I do!  A few months ago I was in need of a day away from my kids, spouse, and chore-filled house, so I scheduled a morning appointment for a haircut/color and an afternoon appointment (thanks to a ‘spa days’ coupon) for a massage.

         I arrived at the hair salon full of excitement about my relaxing day.  When I sat down to have the what-are-we-going-to-do-today discussion, I thought I looked okay, save for the dead ends and overgrown roots.  But then, for the better part of an hour and a half, I was forced to stare at myself in the salon mirror.  That’s a long time to stare at oneself, especially with a towel-wrapped head and then with bedraggled wet hair.  My mood wavered then started sliding.

         What can I do, I wondered, about this situation?  (Namely, the situation of MY FACE.)  I’d recently turned 40 and was fresh out of the power to turn back time.

         I conceded that there was much I could not do.  But was there anything I COULD do to help myself along?  Inspiration struck.  My eyebrows!  Yes, I decided.  A woman of any age can pursue good eyebrows!

         So, before my massage, I followed a friend’s recommendation to a nail salon in a strip mall that offers facial waxing.  A young woman escorted me to a private room in the back — clean, spare, neat — and directed me to lie down.  I did.  She leaned over my face and observed my eyebrow flaws critically, slathered on warm strips of wax, then jerked off the strips.  It was painful enough to cause me to cringe and flinch.  But for those of us who’ve survived childbirth, an acceptable pain-price in exchange for shapely brows.

         When she finished, she passed a hand mirror to me.

         Ah, good, I thought darkly.  Another mirror!

         While the eyebrows themselves looked well-groomed, the skin around them looked… extremely angry.  It had turned bright red, which I believed to be normal.  But there were also some not-so-normal looking patches below both brows.  You know how a burn looks?  Sort of smooth and shiny?  That’s how those areas looked.  As if the wax may have… pulled off the very top layer of my skin.

         I assured myself this couldn’t be the case and headed to my massage.  The waiting room had been wall-papered with — you guessed it — mirrors!  Upon further study it really did appear that my brow bone region was missing some epidermis.

         Hm.  And oh, dear.

         I was called back to the massage room, where I spoke with the therapist while trying not to look self-conscious about my red and white raccoon face.  I lay down on the table and placed my face on the cloth-covered, donut-shaped head rest.

         Let’s just say that my strong eyebrow anxiety made massage enjoyment difficult.  I worried, quite sincerely, that my scars would stick to the cloth headrest cover and that I’d try to turn over only to take the cloth and the whole donut up with me.

         Alas, God had pity on me.  When it came time to turn over, nothing stuck.

         But the following days confirmed that I had, indeed, lost a thin slice of skin above each eye.  Relatively easily hidden and quickly healed.  Still.  Enough to convince me that eyebrow waxing isn’t for me.

         The story would end there.  Maybe should have ended there.  Except that I’ve never been easily deterred from a goal.

         So the next time my brows needed attention, I took myself to a kiosk at the Galleria Mall.  There, within view of every shopper in North Dallas, I allowed a wizened gentleman to roll and rip my eyebrow hairs out using threads.  It looks peaceful but it’s as painful as the waxing, only slower.  Again, for those of us who’ve survived childbirth… yada yada.

         I walked away from the kiosk with charming brows, all my skin, and a thimble full of extra wisdom.  1) Hair salon mirrors are not my friend.  They’re more like a business adversary.  Best not to worry too much about OR trust too much in the things they tell me.  2) Sculpted brows are nice to have, but not essential in any way.  3) God has His ways of keeping us all humble.

How do you keep your eyebrows looking fabulous?  What’s your favorite spa treatment? 

And look at this!

Win a Nook Simple Touch™ with GlowLight™ in Becky Wade’s My Stubborn Heart Giveaway and RSVP for FB Party {5/24}!

Celebrate with Becky by entering her My Stubborn Heart Giveaway and connecting with her during the Author Chat Party on 5/24!

One fortunate winner will receive:

• A Brand New Nook Simple Touch™ with GlowLight™
• A $25 Barnes & Noble Gift Certificate
• A copy of My Stubborn Heart by Becky Wade

Enter today by clicking one of the icons below. But hurry, the giveaway ends at noon on May 24th. Winner will be announced at the “My Stubborn Heart” Author Chat Facebook Party on 5/24. Becky will be hosting an book chat, testing your trivia skills and giving away some great prizes!

