Summer Splash Blog Hop - I Just May Throw My Back Out

Next week, this old girl is going to participate in her  first blog hop! There will be over 80 authors participating offering unique prizes to all who visit their blogs next week.

What is a blog hop, you ask?

Good question!  The idea is to introduce readers to new writers AND to offer an avenue where writers can tell you a bit about their books.  The hook?  PRIZES!!  Each blogger is offering their own choice of prizes, some related to their books, some services, some just fun.  Not only that, we all pooled in some cash to offer some BIG GRAND PRIZES, too.  

Prizes, you ask?

Many authors are offering up copies of their books in both ebook as well as paperback.  The themes of this Summer Splash Blog Hop is fiction.  That means there will be tons of opportunities to win some summer reading. 

I’ll be running a raffle to give away:

• 1 handmade necklace with pendant of ocean blue stones.
• 1 signed copy of In The Name of The Father
• 1 signed copy of Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts!
• 1 copy (the only remaining) of  Beach Feasts, a personal recipe collection based on my summers at the beach.  This is the same beach that is the setting for In The Name of The Father

Hello?  Didn't You Say GRAND PRIZES?

Oh yeah.   I'll link back to the Summer Splash Blog Hop page where you’ll be able to enter to WIN

• A Kindle Fire
• Amazon gift cards,
• Kindle Covers
• and more!

This starts next week.  Just look for the logo at the right and it will get you hoppin'

A shout out to Cheryl Bradshaw for organizing the hop! It has got to be a load of  work, and without her this would never happen!  Thank you, Cheryl!

Is It A Game Of Leap Frog?

I'm pretty good with a computer.  I know how to do in-depth research, bury an identity, create graphics and hey, create and post on a blog.  I am, however, a right-brained thinker, therefore, I do not speak the techno language that goes with the computer world. I don't understand HTML code or Javascript nor do I know how to imbed.  I am a Mac girl.  I have always been a Mac girl (with the unfortunate exception of the 90's when I had to use Windows - archaic and unsatisfying) and I always will be a Mac girl.

My first computer greeted me with a stick image of itself and a smiley face on it's stick image screen to let me know it was on and ready to play.  I didn't have to know know about directories or C prompts.  I could just do what I wanted to do without elaborate commands.  Ahhh the good ol days.

In about two weeks I am participating in something called a "Blog Hop".  I'm not really sure exactly HOW it all works but, I know that I make a post, host a giveaway on my blog and "link it back to all the other bloggers" participating in the "hop".  There will be some really cool grand prizes as well.  I'm not sure, but I THINK if my readers click on the Summer Splash Blog Hop logo at the right, it SHOULD "link back" to the others, thereby giving people the opportunity to win lots of prizes.

All of this is new to me. It requires vocabulary I never use but, I'm giving it a whirl and hope, when the time comes, this all works as it should.  Otherwise, I guess a Blog Hop is where a bunch of writer's get together and play a long distance game of Leap Frog from one computer to the next.

Oh and I am not sure what I am offering yet. . . but I'll let you know. ; )

STAY TUNED FOR THE  SUMMER SPLASH BLOG HOP!

It's like Standing Naked in Public

I have decided to peel off my skin.  What follows is a small excerpt from my current project, still in draft mode. . . but I'm throwing it out there while I finish my next blog.  Here goes:

“Why the hell would you do that?” Jack’s voice cracked as it went up an octave in shock.  Syd smiled, she figured her brother would react this way to her news that she was moving back to Michigan and living their old home.  Jack was five years younger than Syd and in their youth had been an entire generation behind.  When Syd was into her teen years, experimenting with alcohol, spending weekends uptown shopping with girls and sneaking boys in the basement, Jack was still a little boy.  His attention was on cartoons, super heroes and sports.  His big sister was an irritation he had to endure.  And, he reacted by withdrawing, hiding, and creating a cadre of imaginary frineds for which he was often found speaking to when alone in his room, or sitting in the fourth floor dormer.  It wasn’t a behavior Sydney took particular notice of, chalking it all up to his being a creepy little brother.   But when she left for college, the teutonic plates of her family shifted.  Her mother always said the energy was realigning, but what was really happening was, she was now slowly going crazy.  

