jennsylvania

I Don't Like Your Beard

I'm on book deadline. 

Again.

That's why I haven't been around here much.  Sorry about that.  I have a very short period in which to get this one done so by the time I hit my goal every day, the last thing in the world I want to do is sit at my computer any more. 

(Fortunately I bought a fancy chair a few books back.  The first three memoirs were written on this stupid wooden IKEA desk chair that didn't bend, flex, swivel, or give in any way.  Hate that chair.  Hate that chair SO MUCH.  Yet when I finally got an Aeron, Fletch wouldn't let me throw Ol' Woody away, claiming that someday it would go in the Jen Lancaster Museum, next to my Barbie head and good burying shovel.)

(I am currently unaware of any pending museum plans.)

(I think he may have been drinking when he mentioned it.)

Anyway, in my last post, a couple of things were going on - I was deeply engrossed in a stupid hidden object game and I didn't have a new literary agent.  Now I have a fine new literary agent and I'm still deeply engrossed in a stupid hidden object game only now I'm on Level 32.  (Am very impressed with my own ability to find hidden lotus flowers and yachts.)

What else?

Fletch has grown a beard so I've been quite busy actively hating it for a couple of weeks now.

Dogs are fine.  Libby ran off with a chicken breast while Fletch was cleaning out the fridge yesterday and I'm pretty sure that was the greatest day of her entire life.

Speaking of meat, I've become a pescetarian.  Kind of a long story and there's no payoff to it, save for the fact that my hair seems shinier and I sweat less. 

Also?  There are those who believe deeply detailed blog posts about the new way they've been eating are interesting. 

They are wrong. 

I've discovered Downton Abbey and I cannot shut my piehole about it.  If you're not watching it, you're missing out on one of the best shows ever produced.  Everyone says the show is costume porn, but they are mistaken.  Actually, it's antiques porn.  Please know I would kill every one of you to possess the flower show trophy.  (No offense.)

Cats are fine.

Relatively speaking.

When last I updated about the New Girls, no one was getting along and I hadn't been able to mainstream the Girls into the rest of the household.

The level of animosity between both groups has since escalated from that of the Bloods and Crips to those of the Israelis and the Palestinians.  And our house is the Gaza strip.  Not sure which side is going nuclear yet, but it's going to happen.  Bank on that. 

So I'm kind of like the UN here (except, you know, effective) and I've made sure that the cats are happily living separate lives in different sections of the house.  The only thing is sometimes the Thundercats get all SEAL TEAM SIX and rush the doors to where the New Girls live, so I've taken to hissing every time I put my hand on a doorknob.  This precaution is actually working quite nicely, except now it's kind of a bad habit and I've since frightened the FedEx guy.

I think that's it, unless you want to know more, oh so much more, about the pre-made honey-teriyaki sea bass I particularly enjoy.

(My guess is no.)

Please tune in later this week because I'll be making some fun announcements about a couple of book events you won't (I hope) want to miss as well as doing at least one book giveaway!

And I may post a photo of Fletch's new beard.

If I don't shave it off in the night first.

Oxy-MORON

There's no other way of saying it... sometimes I'm just a dumbass.

The background here is I recently made a major professional decision - I left the literary agency I've been with since 2003.  (We had a great run and I have nothing but good things to say about them, yet it was time for a change.) 

Because it's really disrespectful to seek other representation while still under contract - kind of like finding a new spouse while still married to the old one - I'm currently a free agent. 

Right now I should be contacting writer friends/editors to find out who might share my artistic vision. I should be scanning deals in Publisher's Marketplace to see which agents represent authors I admire.  I should be placing the finishing touches on my new memoir proposal so said agent has something to sell right out of the gate.  And I should be booking a trip to New York to take meetings.

"Should" is the operative word here.

What I have been doing is playing this free game I downloaded on my iPad.

"Free" is also an operative word because I'm pathologically opposed to forking over $1.99 for an app (except for Still Tasty which is essentially an online keep-my-dumb-ass-from-getting-food-poisoning-again program.)  I like to say that the ghost of Steve Jobs does not need my dollar.

(Too soon for Steve Jobs jokes?)

Anyway, instead of doing my professional due diligence, I've been lost in the world of an iPad children's game because clearly locating the hidden wine glass, baguette, and hamster is more important than finding an agent to take my career to the next level.

I know, right?  And yet that isn't even the stupid part.

The stupid part is that in my fervor to unlock the hidden room more quickly, I may or may not have kept clicking the cheater button to BUY various game aids.  And, if the iTunes receipt Fletch received in his inbox is to be believed, I... kind of spent sixty dollars. 

In a day. 

On gremlin-killing geld and elf-slaying diamonds.

Despite my arguments that this is a FREE game, Fletch is now threatening to cancel my corporate credit card and slap a parental lock on my iPad if I can't stop being a dumbass.