So grab your copy of My Stubborn Heart and join Becky on the evening of the May 24th for a chance to meet Becky and make some new friends. (If you haven’t read the book – don’t let that stop you from coming!)

 Don’t miss a moment of the fun. RSVP today and tell your friends via FACEBOOK or TWITTERand increase your chances of winning. Hope to see you on the 24th!Becky Wade makes her home in Dallas, Texas with her husband, three children, and one adoring (and adored) cavalier spaniel. Her inspirational contemporary romance, My Stubborn Heart, has just been released by Bethany House.

Extraordinary nooky. There’s not a lot of mediocre sex in romance novel. Well, it may be alluded to as in I don’t know what the big fuss is over sex! until, of course, Our Hero comes waltzing into town. And then she shall know what the big fuss is, oh, yes! And it’s always wonderful. No one ever says, “Hurry up, okay? Letterman’s starting.”

Fabulous apartments in Manhattan. How is that so many barely-employed people can afford lofts in SoHo? How many great-aunts must’ve died to will them those rent-controlled palaces on the Upper West Side? Remember Friends? Please. A waitress at a coffee shop could not afford even to look at Manhattan, let alone live there. Not unless she had a generous and dead great-aunt, that is. How about the movie Hitch, one of my favorites? A reporter lives in a huge apartment. Huge. She lives there alone. A reporter. (Pause for laughter).

Thoughtfully prepared meals for one. Does no one eat Kraft dinner anymore? Shovel in iffy yogurt whilst standing in front of the sink? Does a person really set the table for one, light a candle, and pour a glass of wine, then sit there and eat?  I don’t. I whip up my favorite orange food, take the pot and the wooden spoon, plunk down in my chair and fire up Real Housewives for a half hour of soul-damaging trash TV. And I love it!

Single, available men littering the streets. When I was single, not one of my friends ponied up an array of handsome, single, straight, employed brothers. Clearly, I should’ve traded in my friends, but I’m loyal. Sigh. Nor did I ever live next to a firehouse filled with attractive single men. Nor an Army base filled with same. Nor a boarding house, though to be honest, if a guy told me he was living in a boarding house, I would wonder about his prison record.

Ah-choo! No one gets truly ill in a romance. Might our heroine (but never our hero) barf after over-indulging on the old pink martinis? Sure. Will she ever get food poisoning, requiring not just a toilet, but a wastebasket too? No. She will not. Might she sniffle adorably while clad in goofy pajamas and murmur the words I glub oo, which the hero will know truly mean I love you? Yes! Will she cough so hard she vomits? No. In romance novels, “in sickness and in health” really only means in adorable sickness but mostly health.

Well, we read romance novels for escapism, right? What could be nicer than a world where we really could afford those fab apartments next to firehouses populated by straight, single men? Leave a comment about your favorite aspects of a romance, and I’ll send one of you a signed copy of UNTIL THERE WAS YOU, in which Our Hero is adorably injured, Our Heroine lives in a place she should not rightfully be able to afford, and the two of them have extraordinary nooky.

So here are a few notable moments in the old mother/child relationship that maybe aren’t so great.

My mom goes to the hospital with a broken foot. We see the orthopedist, whose name sounds like the Hungarian word for granny-style underwear (it’s a weird language). The snorting begins. He is confused at our amusement, which only makes it worse. When Mom is given crutches, both of us know she’s going to fall. She does. Hilarity ensues. Nurses express concern that my mom is being discharged into my care.

My neighbor pretends to give her children up for adoption. Okay, this was a different time. My neighbor is 77 years old. When her boys were fighting and breaking stuff (which was daily, let’s be fair), Carol would pick up the phone and say, “Hello, Bad Boys Home? I have two boys I’d like you to pick up.” Today, that would be considered emotional abuse, but I’m happy to report that both boys are now men and seem pretty dang happy and successful to me.

I embarrass my daughter and godchild by referring to anatomy in a mall. “I’ll meet you at the nipple store,” I blithely call, referring to Hollister, whose name always escapes me. The girls shush me in horror, then bolt into the crowd.

