jennsylvania

I Got Yer Updates Right Here

THANKS

First, thanks to everyone who's come out to see me on the road. I feel honored to have met each one of you! I have so little patience when it comes to waiting, I wouldn't have stood in line to meet a reincarnated Ronald Reagan.  So, the fact anyone waited for me just blows me away, especially since every one of you charmed me.  (And some of you touched my heart with your thoughtfulness and your stories.  Y'all know who you are, so give yourselves a hug.)  Anyway, thank you again!

THIS WEEK

I'm sorry for not posting more on the road.  I'd planned to but my BlackBerry deiced to stop recognizing Typepad for some reason at the beginning of last week.  I'm going to have Fletch take a look at it before I head back out today.  By the way, I will be in the following places this week:

Portland
Monday/May 19
7:30pm
Powell’s
1005 W. Burnside
Portland, OR 97209

Seattle (Lake Forest Park)
Tuesday/May 20
7:00pm
Third Place Books
17171 Bothell Way NE
Lake Forest Park, WA  98155

San Francisco
Wednesday/May 21
7:30 pm
Books Inc. in the Marina
2251 Chestnut Street
San Francisco, CA  94123

Oakland
Thursday/May 22
7:00pm
Good Great Place for Books
6120 LaSalle Avenue
Oakland, CA 94611

Hope to see you there!  (No need to warn me about potential bad weather for I have brought it with me to very goddamned city.  I'm not just talking rain - I'm saying tornadoes and flooding and sinkholes.  Aargh.)  (And yes, I'm sorry about your biblical weather and all, but what really pisses me off is my hair has yet to look good at an event.)

OR A DICKEY MIGHT WORK IF IT'S TOO HOT OUT

Speaking of events, I'm learning a little something with every one I do.  For example, did you know that when you wear a dress that didn't look NEARLY so low-cut on the internet and you sit down to, oh, say sign books or something, that every single photograph you will see of yourself later that night will show a big chunk of your black bra?  And did you know even if you buy the double-stick boob tape to hold your dress closed, if you peel it back even once to re-adjust, it will come undone, not only showing a generous swath of underwear but also large, mangled sticky bits of tape and this will happen when you're shaking the hand of all the important people at your publisher's office?  And then if you buy stronger tape, it will be too strong, and when you peel it off, you'll take an entire layer of skin with it, leaving you with enormous tape hickeys?  I have one word for you people:  TURTLENECKS.

Can't wait to show you all my scabs when the book tour re-convenes in mid-June!  (New cities to be announced soon-ish.)

MY LACK OF SELF CONTROL, LET ME SHOW IT TO YOU 

Here's another a quick road story. A while back I wrote a post on cupcakes and I got more feedback from it THAN ANYTHING ELSE I HAVE EVER WRITTEN IN THE FIVE YEARS I'VE HAD A WEBSITE.  Seriously, our nation is never going to be on the same page for issues like gun control, welfare, the economy, the environment, etc.  We're never going to come to terms on tastes great or less filling and hybrids vs. Hummers and there will always be Yankees fans and Red Sox fans, never the 'tween shall meet.  Fortunately, all it takes for us to be of one mind is some sugar, butter, and flour.

Because of this, a number of you in cities with great bakeries, e.g. New York and Dallas, wrote and offered to bring treats to my events and I was all, "Hells yeah, cupcakes!"  But after my enthusiastic response, I began to think about it.  I mean, for God's sake, I'm neurotic to the point of mentally ill when it comes to issues like "safety" and "cleanliness."  Were I not temporarily made insane by the idea of a box of treats with my name on it, I'd have never agreed.  I asked myself, "Really?  You're going to eat food from a stranger?  Really?  No."

I received my first box of cupcakes and cookies in New York. 

Um... guess what?

Apparently I totally WILL eat food from a stranger.

In Dallas I received more treats and I took them back to my room, quickly woofing them all down. 

Then I threw up in the sink. 

The items were fine (delicious actually!) and there was no foul play.  I'm pretty sure barfing was just God's way of saying, "You're on the road to promote a book about getting healthy - next time, have a dinner consisting of a salad and lean protein instead of three cupcakes and two glasses of wine, you dumbass."

WANTED:  ONE NEMESIS.  INQUIRE WITHIN.

What else happened while I was gone?  Oh, yeah, I lost my damn nemesis.  For some background - competition is what always spurs me on to achievement.  Because I'm a jerk who can't motivate herself without bringing hate into the equation, I always pick a person who's achieved what I want and then I watch and emulate her every move, all the while despising her with the fire of 10,000 angry (immature) suns. 

