Because I have a manuscript due in six weeks, today seemed like the perfect day to organize all my digital photos. I'm posting not only my favorites here but also stuff you'll recognize from stories in Bright Lights, Big Ass. (I promise this photo obsession will pass soon. Or, soon-ish.)
Enjoy... and thank you for not calling attention to the fact that in so posting, I'm delaying airing the stink out of my house, returning hundreds of overdue emails, paying bills, bathing myself, oh, and writing another ten chapters.
First up, Maisy at eight weeks old on the day we brought her home, looking EXACTLY like she does now, only with straighter ears.
"I will own you, bitch."
Heartfelt emotion in Nowhereville, PA. Because, really? Hallmark is for suckers and true love comes in a spray can.
Wait, no. True love is when you email your wife a photo of the sandwich you made while she's at her temp job because she believes you're incapable of feeding yourself. (Note: This is one of SEVENTEEN shots.) (Bonus points awarded for pickle placement.)
The koi pond/Japanese garden in the enclosed courtyard at a magnificent rental home we considered a few years ago before settling on Loser House. Had I not Googled the neighborhood sex crime database (30 repeat offenders in a two block radius, WTF?), we'd have taken it. Judging from some of the stuff on display, we think R. Kelly owned the house. Oh, the irony.
Tangible proof of the The Holiday Drinking Season, or Why Big Daddy Should Not Hit the Eggnog 'Til After Wrapping Presents.
Check it out - pearls, pajamas, pedicures, pasta, and pets. I'm a cliche of myself in this photo!
Remember when I wrote Rachael Ray was the devil and I described the Frankenmeatloaf Fletch cooked? Yes. It was real. Be afraid because evil never dies and this meatloaf is probably still wandering up and down Racine Ave.
Not Winky. But likely a close relation. Not pictured? Dogs trying to break down the door, SWAT-style.
The view of the city from Fletch's boss's boat. (Not the night of the two-dollar incident, though.)
The shot Fletch and I staged because I thought sending "Come to My Book Signing or the Dog Gets It" invitations would be funny and not, you know, UTTERLY TERRIFYING. (BTW, Lindsay Lohan is a big, fat copycat.)
But don't worry - Fletch is also in touch with his feminine side. Anyone need a button sewn back on?
A party shot from back when we were DotCom Thousandaires. (Seriously, is that not the best jacket ever?)
Finally, the cover Bitter would have had if I hadn't argued successfully that putting a six-foot tall, 110 lb. model up there didn't quite convey the idea of being laid off and getting fat. (But if you'd like to think my legs are this thin and that my ass wouldn't expand across the entire suitcase, please feel free.)
Alright, I've got to try and accomplish something today.
And if it's not a whole chapter, at least I hope it's a shower.