jennsylvania

Unpredictable Contest

UPDATE:  IT'S MONDAY AFTERNOON SOMEWHERE, SO THE ENTRIES ARE CLOSED.

WINNER ANNOUNCED LATER, ONCE I FIGURE OUT HOW TO PICK HER/HIM.

No need to remind me I promised to post this contest yesterday - I'm already aware. 

The thing is,I've upped both the frequency and duration of my personal training sessions and that means I've been having my ass handed to me much more frequently and with longer duration.  So, after my session last night I was busy trying not to DIE because a certain trainer got my heart rate up to 180 BPM - which I'm pretty sure is Exploding Ventricle Territory - and I kind of wasn't thinking about contests, unless it was a contest about who was in the most pain and then I'd totally be the winner, so the point would have been moot.

ANYWAY, here's what you're competing for - a new copy of Unpredictable by Eileen Cook.

No, it's not signed by the author because I bought a bunch of copies and I didn't get Eileen to autograph this particular one because I pre-ordered it and left it at home and... well, what matters is this is a free copy of not only a very funny book but also a soon-to-be-major motion picture about a girl named Sophie for whom calamity ensues when she poses as a psychic to get her guy back.

TO ENTER:  Come up with a one-word description of yourself, e.g. how Sophie is UNPREDICTABLE or, say, how I am SORE, and put it in the comments section.  That's it.  Easy-peasy.  I'll leave comments open until Monday afternoon and then I'll do a random drawing of all the one-word entries. 

(Seriously, only write down one word because I am LAZY and don't want to spend all weekend poring over entries.  And I don't care if more than one of you writes down the same answer.)

(Also, next week I'm going to have a contest for a signed advanced copy of Such a Pretty Fat but you'll most likely have to work harder for that one by doing something along the lines of recounting your best/worst weight loss story.  Haven't worked out all the details yet because I thought of it while Barbie was making me run on the treadmill and I was trying not to be EXPLODE-Y.) 

(Yes, you can enter both contests because I am FAIR.)

(Last night I had yet another idea for a contest.  It involves winning an evening of Fletch coming to your house where he would spend the entire time editorializing - loudly - while you're trying to pay attention to American Idol and Survivor.  Which would not at all leave you ANNOYED.)

And now, try to be LUCKY.

Contest Coming Soon!

Later I'm going to announce a contest where you can win my friend Eileen Cook's new novel Unpredictable but I have to think of one that's both fair and that won't cause me massive amounts of work.  I haven't read this book yet but I went to her reading here in Chicago last night and I laughed about twenty times during the first three pages, so trust me, you're going to want this.

However, I probably won't give contest rules or accept entries until tomorrow because now I have to do laundry so I don't get divorced. 

(BTW, when you complain you CAN'T do laundry because you're busy writing and writing is WORK, your husband will feel bad until he remembers you work in the building where your washer and dryer live.  And then he will tell you if said washer and dryer were located in the Sears Tower, then he'd be happy to do a couple of loads during the day.  Until then, can he PLEASE have some clean dress socks?)

For Those About to 'Tox (We Salute You)

UPDATES AT THE BOTTOM OF THE POST

Wait - give me another minute to stop giggling over what I've titled this blog and then I'll begin.

* * *

OK, ready.  (If you didn't understand that I was cracking myself up over twisting a famous AC/DC lyric to title this entry, then you're probably also too young to appreciate a frank post about the magic of age reversal via cosmetic procedure.  Come back in ten years.)

A couple of days ago I mentioned I got fresh Botox and it spurred a ton of questions.  For some reason, people still seem to think Botox is still a dirty word and no one really talks about it.  (Um, except for me, as I can't seem to keep my damn mouth shut about it.  I think I even told my UPS guy.)  Anyway, because there's a lot of misinformation out there and because so many of you wanted more details, I'm going to cover the basics.

WHAT IS BOTOX?

Botox is a brand of botulinum toxin type A.  Tiny amounts are injected just under the surface of the skin and it causes your muscles to atrophy into relaxation, thus greatly decreasing lines on places like your forehead, between your brows, and around your eyes. 

WHY ON EARTH WOULD YOU ALLOW ANYONE TO INJECT POISON INTO YOUR FACE? 

Because I'm that kind of vain. 

WHY DON'T YOU JUST AGE GRACEFULLY?

Um, did you not just see the vain answer?  Seriously, I'm not ashamed about my age - but I do kick myself for not taking better care of my skin earlier.  I went years without sunscreen.  YEARS.  And it shows.  Plus, I'm still fairly emotionally immature and I want my outsides to match my insides.   

AREN'T YOU WORRIED ABOUT SAFETY?

Yes, that's why I researched Botox thoroughly before getting it.  I learned about the risks and decided the benefits outweighed them.  Plus, Botox has been used for cosmetic purposes since the '90s with no more possibility of risk than any other pharmaceutical. 

As a caveat, the FDA recently began an investigation on dangerous side effects, but mostly because of cases where mass quantities have been used on children with cerebral palsy.  From what I've read, these few instances stemmed from unqualified physicians using too much toxin in what were already very sick kids.  (BTW, lecturing me about safety - especially after having done my due diligence - MAKES ME CRAZY.  You want to piss me off?  Then stand there with your boob job, your cigarette, and the entire Magna Carta tattooed on the base of your spine and pop off about taking unnecessary risks.) 

