jennsylvania

Maybe After All Those Cocktails?

Our regular Chinese delivery place dropped off an updated menu with our order last night.  They've added a new item - hot dog fried rice.

GROSS.

(And yet a tiny bit intriguing.)

Worst Tablescape Ever

First, the old business -

We're running about 85/15 anti-Secret to pro-Secret around here (bless your snarky little hearts!)  However, there's a vocal minority amongst you of the why-don't-you-fucking-read-it-before-you-judge-it variety.  Excellent point.  I'm always pissed off when people smack-talk my work when it's obvious they haven't actually seen it, so I shouldn't do the same thing. 

Tell you what - I'll read it.  And if that in any way changes my opinion, I'll post a retraction here. 

(In the words of Principal Skinner, prove me wrong, children.  Prove me wrong.)

(Also?  The dogs are already huge believers which totally explains their recent internet celebrity.)

Speaking of the ungrateful, I woke up this morning to discover one of the cats had whizzed on the kitchen table.  Again.  (This is Bones's charming way of letting me know he'd like his litter box serviced.) 

As I scrubbed, disinfected, and grumbled, it occurred to me that now would be the perfect opportunity for a breakfast cocktail.  Seriously, when you roll out of bed only to immediately start cleaning urine off the surface where you eat, the day's probably already shot.  But we only have wine in the house, and that just doesn't pair well with coffee and Pine Sol.

When I was away on my girls' weekend, we went to brunch and I discovered the ultimate breakfast martini.  Although it would have been phenomenal on its own, the fresh sweetness actually enhanced the Eggs Benedict. 

Or maybe just made me drunk and hungry. 

Regardless, I forget what it was called, but it contained:

1 part vodka

1 part St. Germain elderflower liqueur

1 part champagne

1 part white peach juice nectar

Best way to describe the taste is like a Bellini with a kick.  A delicious, delicious kick.

Anyway, since I've already got my rubber gloved hands full here today, this is a play along at home post.  Please list the recipe for your favorite adult beverage and the ideal time and/or place to drink it.

And with that, I bid you salut.

Great Weekends With Jen

I had a discussion with my friend yesterday about the book The Secret.  Rather, I had a disagreement. 

As a caveat, please note my friend is smart and funny and way more articulate than I'll ever hope to be.  So when she took the time to explain the gist of the book, I listened because I respect what she has to say.  She told me how The Secret is all about the power of sending out positive energy, being ready to accept and embrace good things in life, and believing in what's possible.

"So it's a book about wishing," I said.

"Well, if you want to break it down that way, sort of, but-" she began to reply.

I interrupted.  "Yeah, pretty sure that's horseshit."

She continued, "Think about this - how do you explain your success as a writer?  Didn't you put positive energy out there into the universe and-"

"No, I put nothing into the universe.  I worked really fucking hard.  I read every book I could get my hands on to figure out what I liked and disliked about the authors' styles and I tried to integrate what I saw to be all the best parts.  Then I got a hold of successful book proposals and followed those guidelines exactly when I put my own together.  Then I used every bit of knowledge I had about viral marketing to build community online.  And even when it looked like nothing was going to happen, I kept plowing forward.  There was no wishing involved."

"Why did you keep plowing forward?" she wanted to know.

I shrugged.  "Desperation?  Having no other choice but to find a way to make a living as a writer?"

"Did you believe in yourself?"

"I guess.  I wouldn't have been able to work that hard if I didn't have faith there would be a positive end result."

"Exactly!" she exclaimed.

I rolled my eyes.  "Pfft.  I'm still not buying it."  Then I thought about it for a minute.  "Or maybe I'm just salty because I didn't come up with the concept of The Secret myself?  But, whatever.  Good things only happen if you work hard to make them happen yourself."

Right?

Then again, if there is no fate, if everything is based on chance, and the power of positive energy doesn't cause magical stuff to happen once in a while, then how do I explain Deborah Lippman choosing to read my book while on vacation?  (BTW, she particularly liked the part where I wrote about hers being the best nail polish to ever exist.)

