Root Beer Chocolate, Detox, InSanity

Dear Sillies,

   Are you staying warm enough? I sure hope so. Spring is only a few weeks away - something to keep in mind while you're bundling up.

   I've a mixed post for you. 

   

   Please be good to yourselves.

   We'll catch up later in March.

   First, I sampled Theo's Root Beer Barrel, a root beer flavored chocolate bar.

I like root beer, and you know I love chocolate. This chocolate bar has a solid root beer flavor. But I wanted more chocolate goodness. The mixture doesn't work. It might work if you add vanilla ice cream, as it made me crave a root beer float. On the plus side: It's Fair trade. It's a pretty wrapping. It wasn't bad. I'll give it a 5 on a scale of 1-10. If you're craving root beer, make yourself a root beer float. Don't buy Theo's Root Beer Barrel.   
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Second, I'm going on an Internet detox break for several weeks. One reason for this is to work on finishing my next book. It's a sequel to Woman on the Verge called InSanity. 
Here's a teaser from page one:

   Is it just me or are everybody’s braincells mysteriously busy boogers, frenetically body-slamming against each other’s elastic membranes, then rebounding fullspeed ahead like Sarah Palin at the mention of the 1892 Alaskan Takedown Cartridge Rifle?
   She’s horny, right? I mean, anyone with that degree of calculated idiocy, that endless supply of plastic smiles and short tight skirts—Does she not know she lives in—Hello!­ Alaska? She’s gotta have a deviant libido. Or am I just jealous 'cuz she's one of those pretty-dumb-rich bitches? Yeah, that too. But let’s fixate on the former. It’s more fun, and I’m so weird.
   He doesn’t notice.
   Am I crazy? Am I not crazy? If I’m crazy, am I crazy for thinking I’m not crazy? If I'm not crazy, am I crazy for not realizing that I'm not crazy? But if I am in fact crazy, am I not in fact crazy for thinking that—my musings hurt. Let’s agree that I’m not crazy. No? No, no?
   Oh all right, yes. Yes, yes. Check box one, check box two. Cash? No, check. Check please.
   I hate waiting for the check. They’re never quick to bring it. Twenty minutes later they act all smiley, flip it under your nose, and announce “Take your time.” I already did, honey, waiting for you to bring the damn check! Here's your tip: Pick up the pace; you're on the clock.
   Warmed bed sheets brush briskly against my right calf.
   My face lowers itself hypnotically, as I sink into Jeff’s thoughtful gray-blue irises. Oh, I forgot: I’m having sex. Like, now. And I’m not alone.