Which I plan to do right now...

...because the game's magical Christmas tree won't spit out a new present for another three hours and sixteen minutes.

Fortunately, I've made a career out of being a dumbass. 

So there's that.

 

 

Sucks To Be You, 2011

I keep running across blog posts and tweets and articles summarizing last year, all of which can be condensed into three words:

2011 Blew Goats

That's pretty much my assessment, too. 

Having lived through far more difficult times, I can't say that 2011 was my Worst. Year. Ever. but it definitely ranks in the top five, possibly the top three, at least in terms of stress and annoyances and situations going sideways. 

Seeing how we experienced three hundred and sixty-five days of illness (both of human and pet variety), professional catastrophes (oh, hi, one third of all bookstores closing), and overall worst case scenarios, I planned to ignore the holidays and start fresh in January. 

I decided we'd skip decorating/baking/shopping/entertaining and all the other assorted bits of holiday frippery because I just couldn't get behind putting a bow on the shit sandwich that was 2011.

I was resolved.

Fletch was not.

He insisted we give this awful year a Viking funeral, setting it all on fire and sending it out to sea. 

I'm not sure how, exactly, but the nihilist/cynic I married somehow morphed into the unholy love child of Martha Stewart and Clark W. Griswold, playing the Bing Crosby Christmas channel 24/7 while slapping lights, pine boughs, and glitter on every item in this house that didn't move.

And he even managed to decorate those items that did move.

(It's hard to look noble while wearing jingle bells, but Loki pulls it off.)

(Shame.  Now in convenient hat form.)

And then he made me invite house guests and helped throw a dinner party.

(That's Fletch in the argyle socks and red vest, the front of which matches the dogs' collars.  Oh, yes, it does.)

(Clearly discussing the fish I caught with the ladies.)

(Best stalker/house guest ever!)

And in so doing all of the above, Fletch managed to take one of the most hateful years on record and turned it into the best week ever.

Like I said, I have no idea how he did it, but I sure do appreciate it.

So what I'm saying, 2012, is that Fletch is running the show now so you'd better represent.

Or this guy's going to go all 2011 on your asses.

(Full of Christmas spirit or batshit, bugfuck, banana sandwich crazy?  2012, I wouldn't take my chances if I were you.)

(Not) Trapped in the Closet

Apparently you can't tell 50,000 Facebook followers about getting locked in the garage without providing the back story, so here goes:

A few years ago I received a silver key ring for making the best seller list.  I love this key ring, A) because of what it symbolizes and, B) shiny!  However, not long after I started using it, I learned that it's quirky.  You see, one of the silver balls screws off and that's how you add and remove keys.  Unless you're blessed with a patented GI Joe Kung-Fu grip, the ball will occasionally loosen.  The more times you toss your key ring in your bag, the looser it gets.

So, about once a month I have to remember to tighten the ball or all my keys will fall off and drown in the sea of lipstick, cough drops, antique Kleenex, and free range antacids rolling around the bottom of my bag, thus defeating the entire purpose of the key ring, shiny though it may be.

Last weekend my friend Joanna and I went to the opera.  She found a hotel downtown for less than a hundred bucks a night, so we decided we'd stay instead of waiting in the cold for a half an hour for the opera valet or taking the late train home. 

(The train is fine at that time of night; the Chicago train station, however, freaks me the hell out.) 

(Truly I am suburban now.)

(Also?  The Magic Flute?  With no murders, torrid affairs, OR swordfights?  Come on.  The production was fabulous, but going forward, I prefer my opera PG-13, at a minimum.) 

ANYWAY, being the hyper-paranoid douchebag that I am, I don't ever give my house key to the valet because I saw an episode of Fastlane once where Jamie Pressley was a high end thief who worked for a valet service and, using the house key, would steal jewels and art while the car owner was at dinner.  Mind you, I have no jewels or art, so I'm afraid these high end thieves would take my dogs out of spite and they wouldn't know when to give Maisy her heartburn medicine.

Point? 

I forgot to remove the key from the ring before I got into the car, so I had to do it en route.  I was able to secure the ball back on without incident, but as I had one hand on the wheel, I didn't get it very tight.

When I arrived home on Sunday, I forgot to reattach my car key to the ring.  Then, I used Fletch's car all week because it's more gas-efficient. 

Okay.  That's a lie.

I usually opt for Fletch's car because I'm lazy.  You see, you don't have to use the key to unlock or start it.  All you have to do is have the fob on your person somewhere, which is the greatest post-manicure feature in the world and which means I never have to dig it out from the swamp of wrappers and receipts and spent Starbucks gift cards that I lug around every day.  Because I only went out when he was home, I never had to reach for my house key because the garage door was unlocked.