Unfortunately, it turns out the object of my wrath is actually really fucking nice and now I need a new arch rival. 

I know, I know, I'm disappointed in myself, too.  What can I say?  A sincere hug is totally my Kryptonite.

While I figure out who to hate next, you should buy my ex-nemesis new book because it's one of the reasons Such a Pretty Fat exists.  Go pre-order it now.  I will wait.

APRES TOUR, LE DELUGE

Finally, it's nice to know that no matter what happens with this new book, nothing in my life is going to change.  Case in point, I was in the middle of getting some big news on Wednesday (will tell you as soon as I get the official OK) and while I was leaping and cheering and fielding three calls, I got the following urgent text from Fletch:

"One of the cats threw up on the cleaning lady's shoe.  How much tip should I give her?  I cleaned it up, but that's just rude (and gross.)"

Yes. 

Welcome to my world. 

You can come on in... but I'd suggest you leave your shoes on.

Broadcast News

Tom Grunnick:  "What do you do when your real life exceeds your dreams?"

Aaron Altman:  "Keep it to yourself."

"Or maybe put it on your blog." 

(Also, our faces were not blurry in person.) 

(And one of is batshit, bugfuck, ham-sandwich crazy and it isn't me.) 

(And yes, I mean that in the best possible sense, and no, Carrie Bradshaw cannot even attempt to hold a candle to the giant, magnetic personality of her alter ego Candace Bushnell.  If you don't have Sirius satellite service, you should get it because she is ridiculously entertaining.) 

(And did I mention she has a new book coming out this fall?  Woo!)

* * *

Anyway, Week One is over and it was great!  (I don't need no stinking sleep!)  Big, big thanks to all of you who came out!  I have many stories and I would tell them now except I'm about to pass out at the computer so they'll have to wait a bit.  (Am sorry.  Am EXHAUSTED.) 

Don't forget, this week is all about DC, Atlanta, Dallas, Austin, and Cincinnati!  Specifics of when and where are in the Appearances link.

Now, I'm not promising anything - and it's not up to me - but there's been chatter about extending the tour.  Keeping in mind Minneapolis and Boston are first on my personal priority list, where else should they send me?  I mean, other than straight to hell?

Or straight to bed. 

Which is where I'm going now. 

No Title Can Accurately Sum This Up

Um, you guys?

I just spent an hour drinking wine out of a paper cup with CANDACE MOTHERFUCKING BUSHNELL.

(Also? SHE READ MY BOOK!!)

As for details, Candace was gracious enough to have me on her Sirius radio show. I didn't want to say anything about it earlier as not to jinx it.

A couple of things to note here:

A) Candace is STUNNING.

B) Candace is unbelievably nice.

As soon as I stopped stammering and sweating at her, we totally had a normal conversation.

If you're interested in hearing it, check out Sirius's website for show repeats. (Also, it may be streamed online - not sure of details, though.)

OK, heading to Philly in a total starstruck haze now...

Seacrest out.

Songs in the Key of Holy Shit!

I just ran into Stevie Wonder in the Admiral's Club!

(Was too chickenshit to ask him for a photo OR beg him never to let Idol contestants sing his songs again.)

(Shameful.)

Road Warrior

Thanks to everyone who came out last night! For those of you who were there, I feel like I should explain the hair and make up. Since it was a special occassion,I wanted to look pretty so I had "professionals" help.

Did you notice the extra quotation marks above? (Just making sure ironic punctuation comes across on a BlackBerry.)

Anyway, I asked for a loose, casual, messy up-do. They heard, "Please turn my hair into a giant, inpenatrable hair bullet."

As for the makeup, I asked for something light and polished. They heard, "I would like to look like a Russian figure skater."

I said I liked pink shadow. They heard, "I would like seven shades of sparkly lavender eye shadow. And boob glitter. Lots and lots of boob glitter."

For those coming to the reading tonight, I promise I won't look like a Russian mobster's girlfriend.

(I hope.)

P.S. A full tour schedule is posted in my appearances link. See you soon?)

A Big, Fat, Self-Indulgent Whew

In case I hadn't yet mentioned it, the new book comes out tomorrow.   

That is, tomorrow is the official release date, although it sounds like some of you got yours early.  Sometimes bookstores put new releases out when they receive them, rather than the release date, and this fact makes both my editor and agent twitchy. 