Colors from left to right, back to front:  Dark Side of the Moon, Believe (created with Cher!), Lady Is a Tramp, Don't Call Me Baby, Just Walk Away Renee (created with Renee Zellweger!), Baby Love, Icing on the Cake, and my new fave, Maneater.  (Soup Bible not included.)  Available at Nordstrom, Neimans, Bath and Body Works, and my kitchen.

And how do I explain my friend and I having this conversation in the first place... while sitting at a Cubs game, filming a segment for the Travel Channel with this charming host?

Yes, in fact Samantha Brown IS the cutest person on earth.

Is there a Secret? 

Maybe. 

But I'm going to get back to my manuscript now, just in case there's not.

My Creative Process, Let Me Show You It

Yesterday I was working on a piece about going through sorority rush as a freshman.  I'd interpreted the words "informal rush" to mean just that - informal.  The opposite of formal.  Casual.  Thus, I wore the entirely wrong thing to the first round of parties.  (I had on a jean jacket.  Even now, twenty three years later, I cringe at the memory of how the Kappas looked at me.  There's no sex in the champagne room and there are no jean jackets in sorority rush.)

Point?  In this chapter, I'm comparing my rush faux pas to forgetting to dress in green on St. Patrick's Day back in '77.  Everyone else in the entire goddamned school remembered, even renown nose-picker Jeffrey Covitz who skated through on a technicality by virtue of the alligator on his shirt. 

As I'm reliving the fear of being tapped by the Principal's shillelagh - he was ruthless to the ungreen, yo - I realize I have no idea how to spell this word.  I put my proposed spelling in the search bar.  All I get back are names of law firms.  I try again and again, with similar results. 

Apparently I'm so far off on the spelling even Google doesn't know what the hell I'm trying to ask. 

But unlike rush, this story has a happy ending. 

I get the appropriate spelling by typing the following:

Irish stick for hitting

And by the way, the Kappas can suck it.  That jean jacket was hot.

Beached

I'm back from my roadtrip and I've got the ear infection to prove it.

(How's that for a stellar opening line?  You're drawn in, yes?  "Please, Jen, tell us all about your owie.  We've waited an entire week to read about your minor medical malady.")

Anyway, a few weeks ago I found out I had meetings at the same bat-time and bat-place where my friends were gathering for a girls weekend, so I cashed in some miles and packed my bag.

I didn't have any business until Saturday so we headed to the beach as soon as I arrived on Friday.  I was so psyched to get in the water - given the opportunity, I would wallow every minute from Memorial to Labor Day.  Plus, I hadn't been to the ocean for a good ten years and was delighted for the opportunity to see it again.  (I assumed it hadn't changed, but really, who knew for sure?)  And yeah, I'd been in Lake Michigan a lot but it's not the same and don't let any Midwest-ophiles try to tell you differently.  Nothing compares to a shoreline full of beach roses, boardwalks, and salty air. 

I grew up going to beaches all along the New England coast.  I figured swimming in the Atlantic is like riding a bike - you never forget.  Sure, maybe I'd have to re-perfect my wave-diving and body-surfing skills, but that would only take a minute. 

So, imagine my surprise when what looked like a gentle tide grabbed me by the shins, pulled me under, gave me a ten billion gallon swirlie, and then threw me onto a bed of jagged rocks and broken shells so forcefully that I skidded almost all the way back to my beach chair.

Huh, I thought.  Perhaps all those Bloody Marys on the plane made me a bit wobbly.  I should try again.

I waded to about ankle-deep when another teeny wave suddenly turned white and not only knocked me ass-over-teakettle but also wedged buckets of sand in every orifice.  And I mean EVERY.  (Please only concern yourself with my ear, since that's what got infected.)

Oh, ocean, I mused, I'll best you yet.  I'm just out of practice.

This time I dashed into the water full force, mouth wide open in Braveheart victory-cry.  Which is exactly how I ended up swallowing a hogshead full of briny water, seaweed, and possibly one dead jellyfish.

Sixteen increasingly unsuccessful tries later, I hauled myself back to my group, battered, bloody, and wearing what felt like a diaper full of sand, whispering only, "Ocean - monumental fail," before collapsing into my beach chair to suck down every bottle of Dasani we'd packed.

Moments after my egress, the lifeguard put up two huge red flags on either side of the exact places I'd been attempting to swim.  He must have been sitting in his tall chair the whole time, thinking, "The big, sturdy one keeps getting knocked over.  Hey... I wonder if there aren't some rip tides out there?"

