1930's Ad's - These are not for weak! Funny Email

Hello all! I was going to wait until April to start writing, but this email I received, defies logic and is funny as hell. Some of these ads are a riot, and some are just plain scary. Please take a gander at what people were doing in the 30's and the advice they recived. Ludicrous!

ADS FROM THE 1930'S THESE ARE A RIOT.... can you believe that these were real ads? Yes, they were!

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A Blogger Apology

Dear Zesty Nachos,

I Acquanetta Antoinette Ferguson, apologize for not being there for you, spending time with you. I’ve been a neglectful blogger, and for that I am ashamed.

Lately I have not expressed myself. I’ve only put up things to give away, but not giving any of me to you. Zesty, we’ve been together for over a year, and this time apart has been, well bad.

I am also sad to admit I forgot your birthday. I am a bad blogger. But no more. I vow to spend quality time with you. I am going back to how it started, how I would tell the world through you, how things affected me.

Zesty, me and you, well we are good for each other. I will still do giveaways, but I was never cut out to be that type of blogger exclusively. I know you shine, when I shine.

Starting with this apology, I will strive to give you what you need: my thoughts, my rants, my raves, my everything. Zesty Nachos, it is on.


A blogger ready to kick some major ass!
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Giveaway - To Sin With a Scoundrel

For those who entered, I will be pulling names tonight and emailing the winners. I apologize for the delay. Thank you.
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To Sin With a Scoundrel By Cara Elliot Book Giveaway (03/15) Closed)

Hello all! Doing another book giveaway! This one is for To Sin With a Scoundrel by Cara Elliot.

Here is the book blurb:
A reclusive widow known for her scientific scholarship, Lady Ciara Sheffield is shadowed by rumors that she poisoned her husband . . . A rakehell rogue notorious for his devil-may-care antics, Lucas Bingham--the Earl of Hadley--is not accused of murdering anything--save for the rules of Polite Society. The only thing they have in common is seeing their names featured in the lurid gossip columns of London's newspapers. Until an ancient manuscript draws them together.

Ciara needs a titled fiancé to quell the slanderous speculations which may send her to the gallows. Lucas needs brilliant scholar to help his elderly uncle decipher the secrets of the mysterious manuscript. So when her friends urge her to accept the earl's proposal of a temporary alliance, Ciara decides that she has no choice but to make a deal with the Devil. And so begins a seductive dance of sinful pleasures and hidden desires as the two of them waltz through the mansions of Mayfair. Lies, intrigue, treachery, sex. They find themselves facing slanderous whispers, unscrupulous relatives-not to speak of their own
simmering passions, which quickly ignite into dangerous flames. It's a potent mix and the result may be explosive-and perhaps deadly-if they
don't watch their step.

Here are the rules of the giveaway:

First mandatory entry:

In comments please tell me who your favorite author is.

Additional entries:

Must complete mandatory entry first!

1. Blog about this giveaway, linking to this and get 2 entries, let me know in the comments.

2. Tweet about this giveaway - Can do this once a day. 1 entry each day. Just copy and paste "To Sin With a Scoundrel by Cara Elliot book giveaway! 5 winnesr! Ends 03/15 @nettagyrl http://bit.ly/bQA6JA"

3. Subscribe to this blog or become a follower (1 entry each) Please let me know in the comments. If you currently are doing this just let me know as it counts!

4. Follow me on Networked Blogs (2 entry) let me know in the comments.

5. Add my link to your blog roll or grab my badge (2 entry each) let me know in the comments.

6. Become a fan of this blog (2 entry) let me know in the comments

7. Follow me on Twitter (3 entries) let me know in the comments

To make this easy on me, put your email in the comments, so if you are the winner I will be able to contact you. Just leave your email like this: myname (at) whatev (dot) com. To avoid pesky spammers!

The deadline to enter is 03/15/10, 12:00 am PST. Open to U.S. residents and to Canada residents. No PO Boxes. Five winners will be randomly selected (random.org) and notified by e-mail. They will have 48 hours to get back to me, or alternates will be chosen. Winners will be mailed the book directly from sponsor free of charge!

Disclaimers: VERY IMPORTANT! Please read before entering!
This giveaway is being sponsored by Hachette Book Group and NOT me, (Zesty Nachos Blog)
I am not responsible for prizes that are not honored, distributed in a timely manner, lost, stolen and/or damaged during transit.
This giveaway is subject to change and/or cancellation without prior written notice.
Enter at your own "risk"!