From a publishing standpoint, I understand it's important to wait until the proper release date because then all the first week's numbers are reported together.  (It's kind of the same phenomenon as how an opening weekend at the box office determines the film's success.)  But from a reader's standpoint, if there's an author I dig and the book is on the front table prior to the official date, I don't care because I want to buy it NOW NOW NOW. 

For those of you who've already got it, I hope you liked it!  And for those who are still waiting, thank you for your patience and I hope you will like it when it arrives.

Anyway, it's always such a relief when the new book is finally, officially on shelves and I'm very excited for tomorrow.  Because that means I can begin to freak out about other stuff, like having to take thirteen flights in sixteen days and losing my luggage and how I'm going to take out a terrorist with nothing but a sharpened lipliner and some strategically applied kitten-heeled kicks which I can totally do because of all my new-found strongs and remembering to TiVo the important stuff because there's no way Fletch will willingly press record on Farmer Wants a Wife and if I'm going to accidentally drop an F-bomb on a morning show and stammering and sweating Chardonnay and if my dresses look cute (wait, of course they look cute) and whether or not critics will actually like what I've written. 

Fortunately, the first couple of media reviews are in and they are happy-making, so I'm posting them below.

From The Chicago Sun Times, by Tammy Chase

Believe it or not, losing weight can actually be a laugh riot

On the thoroughly covered-to-death topic of losing weight, consistent themes run through stories in books and women's magazines: will power, struggle, self-deprivation, rising above the odds and, oh, yes, misery. In other words, losing weight must be A Giant Sucky Experience.

Losing weight is the theme of Chicago author Jen Lancaster's third memoir, Such a Pretty Fat: One Narcissist's Quest to Discover If Her Life Makes Her Ass Look Big or Why Pie Is Not the Answer (New American Library, $14, 380 pages). Lancaster, 40, is the very funny author of the memoirs Bitter Is the New Black and Bright Lights and Big Ass. In Such a Pretty Fat, she mercifully infuses much-needed humor into the life-altering process. "What good is finally being able to afford a pedicure if I lose a foot to adult-onset diabetes?" she asks.

Refreshingly, Jen isn't self-loathing. She loves how she looks -- perfectly highlighted hair, well-applied makeup, her signature pearls. She unabashedly loves food. "What gets me is the 'pretty face' bit. 'Cause I won't mind being reminded I'm fat as long as you water it down first," she writes. In a mortifying restaurant experience, "my ass knocks over someone's wineglass, like, four tables away."

After a run at the Atkins diet, the food lover endures pre-packaged meals from Jenny Craig and moves on to Weight Watchers -- which takes off more pounds, though a meeting attended by people who use terms like "emotional baker" nearly make her burst out laughing. She signs up with a personal trainer named Barbie -- who apparently looks like a Barbie -- for 40-plus sessions of torture.

Victory comes haltingly at first, but it's clear she's a heroine in the War on Fat, down about 40 pounds at one point. The first time she gets the courage to go from walking a treadmill to running, "Every single bone in my body is jarred. My knees in particular are screaming and need to be iced, like, right this second," she writes. "Yet I don't care. Because I ran."

Lancaster reminds us to laugh during laps and while counting food points on the way to a healthier size and lifestyle.

From Publisher's Weekly

A surprisingly charming weight-loss odyssey, Lancaster’s third weight-centric memoir (after Bitter is the New Black and Bright Lights, Big Ass) tells the story of her struggle to drop the ice cream and step away. Though morbidly obese, with a worried doctor hovering anxiously, Lancaster is blithely casual and never feels sorry for herself: “I’m a hundred pounds heavier than I was in high school, my veins are full of crème fraîche, and yet I look in the mirror, take in the hair and makeup, and think, Damn baby, you fiiine.” Still, at the end of her thirties, she knows she needs to lose weight—mostly to stay healthy, but also because she can’t face the shame of having to buy an extra seat on an airplane. While the first chapter is full of chatty asides and aren’t-I-cute footnotes which can grate, Lancaster relaxes into her journey through Atkins dinners, Jenny Craig coaches, Weight Watchers meetings and bouts of personal training with the winning honesty and humor her fans have come to expect. Anyone struggling with weight issues while trying to maintain a sense of humor (if not necessarily a positive outlook) will find much inspiration, and plenty of laughs, in Lancaster.

WHEW!

Now I'm off to pack some dresses and sharpen some lipliners.

Is This Thing On?