It began with her paintings.  Her subject matter moved from botanicals to free forms that look like moving amebas  on the canvas.  Sometimes her work involved specific images embedded into the free forms and sometimes it seemed, to Jack, to look like big blobs of paint.  She increasingly withdrew, spending large amounts of time, closed up in the studio their father had made for her in the basement.  Even that had been tolerable, but then she started talking to herself, asking Jack if he, too, saw the people around her.  He said didn’t and had to force his father to see what was happening, beg him to do something to help his mom.  His father, ever the pragmatist, had her committed.  A normal person would have been mortified to be placed in a mental hospital, but their mother seemed to relish the place.  She made friends with the patients, taking them under her wing, giving art lessons and thriving.  When their father retired, he wanted to move the family to Florida, but their mother refused to leave Michigan, refused to leave the hospital even, so he quietly paid the bills each month and she quietly lived out her days in the omni room of the Oakland County mental health facility named for the street it was located; a private hospital tucked away on Lone Pine Road near the Cranbrook Institute and Kirk-in-the-Hills.  Syd visited her mom at Lone Pine every few months, usually staying in a nearby hotel, and was always relieved that her mother’s state remained constant.  She was happy.  She was living in an elevated reality of happiness, art and love, in a place that allowed her to do so.  It wasn’t often that she bothered to ask about her husband, how he was or even where, although Syd had told her many times that dad was living on Longboat Key in Florida.  Her mother did inquire about Jack and often lamented his lack of communication.  She seemed to believe he was still 12, still a little boy and asked if Syd might bring him on her next visit.  No matter how gently Syd reminded her mother that Jack was in Florida, he was 23 and unable to make a visit, her mother seemed to tune it out, recalling instead Jack at 12, playing basketball in the driveway, little league ball and skateboarding.  He was perpetually 12, the age he had been when she started to see people, hear voices, and paint violence.  Syd had thought the paintings were grotesque.  Flowers had been her mother’s subject for years, but gradually her flowers began to take on human form, faces in the petals, fingers in the leaves.  The flowers were twisted on their stems as if slowly, painfully turned until just before snapping.  Blood dripped from the twisted, pained, stems and spurted from the petals, resembling tears.  Disturbing.  They were disturbing paintings her mother had, according to her father and brother, become obsessed with painting--variations of the same theme, the human qualities becoming more pronounced with each new piece of work.  Syd had only seen the work sporadically, when she came home from college on breaks and even then, while she recognized that her mother was slipping into a deranged alter world, she chose to ignore it, chalking it up to creative whim.    Her father had driven to East Lansing to deliver his plan in person.  He was retiring, he was moving to Florida, Jack would finish school there and their mother was being admitted to Lone Pine.  He was matter-of-fact, but calming and careful in his delivery so, somehow, this seemed like the best thing for everyone.  Syd knew her mom was in bad shape, but it was going to be alright, her father said so. 


My other books are available at Amazon 
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=sr_tc_2_0?rh=i%3Astripbooks%2Ck%3AJudi+Coltman&keywords=Judi+Coltman&ie=UTF8&qid=1339638733&sr=1-2-ent&field-contributor_id=B004E5ZRHS

When Life Requires a Redirect

I spend a lot of time writing about aging and the unwanted side effects thereof.  And although I am generally ok with the onset of wrinkles, stretch marks, and gravity, I do my best to fight them off.  You see, I really don't feel old.  I still crank the stereo in the car, especially for David Bowie, the Stones, and The Boss.  I avoid the high waisted polyester, elastic banded pants and matching flowered t-shirts.  And I try to be presentable in public whenever possible (except when it's early in the morning and I have to run to the store in jammie pants). Now having said all of that, I have become quite aware of the realities of aging in recent weeks.


My collective group of parents, my own, my in-laws, and my second set (the parents of my BFF) have all had major heart incidents in the past few weeks.  Beginning with my father, who was unable to attend his grandson's wedding due to emergency stint surgery to repair the bypasses he had 12 years ago is doing fine now and doesn't require any extra help.  My BFF's father had to have his defibrillator rewired because it wasn't working correctly, a scary prospect at his age.  While talking to BFF one day about the pains of our aging parents, she announced that when she gets old, she is going to be the crabby old lady who sits on the porch and bitches.  Cars driving too fast? Air horn them.  She will be yelling at neighborhood kids to get off her lawn. And although she is allergic, she might even allow cats to live outside.  Lots of them. Now BFF, is one of the most joyous people I know and she spreads that joy to anyone she talks to, so I was surprised that she felt that way.


My father-in-law had a 5 way bypass last week (what is that, a quintapass? A pentepass?)  He was sent home after 5 days and I went down to Florida for a few days to get the two of them settled,  establish a routine, get the meds sorted and easy to navigate, and provide moral support.  I returned exhausted and made a mental note to stay cheery even though my arthritis is acting up. I also returned because I have my first colonoscopy scheduled in a few days because the docs say I am at "That age".   That age.  I don't feel it - until I start noticing the aches and pains.  I do my best to stave them off.  I did notice, though,  the other day that my phone's ring tone is the theme music to the Cialis commercial.  I don't know when THAT happened but, I am too tired to change it.  Maybe I am "That age".  If so, BFF has a good thing going and I am going to join her on that front porch and help direct traffic surrounded by my dogs.  But first, I need a nap.