I'm home again and the ear infection is a bit of a blessing.  Every time I tilt my head, I get dizzy, so I've been spending a lot of time sitting in my chair in front of the computer.  Which is good, considering I have to stop getting on planes and start writing this damn book.

Anyway, posting will be fairly light around here for the next month while I finish Pretty in Plaid.  I figure you guys won't mind because given the choice between a couple of extra blogs and a whole new book, you'd choose book, right?

As for me?  I'd choose beach.

Photo by Blackbird, body by Hostess.

 

Thank You, Natasha! (And Screw You, Angie)

You guys ever notice how I'm always, "Blah blah blah, I don't accept ads, I don't take anything from vendors or PR firms, I don't go on junkets, etc"? 

Because I have integrity.  And I can't be bought.

Turns out that's just because no one ever offered me anything I wanted before.  So, when my favorite company in the world said they'd like to send me a couple of things (as my last book was basically a love letter to them), I said yes.

Honestly, I was hoping for maybe a mousepad and a coffee cup, which I kind of needed because all my favorite pit bull mugs have broken lately.  (Gravity problems.)  But they had something different in mind.

Behold my magnificent booty:

Yes, all these shoes are by Crocs.  Even the ones you cannot deny are ridiculously cute.

Here's a close-up on the Mary Janes:

(It's not a good close up, but that's my fault, not the shoes.) 

These are from the YOU by Crocs line and also come in black, green, and hot pink.  They're leather-lined and have an extra squashy foot bed and they're the most comfortable 3.5 inch heels you'll ever own.  Get them for yourself here.  And you can see the silver strappy ones here.

This should neatly prove once and for all I do not have terrible taste in shoes, ANGIE.

Although, I recently got these:

Perhaps I shouldn't be quite so smug about my scorching sense of style.  When I was telling friends at dinner last night about these, someone posed the question, "Where the fuck are you going to wear mouse shoes?" to which Manic Mommy quickly replied, "Disneyland?"

Anyway, I'm going to be away from my computer for the weekend and there won't be any new posts before Tuesday.  'Til then, discuss for whom you'd sell out, given the chance.

(And now I need to take my Crocs shrine down before the contractor comes and thinks I'm hosting a tea party for my shoes.)

The Book (And Record) Cellar

Shit!  I almost forgot to post this!  Tomorrow night (July 16) a group of authors are doing an event at The Book Cellar at 4736 N. Lincoln Ave at 7:00.  They include my buddy Jess Riley, Margot Justes, Libby Fischer Hellmann, and Francine Friedman.  Stacey and I plan to be there in the audience, so why not come out and support local authors at this amazing indie book seller?

Did I mention the bookstore has its own bar?  Books!  Drinks!  How could you not come?

What else?  Oh, yeah, I wrote more than 3,500 words yesterday.  (That's about fifteen book-typeset pages.)  Not sure what kind of roll I was on, but I hope to keep it up. 

Part of what's getting me/keeping me going is music.  I'm writing stories from childhood on up, so I've been listening to stuff that reminds me of those time periods.  It's amazing how one little hook or chorus can bring back so much imagery, like how Celebrate puts me right on the floor of the West Park Roller Rink, awkwardly navigating over spangled skate-laces or how Man in the Moon places me and my flannel/Birk/longjohn-clad self (shameful) at the end of the bar at Harry's, singing along with all the other patrons because we secretly believe REM should have put US in that video instead.

This is all a roundabout way of explaining why Fletch found me watching George Michael's Freedom '90 over and over again yesterday on YouTube.  "I'm working!" I told him. 

While I was thinking about the video later, it occured to me that some of my readers are practically babies (or I'm a dinosaur) and weren't even born until the '80s.  That means some of you were in grade school when this song/video came out.  Thus, some of you may have never even seen what is surely the greatest music video ever made. 

Seriously?  Naomi?  Linda?  Christy?  Cindy?  ELAINE IRWIN, MY VERY FAVORITE?

Your assignment for today is to watch it here on YouTube.  (Sony's disabled the ability to embed or I'd have posted it.)

