An Easter Egg is a hidden feature, inside joke, or message in places like software, movies, video games, DVDs, or books. For example, George Lucas references his first movie, THX-1138, in every film he makes. In STAR WARS, Princess Leia is held in cell block 1138.

For fun, I put one in my second Blaze, HIS LITTLE BLACK BOOK, out this month. It’s on page 28. Readers not in the know will miss it, but I’m letting Blaze Blog readers in on the secret.

I try not to repeat main character names even after forty plus books, so when Sophie the pug dog visited last year I thought, “There’s a good name,” and used it for Sophie Callahan, heroine of “Text and the Single Girl.” When Sophie the pug arrived, she deliberately checked out every room of the house. She disturbed nothing, merely observing the status quo. Then, with a Grand Duchess air about her, she set about being the dog of the house. Her self-confidence became part of Sophie Callahan’s personality. Months later, in a funny coincidence, Sophie came to visit for a week at the exact time I was working on the manuscript revisions for her story. She quickly learned the household routine and would trot into my office and camp out in the knee hole of my desk while I worked. Here she is.

So when you read Sophie’s description, “She had pale blue-green eyes with an exotic tilt that kept her from looking too ‘girl next door-ish’ in spite of the ponytail, slightly pug nose and a few freckles”, well, here’s the inspiration. I know, it’s a horrible picture, but she sure doesn’t look girl next door-ish, does she?

What Easter Eggs have you discovered or learned about? Have you hidden some of your own? Or is this all new to you? Post a comment for a chance to win a copy of HIS LITTLE BLACK BOOK.

Super Bowl Sunday? My blog day is Super Bowl Sunday? No one is going to be surfing the Internet on Super Bowl Sunday–not even me. It’s my turn to have the gang over so I’ll be busy making snacks featuring the all-important fat and salt food groups. But forget about the game. Let’s talk commercials. With advertising time during the Super Bowl going for about $2.5 million for 30 seconds this year, companies want stellar commercials and the ad firms that deliver get almost as much attention as the products.

Sometimes they get it right. Some of my favorites have been the E*Trade Baby, who’ll return this year, the Hulu ad with Alec Baldwin, the Budweiser lizards taking out a hit on the frogs, and the dog coaching a Clydesdale so he can make the team next year. There have been some incredibly bad ones, too. I’m lookin’ at you, MacGruber. SoBe? Football players as ballerinas? Mutant lizards? And you want us to drink your product?

This year’s advertisements are listed here, along with videos if you miss any. Come back after the game and tell me your hits and misses. Tomorrow is okay, too. As a bribe reward, I’ll give away a copy of HIS LITTLE BLACK BOOK, my March Blaze. It’s an Encounters and the first story features a hero deciding on a Super Bowl commercial. How’s that for a coincidence?

See the picture? That’s my son getting his diploma from the University of Texas–the same UT who’s playing Alabama tonight for the national championship in football, but that’s not the point. (Unless you’re a Longhorn, which I am not.) The point is, I am done! Done, done, done! I have just checked “raise son to adulthood” off my list. He is raised. Break out the champagne! I did the best I could and now I’m sending him out into the world where I hope he’s hugely successful and sells like gangbusters. Oh, wait. He’s a child an adult, not a book. But you know what? I feel the same way after finishing a book, getting the edits, giving a final polish, and letting my baby go off to the publisher where he’ll be given a slick cover and released into the world. Afterward, all I can do is sit back and wait for the reviews. When you think about it, that’s pretty much what I’m going to do now, along with hoping someone out there wants to hire a sociology major with minors in economics and business administration. Well, that, and watch the game tonight.

Just this once . . . HOOK ‘EM HORNS!

Anyone else going to watch the game?

There are two kinds of people in the world–white light people and multi-colored light people. Okay and maybe those who decorate with a single, non-white color. I’m going to include them with the colored-light people because I think they secretly want to be colored-light people, but are intimidated by the trash talk from the white-light people who claim decorating with white lights is classier than using multi-colored lights. Piffle, I say. It’s the holidays! They’re supposed to be festive. Twinkly fairy lights are pretty, but I can see them any time I drive past a restaurant with a patio. What’s special about that? For Christmas, bring on the color. Yes, I am a multi-colored Christmas light person. Not only that, but my tree lights twinkle. Individually. At night, I like to stare at the random shadows the lights make on the ceiling. If it’s really quiet, I can hear a faint plinking sound as the bimetallic strips flex in the bulbs. To me, that’s the sound of Christmas.

Which is it for you–white lights or colored lights?

Last week, my husband and I went on a cruise to San Juan, Puerto Rico, Grand Turk, St. Thomas, and the Bahamas. That’s me on the left, swathed heavily against the sun. Unfortunately, that is not my husband on the right. Nevertheless, I had a great time. I had hoped to go kayaking and be able to trade stories with the intrepid Blaze Senior Editor, Brenda Chin, but it was not to be. Instead, I toured del Morro, annoyed iguanas, shopped in St. Thomas, and made friends on the beach (see left). I handled an alligator and went on a pub crawl–and I won the toasting contest with this limerick:

There were two couples from Texas
Who could have been driving a Lexus
But they went on a cruise
And are enjoying the booze
And afterward hope they’re not exes.