Granted, Botox hasn't been in use long enough to determine long-term effects, but again, I'm willing to take this risk.

WHO ADMINISTERS THE INJECTIONS?

The person who administers mine is a neurologist.  I figure if she's skilled enough to treat Parkinson's, Alzheimer's, Huntington's disease, etc. she can probably wield a tiny little needle without incident.  But you can also get it done safely by a nurse in the dermatologist's office or a med spa.  (Actually, the nurses who do Botox every day are most skilled because they do it so often.) 

TALK TO ME MORE ABOUT THE NEEDLES.

Seriously, the needle is TEENY because the doctor will only need to inject a few CCs.  Think more "acupuncture" and less "flu vaccine."      

DOES IT HURT?

There's been a tiny pinch when the needle breaks the surface of the skin each time I've gotten it on my forehead.  It stung a bit more between my eyes, but that's because the muscle is stronger.  I've done this three times so far and I never had any bruising - didn't even need the proffered ice pack.  There were itty bitty red marks where the needle went and a bit of tenderness but it was all gone by the next morning.  I can't say if it hurts to get crow's feet done because I didn't do it there.  (If you get it on your "elevens", it lifts the brows a bit and lessens lines around the eyes.

HOW MUCH DOES IT COST?

Anywhere from $200 to $500 - about the cost of a long weekend away.  I chose to do this for my 40th birthday, figuring I could go on vacation for a few days or I could LOOK like I'd been on vacation for a few months. 

HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE TO WORK?

Botox takes about two weeks to sink in, although you can start seeing results in as few as three days.  I guess the more often you get it, the quicker it kicks in.  It lasts anywhere from three to six months (again, depending on frequency of use) and fades out gradually.    

IS MY FACE GOING TO FREEZE THIS WAY, MISTER?

No, your face won't completely freeze.  Personally, I still have a small amount of motion.  The thing is, motion is one of the reasons you have lines in the first place and by atrophying these muscles, you're preventing lines from getting deeper.      

AM I GOING TO END UP LOOKING LIKE LAURI FROM THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF ORANGE COUNTY?

photo courtesy of realityonbravo.com

In my non-medical opinion, yes.  That is, if your doctor injects you with a turkey baster full of it.  I've seen them get Botox on the show it it FLOORS me how much they use.  The needles I saw held ten times the amount I've gotten.

Honestly, from what I've read, Lauri and I have had a lot of same procedures done from the neck up - Botox, microdermabrasion, chemical peels, etc.  I've even had what I said I'd never do, which is getting an injectable filler in the nasolabial folds around my mouth.  (I'm not doing a FAQ on Restylane because it felt like getting hit in the face with a baseball bat eighteen times and left me crying into a bag of frozen peas all weekend.)

BOTTOM LINE, DOES ALL THIS SHIT WORK?

You tell me.  Here's a shot of me at age 35, having tanned myself into a handbag...

and here's a picture of me at age 40, taken this past Sunday...

Any more questions?

* * *

UPDATE

You guys are giving me a(n even) fat(ter) head (than usual.)  Thank you. 

Anyway, here's a couple of answers to your questions.

WHERE DO YOU GO IN CHICAGO TO GET THIS STUFF DONE?

I go to the Avanti Center on North Ave and I LOVE them!  Not only are they professional and skilled, everyone there is also really fun.  Going there is a pleasant experience experience; I always plan extra time because I know I'm going to stand around and talk afterwards. 

What's funny is as soon as I posted this yesterday, I got an email listing their specials for March.  They're offering discounts on microdermabrasion (gets rid of splotches and fine lines), laser hair removal, and massage.  (Note: Their massages are fine; I'm just a bad massage recipient.)  There are Avanti centers all over the country, too.  Check 'em out!

IS (INSERT AGE YOUNGER THAN ME) TOO YOUNG TO GET BOTOX?

Honestly, finishing the third book is what prompted me to get work done, and not my age so much.  I lost weight and found myself with a whole bunch of new lines.  (Fat is truly the fountain of youth.)  Had I stayed the same size, I might not have needed it yet.  I guess only you can decide if you're ready.  On the one hand, it will stop your wrinkles from deepening.  On the other, I can see how it's addictive.  I'm all smug about looking natural now, but who knows?  Maybe Lauri started off just wanting to take a couple of years off, too?

WHAT ARE THE 'ELEVENS'?

They're the up-and-down lines that form over the base of your nose, between your eyebrows.  You know, the ones that come out when you're scowling?  I didn't get them done the first few times but did this time and I really like the results.

WHAT KIND OF SELF TANNER DO YOU USE?

Nothing at the moment.  I'm just finally healthy.  Here's about the best advice I can offer - get your blood screened for iron levels.  A couple of months ago I kept going back to the doctor because I couldn't figure out why I was tired and dizzy all the time.  I was in the office every other week and I kept getting shuffled to different doctors in the practice because everyone was going on maternity leave.

