned.

He nibbled on my ear, a sure indication of his intentions. “Mind if I make you feel better?”

“That won’t help.”

“Marvin Gaye says sexual healing is the best thing for you.”

“Marvin Gaye never felt this bad. Besides, I might have germs.”

Kevin tried again, lapping my neck with his tongue. “I don’t care. I miss you.”

Now he doesn’t care about the germs.

His hand moved around to my stomach, warranting a stern reaction. “Kevin, I cannot do this tonight. Move your hand.”

He jumped up from the bed. “Fine. Fine. I understand. I’ll be on the couch.”

Monday, June 27, 2011

Did I Marry the Wrong Guy? And Other Silent Ponderings of a Fairly Normal Christian Wife by Michelle Stimpson

Tour Date: July 5, 2011

When the tour date arrives, copy and paste the HTML Provided in the box. Don't forget to add your honest review if you wish! PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT ON THIS POST WHEN THE TOUR COMES AROUND!

Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below):

***************************************************************************

Today's Wild Card author is:

Michelle Stimpson

and the book:

Did I Marry the Wrong Guy? And Other Silent Ponderings of a Fairly Normal Christian Wife

CreateSpace (May 23, 2011)

***Special thanks to Michelle Stimpson for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

What wife hasn’t second-guessed herself after a heated discussion or yet another curious incident of the missing remote control? In addition to the title’s question, this book discusses those unspoken thoughts lurking in the back of even Christian women’s minds, such as:

* We’ve Grown Apart

* I’m Just Not That Into Sex

* I Miss the Thrill of Being Single

* I Love My Husband, but I’m Not In Love

* Watching My Parents Probably Messed Me Up

While these silent ponderings might seem harmless, they have the potential to create a negative undercurrent of resentment if not specifically addressed in prayer. Through this spinoff of her popular Christian fiction novel, The Good Stuff, Stimpson tackles tough questions about wifehood through this short, humorous book of wisdom for the not-so-in-love-with-my-husband days.

Product Details:

List Price: $6.99
Paperback: 84 pages
Publisher: CreateSpace (May 23, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1461186528
ISBN-13: 978-1461186526

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

We Started Off Wrong

I’m sure our wedding picture could appear on posters warning romantic kids about what not to do. For starters, I was four months pregnant when we married. Stevie and I were in love, but I’d be lying if I said our unborn baby wasn’t a major factor in our decision to marry after our thirteen-month long-distance courtship.

Stevie was twenty-three, I was twenty-one. He had a child from a previous relationship, and I was still secretly reeling from a past heartbreak. We both came from so-called “broken homes.” His parents divorced when he was in middle school, mine when I was only a child, though my mother re-married when I was four. She and my step-father later divorced. Neither Stevie nor I had any kind of model for a successful marriage.

Stevie had said that he was raised in the church, but (as is turns out) we had two different working definitions of what it meant to be church-reared. He was a CME member (Christmas, Mother’s Day, and Easter), while I was the child of the church musician (attending services every Sunday, many weeknights, too). Nonetheless, we were equally yoked because we were both spiritual infants. Probably more like spiritual embryos.

But we were in love. And Stevie had super-hot legs.

The one good thing was our financial situation. I had just finished college and begun making decent money as a teacher, while Stevie worked at a plastic manufacturing company. We had very little debt. Stevie was good with money, and we both really liked seventy-nine cent burritos.

As the “bad years” came upon our marriage, a slew of regrets constantly nagged me:

I wished I’d known him better before I’d gone and gotten myself pregnant.
I wished I hadn’t gotten myself pregnant in the first place.
We shouldn’t have married just because of the baby.
We were too young—I barely even knew myself.
We didn’t have time to settle into our marriage before the baby got here.
We should have had more than thirty minutes of pre-marital counseling.
I should have checked his church attendance record.

I imagined myself writing any or all of these statements on papers requesting a divorce. Who could expect us to overcome those feats? Why didn’t anyone tell me how hard marriage could be?

To make my personal pity-party even worse, I was the first of my college friends to get married. Watching them move ahead and do all the things I wanted to do but couldn’t, thanks to my brand-spankin’-new family, didn’t help at all.

I didn’t want a divorce. I didn’t want to stay married. I just wished the whole thing had never happened.

* * * * *

Granted, I wouldn’t want my daughter to marry under these circumstances. But if I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t change anything for Stevie and me because the truth is: every marriage is a foreign land. Over these years that my husband and I have been together, I’ve seen young and old, rich and poor, pregnant and non-pregnant, Christian and non-believer, childhood friends and internet-matched couples rise and fall. Sometimes the people who think they’ve got it all together don’t. Sometimes the ones who don’t have a clue figure it out together and overcome all their previous folly, by the grace of God.

Whatever shoulda, woulda, couldas you have about marrying your husband when you did, let them go. Maybe you could have done better. You definitely could have done worse. You made a decision with the information you had at the time, and that’s all anyone can do.

The beauty of a life surrendered to God is His willingness to intervene where His people fall short. If you recognize that your marriage began in a less-than-desirable state, talk to God about it. Admit your shortcomings and ask Him to make sense of your tangled mess. He has a way of un-raveling knots without breaking the string!

* * * * *

Father, I repent of my willful disobedience, and I thank You for Your watchful eye where I was simply ignorant. You have preserved me and this marriage for Your purposes, and I want the testimony of Your ability to deliver us beyond our faults. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

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