Hello Friends!
Today is a special day for me. Why? Because I have some fun posts for you guys, starting with some promo and extract from Paula Houseman‘s books.
Let’s start with the blurbs of “Cupid F*cks Up” and “My T(r)oyboy is a Twat“.
Blurb
Cupid F*cks Up
Ruth Roth is a straight shooter. Pity Cupid’s not.
Smart-mouth Ruth is an inspirational humour columnist for a popular women’s magazine. Recently divorced, she has found the love of her life. Without any help, mind you, from the little fat love god. Ruth has decided she herself is her one and only.
And she’s in a comfy place. Why wouldn’t she be? No need to yell ‘Put the bloody toilet seat down!’ No need to hoover toe-nail clippings off the carpet.
But then a silver-tongued Prince Charming fronts up in his shiny Merc and tickles her discarded, little-girl fantasies. He tells her their love is written in the stars.
It must be a misprint.
A romance with this particular PC is not so PC! Still …
Ruth’s life plays out more like ancient myth than fairytale. And what hot-blooded woman can resist forbidden fruit?
There’s a problem, though. Ruth does not have a hot-blooded mum. Ruth has a pain-in-the-arse mum whose squawking disapproval cranks the taboo up a notch.
All the more reason to take up with the stud! But it means taking on the harpy.
Tensions mount, and even Ruth’s man can’t protect her from the trash-talking voices in her head. It looks like he can’t muzzle his own either. When an earth-shattering revelation causes him to give her grief, it makes her feel like she’s dating her mother.
Taking the kind of advice she doles out to her readers is not so easy, and Ruth wonders if this love can survive. More to the point, is it worth the trouble?
Purchase Links – Amazon UK | Amazon US
Blurb
My T(r)oyboy is a Twat
Love, romance, marriage, and a dark little secret. Shh … Small things let loose can grow out of hand.
Ruth Roth’s new husband can’t keep it in. If only he had all those years ago, things might be different now.
His big mouth sends every family member into hell. Except for Ruth’s late mother. She blows in from there. Seems the woman just won’t die. Or let up. Faaaark!
As if Mama’s earbashing isn’t enough, everyone else needs a scapegoat. Ruth is it. Somehow, this mess is her fault.
With everything falling apart, she feels overwhelmed. Until a hunky celebrity pants man—who clearly wants to get into hers—befriends her and makes her feel all warm and fuzzy. At the same time, an educated silicone seductress has designs on hubby.
Temptation abounds. But it’s overshadowed when a startling discovery throws Ruth and her man into uncharted waters, and life comes crashing down.
Ruth has survived plenty with the help of her friends. And as a writer, her wry wit, dirty muse, and a bent for ancient mythology have sustained her. This, though, might be her undoing.
Purchase Links – Amazon US | Amazon UK
About Author
Paula Houseman was once a graphic designer. But when the temptation to include ‘the finger’ as part of a logo for a forward-moving women’s company proved too much, she knew it was time to give away design. Instead, she took up writing.
She found she was a natural with the double entendres (God knows she’d been in enough trouble as a child for dirty wordplay).
As a published writer of earthy chick lit and romantic comedy, Paula gets to bend, twist, stretch and juice up universal experiences to shape reality the way she wants it, even if it is only in books. But at the same time, she can make it more real, so that her readers feel part of the sisterhood. Or brotherhood (realness has nothing to do with gender).
Through her books, Paula also wants to help the reader escape into life and love’s comic relief. And who doesn’t need to sometimes?
Her style is a tad Monty Pythonesque because she adores satire. It helps defuse all those gaffes and thoughts that no one is too proud of.
Paula lives in Sydney, Australia with her husband. No other creatures. The kids have flown the nest and the dogs are long gone.
Social Media Links – Twitter | Goodreads | Facebook | LinkedIn
Extract – My T(r)oyboy is a Twat
I was standing next to the dining room table at one o’clock the next day with a mouthful of shortbread, when I heard the key in the door. Ralph walked in carrying an unfamiliar, caramel-coloured Louis Vuitton duffle. He placed it on the floor, said, ‘Hi,’ and held the door open for his colleague.
Sweet merciful crap! I stopped chewing.
Having assumed someone who was sex-savvy would have breasts that hung like flapjacks, bat-wing arms and a worn-out vagina, I expected to see a woman in her sixties, medium-sized, average height, salt-and-pepper hair cut into a neat bob and black-rimmed multifocals. I’d envisaged her wearing a tailored navy skirt, a loose, off-white, elbow-length, lightweight top in a marled-knit fabric, a single strand of pearls and sensible pumps.
I was not expecting a sex kitten.