If you recall, this is when I was all pissed off that no one would give me drugs, but really, what made me angry was I felt like they were simply writing DIFFICULT on my chart and complaining to each other that I was wasting their time, yet I KNEW something wasn't right.  I mean, I was afraid to drive because I thought I'd pass out while on the road.  Long story short, my new MALE doctor finally ran some tests and found out I was so deeply anemic that he was ready to give me a transfusion.  (And OH BOY was he pissed at his partners for never doing a simple blood test.) 

Anyway, we were able to get my iron levels up with mass amounts of iron supplements and now I'm a normal color without tanning, instead of pasty-white.  I did hit the tanning place twice at the beginning of February, not so much for the color, but because we only saw eleven minutes of sunlight for the first two weeks of the month and I was feeling a tad homicidal. 

Finally, I'm using this by Smashbox and it creates a nice, smooth glow.

WHAT'S THE DEAL WITH THE BOOK JACKETS?

I think they look messy and the book falls in the tub if you keep the jacket on while reading it.  My rule of thumb is unless the book is signed by the author or I have a blurb appearing on it, I throw the jackets away as soon as I buy them.  That way I can arrange them on the shelves by color.  (Did you not know my vanity extended to my home, too?)

And... I think that's everything.

OMG PONIES !!!1!1!!1!!!

Why was I not informed of this sooner?

Confessions of a Shopaholic - THE MOVIE

With Isla Fischer starring as Becky Bloomwood!

Feel free to commence squealing now.

Lost in Translation

Today's example of a statement about brand loyalty that makes perfect sense in my head but sounds really fucking weird when I say it out loud to the cashier at Kohl's who is ringing up my five boxes of Jockey for Her cotton briefs:

"I've been wearing the exact same underpants for twenty years!"

Thank you and good night!

Like a Dominos Pizza, Only More Profane

I have a spare half hour before I have to get to the gym and that's not enough time to write a cohesive blog entry with a clearly defined beginning, middle, and end. 

However, thirty minutes is PLENTY of time to throw some random shit up on this page about what's been making me smile this week.

* * *

SMILE:  The Onion's headline Kitchen Floor Conflict Intensifies as Rival Housecats Claim Same Empty Bag.

(But I just wouldn't be me if I didn't include the reverse of what's making me unhappy.)

FROWN:  This same kind of conflict taking place at 4:00 AM with my very shout-y cats.  On my face.

* * *

SMILE:  The new season of America's Next Top Model, the Hey, The CW Finally Gave Us a Budget! cycle.

FROWN:  Not understanding when the Somali model talked about having her, um, downstairs ritually mutilated and thus Googling the images.  (Seriously, that wasn't a lunar eclipse last night - it was the physical manifestation of all my screaming.)

* * *

SMILE:  Reading about how Baltimore is trying to keep the stray pet population down through the use of the "neuter scooter."   

FROWN:  That the bulk of the strays are pit bulls.

* * *

SMILE:  New books from all my favorite authors are coming out this spring/summer, e.g. Certain Girls by Jennifer Weiner, Love the One You're With by Emily Giffin, One Fifth Avenue by Candace Bushnell, Chasing Harry Winston by Lauren Weisberger, Remember Me? by Sophie Kinsella, The Beach House by Jane Green, The Idiot Girl and the Flaming Tantrum of Death by Laurie Notaro, and This Charming Man by Marian Keyes.

FROWN:  That Such a Pretty Fat will be competing against the above.

* * *

SMILE:  The fresh batch of Botox has finally kicked in and suddenly I look 30 again!

FROWN:  Now it's kind of impossible to frown OR scowl.  Instead, I must express my displeasure with a raised, clenched fist.

And... there you go.  A page full of random shit in thirty minutes or less.   

Pasta La Vista, Baby

Setting:  The bookstore in Skokie, next to the really good supermarket which is totally worth the eleven mile ride on the expressway, even if it takes 45 minutes to go that far because no one around here knows how to fucking drive if it's not 72 degrees and sunny and how can you live in this city for more than five seconds and be SURPRISED about any weather-based occurrences?

Me:  Jesus Christ, why are you buying so many magazines?

Fletch:  Because they all pertain to my interests.

Me:  I was unaware you had that many interests.  What have you got there?

Fletch:  (shuffles through stack) Here's a Mac magazine, and a different Mac magazine, here's two home theater magazines, three new car buying guides-

Me:  Bup, bup, bup, you are NOT getting a new car or a home theater system.

Fletch:  (shrugs) I know.  But I enjoy researching what's out there.

Me:  (shudders) At this point, I'm not even sure where you end and my father begins.  What else do you have?

Fletch:  Lemme see, oh, here's the new issue of Bimmer. (the BMW enthusiast magazine, and FYI, I don't subscribe to reading materials about my car because there's no publication dedicated to seven year old Nissans that smell like dog and have dented fenders)  Finally, I've got Guns and Ammo and Guns Magazine.

Me:  Wow.  Two weapons publications?  I'm sorry, were they all out of Soldier of Fortune and the Firearms Gazette? 

Fletch:  What?  I like reading about guns.