Am writing this on my BlackBerry from the parking lot of the Home Depot. (Cannot deal with shopping for tools with Bob Fletcher Villa.)

Will this actually post? We'll see, provided he ever finishes shopping.

P.S. This message took 20 minutes to type. Apparently my fingers are HUGE.

Or Maybe I Should Just Stop Doing Meth Before Bed?

Many authors are inspired by their dreams, creating interesting characters and dramatic plot points courtesy of their subconscious.  Sometimes when they're writing and they can't quite get the story to flow, they'll go to sleep and their dreams will provide crystal clarity as to exactly what should happen next. 

You know why I don't write fiction? 

Because my dreams are boring. 

Almost every night as I lay me down to sleep, I end up with dreams that are a complete rehash of my day.  If I spend the day gardening, I will tend that same green patch in my dreams.  If I'm online a lot, my dreams will feature Internet Explorer and familiar websites.  If I watch television before bed, I'll dream about Survivor.  Maybe my subconscious will add a small plot twist, like instead of Jonathan getting airlifted out three damn episodes into the Fans vs. Favorites season, Parvati will get eaten by a Bengal tiger  - oh, wait, that's a fantasy, not a dream - but that's generally about as creative as I get.

However, when I'm under a lot of stress, my subconscious will cut me a small break and not make me rehash everything that's making me anxious.  Instead, I'll have funny dreams.  And I must be all freaked out right now, because for the past few days I've woken up to the sound of my own laughter.

Here's what I can remember...

DREAM ONE - THE POWER OF CITIBANK COMPELS YOU

My brother is forcing me to be a member of the Road Rules/Real World Gauntlet cast.  I do NOT want to participate, but he makes me do it anyway because he's a jerk even in my dreams.  I keep bitching that I'm too old for this kind of stuff, but my brother says no one's as old as Big Beth and if she's still doing challenges, then I can't pull the age card.  (Anyone who watches fine, fine MTV reality programming will understand this.  The rest of you might want to skip to the second, less esoteric dream.)

There are about sixteen of us left in the Gauntlet competition and we're paired up in male/female teams of two, placed in line chronologically.  I'm matched with Jon from the LA season of The Real World and I'm pissed that not only do I have to do a stupid physical challenge, but also because Jon and I are the oldest group.  I'm still all, "I'm 40 - why am I on MTV?"

I stand in line and fidget, totally dreading my turn in the wrestling challenge.  (Which is taking place in my parents' old garage, BTW.)  I'm not afraid of getting beaten, I just that I don't want to make the effort.  I'm tired and lazy and old.  As I explain to Jon, "Wrestling is really hard work."  I whine, I moan, and I complain to the point my brother decides that I have a bad attitude not because I'm 40 and still doing reality television, but because I've been possessed by a demon.  So, he yanks me out of the competition.

We go inside and he orders me to get into bed in my old room while he consults the Yellow Pages to find a priest specializing in demon possession.  He finds one rather quickly and the priest comes over bearing a cross, holy water, and a laminated pamphlet with pricing on it.  My brother can choose between single, weekly, or monthly sessions.  He tells the priest, "She's REALLY possessed.  Let's do the six month package for $279."

Then my brother gets my purse and grabs MY credit card to pay for the priest's services. 

OK, this? 

Right here? 

Is the exact kind of dick move my brother would pull in real life.

The priest takes out a portable credit card verification machine and he tries to run my card.  But every time he attempts to punch in the numbers, the demon inside of me mixes them up.  The bank name on the card keeps changing, too.  The more the priest tries to run it, the more the numbers change 'til the point where they perpetually flip, like that big National Debt clock.  The scene gets tense and my brother and the priest grow angrier and angrier.

So there I am, strapped to the carved cherry wood twin bed of my childhood, wearing a Laura Ingalls Wilder-type nightgown while my brother and the priest shout at me to knock it off so they can run the damn card already. 

My response?

"I guess I don't like to be exercised OR exorcised."

(And that's when my laughter woke me up.)

* * *

DREAM TWO - REDUCE, REUSE, RETARD

I'm in a television studio, dressed in a lovely organic burlap suit, being interviewed on a national morning show.  I'm there because I've written a new book about saving the environment and I'm offering viewers on some handy tips. 

(I wish I'd written them down as soon as I woke up but I didn't, so here are the three I remember.)

Take Every OTHER Breath - Americans are the largest consumers of fresh air on the planet.  If our citizens would stop sucking so damn much wind and only take breaths when we feel like we're about to pass out, we could reduce our carbon dioxide emissions by 60%.

