Thank you @jaimerockstarbooktours for the chance to be a part of the tour for T͠h͠e͠ G͠i͠r͠l͠ I͠n͠ T͠h͠e͠ ’67 B͠e͠e͠t͠l͠e͠ by L͠i͠n͠d͠a͠ L͠e͠n͠h͠o͠f͠f͠
The Girl in the ‘67 Beetle came mid of last year and made one reviewer (I swear not me) want to join a dating site again. It really takes some book to make a person want to start online dating again. Like dating is hard, online dating is a nightmare on it’s good days!
I’m still in the process of reading this, but honestly more happy about that because the author was also an editor! I am never happy when I’m made to read a badly edited book, so super excited for this!
3 winners will receive a finished copy of THE GIRL IN THE ’67 BEETLE, US Only.
To enter, just click on the link right here!
Amy Shepherd greets the one-year anniversary of her divorce by throwing herself a celebratory dinner of once-forbidden foods (frozen dinner from Trader Joe’s, no salad at all, and lots of dessert) and giving away all of her married-life possessions. The art director of Kids Press, Amy has been assigned to revise the story of Goldilocks, and she finds her own life reflecting a similar tale. Will she fall for a man who’s a little too old (but exciting), a man who’s a little too young (but awfully exciting looking), or a man who’s just right, at least as far as her friends are concerned? Or will she bring Goldilocks’ story—and her own—up to date with a little help from high-technology and the Goldilocks Planet theory? Can Amy resolve issues with her ex, her failing publishing company, plus her best friend’s quandary about working in a museum that’s been universally panned? Amy will have to decide how her own tale will end, all the while driving her beloved powder blue convertible through the streets of Santa Monica, where she has become known as the Girl in the ’67 Beetle, the only thing in her life that, so far at least, feels just right.
I think it’s a sign of our times that when we feel low or confused, unsure or unloved, we look for someplace warm and comforting, with soft colors and soothing music, and find ourselves time and again at Pottery Barn. At least, my pal Susan and I do.
“Shopping has gotten a bad name,” Susan says. Susan is my bestie from college, though we don’t use the term bestie because it’s a little too cute, and Susan is a serious person. She has a serious face with a serious haircut—auburn tinted straight hair, excellent posture, and one of those fit bodies where everything’s proportioned right. I think it’s because she’s tall. But she doesn’t lord it over me or anything.
“It’s true,” I say. “I feel guilty shopping now. Even window shopping makes me look over my shoulder to make sure no one’s watching. When did this happen?”
“It’s all those TV shows where women in too much eye makeup are constantly shopping for shoes.”
“I’ve never willingly gone into one of those pricey shoe stores,” I say.
“Boutiques,” Susan corrects me.
“I’d rather have a nice quilt,” I say, looking at a nice quilt. It’s five-hundred dollars, so I won’t be buying it, either. But at least if I did, it wouldn’t pinch my toes.
“Why would anyone want this?” Asks Libby, who has accompanied us today. Libby, Susan’s daughter, is a slender child even for a six-year-old, with very pale skin and dark blonde hair that will one day allow her to accompany us to the hairdresser for highlights. Libby’s looking at a large orange chair that appears Flinstonian and looks prehistoric yet uncomfortable. Actually, it looks like something your average six-year-old might enjoy, but as Susan and I know, Libby is no average six-year-old. Just ask her.
“Try it, Lib.”
“Give it a whirl, girl,” Susan says.
“This is peer pressure, isn’t it?” Libby asks us.
“I’ll try it,” I say, and do. It’s not bad, but a nice pillow wouldn’t hurt.
“It’s like a throne,” Susan says.
“No jewels though,” Libby replies. Libby thinks of these things.
“It’s not soft like I’d want a throne to be,” I say.
“What would Goldilocks say?” Susan asks me. She knows I have to rewrite and redraw the fairy tale story for my job as a children’s book artist.
“Too bright,” Libby says.
“Wouldn’t Goldilocks like bright?” I somehow feel Libby should be the expert.
“I don’t think Goldilocks would waste her money,” says the always practical Libby.
“Maybe you’re just not the throne type,” Susan tells her daughter. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“Comfort should be much more important than brightness,” Libby adds, in that authoritative way first-graders tend to share. Not to mention in a tone very similar to her mother’s.
“I agree,” I say.
“Unless there’s jewels,” Libby says.
Susan and I nod. The child has a point