Me:  Yeah.  Someone is SO putting you on a list with this purchase.

Fletch:  (heading towards checkout, but then stopping) I might get a new cookbook while we're here, too.

Me:  Oh, God, please no.

Fletch:  Why?

Me:  (grimacing) Are you going to make me say it?

Fletch:  Say what?

Me:  Just, please, no more cookbooks.

Fletch:  Why not?

Me:  You know why.

Fletch:  I don't know why.

Me:  Don't make me say it.

Fletch:  You're talking gibberish again.

Me:  OK, how about this?  Everyone who DIDN'T give himself food poisoning this weekend by eating his scary homemade pasta sauce, raise his hand.  (pause)  Yeah, that's what I thought.

Fletch:  Point taken.  No cookbooks.  I guess I'm ready.

Me:  Cool.  (paying, then walking to the parking lot)  Hey, you know what's ironic? 

Fletch:  Hmm?

Me:  That I'm not at all afraid of your fascination with weapons.  And yet the idea of you cooking?  Scares the pants off me.   

 

 

Greek Tragedy!!!

While digging through some old boxes in the basement today I ran across a yellowed, fragile, vaguely moldy document titled Jen's Manual for a Stellar Rush (Be a Shining Star!!!)  I wrote this guidebook almost twenty years ago and probably haven't looked at it since.  I put this together back when I was my sorority's rush chairman.  My intention was to create a central source of hints and tips to help navigate my sorority sisters through the tricky waters of THE BESTEST RUSH EVAH!!!  (ed. For you non-Greeks, rush is a membership drive.) 

I recall being SO damn proud of all the effort I'd put into the booklet, going so far as to call it my first masterpiece.

Um, yeah.

I immediately forgot what I'd been searching for and I sat down to read, laughing the entire way through.  The yellowed pages hold such a noxious mix of self importance and the lack of self awareness, I can't not share the highlights, if for no reason other than to revisit my first true love... the exclamation point.

Feel free to laugh and mock at what's below - 'tis not undeserved.  Here we go:

On Attitude

I want all of you to ENJOY rush, not DREAD it!!!  Please keep in mind that I appreciate any and all suggestions.  (ed. I guarantee you this was a lie.)  What I will NOT tolerate is negativity about rush.  I don't want to hear complaints that "we never did it that way before."  We are going to be BREAKING NEW GROUND (ed. !!!) with this rush and I expect everyone to have a positive attitude about it.  (ed. Or I will GIVE you a positive attitude about it.)  Change can be good.  Also?  Please stop calling me Hitler!!!

On Entertainment

You WILL know all of the words to all of the songs!!!  There is no excuse NOT to know the words.  When you are singing, you are representing your SPIRIT in Pi Beta Phi!!!  Not knowing the words makes us look BAD and is INEXCUSABLE!!!  All of the songs are at the back of this packet, so feel free to practice them in the shower.  We will also be singing them at the workshops so you WILL know the tunes!!!  (ed. Beatings will continue until morale improves.)

On Grooming

Please pay special attention to your grooming.  Ideally, I would like to see everyone in AT LEAST blush, mascara, and lipstick!!!  Obviously we don't want to present ourselves as something we are not, BUT we do want to make a good impression.  Use of these basic cosmetics will make it look like we care about ourselves and that we care about looking nice for the rushees.  This is not an outrageous request and I don't want to hear a lot of flack about it!!!  (ed. And they didn't complain... at least not to my face.)

On Conversation

No matter how good our skits, songs, decor, and food are, the rushees will remember WHAT we said the most!!!  We need to make every word count because we are on a limited time budget.  So, you need to make your conversation work for you.  But don't oversell Pi Phi!!!  Not every girl will make it into Pi Beta Phi (ed.  The horror!!!) so we don't want to make them die for something they won't be able to have.  (ed. We'll save that for a Tori Spelling movie on Lifetime.)

On Fun Questions to Ask Rushees

After asking the requisite "What's your major?" and "Where did you go to high school?" you may find yourself at a loss for words with your rushee.  (This is not good!!!)  (ed. I like how I had to note that this wasn't good, as though my sisters might not realize big lapses in conversation were awkward.)  Hence, I have come up with a number of questions you may want to ask.  These questions will keep you comfortably chatting 'til the cows come home.  (Hey!  Keep the Delta Gammas out of it!!!)  (ed. Hey!  Way to perpetuate negative stereotypes about catty sorority girls!!!)

- Why did you decide to rush?

- Is college what you expected?

- Had any trouble finding parking? (ed. Way to get a scintillating conversation started!)

- Do you have any pets?

- What ever happened to Kiefer and Julia?  (ed. This is only notable because it highlights my decades-long pretend love affair with Mr. Sutherland.)

- What is your fave flavor of cream?  (ed. Not favorite.  FAVE.  Duh.)

- Ever been to Paris? 

- Where do you work?

- Are your parents cool?

- If you could only get one TV show (because you were stuck on some island) (ed. Because, yeah, that's going to happen.) what would it be and why?

- Do you like Paula Abdul?

- What do you think about stirrup pants?