Recycle EVERYTHING - So many of us choose to cremate out pets when they pass on.  But cremation puts pollutants into the air.  So when Fluffy crosses over to The Great Beyond, why not choose taxidermy instead?  Honor her memory by keeping her around forever.  (At this point during the show, I demonstrate how to make an attractive end table out of a stuffed cat and a piece of wood and how to convert your big dog into a standing coat rack.)

Landfills Are for Suckers - We have to stop putting all our garbage in the ground because it will never decompose.  Instead, why not access Nature's Toilet?  My solution is throwing all our trash into the river because everyone knows that eventually every river feeds into the ocean.  Seventy percent of the earth is covered by water - let's use it to store our refuse so we can save our valuable landfills for public parks instead.

And then I end my interview with my book's tag line: 

"If you want to reduce your carbon footprint, stop wearing such floppy carbon shoes."

* * *

Fletch always said if he could explore my subconscious he'd need to take a flashlight... and a handgun.

Fact or Fiction?

Sometimes I wonder if people believe all the dumb things that happen to me on a daily basis. 

The thing is, I know I'm credible, but I wouldn't be surprised if others thought, "There's no way her neighbors are that bizarre.  The Target where she shops can't be as chaotic as she claims.  I doubt she really picks fights with anything that moves.  I'm sure her husband's cooking is just fine.  And what kind of ungrateful wife bitches when her spouse tries to be helpful in the kitchen, anyway?"

Were I to buy a video camera, I could handily prove most of the above.  (I haven't yet because my fear this website would turn into All Maisy Movies, All the Time.)  Anyone who's shopped at the Target on Elston could verify my tales in a second, and I defy them to not leave the store ready to take a swing at someone. 

As for Fletch and his culinary skills?  Check out the email he sent me from work yesterday, titled Need A Favor:

Please destroy anything in the refrigerator that I cooked.  I think I gave myself food poisoning with the chicken cacciatore. 

To be on the safe side, destroy anything I may have touched.  Wasn't there some sort of mythical creature that destroyed crops my touching them?  Because that's me, only with groceries.

I rest my case.

(P.S.  I was fine because I won't eat food that tastes pointy.)

Smokey, Smokey, Smokey

The last post may have given you the impression that I've been doing nothing but buying cute dresses to prepare myself for the tour. 

That's not at all true - it's just that I've purchased almost nothing but Champion t-shirts and mesh workout bottoms for the last year, so shopping for pretty stuff has been a delight.  (Especially since new shoes may or may not have been involved.) 

In case you're wondering, here's what I got:

Available from Nordstrom.com.

(I got these exact same shoes, only in taupe, available on Zappos.com.  They look really comfortable, but trust me, it's an illusion.)

This swirly-skirted dress comes in white, chocolate, or lilac.  I picked lilac because the beads are silver.  I got it at Vive La Femme on Damen Ave in Chicago, possibly the greatest store ever for items size 12 and up.  (Not local?  Buy it on Alight.com.)

I bought these shoes for my book events last year and will be pairing them with the lilac dress.

They are, hmm... what's the word I'm looking for?  Oh, yes, CRIPPLING.  They cause pain to shoot up my spine with every step I take.  Yet they completely dress up shorts and a polo shirt, so you can see my dilemma.

This one's available on LolaandGigi.com.  The weird thing is, I got this exact same dress in person at Nordstrom and the label says Jessica Howard Woman but the one online is by Donna Rico.  It's almost as though these dresses were all made in the same factory in China and someone simply slapped a different label on them depending on vendor.  But that would be impossible, right?  (I also got a boring white cardigan and black shrug to wear over these because I care not to expose my armpits in a formal setting.) 

Regardless, the impromptu fatty fashion fiesta was not the intended purpose of this post but it illustrates my point nicely.  I have 10,000 things yet to do, thus I have been procrastinating like crazy.  This aversion to finishing my tasks has led me directly to the internet.  Normally I'm a lurker - I read scads of blogs but never comment.  But since commenting is much more pleasant than say, reorganizing my closet or raking up the mountain of defrosted dog poop in the backyard, I've suddenly become prolific.

