It’s Your American Duty to Vote
First of all, I want to announce the winners of Who Made You a Princess? They are…Razorback Micah (which is nice, especially since I ripped off material from her blog), Colene, patron saint of stray cats, and Nicole P, super cool blog reader. Ladies, send me your home addy to jen at jennybjones dot com. You will get your books from the publisher, so you won't be grandmothers before they arrive. Congrats!!!!
So in the continuing saga of the book cover for I'm So Sure, book no. 2 in A Charmed Life series, the great folks at T-Nel really took your opinions to heart and created a third option for your consideration. We would love for you to weigh in on which is your fave once again. Any info you can provide–what you like about your choice, what you don't like about the ones that you didn't choose, etc. will all be so very helpful.
Just to review, here is the cover for the book already out, So Not Happening.
Also here is the back cover of the book, just in case you don't have it memorized yet.
First, her family is chosen for a reality TV show, then she's forced to get a part-time job at a feminine hygiene plant. Bella tries to press STOP before she totally loses her cool.
Bella Kirkwood is finally situated in her new hometown, but she's not ready for the whirlwind of randomness that takes place next. When her stepdad enters a new wrestling reality show, Bella is pulled along for the ride as her life goes on display for all the world to see. When the cameras roll, Bella must solve a prom-queen mystery, deal with her returning ex-boyfriend, and keep her cool as she works alongside the hot but irritating newspaper editor Luke Sullivan.
Who needs TV when you're living the charmed life?
Option A: The newest cover idea
Okay, I must go take a steroid or an antibiotic or throw myself in front of rush hour traffic. Whichever comes first. Two weekends ago, my friend Leslie and I went and picked wild blackberries. You KNOW Murphy's Law is gonna kick you in the knickers when the day starts off like this:
Friend: “I don't know what poison ivy looks like. Do you?”
And then I hear the score from I Know What You Did Last Summer in my head and KNOW we are somehow, some way doomed. And sure enough, we were. The poison ivy showed up a week later. (How is that even possible? Poison ivy is one of those things that would survive a nuclear holocaust, isn't it? I guess roaches need something to keep them company.) And on top of that, I guess I got bit by something and had a weird allergic reaction resulting in funky skin, hives, more itching (cuz the poison ivy wasn't NEARLY enough), and a pressing, yet impossible desire not to wear pants given its location. (Waistline. JUST the waistline)
It all started going south last week when I noticed these two small fang marks on my hip. Not cool fang marks like I had met up with Edward Cullen. More like it appeared I had been bitten by something smaller–like a vampire's poodle. So when my little bite was nothing more than a few marks, a couple of nice people instructed me to go to the doctor pronto. It could be a black widow. It could be a brown recluse. It could be MRSA (Google THAT and just try not freaking out), it could be staph (Ditto on Googling. Ditto on the freaking). And people told me about untreated side effects like rotting flesh, fever, fainting, amputation (my personal favorite, who DOESN'T like a good amputation story?), and dementia. And I meant to go to the doctor. I did. But I had things I had to get done, and the flesh and brain rot were gonna have to wait.
So fast forward a few more days, and things were worse, but just in the hivey sense (isn't this FASCINATING?). I was happy to report I still had my mental wherewithal and the leg below my jacked up hip gave no signs of requiring amputation. I finally made an appointment and got in to the dr's office in a few hours. I think this was Monday. I'm not sure because when your life has diminished to nothing but rash stories, it all becomes a blur. Anyway, so I don't get a doctor. I get a physicians assistant. And a sick one, on top of that, who didn't know that you're supposed to cough into your elbow, and it's no longer acceptable to cough into your hands, especially when those hands are next going to land on my plagued skin. But I digress. . . I show her the fang marks. And she's like “Hmmmm…I guess a bug bit you.” I said something sweet in response when in my head, I'm like, ” I waited forty-five minutes for THIS?” And then I ask if it could be a spider. She tells me she doesn't know. I say, “But there are fang marks.” To which she replies….”Uh huh.” And then we talk a bit more about it–allergic reaction, I can keep the leg, blah, blah. And then I show her my arm and say, “Is this poison ivy?” She looks. “Probably. Yeah. I guess. Maybe.” Maybe? Lady, I pulled pictures up on the internet within seconds of Googling, and it could not be any more obvious. I smile and say something friendly AGAIN, but I'm thinking, “What the CRAP? Are you insane?” And then she offers me a shot in the behind, and I want to say, “For WHAT? You don't even know!” I refuse the shot because parts of me already hurt, and there is no sense in offending my butt too.
And I leave.
And thinking, “You know, if you were a kinder person, you would have told the woman about a cool website we call WebMD. . .”
Anyway, thanks for listening to my heartbreaking rash story. The word rash has always made me giggle, but…I'm not laughing now. What WOULD make me happy is if you would give the book covers some thought and tell us what you think. And details are good. We like details.
See you Friday. If I make it.