Star Wars dorkiness revealed when I engage in a heated debate about who is cooler — Han Solo or Yoda—while out to breakfast with my daughter. (And please. It’s Yoda.). My daughter’s gentle advice: “You probably should keep some things to yourself, Mommy.”

My mother pretends to abandon her three small children in the car on a dark road, warning us not to open the doors “no matter what you hear.” She’d get out of the car, walk a few yards away, wait us out until our whimpering became loud enough, then come back, laughing. “Oh, you didn’t think I was serious, did you? You kids!” I know. I’d like to say the emotional scars have healed. But I can’t. That being said, I seem to be a normally functioning adult, so clearly Mom did something right!

Got any funny stories of your own less-than-notable moments in motherhood…or your own mom’s? You know you’ll be bringing her flowers on Sunday, so for now, go ahead. Tell us!

Kidney transplants. I don’t know why, but three times (and counting) thus far in my writing career, I’ve wondered if it’s time for a kidney transplant. This has become a code, almost. If I find myself musing about the need for such an operation, I know I’m in trouble. It’s sort of like my subconscious is saying, “Higgins, I’m bored. How about a medical emergency that can show how brave and selfless a character is? Like…a kidney transplant?” It’s never a liver or lung, for some reason. Just a kidney.

The strange noise coming from outside whilst heroine is home alone/home alone with small children. Recently, I heard a strange noise outside our home. McIrish was at the firehouse for the night. We live in the woods, a good distance from our nearest neighbors. Should I scream, in other words, it’s a fair bet that no one would hear me. Still, I heard a strange noise and decided I’d be brave and investigate. I aimed the flashlight beam at the roof of the house, from whence came the mysterious noises, saw a pair of tiny eyes, screamed like an Irish banshee, dropped the light and ran back into the house, terrifying my children, cat and dog. The eyes belonged to a tiny flying squirrel. My reaction is, I believe, a very realistic depiction of what happens to most of us when confronted with an actual living creature, despite its size (maybe three inches, head to tail). Imagine if it was that pesky serial killer on the loose! Note to heroines everywhere: stop investigating noises in the middle of the night. Call 911 instead.

Then someone dies. Okay, yes, actually I have killed off a character or two. (Well…they died from natural causes, and I’m sorry for any pain it caused you.) But yeah, I’ve been known to ask, “Are there any old people who’ve lived rich, full lives just hanging around? Because maybe…you know…maybe we don’t need them as much as we thought.”

Crime spree. “How about if she’s car-jacked? What if his ex-wife kidnaps him while she’s being car-jacked? Wait, wait…what if they decide to embezzle $10 million and buy a small European country? What then, huh?” Then I remind myself that I don’t write that type of book and keep trudging through ideas.

Half-brother released from prison. I think this is a hangover from The Firm, which I saw at a tender age. Still have a thing for David Straithairn (just in case he’s reading this…call me, David!). So far, I haven’t written a character who has a half-brother in prison, but I’m hanging onto this idea.

Did you ever come across a plot twist that seemed to come out of left field? Had you scratching your head, wondering if you’d missed something?

Leave a comment, gang, and guess what? One of you will get an advance copy of SOMEBODY TO LOVE, which hits the shelves on April 24^th. And nary a kidney transplant in the entire book.

But most of the time, I love movie crying! Sad crying, joyful crying, poignant crying…I’d say I probably cry at 50% of all movies. Below are some of my most favorite, must-have-tissues moments of all. Warning: there are plot spoilers here!

The race in The Black Stallion. I read the books. I practically memorized the books. But when I saw the movie, and that beautiful little boy, and even knowing how the race ended, when the camera goes to the churning hooves of the Black, and the music starts playing…oh! The love between boy and horse, and what each does for the other, is indescribably beautiful. One of my favorite movies of all times.

Captain, my Captain. Granted, I usually speak those words when gazing upon Derek Jeter, captain of the New York Yankees and my future husband, but in this case, I refer, of course, to Dead Poets Society, and the moment at the end of the movie when Todd, played by Ethan Hawke, stands on his desk to acknowledge his teacher, played by Robin Williams, who has just been fired. One by one, all the other students whose lives were touched by the one teacher who believed in their intelligence and ability to think for themselves, stand on their desks as well. Sigh!