Because I should strive to be more prolific on my own website, I'm going to give you the long version of the key-losing-neighbor from a couple of days ago.  Here goes:

A bothersome family moved out of the house two doors down last month.  No surprise, I was thrilled to see them go.  They bugged me because they had a very nice, private backyard with lots of lawn furniture, but they preferred to gather up all their friends and family, sit on their front stoop in kitchen chairs, and shout to each other, leading to my never being able to watch TV with the windows open for two summers running.  (FYI, it took them weeks to clear out of their house because there's apparently a rule in this 'hood that you aren't allowed to rent a truck or hire a moving van and there's only so much furniture a 15 year old Chevy Malibu can transport in one trip.)

So, it's a Friday night and Fletch has his friend Hurricane Joel over for cigars and rye and Military TV programming.  After Joel goes, I pour Fletch into bed.  (No one survives a night out with Joel.  NO ONE.)  As I'm closing the curtains, I see two huge men park their big red car in the middle of the street.  I notice they start poking around a couple of the other cars up and down the block, including mine.  They don't actually put their hands on my vehicle, but they keep diving under it.  They're super loud and they've got their headlights shining directly on themselves.  I figure if they're car thieves, they aren't particularly good ones.

I attempt to rally Fletch, but all he does is mumble, "Smokey smokey smokey," into his pillow before passing out again, so it's up to me to deal with the situation.  I'm trying desperately to stop going Gladys Kravitz all over everyone's asses because it would be nice if at least someone in the neighborhood didn't hate me.  In neighborly solidarity, I let the situation play out a little longer.  The guys poke around a while more and then I see the bigger of the two guys open up a Zippo and dive under my car again. 

OK, smile and wave at people on my street in an insincere attempt to be more friendly?  Yes.  Willingly allow arson?  No.  I call the police and they arrive in record time.

The police talk to the two guys for a few minutes and then drive away, leading me to assume they aren't criminals and are neighbors who have lost something.  But what?  Maybe someone dropped a stone out of her ring while shoving a plastic potted tree in the passenger seat?  Possibly a wallet fell out of the pants riding mid-thigh on the gentleman with the bass loud enough to rattle my fillings?  Obviously the missing item was valuable enough to keep up the midnight recovery effort.  However, even if they are my neighbors, they're still strangers and I'm not about to dash out in the dark and volunteer to help.   

The two guys continue to light their lighters and dive under cars.  I watch as they leave them open long enough to get hot, then flick them closed and wave their burned fingers in the air.  Sometimes they pause, dust off their knees, and scratch their heads.  Finally, one of them opens his cell phone and uses the dial light to illuminate the ground under my car. 

This little dance goes on for FOUR HOURS.

Lighter, OWIE, cellphone, head scratch.

Lighter, OWIE, cellphone, head scratch.

Lighter, OWIE, cellphone, head scratch.

I am flabbergasted at their lack of problem solving skills.  As the night proceeds, I find a million different ways to locate the lost object myself. 

I drive to any one of a dozen all-night grocery stores in the vicinity and buy a flashlight. 

I knock on neighbors' doors, explain what I've lost, and ask to borrow a broom, rake, or shovel to scoop out the contents of what's below the cars.

I decide the missing object is a key, so I call a locksmith because the phone in my hand is more than just a very dim source of light. 

I call a friend to help.

I say, "Fuck it," and come back as soon as it gets light out.

At no point would I use my lighter on a McDonald's cup, only to be shocked at its sudden, violent incandescent, thus singeing off my eyebrows and setting fire to the brim of my hat.  I'd probably also forgive my friend for hitting me in the face in an attempt to douse the flames and would not let the situation devolve into a shove fest.  And were I to engage in these actions, I wouldn't blame my friend for screaming, "Fucking burn next time then!" either.

At this point I go to bed because the show can't possibly get any better.  But I have to sleep in the guest room at the back of the house because of all the I-burnt-my-eyebrows-off noise out front.  Also, Fletch smells like a bachelor party.

The following Monday I'm coming back from the gym and the two guys are on the street again, only this time they're busy moving furniture out of their car and into the old neighbors' house. 

Of course they are.

They call me over to say hello.  They're very friendly despite the fact they've only got one set of eyebrows between them.  We chat for a couple of minutes and I learn about the lost key, but I don't mention my having called the police.  I just smile and nod.  Look at me, what a good neighbor! 

Then one of them tries to sell me a box of meat out of his trunk. 

And I... I... I give up.  I excuse myself abruptly and dash into my house. 

Someday I'll live in a neighborhood where people don't set their hair on fire or try to sell me a trunk full of flank steaks. 

'Til then, I'll keep buying pretty dresses and uncomfortable shoes so I look nice when I get to meet you all and tell you the stories in person.