Appreciate not only the video, but also George's enormous lyrical fuck-you to MTV and the record company.  Discuss.  Enjoy!

 

"You've Found A Kindred Spirit In Crap Music"*

I've been off the grid lately.  Between real vacation, accidental vacation, deadlines, and living in a house that has suddenly gone from three baths to one, the blog's gotten lost in the shuffle. 

Plus, I didn't think I had anything to write about but apparently each of the above topics could stand to be addressed, so here goes.

Part One, Real Vacation

It was, in a word, lovely  (if for no reason other than not having to share a bathroom with Fletch.  More on that in Part Four.)  Our hotel was all resort-y and they did stuff like bring personal pitchers of iced lemon water the second anyone sat down by the pool.  And the staff would come by and spritz guests with Evian water and every hour or so they'd distribute Popsicles or Dippin' Dots or frozen fruit or chilled washcloths. 

We had a giant dish of little-bitty wrapped Italian candies on the coffee table in our room.  I told Fletch that if he thought I wasn't going to turn into my grandmother and dump every last one of them into my purse before we left, he was sadly mistaken.  (Then he mentioned possibly discovering 500 $1 line-item charges on our room bill and I thought better of it.)

One of the highlights was getting to hang out with my friend Amy in person.  We've known each other ever since the early days of my "All About Jen" website but we've never met.  We drank vats of wine and ate seafood I've never heard of before (scorpion fish? mullet fish?) and generally had a fantastic time.  The bonus is she let me have a CD one of her friends made when they took a girls-only road trip to Sedona because she'd already burned it onto her iPod.  I listened to her CD all the way up to my accidental vacation (Part Two) and it was like unwrapping nineteen separate Easter eggs.

The CD is a perfect blend of cheese and sing-out-loud stuff.  It's called Three AGDs and a DG (the road trip participants respective sororities) and contains the following:

Gwen Stefani - The Sweet Escape

Rihanna - Pon De Replay

J Lo - Jenny from the Block

Stacey Q - Two of Hearts (remember her??)

Justin Timberlake - Sexy Back

Nelly Furtado - Promiscuous Girl

Rihanna - SOS (Rescue Me)

Coolio - Gangster's Paradise

Natasha Bedingfield - Unwritten

Fergie - Fergalicious

Britney Spears - Hit Me Baby One More Time

Beyonce - Irreplaceable

Shannon - Let the Music Play

LL Cool J - Going Back to Cali

Lisa Love - I Wonder If I Take You Home

Gwen Stefani - Hollaback Girl

Beyonce - Crazy in Love

Pink - Get the Party Started

Nelly Furtado - Say It Right

Enjoy!

*Fletch's quote when I told him what was on the play list

The first night in Vegas (after my traditional Fourth of July pool-wallow) I started getting ready to go to dinner.  I took a bath and was drying my hair when I felt a huge knot form in my throat.  While I put on my makeup and got dressed, I noticed my palms were sweating and my pulse raced.  I couldn't figure out why I was anxious until I realized I was going through all the exact same motions of being in a hotel room, getting ready for a book event.  As much as I enjoyed my tour, it was nice to just be able to put on a dress without the added pressure of having to give a speech. 

(I also recognize if it weren't for you guys, I wouldn't have been on my first vacation in six years, so THANK YOU ALL!)

* * *

Part Two, Accidental Vacation

We were only in Vegas for three days, but that's all it took to ruin me for regular life.  I'm all, "I'm hot!  Spritz me!" but no one does.  Remember those old cruise line commercials?  They featured a bunch of people wandering around their dank gray offices, drinking crappy coffee and fighting with janky mini-blinds.  The actors kept referencing their magnificent trip, saying stuff like, "I was a king and my butler knew just how I liked my tea," and "Every day my room was filled with fresh flowers."  For me?  That commercial finally makes sense.

At the moment, my life is filled with non-functional toilets in odd places and missing walls and a thick coating of drywall dust that just won't go away with vigorous dusting.  So when my friend Stacey invited me to visit her at her family's vacation place, I grabbed a beach bag and ran to my car. 