Anthea was tall, model thin and well stacked. Probably in her mid-to-late thirties, she had a lustrous brown mane, waist length and side parted. She wore a red scoop neck, painted-on jersey dress that hugged her bod, sheer black hose and black patent stilettos. Anthea probably wore a lacy suspender belt to hold up her stockings. Anthea probably wore no knickers. And Anthea, no doubt, had a well-worn vagina.
Ralph introduced us. ‘Anthea meet Ruth; Ruth meet Anthea.’
Ruth. Not, Ruthie. Not, my wife, Ruthie.
I gawped at this hoochie, my cheeks bulging with cookie as she sashayed towards me, not a single body part of her wobbling, no breast jiggle. She extended her ice-cold hand, with its pristine French manicured nails, and warmly shook mine, with its unfiled, unvarnished nails.
‘How lovely to meet you, Ruth,’ she said in a smoky voice and with a smile that didn’t quite make it to her eyes.
I swallowed most of my biscuit, left the rest stuck to the roof of my mouth, and lied: ‘Thame.’
Even without my contact lenses, I’d seen how beautiful she was when she’d stepped through the doorway. Now, close up, I noticed her dark brown, almond-shaped eyes with their long, sooty false eyelashes, her flawless olive skin, her Eva Mendes jawline, Angelina Jolie lips, and straight white teeth. Her face was perfection. It looked sculpted by Michelangelo, or maybe a Dr Michel Angelo, Plastics?
My eyes were drawn down to a Yin Yang pendant.
It was suspended on a fine silver snake chain around her neck, and rested a little above her implanted-looking mammaries, which bulged like a pair of orbs spilling out of her décolletage.
Yin and Yang, like a pair of single opening and closing quotation marks mating, were set into a small round silver disc: Yang was mother of pearl inlaid with an onyx dot; Yin was onyx inlaid with a mother of pearl dot. I knew these signified the opposing and complementary forces of female and male. But, the spiritual symbolism seemed to be at odds with Anthea’s apparel.
Or, maybe not.
Personally, I thought it was unprofessional and improper to be dressed to the nines when you counselled sex addicts. But in light of the way she was tarted up, this symbol complemented her fuck-me threads. The way I saw it, it said I am into sixty-nines.
As Anthea’s eyes flicked over me, I became more self-conscious. I wore fuck-off-I’m-writing threads—old black parachute pants, a three-quarter-sleeve black tee, black moccasins.
Shit.
It occurred to me that it resembled the way Sylvia used to dress—always in I’m-a-grieving-widow black (even before Joe died). My relationship with Ralph, being what it was at the moment, might have been the reason I’d chosen this outfit. A far cry from almost ten months earlier, when, filled with life and passion, I dared to don a wicked, sexy red wedding dress. Ralph had loved it so much on me, he couldn’t wait to take it off me.
I didn’t know Anthea, but I didn’t like her. And I didn’t like that she was getting on a plane tonight with my husband.
Ralph asked if I minded them working in the dining room; if I minded doing my writing in the study this afternoon.
You bet I mind! This is my working domain.
You’re a difficult child, said Sylvia’s voice.
‘No. I don’t mind.’
I closed my laptop, gathered up my notepad, relocated, and kicked myself. That need for the approval of the rejecting ‘parent’ had taken over. It was a pointless struggle that would never bear fruit. And even worse, it felt like I was being punished. Sylvia had often sent me to my room when I was a child because I’d behaved childishly.
I sighed and plopped myself down on the chair, sat staring at the screen, but wrote nothing. My mind was in the adjoining room where Ralph and the tramp were conferring. A lot of muted laughter came from there. Ralph had a resonant laugh. It was the first time I’d heard it in a while.
In my world, even though everything had the potential to be funny, I wasn’t happy that Ralph was enjoying himself so much with this woman. I’d never been the jealous type and it irked me that this distasteful side now had me eating out of its hand. It irked me even more that I fed it. I got up and opened the door a crack to eavesdrop. I was about to close it because they weren’t saying anything, but then Anthea spoke.
‘You know, I find it so easy to relate to you. I feel like I’ve known you since forever.’
I froze. It was more like adolescent-speak between besties than adult-talk, but it bothered me.
‘Mmm. Mmm. Same here. Same here.’
Ah, yes. Repetition. This OCPD symptom was fine in the confines of his home, but in a professional setting, it would be problematic. He was supposed to be a presenter, not a cautionary tale. Show, don’t tell was good for someone in my line of work, not his.
Don’t forget to check out all the other bloggers that given their contribute in this Blog Tour, from reviews and basic promo/spotlight posts.
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Love,
Jess
Jess Bookish Life 