- If someone were to pay you $10,000 would you pose nude for Playboy?  Even if your parents would never find out?

- How old were you when you found out there was not Santa Claus?

- If you had to be some type of fruit, what would it be?  (ed. Really?  With this attention to biting and incisive interview questions, I have no idea why I'm not already a host on The View.)

- Do you consider tomatoes to be a fruit?  (ed. The answer is NO because you would not put tomatoes on a fruit salad.)

- If you could pick your own name, what would it be?

- Do you ski?  Alpine, Nordic, or water?  (ed. Pretentious much?)

- What's your fave season?  (ed. Ah, the weather.  The last bastion of the truly boring, completely banal conversation.)

- What is your dream car?

- Do you have any siblings?

- More specifically, cute, 21 to 25 year old, with a good personality AND a gold AMEX, just dying to date a Pi Phi brothers?  (ed.  Obviously I was ALL ABOUT the sisterhood and was in no way, shape, or form in it to meet boys.)

- And when may I meet him?  (ed. Oh, wait.)

- Do you like corn chowder?  (ed.  Sadly, not a double entendre.  I'd just discovered this kind of soup and was a bit obsessive about it.)

- Do you like Fresca?  (ed. Seriously, this is getting painful.)

- If Jason Priestly were to walk into this room right now, what would you do?

- What about Richard Grieco?  Richard Gere?  Dan Quayle?  (ed. I'd probably ask Richard Grieco for a Fresca.)

- How do they get those ships in those little bottles?

- If you could eat one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?  Pez, cherry flavor, right?  (ed. I guess someone saw Stand by Me, yes?)

- What's the dumbest thing you ever bought?

- What are your hobbies?

- (ed. And now, the big closer, the one question that could potentially affect a rushee's entire future within the sorority, thus her college career and possibly even life beyond that!!!) How do you eat your Oreos?  (ed.  SHAMEFUL.)

* * *

The great irony here is I always thought it was my sorority sisters who were the assholes when they used to call me Hitler. 

Also?  They only elected me rush chair for one semester.  Suddenly, this makes a lot more sense.

Eat, Pray, Sho- Oh, Forget It

THE BIT ABOUT THE CAR

Yeah, I'll admit it.  I kind of lost steam between writing the first post about Eat, Pray, Love and now.  I had plans to document my whole finding-myself-in-my-underpants-in-front-of-a-perfect-stranger story yesterday morning.  Instead, real life intervened. 

I said goodbye to Fletch and made my way upstairs to get dressed so I could work.  But before I got a chance to sit down at the computer, something caught my eye.  I looked past the garage and noticed chunks of snow and ice flying... almost as if having been hurled.  I heard the rev of an engine, over and over, growing more insistent.  And, despite the room's triple-paned glass, I heard obscenities. 

Clearly. 

Oh, so many obscenities. 

Four letter words filled the air in capital letters, with exclamation points, like one of the fight scenes from Batman, the Adam West era.

Our alley had claimed another victim. 

I threw a fleece on over my flannel nightgown, stepped into my woolly Crocs, grabbed my coat, and headed outside where Fletch was in a state of what can only be described as "bitchpanic." 

Fletch had gotten his car stuck in an eight-inch deep ice valley, formed in the perfect storm of snowing, hailing, melting, re-freezing, and non-storm-drain-cleaning-despite-having-asked-the-Alderman-twenty-times-to-please-please-please-do-something.  (To be fair, how can we expect proper neighborhood service when our Alderman is so busy sending us literature on why the Iraq war is evil? )

Unfortunately, I was the one tasked with rocking the vehicle rather than the more desirable job of steering, what with my propensity to hit the side of the garage even when the pavement is dry and clear.  Pajama-clad, I spent the next forty-five minutes throwing my weight against the trunk while the useless back tires sprayed me with a mixture of road salt, ice, and liquefied kitty litter.  (Fortunately, I was able to warm myself with the heat of Fletch's Alderman-inspired epithets.)   

Finally, he stopped swearing long enough to remember we had Roadside Assistance - a service not only included in the purchase price of the car, but also the main argument he'd used to convince me it was fine to get the rear-wheel drive model - and the nice folks at BMW quickly dispatched Sherpas bearing crullers, hot brandy, and a tow truck.   

OK, they didn't bring liquor or donuts, but they did arrive promptly and free of charge.

Point?  Instead of returning to my computer to write a post about inspiration, I changed into dry jammies and went back to bed until 11:30 AM. 

And no, I did not stick my foot up Fletch's ass.  He brought home a big box of pastry last night to apologize for being all shout-y. 

There's not much a nice eclair can't fix around here.

THE BIT ABOUT THE UNDERPANTS

What I really took away from Eat, Pray, Love was the concept of being able to unhook, unwind, and unplug, and I pledged to be better at it. 

"But, Jen," you say.  "You just told us a story about sleeping until 11:30 AM.  ON A WEEKDAY.  If you were any more unwound, you'd be dead."

Here's the deal - I'm either going one thousand miles an hour, or I'm asleep.  There's no middle ground.  Lately, I've been so busy and so stressed that I've not been able to unclench.  So, because I believe in the ELP message to slow down, I had the the bright idea to get a massage.  I thought a massage would address the whole conundrum of calming my body-mind-soul.