I'm on my way and I'm happily tooling along at both a safe distance from other cars and a sensible speed (nerd alert) when I notice a box fly off the pickup truck fifty yards ahead of me.  I was far enough back that it didn't come crashing through my windshield, thank God, but there was so much traffic in the right lane that I had no where to go but forward.  I ended up hitting the box which contained a very heavy piece of furniture.

You guys? 

I got into a head-on collision with an Adirondack chair.

The pickup driver and I both pulled over.  And when the driver got out of the other car, I was gearing up to yell like I've never yelled before when he introduced himself as Reverend So-and-so. 

Perhaps you all can shout at God's emissary, but I can't.  So while he went back to his car to call the police, I was stuck muttering to myself about Reverend TossyBox from the Church of the Flying Lawn Furniture.  I was already shaken up by the time I got to Stacey's house and when the biblical-type big storm hit that evening, the only rational choice was to stay over. 

Perhaps it wasn't as big a treat to her, as I mentioned, "I hit a box of chair," at least 900 times.  Also, while we were in her pool (which is on the lip of some deep woods) I got to say one of the greatest sentences of all time:

"Dude, there's a mini-frog on your neck."

* * *

Part Three, Deadlines

Deadlines still suck.  And they're keeping me from posting blogs more frequently.  But I figure I can do a bunch of half-assed blogs, or concentrate on a whole-ass book.

I choose whole-ass.

* * *

Part Four, The Bathroom Situation

A leaking shower pan has led to the utter destruction of almost every place to relieve oneself in this house.  We've lost a bunch of walls and ceilings and there's studs and plywood everywhere.  We're now down two bathrooms and I'm all, "Hey, why not take out the third, too?  I can just whiz in a pail."

In Bitter (I think) I talk about looking at apartments and telling leasing agents that we need at least two baths or else I will get divorced. 

Apparently I wasn't kidding.

Don't get me wrong; Fletch is an excellent roommate and he's quite tidy in the bathroom.  He never does stuff like leaving a sink full of whiskers and always wipes off the counter when he's done.  He's actually neater than me.  My bathroom is in no way suffering from his presence and yet I HATE having him in there because I'm ridiculously territorial.  He's none too thrilled with me, either, especially every time I suggest he'd be happier using the washroom at Target or the mop sink in the basement.

So he doesn't divorce me - or possibly beat me with one of many flanges laying around here - he's taken to staying home from work until the contractor arrives.  I'd been in charge of making Important Renovation Decisions but it turns out I don't speak Contractor and the guy doing all the work thinks I'm a dingbat when I say stuff like, "you know, those drip-ity things." 

The good news is ever since Fletch took over managing communication, the work has been going swimmingly (get it?  water pun) and I hope to have him out of my bath within the week.

* * *

Now I've sufficiently screwed around enough that I have no choice but to get back to my manuscript, thus I do not have time to come up with an ending that would have neatly tied all these unrelated topics together.  'Tis a pity. 

And because it can't be said enough:

"Dude, there's a mini-frog on your neck." 

I Prefer the Twenty-first Amendment

Our activities today included facials, brunch, poolside tanning time, and a trip to The Gun Store to fire assault rifles.

Try to guess which activities I picked.

(And yes, I totally chickened out on firing anything.)

(It's not that I don't support the second amendment. It's more that I have trouble controlling the kickback on the weedwhacker. Pretty sure I'm not ready to man an AK.)

Star Sighting

The cute little kid laughing at Fletch and me while we bickered outside the spa at the hotel?

David Archuletta!

This Is What Procrastination Looks Like

Yesterday my friend Danny put this up on his blog. 

Everything about the entry made me bark with laughter because it so perfectly captures the essence of an author on deadline.  I was tempted to send him a note and a photo of my garden, saying, "Oh, honey, no.  THIS is what writer's block looks like." 

If I didn't have a book due, I'm sure I'd have thrown down a couple of geraniums and impatiens and called it done.  Instead, I concentrated my efforts, blending a hundred different kinds of plants together with the same singular dedication and precision only witnessed in lovestruck teen-aged boys starring in John Hughes films when they're making mixed tapes to woo Molly Ringwald. 

(Did I just date myself here?  If so, substitute "Nick Hornby book" for John Hughes movie and "Kate Winslet" for Molly Ringwald.) 

(If you have to substitue "Justin Timberlake video" and "Lauren Conrad" you're probably too young for my sense of humor.)