(By the way, I'm providing this granular level of detail to prove to Fletch that I am not, in fact, a dingbat and this could have happened to anyone.)

So.  Yesterday.  I had to drop some stuff off so I took my car because it's bigger.  While I was driving I made a mental note that I had to tighten the stupid ball but never quite got to it.  I was in and out of the car a few times and eventually, my car key slid off the ring completely, not a big deal because it happens all the damn time.

When I arrived home and pulled into the garage, Fletch's car was gone, meaning I'd have to unlock the garage door myself.  I dug around in my bag for the key and kept coming up with handfuls of stuff such as three pair of Wayfarers, two chewy granola bars, a sewing kit, my lucky yellow binder clip, a variety of products from the Apple Corporation, and portable versions of the Declaration of Independence and U.S. Constitution.  (Hey, sometimes a gal wants to check on the 18 enumerated powers on the go.)

After much pawing, I finally dumped out my bag and noticed that both the silver ball and the key were missing, and... then I had a small temper tantrum and threw my purse across the garage, not realizing my car key was still inside, ergo locking myself in the garage and out of my car and precipitating an unpleasant Easter egg hunt.

Eventually I found my car key, which was nice but not necessary because for reasons too stupid to explain (yes, even I have my limits) we have a couch in there.  But the car was warmer, so I climbed in and started calling people.  Fletch was in the middle of an errand and couldn't get home for about 45 minutes, so I dialed my friend Angie.  While we were on the phone, I noticed that we had raccoon paw prints on the wall, leading from where the top of the window slid open last week to a shelf and down to Fletch's workbench, all of which neatly explains what I've been hearing in the attic.  I told her I was relieved to scratch "ghosts" off my possible list of explanations.  Then Angie asked me how I ever made to to adulthood and I replied that I didn't know.

Within the hour, Fletch came home and all is well, except that I still don't have a way to let myself into the house.  He was worried that we'd have to change the locks but considering I lost the key somewhere between here and the Mag Mile, I suspect whomever finds it will have to spend many years trying locks before he or she hits upon this particular house.  What's a shame is that the valet didn't steal my key because at least I know where to find him. 

Now what's puzzling is when I was changing into my jammies last night, something fell out of my shirt.  I thought I lost an earring, but instead it was the errant silver ball that caps the keyring. 

WTF?? 

Then I poked around in my bra to see if I somehow lost the key in there (like when I find popcorn after going to the movies) but no luck.

In summary?

I lost a key but gained a raccoon.

And THAT is why Fletch wants to buy me a helmet for Christmas.

Just Call Me Mia - A Timeline

Move-in Day Last Year:  "So the bedroom drapes aren't exactly our style, but they're fine and they're custom-made and even though they look like they should line a coffin, Imma keep 'em because I'm cheap and practical."

The Rest of Last Year:  "Can't sleep, drapes will eat me."

Sunday After Thanksgiving:  "The Restoration Hardware Outlet's having a 20% off sale, making each curtain panel $25?  Seriously, Fletch, we must buy new drapes... for America."

Monday After Thanksgiving:  "Whoa, THIS is how much the hardware costs?  That's where they get you.  They screw you in the drive-thru.  They lure you in with $25 panels and then they shove eight million dollars worth of finials and round clips up your ass."

Last Thursday Afternoon:  "The cartons of hardware are here!  And half of them have busted open during shipping!  For eight million dollars, you'd think they'd have packaged them using something other than tissue paper and spite."

Last Thursday Night:  "Maybe Libby just tore the rest of the boxes open because she heard me complaining about how badly they were wrapped.  And you have to be a little bit impressed that she can carry around a six foot long oil rubbed bronze curtain rod, right?  Right?"

Last Saturday:  "HA, HA, HA, SEE YOU IN HELL, DEATH DRAPES!  Or, more likely, at the Habitat for Humanity ReStore.  Still, sayonara!"

Last Sunday:  "Now that the spackling is dry, we can patch the paint and be done?  New curtains hanging by tomorrow?  YAY!"

Monday:  "Oh, please, don't be ridiculous.  OF COURSE it's the same color beige.  That's why the old owners only left one can of it instead of two.  I mean, who's going to paint with two nearly identical shades of beige?  That's crazy talk!  Impossible and impractical.  I guarantee this is the right color.  No, you don't need to do a test patch first.  It's fine.  IT'S FINE.  Come on - you're burning daylight." 

Tuesday:  "It'll lighten up when it dries."

Wednesday:  "Clearly it's not dry yet.  It did rain earlier this week.  Just give it some time."

Thursday:  "Um..."

Friday:  "So I guess you're painting the bedroom today?"

This is why we didn't buy a fixer upper like my characters in If You Were Here. 

I imagine it would be hard to type having being impaled with a curtain rod.