But somewhere along I line I forgot that I HATE massages. 

First of all, I think they hurt.  A lot.  I'm generally so tense that even a little manipulation fucking KILLS.  Second, I'd say the least relaxing thing I could do would be to take my pants off in front of a stranger, no matter how professional he or she may be.  Third, I actually thrive on stimulus bordering on chaos so lying in a dark, quiet room, hearing the sound of nothing but whale music and the occasional rippling of back fat is NOT my recipe for unclenching. 

Don't know what I mean?  Then how about I share some of my internal monologue from the massage on Saturday when I was supposed to be "clearing my mind"?

"I wish the masseuse had eucalyptus scented oil.  I hate lavender and my only other choice was lemon grass, which smells nice, but it totally makes me want Thai food.  Mmm, pad Thai... you know what else is good at a Thai place?  The stuff with the big fat noodles.  What is that called?  Tom something?  Lard Nar?  I forget but it's all brown and garlic-y and goes really well with Thai iced tea.  What the fuck is that stuff called?  I'll have to look it up when I get home.  Oh, I also like Pad See Ew.  It's funny that I like a food with "ew" in the title, but I totally do and OW, that fucking HURT and HOLY OW, that hurt even more.  You wouldn't think this tiny little masseuse would have such strong hands, but she does.  Bet she has a hell of a handshake and she would kick so much ass at a thumb-wrestling match.  OK, she's touching my shoulders and OW I don't like that AT ALL and now she's massaging my head and HEY LADY, YOUR HANDS HAVE OIL ON THEM AND I JUST WASHED MY HAIR.  Oh, great, I'm going to be a big, greasy lemon-head for the rest of the day because I am not showering again because I just showered an hour ago and I have better things to do than lather, rinse, repeat all damn day and JESUS CHRIST, you are going to pop my head clean off!  I'm paying a buck a minute for this?  OK, OK, I am not being Eat, Pray, or Love right now.  I need to clear my thoughts and relax and be in the moment but it's really hard to do when this little person is SNAPPING MY SPINAL CORD.  OW!!  And how am I supposed to relax when I'm only wearing underpants and a sheet?  I know this person is professional and sees people undressed for a living, yet THIS IS STILL REALLY UNCOMFORTABLE FOR ME IN EVERY SENSE.  You know what helps me relax?  A shirt.  Some pants.  Maybe FULL UNDERWIRE SUPPORT.  And what's the deal with this music?  It's just one long pan-flute solo?  Is it more than one guy playing?  When does he have time to take a break?  And why does it have to be all new-age-y?  Why can't they play opera?  Opera is very nice and it tells a story that maybe I could concentrate on while this little tiny person is MURDERING ME ONE HANDFUL OF BACK FAT AT A TIME.  I wonder if she'd rather work on a person who's heavier as opposed to a really skinny person?  I bet massaging them would be like gripping a baggie full of chicken bones, as opposed to me who probably feels more like a Stretch Armstrong doll.  Do they still make those?  And what'd they fill them with, anyway?  I remember how mad Donna Gordon was when I bit a tiny hole in her Stretch doll to see what he was made of and if I recall, it was some kind of green goo and MOTHER OF CHRIST, I THINK MY ARM'S DISLOCATED NOW.  You know what I like?  I like when I'm lying on the bed on my stomach reading any my cat Maggie walks on my back.  Sometimes she makes little biscuits and it's soft and sweet and DOESN'T FEEL LIKE TORTURE, FOR GOD'S SAKE WHY NOT JUST WATERBOARD ME WHILE YOU'RE AT IT?"

And it went on like that for the rest of the session.  When we got done, the masseuse told me how tense I was. 

No. Shit.

In quick, cheap, so-not-worth-it summary, the lesson I learned and the point I started to make five days/five thousand paragraphs ago was I need to be better at trying to relax. 

And yet when I say "unhook," that does not include my bra.

THE BIT THAT'S VAGUELY USEFUL

You all seem to like when I talk about books, so here's what's on my bedside table.

First, The Good Liar by my friend Laura Caldwell.  Laura got her start writing chick lit but has since broken out of the girl ghetto and transitioned into legal thrillers.  I haven't started this one yet, but I've completely connected with everything else she's done in this genre and am sure it'll be great.  (FYI, if you're local, Laura does the book club circuit.) 

Superstud by Paul Feig.  People, this is the man who created Freaks and Geeks and directed episodes of Arrested Development, The Office, and 30 Rock.  If you don't like him, I'm pretty sure we can't be friends. 

The Romance Readers' Book Club by Julie L. Cannon.  Mary Kay Andrews blurbed it and that's why I bought it.  Haven't started it yet, but hopes are high.

Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris.  Yes, for the millionth time - can you see how dog-eared it is?  He never ceases to delight.

Earthly Pleasures by Karen Neches.  I read about this book on Allison Winn Scotch's blog.  Allison has THE best taste so I knew I could trust her recommendation.  I adore this book and tore through it in less than a day.