Anyway, my writer's block is a little different from Danny's.  It's not that I can't get out the words; they're there - all I have to do is sit at the computer and let them out.  Rather, when I'm on deadline, I find so many other things in my life that suddenly need to be fixed, planted, organized, and researched, like, right this minute.  Sure, I can work on my book... but not until I've rearranged everything in my bathroom cabinet, grouping hair products by size and manufacturer on the first shelf, face lotions and potions on the second, and body stuff on third, with requisite thinking breaks where I try to determine if an all over self-tanner should be housed on two or three as it's mostly for body but really, I'm only interested in tanning my face although I do get my neck and a bit of my shoulders and I wonder if I shouldn't install a fourth shelf for this very reason?

Occasionally this obsessive work avoidance is a good thing.  Take last year, for example. I found myself working out rather than working on my manuscript.  Yeah, it slowed my writing down, but it sure sped up my metabolism.  More recently, I fell into a bit of an internet rabbit hole yesterday while researching flight miles and I came out with a Gold membership reward level on American Airlines!  I can't really explain how I got the upgraded status, but it has to do with an unofficial Gold/Platinum challenge (that I still don't understand) and also a whole lot of time spent/links referenced to solidify my case.

Point? 

Who cares about the details when my procrastination has made me likely to get upgraded to First Class on my upcoming vacation?  Woo!!  The only down side is that Fletch isn't a Gold member and won't get the upgrade.  He says he's fine with coach as long as I don't get all obnoxious and officious and rub it in. 

(I make no promises.)

Again, point?

I'll be wallowing poolside this Fourth of July weekend and this is the book with which I plan to wallow:

Is there anything better than a deliciously trashy novel, read while sitting in a tepid body of water, frosty tropical drink in hand?

No.  No, there's not. 

Anyway, Tan Lines isn't officially released until July 8, but sometimes you can find books in the store early.  If you can't get one yet, don't fret.  I've been meaning to write up a reading list for a while, so why not do it right this minute in lieu of getting any further on my manuscript which is due at the end of the summer and which I won't get to for about five days while I'm poolside AND THERE'S NO STRESS HERE?

Thus I give you Jen's Summer Reading Series.  (Now with links that actually go where they're supposed to and one more bit of required reading.)

I highly recommend any of the following for all your beach-read needs:

Bringing Home the Birkin by Michael Tonello - I loved this book SO MUCH.  Tonello describes his pursuit of the Hermes Birkin bag in such beautiful places that I actually felt like I was somewhere exotic, and not just stuffed in a middle seat on my way to Cincinnati.  I would also like him to be my gay boyfriend but I suspect I'd feel all untucked and ungainly next to him.  He's completely FAB.

Girls in Trucks by Katie Crouch - I'm obsessed with books about Southern women and this one does not disappoint.  Southern sensibility plus ennui equals a riveting novel. 

Love the One You're With by Emily Giffin - Another great story by Giffin.  I think she's brilliant because she has the ability to make me feel like I'm living inside her character's head.

Chasing Harry Winston by Lauren Weisberger - I ignored the less than flattering reviews and bought the book anyway.  Because you know what?  Sometimes critics are just jealous.  Chasing Harry Winston is big fun and Weisberger does a great job creating three distinct and diverse heroines.  THIS should be the next book made into a Sex and the City-type series.  Loved it! 

Are You There Vodka, It's Me, Chelsea by Chelsea Handler - I bought it for the title alone and laughed the entire way through it.  I'd want us to be friends, too, but I'm afraid she'd be the funny one and I just can't have that. 

Moose: A Memoir of Fat Camp by Stephanie Klein - I inhaled this book like a bag of Cheetos.  Fascinating and raw, I was not able to put it down.  (Except to get more candy.)

Driving Sideways by Jess Riley - This is the ultimate roadtrip book.  Jess busts out the word "shittastic" within the first two pages and that alone makes it worth buying right this minute.  (Available at Target, too!)

Half-Assed by Jennette Fulda - A weight loss memoir where the author not only doesn't hate herself, but also loses half her body weight by working hard.  Read it and be inspired!