BOOKS NEWS:  My current work in progress has suffered from these health setbacks as well.  I am aiming for a Christmas release.  In the meantime you can find my other books here: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_2_6?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=judi+coltman&sprefix=judi+c%2Caps%2C160

Mother's Day is Not Just a Sunday in May

When my oldest child got engaged fourteen months ago, one of my personal missions was to make sure that the last person I Iooked like was the typical “Mother of the Groom”.   I just don’t feel that old. I didn’t want to look Lie I was trying too hard, I didn’t want to be a MILF, I just didn’t want to look like the dowdy mother of the groom.  I spent the entire year before the wedding contemplating what I would wear - what would be appropriate, not “mothery” (think of the late Queen Mum.)

With great care I shopped the mid-west, I tried on hundreds of dresses that would say, “Yes, I gave birth to the groom” without saying “and I never got my body back” or “I’ve been too busy mothering to care how I look.”  And, I found that dress, a tasteful bronze and champagne gown that allowed my “girls” to defy gravity, and artfully arranged material that covered my middle section.  No dowdy jacket for me (and seriously, at my age, the menopausal heater has kicked on.  A jacket is a torture device), instead, well draped satin and a silk wrap.  

I faithfully appeared in the chair of my personal miracle worker (read, trusted hairdresser) every 5 weeks for color and cutting, ensuring that my long flowing locks remained so in a stylish and age appropriate manner.  We discussed hair options, she even agreeing to drive the 90 miles to Chicago the morning of the wedding to do her magic. 

I searched every shoe store in Chicago, scanned every footwear web site on the nets, stalked the specialty stores for the perfect pair of unmotherly looking shoes to complete the ensemble.  And, I found them!  Ann Klein, a not to high pump with jeweled strap that matched my dress exactly.  These shoes screamed, “BUY ME” and I did.  I even bought them in two sizes, my size and a half size up. . .just in case.  Good thing because the bigger shoes felt better, for about 20 minutes before it became apparent that if I wore the perfect shoes, there would be no Mother of the Groom walking down the aisle - someone would have to carry me.  Plan B, a concession I was sad about, but smart enough to know the importance, blinged out Steve Madden flats.

On The day of the wedding, I stepped into my dress and silk wrap, put my hair in an updo done by my Personal Miracle Worker, had my make-up professionally applied and donned my sparkly flats. I felt like a million bucks.  

Now, a few weeks after the wedding, pictures are coming in and I eagerly and happily add them to my wedding file.  My son and daughter-in-law look genuinely happy.  My younger son, the Best Man looks proud, my husband handsome.  But, in each and every one of those pictures I find myself looking, for all of my stop gap measures, like the Mother of the Groom.  But, you know, I’m not bothered by it.  I WAS the Mother of the Groom. I have never been so happy or proud of my son as I was that day.  I wouldn’t want to look like anyone other than his mother, even if I don’t feel old enough to be that person.

Being a mom is the most fulfilling thing I have ever done and I'll take it thick neck, fat arms and all.

In honor of Mother’s Day, all of my books have been reduce to only .99 each if purchased through Kindle on Amazon.  This special Mother’s Day price will last all week!  Just type Judi Coltman in the Amazon search on the upper left side of this page, it'll take you where you need to go  or go here http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_1_7?url=search-alias%3Ddigital-text&field-keywords=judi+coltman&sprefix=judi+co%2Caps%2C652

Samantha Brick Thinks SHE Has Problems

Women hate me because I am beautiful.  That's what she said, that's what she wrote and that's what she spent the last week defending on American television as well as in England.  Women hate her because her beauty threatens them in some way.  In fact, her beauty is such a burden that she is often stopped on the street by strangers wanting to give her gifts http:/http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2124246/Samantha-Brick-downsides-looking-pretty-Why-women-hate-beautiful.htmlShe has taken a lot of flack about this article, been called narcissistic - a new and useful buzz word, and generally snickered at by millions of women worldwide who have looked at her and thought, "She's attractive, but beauty beyond words?  No."