The Girl I Wanted to Be by Sarah Grace McCandless.  I met her last year and thought she was great.  But it took me a whole year to get around to reading her stuff and now I'm kicking myself for not having done so sooner.  Also don't miss her first novel, Grosse Pointe Girl.  SO good and so real you'll think it's a memoir.

Secrets of a Shoe Addict by Beth Harbison.  Here's where I have the best job in the world - when I get to read books from my favorite authors before they're published.

Scotbom: Evidence and the Lockerbie Investigation by Richard A. Marquise.  Marquise was the lead FBI investigator when Pan Am Flight 103 was bombed and this book sums up the investigation.  (What?  Am I not allowed to read educational stuff once in a while?)

Helping Me Help Myself by Beth Lisick.  Sometimes I buy books because Amazon tells me to.  Plus I heard she's really funny, so what's not to like?

Not pictured but also highly recommended:

Someday My Prince Will Come by Jerramy Fine.  Got to read an advanced copy of this last fall and to quote my own blurb, "Jerramy Fine doesn't need a prince to corner the market on charming."  Read, enjoy, repeat.

and, coming February 26th

Happy Hour of the Damned by Mark Henry.  It's the undead socialite's guide to life!  Manolos AND mayhem?  Flesh eating zombies and artfully applied sparkle powder?  Sign me up.  Mark's book is a  bloody lot of fun.

AND FINALLY, AN ABRUPT ENDING BECAUSE I WANT A SHOWER AND SOME PASTRY, NOT NECESSARILY IN THAT ORDER

Before I Get to the Underpants Story, I've Got Tour Dates!

Here are the offical bat-times and official bat-places for the Such a Pretty Fat book tour stops! 

For anyone in Ohio, Austin, and Oakland, you might just want to take a closer look...

Chicago
Tuesday/May 6
7:30pm
Barnes &Noble
1441 West Webster Avenue 
Chicago, IL 60614

NYC
Wednesday/May 7
7:00pm
Borders
10 Columbus Circle
NY, NY 10019

Philadelphia
Friday/May 9
7:00pm
Borders 
1 South Broad St. Suite 100
Philadelphia, PA 19107

DC
Monday/May 12th
7:30PM
Borders
5871 Crossroads Center Way
Baileys Crossroads, VA   22041

Atlanta
Tuesday/May 13
7:00pm
Barnes & Noble
2900 Peachtree Road NE      
Atlanta, GA 30305

Dallas
Wednesday/May 14
7:30pm
Barnes & Noble
7700 West Northwest HWY
Dallas, TX 75225

Austin
Thursday/May 15
7:00pm
Barnes & Noble
2701 Parker Road, Bldg A, Suite 700
Round Rock, TX 78681

Cincinnati
Friday/May 16
7:00pm
Borders
11711 Princeton Pike
Cincinnati, OH 45246

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

Seattle
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

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

We're still working on Minneapolis and Indy and I'll post those dates/places when they're settled.  I think I'm also booked to be at Printer's Row in Chicago June 7-8, but don't have any details.  When I know, you'll know.

Hope to see you all... somewhere! 

Eat, Pray, Shove, Part One

Once in a while, if I'm very lucky, I'll come across a book that totally alters my perspective.  And before you ask, yes, I read all the time and yes, there are plenty of authors I flat-out adore, but it's rare when the written word has the power to change the way I think or behave.

When I read Ayn Rand's magnum opus Atlas Shrugged, it forever altered the way I looked at the relationship between industry and government. (Some of you may argue it turned me into a conservative, compassionless douchebag.)  (Some of you might not be wrong, but we're not debating that right now.) When I read Aldous Huxley's Brave New World, I developed my own concept of Utopia and Catcher in the Rye brought out the foul-mouthed cynic I never knew lived inside me.

Of course, what I read doesn't have to be Classic Literature to cause a change or prompt action. I mean, Bridget Jones's Diary made me think maybe there was a market for stories about chicks just living regular lives so I started jotting down details about my own life for use later.

This brings me to my latest inspiration, Elizabeth Gilbert's beautifully written memoir Eat, Pray, Love.

To preface, let me be real clear that I'm not abandoning my life to live in an Ashram or to study under an Indonesian healer or to eat my way across Italy, although this facet of her journey is fairly tempting.  I'm not about to embark on an around the world soul-search to discover my own connection to The Divine.  Faith is hardly a topic for a blog post, but I will say this - I don't need a miracle or a stigmata to convince me of the presence of God in my life.  I see evidence of Him every day in a million tiny ways in events as simple as watching my fat-assed German shepherd Loki try to walk backwards up the stairs because he's afraid of the cat on the landing.  (Sure, some could argue it's not God highlighting the humor in what would otherwise be a mundane existence, and counterbalancing all that makes me angry, yet that's how I've chosen to interpret Him.) 

I'm about to veer dangerously off-topic, aren't I? 

Anyway, despite not having to go to Bali to find God (because He's obviously already waiting for me in line at Target in the form of the surly cashier's misspelled neck tattoo) that doesn't mean Eat, Pray, Love wasn't powerfully motivating. 