Other than that Good luck!
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Blogsplash: My name is Ruth. This is my story.

Meet Ruth. She doesn't know if she wants to carry on living or not, and she gives herself three months to decide. Her diary is my novel, Thaw, and you can read it for FREE, beginning today.
Why am I giving a novel away for free? Because I am a writer, and I want to share my characters and their stories with as many people as possible. And maybe, if you enjoy it, you might want to read more of my books.

Become a follower of the blog page now. Follow on Twitter. Join the Facebook page. Forward this email to your novel-reading friends. Thank you.
Over to Ruth.
These hands are ninety-three years old. They belong to Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. She was so frail that her grand-daughter had to carry her onto the set to take this photo. It's a close-up. Her emaciated arms emerge from the top corners of the photo and the background is black, maybe velvet, as if we're being protected from seeing the strings. One wrist rests on the other, and her fingers hang loose, close together, a pair of folded wings. And you can see her insides.

The bones of her knuckles bulge out of the skin, which sags like plastic that has melted in the sun and is dripping off her, wrinkling and folding. Her veins look as though they're stuck to the outside of her hands. They're a colour that's difficult to describe: blue, but also silver, green; her blood runs through them, close to the surface. The book says she died shortly after they took this picture. Did she even get to see it? Maybe it was the last beautiful thing she left in the world.

I'm trying to decide whether or not I want to carry on living. I'm giving myself three months of this journal to decide. You might think that sounds melodramatic, but I don't think I'm alone in wondering whether it's all worth it. I've seen the look in people's eyes. Stiff suits travelling to work, morning after morning, on the cramped and humid tube. Tarted-up girls and gangs of boys reeking of aftershave, reeling on the pavements on a Friday night, trying to mop up the dreariness of their week with one desperate, fake-happy night. I've heard the weary grief in my dad's voice.

So where do I start with all this? What do you want to know about me? I'm Ruth White, thirty-two years old, going on a hundred. I live alone with no boyfriend and no cat in a tiny flat in central London. In fact, I had a non-relationship with a man at work, Dan, for seven years. I'm sitting in my bedroom-cum-living room right now, looking up every so often at the thin rain slanting across a flat grey sky. I work in a city hospital lab as a microbiologist. My dad is an accountant and lives with his sensible second wife Julie, in a sensible second home. Mother finished dying when I was fourteen, three years after her first diagnosis. What else? What else is there?

Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. I looked at her hands for twelve minutes. It was odd describing what I was seeing in words. Usually the picture just sits inside my head and I swish it around like tasting wine. I have huge books all over my flat - books you have to take in both hands to lift. I've had the photo habit for years. Mother bought me my first book, black and white landscapes by Ansel Adams. When she got really ill, I used to take it to bed with me and look at it for hours, concentrating on the huge trees, the still water, the never-ending skies. I suppose it helped me think about something other than what was happening. I learned to focus on one photo at a time rather than flicking from scene to scene in search of something to hold me. If I concentrate, then everything stands still. Although I use them to escape the world, I also think they bring me closer to it. I've still got that book. When I take it out, I handle the pages as though they might flake into dust.

Mother used to write a journal. When I was small, I sat by her bed in the early mornings on a hard chair and looked at her face as her pen spat out sentences in short bursts. I imagined what she might have been writing about - princesses dressed in star-patterned silk, talking horses, adventures with pirates. More likely she was writing about what she was going to cook for dinner and how irritating Dad's snoring was.

I've always wanted to write my own journal, and this is my chance. Maybe my last chance. The idea is that every night for three months, I'll take one of these heavy sheets of pure white paper, rough under my fingertips, and fill it up on both sides. If my suicide note is nearly a hundred pages long, then no-one can accuse me of not thinking it through. No-one can say, 'It makes no sense; she was a polite, cheerful girl, had everything to live for,' before adding that I did keep myself to myself. It'll all be here. I'm using a silver fountain pen with purple ink. A bit flamboyant for me, I know. I need these idiosyncratic rituals; they hold things in place. Like the way I make tea, squeezing the tea-bag three times, the exact amount of milk, seven stirs. My writing is small and neat; I'm striping the paper. I'm near the bottom of the page now. Only ninety-one more days to go before I'm allowed to make my decision. That's it for today. It's begun.
Continue reading here. Follow on Twitter. Join the Facebook page. Help me spread the word and forward this email to your friends! Thank you x
Warmest wishes,
Fiona Robyn
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Erotic book review: The Beast Within by Charisma Knight

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