Wilson is lost. There is something bleakly magical about Cast Away—the sound of the waves, Chuck’s unbroken loneliness, his resourcefulness. When a volleyball washes up, part of the debris on the plane that went down, Chuck names it Wilson. For a long time, Wilson is the only thing that stands between Chuck and despair. And when Wilson is swept off the little raft Chuck has made, Chuck goes into the water to retrieve him—his friend, his link to humanity—and fails. “Wilson! Wilson, I’m sorry!” It cuts through me every time.

“Pick me out a winner, Bobby.” In The Natural, Robert Redford (sigh!) plays Roy Hobbs, an aging baseball star who has one season to be the player he was meant to be. All his life, he’s used only one bat—Wonderboy, a bat he made himself from a tree split by lightning on his family’s farm. The New York Knights are down, it’s the bottom of the ninth, and the injured Roy Hobbs is at bat. He swings, but the ball goes foul. Worse, Wonderboy is broken. Roy is stunned…the fans are nervous. How can Roy get the miracle hit he needs without his talisman, the representation of his boyhood dreams? Bobby Savoy, the cute, chubby bat boy who worships Roy, comes over, and, because there’s nothing else to do, Roy looks at him and says, “Pick me out a winner, Bobby.” (I’m weeping just typing these lines. Bobby does—the bat he and Roy made together. Do you think Roy hits a home run with the Savoy Special? I’ll give you a hint. Yes!

Do you love tearjerkers? Which movies make you cry? Leave a comment, and I’ll send one of you a signed copy of CATCH OF THE DAY, which has a couple of tear-jerking scenes as well.

I’m writing a book now in which a wedding goes awry. It was a terribly wonderful, horribly delicious scene, and I thoroughly enjoyed writing it, laughed a bit and cried some, too. I’ve never been to a wedding that didn’t go through, but you never know. It would be good from a writerly point of view (so long as it doesn’t happen this weekend).

I don’t care about the venue, the dress, the flowers, the ugly bridesmaids dresses (though the uglier the better, so far as I’m concerned). Don’t care how old the couple is or if their dog is the ring-bearer. But I do have some basic criteria.

Love. Yes, the couple must be in love. Is there anything more awkward than being at a wedding when either the bride or groom (or both) clearly isn’t in it for the long haul? Everyone forces a smile and hopes to be wrong…but…you know…we all hear the clock that just started ticking on the detonation device, if you know what I mean.

Happiness. I think couples should enjoy their weddings and not get lost in the myriad details that make it up. It’s nice if both sides of the family are happy, too. My grandmother was not pleased that my dad married my mom. I don’t know if she thought her precious boy could do better or if she just didn’t want him to marry anyone, ever, but the pictures show her looking like she just bit a lemon. (My parents were very happily married till my father’s death, by the way. Just sayin’. )

Someone sobbing during the ceremony. This is often yours truly. Just as I cry during the Oscars, Miss America and any Pixar movie, I cry at weddings. Hopefully, I won’t be alone. Now, granted, I cry with happiness and love. If someone is crying over a broken heart…well, sure, that’d be interesting. Good fodder for a book.

Food. Oh, yes, we must be fed and fed well. I don’t care if the food is homemade or from a five-star restaurant, but I must eat well!

Interesting fellow guests. I love meeting new people. This comes as a shock, I know. But give me a colorful uncle or a recently released cousin, and heck! The wedding just got more fun.

Good music. I am one of the most physically awkward people you’ll ever meet. If we’re walking down a hallway together, chances are very high that I will bump into you, trip you, or fall on top of you. That being said, I love to dance! Do watch out for me, though. I have been known to give out a black eye or two.

Good toasts. Again, this is the writer part of me. Make me laugh, make me cry. Do NOT tell long, involved stories that use the words “young Jack Kerouac” or “no one else here will appreciate this.” Remember, we’re all judging you, toast-master. Make it great.

Googly eyes. Yes, I want to see the bride and groom staring dopily at each other, silly in love. Because that’s what it’s all about, right?

Tell me your best wedding story, good, bad or ugly! You never know…one of us JQs might use it in a book!