My prize was a lovely key chain.

The fact that I was on a pub crawl at all is solely due to the Blaze influence. Blaze heroines are confident and go after what they want. Their attitude has begun to rub off on me. Would a Blaze heroine sit around moping about her cancelled kayaking trip? Absolutely not, and neither did I. And now I have a new key chain and a new friend! (see above)

While I was cavorting in the Caribbean, did I forget the Blaze Blog readers? Why no! Straight from St. Thomas is a lovely, dainty, sterling silver Larimar necklace that a lucky blog commenter will win. Larimar, or blue pectolite, is found only in the Caribbean and is the result of lava merging with copper. The more times you comment, the better your chances of winning. On Sunday night, I’m going to ask the girl next door to draw a number and will post the winner on Monday morning.

I don’t know my new friend’s name since I, er, didn’t bother asking. It didn’t seem important at the time. What shall we call him?

Even though it’s still ninety degrees outside, I know it’s fall because the grocery stores are loaded with apples. Sure, they’re available year ’round, but they taste best right now. Have you checked out all the varieties? There are some I’ve never heard of in the stores this year.

When I was growing up, we had the green Granny Smith for pies, Red Delicious, that got huge, and Golden Delicious, which I think is a little wimpy for an apple. And since I lived in Missouri, we had my favorite–the Jonathan. Its sweet-tart crunch defines the apple taste for me. My dad used to get a bushel of Jonathans and we’d snack on them until Christmas.

After we moved to Texas, I missed the taste of Jonathans because until recently, they weren’t stocked in the stores. I felt sorry for my friends who’d never eaten a Jonathan and thought the sweet, watery Red Delicious with its tough, bitter skin was what an apple tasted like. For years, I ate my apples baked in pies.

A new variety appeared in the stores–the Gala from New Zealand. Not bad, meaning a lot better than the Red Delicious. Yay New Zealand! But after that, I was taunted by Jonagolds, a cross between a Jonathan and a Golden Delicious. Why? Why did they taint the perfectly good Jonathan apple? Oh, sure, the Jonagold’s a pretty decent-tasting apple, no thanks to the Golden Delicious. The Jonathan is clearly doing the heavy-lifting in the flavor department.

And then one fall, I was shopping in a ritzy grocery store about twenty miles from my home and there they were–bags of Jonathan apples. I gasped. At last my children would taste real apples! I anticipated their little eyes wide with wonder as the mighty Jonathan zapped their taste buds. But since they were teenaged boys what I got was, “Mom, chill. It tastes like an apple.”

So, what’s your favorite apple?

It’s Labor Day! Last day to wear those white shoes! I’m referring to the rule that in the US, white shoes should only be worn from Memorial Day to Labor Day. And we’re talking the actual Memorial Day, May 30th and not the fake Memorial Day Observed. The only exceptions are brides, athletes, and those whose uniform requires white shoes. Don’t worry. This still leaves winter white, off-white, ivory, cream, eggshell, candlelight, bone, and any other not-quite-whites.

Who made up this rule? After exhaustive Googling, I have no idea. All I can tell you is that It’s Just Not Done. Other fashion rules have been retired, but not this one. The white-shoe edict is more than a mere rule. It’s part of our social DNA. Ignore it at your peril. Think I’m kidding? In November, 1989, Sarah, Duchess of York, arrived in Houston wearing a yellow and white dress and white shoes. The faux pas made the evening news along with an explanation that she had dressed for a tropical climate, since it was still eighty-five degrees during the day time. To this day, people still discuss the incident.

But what about the temperature? It’s still summer outside! As Judith Martin, writing as Miss Manners says, “Weather is never an excuse.” And “Sensible people therefore adhere to the concept of seasons without regard to whatever chaotic conditions may be prevailing outdoors.”

Many arbiters of style have declared the rule obsolete. They’re wrong, or I’d be wearing white sandals tomorrow. But I just can’t make myself. At least not until Memorial Day 2010.

Thanks to Alison Kent, we have a poll!

Sometimes I’m too clever for my own good. I enjoy signing at RWA’s Literacy Autographing, which kicks off the annual conference. So do 400 or 500 other authors. Since we’re all packed into one room, space is at a premium. Therefore, we’re no longer allowed to have posters of our book covers or any vertical displays to lure readers to our spot. Some authors are so well known, they don’t need to do any luring. They sell out in fifteen minutes and head for the bar. The rest of us smile gamely and wait for our legions of fans to find us. Or legion of fans. Or even one fan.