As Gilbert moved from country to country seeking fulfillment in body, mind, and spirit, she began to notice the huge cultural differences between Americans and everyone else. She pointed out how Americans have a terrible time relaxing. We're always moving and shaking, achieving, just going and going. And even when we're at rest, e.g. perched on the couch watching Rock of Love 2, we're still texting and talking on the phone and figuring out how many calories we need to burn to make up for the unfortunate incident with the banana cream pie and worrying about work and folding laundry and mentally repainting the kitchen because, really, what were we thinking with that shade of yellow?, and so on and so on. Even when we go on vacation, we can't seem to unhook, unwind, unplug. 

Kind of sad, right?

One of Gilbert's goals in embarking on her journey was to find a way to rid herself of this trait.  She sought the ability to let go and relax enough to quiet her mind in order to experience enlightenment.  So, ten paragraphs later, I can finally make the point that Eat, Pray, Love inspired me to do the same thing. 

That is, if you substitute "find enlightenment" for "not be so tightly wound I'm going to punch the next asshole I run into right in the throat." 

And that's how I ended up wearing nothing but underpants in front of a perfect stranger.

TO BE CONTINUED

(Next up, Eat, Pray, Shove, Part Two, AKA an important reminder about why I never, ever get massages.)

Team by Team Reporters, Baffled, Trumped, Tethered Cropped

According to the Rush & Molloy column in today's NY Daily News:

More paparazzi are dropping out of the pack following Britney Spears because of the risk — to them.

The legion of lensmen has been infiltrated by L.A. gang members — Crips and Bloods, according to some photo-agency heads. They claim rival agencies are arming the thugs with cameras and sending them out to do battle with the dozens of paps who rubberneck around Hollywood's favorite train wreck.

Um, wow.  Won't someone PLEASE send this girl a copy of Guitar Hero already?

(Can she spend some time alone?) 

(And give yourself ten points if you caught the reference.)

Please Phrase Your Response in the Form of a Question

UPDATE:  It's alive!  The sitting-in-rice-for-two-days trick worked! 

And now Fletch, the one who left the iPod in his pocket in the first damn place, is disappointed because he can't swap the broken 1 gig model out for the 80 gig one he wanted.  Aarrggh.

* * *

The category is Home Electronics and for five hundred, here is the clue:

Fletch's iPod

"OK, Alec, how about... what things are not machine washable?"

I'm Obligated to Title This One 'The Banana Grabber'

Setting:  By the fruit bowl in my kitchen, last week.

* * *

Monday

Me: (to myself) Ooh, the organic bananas are finally ripe. Yay!  (grabs a banana) (struggles to peel it) (fails) (struggles some more) (more fails) What the hell?  The stem won't snap.  Why can't I get this open? (shrugs, grabs knife, cuts off top, consumes) 

Tuesday

Me: (to myself)  Ooh, I should have a banana!  The one yesterday was really good. (grabs a banana) (struggles to peel it) (fails) (struggles some more) (more fails)  Weird.  Maybe the outside isn't ripe yet, 'cause the inside tastes just lovely. (shrugs, grabs knife, cuts off top, consumes)

Wednesday

Me: (to myself) Hey, you know what would be good right about now?  A banana. (grabs a banana) (struggles to peel it) (fails) (struggles some more) (more fails)  Huh, this is so strange how the stems on these refuse to budge.  Does being organic mean the skin is tougher?  I've never had to struggle with a stupid banana so hard in my damn life. (shrugs, grabs knife, cuts off top, consumes)

Thursday

Me: (to myself, eying the bowl uneasily) So, banana, what's it going to be today?  Are you going to open up nicely or are we going to have trouble? (grabs a banana) (struggles to peel it) (fails) (struggles some more) (more fails)  What the fuck is wrong with you?  Do you have some sort of bizarre self-preservation mechanism that makes you impossible to open?  GOD! (grabs knife, whacks off top of stem with a force so loud it summonses Fletch to the kitchen, begins to consume)

Fletch:  What's with all the noise?

Me: (shouting through a mouthful) It's these demon-seed organic bananas!  I hate them!  They refuse to open no matter which way you bend them!  There is something deeply wrong with them and possibly evil. 

Fletch:  Ohhh-kay... 

Me:  They're cursed or enchanted or something.  My guess is some angry banana farmer placed some voodoo on them because not using pesticide was such a pain in his ass. 

Fletch:  My guess is that they aren't cursed.

Me:  Your guess is wrong. (pledges to research subject of cursed bananas on internet as soon as breakfast is over)

Fletch:  So, um, are you going to eat the last one then? 

Me:  No, I'm not having any more cursed fruit, thank you.  But if you want it, here's a knife - there's no way you're getting to the inside without stabbing that motherfucker.  Seriously, just try opening it with your hands, I dare you.  It is frigging IMPOSSIBLE.

(Fletch grabs a banana, opens with a quick snap of his wrist, peels, and takes a bite while I stand there in stunned silence)

Me:  (sputters) But... how... when... I... I... damn it, I have had to use a knife to open those stupid bananas!  Seriously!  Every single day!

Fletch: (chewing thoughtful) Wow, then I guess you'd make a really lousy monkey.