The Gatecrasher by Madeleine Wickham - Even though I love me some Becky Bloomwood/Sophie Kinsella, I really dig when Wickham puts out books under her real name.  These novels are often a bit darker and she doesn't tie every ending up with a giant, shiny, very American bow.  Definitely worth a read.

All We Ever Wanted Was Everything by Janelle Brown - Oh my God, this one consumed me for four straight days.  I was so wrapped up in it I didn't even use my iTouch on the plane back from Boston, which is really saying something since I had new episodes of both Denise Richards' and Dina Lohan's new shows.  It is an AMAZING novel of loss, redemption, and, best of all, revenge.   

OK, that's about it.  I have officially exhausted everything else I can do to procrastinate working on the new book. 

So I shall bid you a safe and happy holiday, and leave you with two of the sweetest words ever to be uttered:

VEGAS, BABY!

And Speaking of Apologies

While I was on tour, a lot of you asked about Fletch.  I responded by sharing stories of his general ineptitude at taking care of himself/the household, e.g. the food poisoning incident (Part One Million) and the panic over not knowing how to deal with a maid with cat yack in her shoe and The Great Drycleaning Debacle.

In the course of this discussion, I explained my simple rule for a happy marriage.  For those of you who weren't there to hear it, my rule is to never, ever talk against your spouse when there's an actual problem.  (Bad cooking and cat puke bitchpanic don't count.)  (Actually, anything funny doesn't count.) 

When the rare Issue (as opposed to small-i issue) comes up and we get mad at each other, I don't go running to my friends or family or the internet.  I keep the Issue between us.  My thought is that if I bring someone else into my Problem, I begin to breach marital trust and drive a friend/family/internet-shaped wedge between us both.  My experience is when others get involved, people choose sides and what was an Issue becomes an ISSUE with battle lines drawn.  By keeping the problem between ourselves, the only other person I can obsess to is my partner.  There's no escalation.  Only talking to each other expedites solutions and makes for a harmonious life together. 

(Keeping this philosophy in mind, try to guess how much I liked the Sex and the City movie.  Seriously, if one glib comment kept Big from marrying Carrie, maybe the foundation of her relationship wasn't as strong as she thought, in which case she should have THANKED Miranda.)

(And the part where the kid answered the phone by saying "sex"?  UGH to the point of insulting my intelligence.) 

(And for everyone else, why are you still dressing up to view the film?  CARRIE BRADSHAW CAN'T SEE YOU IN THE AUDIENCE AND YOU'RE JUST GOING TO GET BUTTERFINGER SHARDS AND POPCORN GREASE ON YOUR PRETTY SKIRT AND SWEATER SET, NOT THAT I KNOW THIS FROM EXPERIENCE.)

Anyway, yes. 

Back to the topic at hand.

As a caveat, this keep-it-to-yourselves strategy works in my situation because generally I'm the hothead/blowhard and my spouse is usually the voice of reason.  One size of this advice may not fit all.  What will work for everyone is to learn the magic words, "I was wrong and I am sorry." Yeah, it's trite but truly, saying them can fix most anything.

And in case you're curious at my having brought up Problems and Issues, ours are rarely exciting or dramatic.  The most recent Issue occurred while I was on tour.  I convinced myself that Fletch wasn't taking care of the backyard like he should and I worked myself up into quite a lather over how I'd put all that work into making it pretty and that everything was going to die because he wasn't watering and damn it, I spent a lot of money and it's all going to go to waste and THIS IS BULLSHIT and why aren't you answering your phone to tell me everything is fine when I call you fifteen times in a row? 

(Answer?  Because he was in a meeting.)

By the way, this what I came home to:

Fletch loses no points for the graffiti-covered dumpster - that's not his doing.

If you look closely, you'll see how I re-purposed our old charcoal grill.  (Bonus points for me!)

Fine, he does lose a couple of points for the cigarette butts.

This one's my favorite. 

The shady side of the yard.

Can you see how big the tomato plant already is in the corner?  Am growing my own.  I plan to auction these salmonella-free beauties off to the highest bidder!  Who needs J.P. Morgan when I have MiracleGrow?

Again, it can't be said enough.  He did take great care of my plants while I was gone.

So I was wrong and I am sorry.

And I'm going to sell our tomato and make us rich.