I needed an attention getter. Around Valentine’s Day, I found a string of heart lights and got an idea. I would decorate my signing space with blinking lights. There aren’t any rules about blinking lights, probably because there isn’t any place to plug them in. Oh, but I’m married to an electrical engineer. “Can you design me a power supply that will fit in a flat-rate mailer and run this string of lights for three hours?” I asked him. And like magic, he produces a plastic case with a plug and a red on/off switch. There’s even a cooling fan inside along with a cord to recharge the battery. After mailing it to myself–in Washington, D.C.–I learn that the nifty case is actually a gun case. A gun case?!? “It was the right size,” he explains. I figure the US Mail will never let the thing through. Nevertheless, I pack the lights in my suitcase and head for the conference. After landing, I get to baggage claim and hear, “Continental passenger Heather MacAllister please report to the baggage service office.” I knew it couldn’t be good.

What happened was airport security had removed my suitcase from the plane prior to take off because my heart lights, wiring neatly arranged in the unopened box, resembled a bomb. I’m lucky they didn’t blow the suitcase up first and ask questions later. I could hardly wait to find out if my gun case made it to the hotel.

It actually did and so did my suitcase after Continental put it on the next flight out and rushed it to the hotel in time for the literacy signing. Here I am, blinking lights and all.

After all the drama, I’m curious–how do you feel about book signings?

Mosquitoes love me. I do not love them. I don’t return their calls, I’m always busy when they want to go out, I slap them when they get too close, but they’re not taking the hint. Maybe it’s because I’m outnumbered here in the Bayou City and the word being spread isn’t, “Stay away or die!” but “Free all-you-can-eat buffet!” The RWA Conference is next week and I’m going to look as though I just got off the plane from a two-week stint at Girl Scout Camp.

Meanwhile, the battle rages on. My first line of defense is an electronic goody: the Stinger Mosquito Trap. I have one just inside the front door. A light attracts the mosquitoes and a fan sucks them in where they dehydrate. No muss no fuss. Until I have to empty it.

My favorite weapon was an anniversary present. Roses are nice, but give me an electronic mosquito zapper anytime. I sleep with it next to the bed and when I hear that whiny buzz, I grab the racket without turning on the light, wave it around until I hear a snap and see a spark as 1500 volts fry the mosquito. Very satisfying. The smell of burning mosquito? Not so much.

Speaking of smell, a couple of years ago, I started looking for a new perfume. I’ve been squirting myself at counters, buying samplers, and rubbing my arms with those cards that come in magazines in hopes of eliciting more than, “It’s okay” from my husband. I’d about given up until one day he said, “Hey! What’s that perfume? I really like that.” And so I’ve found my new signature scent: Off Smooth and Dry.

If you’ve got any mosquito-fighting tips, please tell me!

P.S. I’ve just redone my website. Stop by and take a look.

My first Blaze is on the stands! Whoo hoo! I was looking forward to its release because the number one question I’m asked is, “Where do you get your ideas?” and this time, I’ve got an easy answer. Naturally, no one has asked me that about this book. But the month is young.

UNDRESSED is four stories about couples who overhear conversations in the dressing rooms sharing a wall between a bridal salon and a tux rental shop. The idea for the book came from shopping for a wedding dress with my sister, who got married last year. You would not believe some of the conversations we overheard in the fitting rooms. At one point, I wondered what would happen if the grooms could hear their brides and future mothers-in-law talking . . . and a book was born.

I made up the conversations in the book. The real ones were too unbelievable. A lot of what happens in real life is too unbelievable to use in a book.

For example, at my sister’s wedding last May, I, as matron of honor, am standing next to her, listening as the minister preaches about marriage before the nitty gritty of exchanging vows and rings.

Now, what’s the classic cliché here? The missing ring, of course.

Yes. A horrible, awful, terrible feeling goes through me as I realize that I don’t have the ring. It’s on the table in the bride’s dressing room.

As I am thinking of how I can sneak off the dais and retrieve the ring without anyone noticing, I am also thinking that I could never use this in a book because it’s such a cliché. I turn to the other bridesmaid and mouth, “I don’t have the ring.”

She smiles and mouths back, “I have the ring.”

I go limp with relief. She discreetly hands it to me and I stick it on my thumb. Moments later, I hear, “May I have the rings?” And that’s when I go for cliché number two–the stuck wedding ring.

I’d been working with the flowers and my hands–and thumb–were sticky from florist’s tape. Since by now I was holding the bride’s bouquet as well as mine, I tried to slide the ring off my thumb with the fingers of the same hand. There was no sliding. The ceremony pauses as the minister waits for me to give him the ring. My sister thinks I’m joking. Finally, I pass off a bouquet and use my other hand to remove the ring because I’m afraid it’ll suddenly become unstuck and go shooting across the dais.

You’d never believe that in a book. I didn’t believe it as it was happening. But I can use the idea, if I make up something more convincing and less like real life.

It’s June! What are your wedding stories?