I sympathize with her.  I really do.  You see, I suffer from a similar affliction.  I have been graced with, well, fabulous fingernails.  I have long nail beds, which means that even at the difficult times when my nails are short, they look long, luxurious even.  I can't tell you the number of times I am stopped in the checkout line of Target by the clerk who comments on their beauty.  I am always gracious but does she not know the torment this causes the others waiting in line?  Not only do they not possess the blessing of the nails, they are now forced to wait while she stops the line to fawn over my hand.  I can feel daggers shooting from their eyes and I want them to know I feel their pain.  They'll never believe me.  I'm sure they think I have it easy when the truth is, my fingernails are a burden.  I can't quickly and easy pick up the odd coin that is laying on the sidewalk.  I struggle with buttons which puts an insurmountable barrier on my wardrobe choices,  a dilemma I find discriminatory.  And my greatest burden is the moral obligation I feel to those less fortunate when they present their backs to me, suffering, begging.  I must heed the call and so, I scratch.

All of those jealous people who scorn my nails and sneer at my perfect manicures with the mistaken belief that I can't possibly expose them to any harsh work conditions - try this one for size.  My chosen work puts my nails at risk every single day posing great challenges to my work product.  I write.  The words in my head flow forth to my fingers that fly over my keyboard but sometimes those nails slide off the keys, the message gets muddled and it looks like this:

Dobn;t hate me because my fibfer nas are beautifyl.

All of that creates EXTRA work for me and less time to scratch the backs of others.  And the girl with the stunningly beautiful face thinks she has problems.

Coltman is the author of two books. Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts! is a humor book based on her blog. Her most recent book, In The Name Of The Father, is a suspense/thriller that reviewers have called a true page-turner. Both books are available through amazon and Coltman's own website.

Blame it on the Spanks!

If you happen to work at Target, or you know someone who works at Target or you have a chance to go to the Christmas party at Target, then you just may see me on the annual Christmas montage of Stupid Customer Tricks.

I have been searching high and low for a Mother of the Groom dress with painful results. I’ve been all over Chicago, traipsed through every dress shop between Sterling and Monroe, WI and I almost even purchased a dress in Monroe, but got cold feet when  it came time to order.  “Is there a problem?” the very patient clerk inquired and I broke into tears, “It’s just too fluffy for me,” I sobbed and walked out of the shop.  So, it was a last attempt moment when I discovered, right in my own yard, that Don Galani has exactly what I was looking for.  I had thought they were just a prom and pageant dress shop, but it turns out that they have a very elegant Special Occasion line.  Ok, commercial over.

I waited a full week after my initial visit to ponder the dress and then, decided Monday, it was time.  But first, I needed a new set of Spanks.

I figured if I was going to be making this rather pricey purchase, I wanted to feel good doing it.  So, I went to the gym, showered, DID MY HAIR, PUT ON MAKE-UP and donned a cute red sweater tunic with black leggings and even cuter boots.  Then, I skipped my cute little self to the Spanks store and bought a shiny, new set of Spanks and put them on in the store.  Did I mention they were shiny?  And slippery?  I redressed, admired my compacted shape in the mirror and left, skipping my cute, little, newly compacted self to Target to pick up a few items before heading to (cue the singing angels) DON GALANI.

I was pushing the cart around the Target, looking for odds and ends when I noticed it was getting harder to walk. But, I looked so cute, I disregarded the friction at my knees and headed to the front of the store to check out.  Did I mention that Spanks are both shiny and slippery?  Yeah, so I’m standing in the front aisle, the grand aisle in Target and I aim my cart for the shortest line, take a step and trip, forcing my cart forward into the person ahead of me.  As I balance myself on the cart, the person in front of me, who is, apparently, not in the holiday spirit, turns to stare at me.  I followed her eyes as she looked me up and down.  And there it was, the cause of my walking friction, the reason I tripped, and the impetus for what happened next.  Clearly, the shiny, slippery spanks which hold me in so nicely had no grip on my leggings and they had slowly descended to my ankles as I sashayed around the store, wrapped and caught in the buckles of my cute boots and caused my momentary trip into the person in front of me, who stood horrified and speechless.  I looked at the black leggings bunched up around my boots and did the only thing I could do in that moment.  I reached down, grabbed the waistband and pulled those suckers all the way back up, lifting the tunic in the process and exposing about everything underneath.  Oddly, no one but the lady in front of me even seemed to notice this whole scene had occurred, but I know better.  I worked retail, I know where the cameras are located.  And sure enough, located right behind me was a Target camera.  What else could I do?  I turned around and waved, mouthing the words, Merry Christmas!

As for the dress, I did get to Don Galani and I did order it.  But, I will NOT be wearing panty hose at the wedding, it’s too dangerous.


Coltman is the author of two books.  Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts! is a humor book based on her blog.  Her most recent book, In The Name Of The Father, is a suspense/thriller that reviewers have called a true page-turner.  Both books are available through amazon and Coltman's own website.