jennsylvania

Team Edward, Team Jacob, Or Team Take Your Pants Off?

For those of you who wonder if I'll cover Eclipse, the answer is yes.

For those of you who wonder what that means, I'll refer you to the New Moon post. 

For those of you who've seen that post and still wonder why I'm doing this, well... let's just say it beats working for a living. 

So, without further delay, I give you Eclipse: The Jennsylvania Edition.

* * *

Bella and Edward:  Yay!  We're reunited!

Bella:  "Edward!  I totally love you in a non-platonic sense!  Let's celebrate our romance in an, ahem, traditional way, if you know what I mean."

Edward:  "Yes!  I'm absolutely on the same page!  Marriage it is!"

Bella:  "Argh.  Then can you please at least compliment me on my rack?"

Edward:  "Certainly.  Your rack is fantastic.  Are those two kinds of oregano I spy?"

Bella:  "Sigh.  In unrelated news, what up with the big pile of dead folk in Seattle, homie?"

Edward:  "I know, right?  Totes creepy."

Bella:  "My dad says it's the work of a..."

Bella:  "... cereal killer."

Alice, Edward, and Bella:  "Seriously?  We're just plastic action figures and even we can manage to look disgusted with your stupid pun, Jen."

Me:  "I'm sorry.  I had three Mai-tais at lunch today and it seemed funny to me."

Bella:  "Shouldn't we be getting back to my tortured love life?  We need to move this along if I'm ever getting the pants off that foppish Brit."

Me:  "I'm on it.  By the way, a bunch of brand new vampires killed all those guys."

Bella:  "Oh, I'm sorry - are YOU now Stephenie Meyer?  'Cause your checking account doesn't seem to think so.  Piss off."

Me:  "Okay, okay.  I'm going."

Edward:  "No!  I won't let you associate with the wolf-boy!"

Bella:  "Please?"

Edward:  "Nope."

Bella:  "Pretty please?"

Edward:  "No freaking way."

Bella:  "Pretty please with hemoglobin on top?"

Edward:  "My resolve is as immobile as my pants."

Me:  "So, Bella, he not only breaks into your room and watches you sleep but also wants to dictate who your friends are?  Oh, honey... run." 

Bella:  "Why are you still here?"

Me:  "Because the man's over a hundred years old and you're a minor!  It's not only unnatural, but it's also a crime.  Oh, and speaking of statutory rape, can you possibly suggest that Jacob take off his shirt?  Not for me.  For America."

Bella:  "ANYWAY..."

Bella:  "I feel naughty sneaking away and riding motorcycles in the woods with you Jake!  Perhaps this will make Edward so mad he'll try to, ahem, spank me."

Jacob:  "FYI, I'm totally still a werewolf.  My Dirty Dancing jean shorts automatically come off when I phase."

Bella:  "Noted.  But keep your pants on, dude, I only like you as a friend.  I think."

Jacob: "Yet millions of cougars around the world would disagree."

Jacob:  "Team Jacob!"

Edward:  "Team Edward!"

Bella:  "Team I-Would-Be-the-Meat-in-this-Sandwich-If-It-Weren't-for-the-Damn-PG-13-Rating!  Oh, wait, was that out loud?"

Alice:  "Um, hello?  Do you horndogs need me to Mapquest your way back to the plot of this thing?"

Me:  "I can help."

Alice:  "What are you, the Greek chorus?"

Me:  "No, but I don't need to be Euripides to see Victoria's behind everything.  Also, since apparently it's not important to keep main characters consistent throughout the movie franchise, please note that the actress who was playing Victoria has been replaced..."

Me:  "... by Betty Draper."

Victoria:  "My husband Don Draper would first nail Bella, then he'd smoke, then he'd pay her five thousand dollars to go away."  

Me:  "Wrong show, sweetie."

Victoria:  "Oh, right.  My bad.  I guess I'll just raise an unholy army and off the bitch myself."

 
Bella:  "She's going to kill me before I ever get your pants off."

Edward:  "Not to worry, I'll fix everything."

Bella:  "Ooh, did you get us a room?"

Edward:  "Better - I enlisted the whole wolf pack to help us."

Bella:  "Aces."

Bella:  "If I get Lyme disease out here, you're in big trouble, mister."

Edward:  "We'll mask your scent with the wolf-boy's stink.  Victoria will never find you."

Jacob:  "Stink?  The makers of Axe Body Spray for Men beg to differ."

Edward:  "Whatevs.  Now go take Bella to a cold, cold mountaintop.  And try to keep your shirt on.  You're not stealing this movie from me, too."

Jacob:  "I promise nothing."

Jacob:  "I'll keep you warm, baby."

Bella:  "Well, since we're practically in Canada, it really wouldn't count, so..."

Edward:  "Hey!  Don't mind me!  I'll just freaking risk my afterlife while you may or may not make out with a dog!"

Victoria:  "Hey!  Edward!  Checkity-check it!  It's your reflection!  And I think I saw some hair gel behind that rooster cookie jar!"

Edward:  "The only thing I love more than gazing at my tousled locks is Bella.  Say good night, Betty.  I mean, Victoria.  Damn it, you're right, Jen - it IS confusing."

Me:  "I told you so."

Edward:  "Um, hi?  Kind of busy here."

Me:  "Right.  Have at it.  Sweep the leg, Johnny!" 

Edward:  "Victory!  And now, decapitation!"

Me:  "I paid seventy-four dollars for that doll.  Let's just say we beheaded her, alrighty?"

Edward:  "You, ma'am, are no Stephenie Meyer."

Me:  "Yeah, and yet I could write you into some really shitty fan fiction, so if you want to keep your virtue pal, you'll STFU."

Edward:  "Fine.  Are we done yet?"

Me:  "Almost."

 
Edward:  "Now there's nothing standing in the way of our wedding!!"

Bella:  "Yay."

Edward:  "You realize that means I'll take my pants off."

Bella:  "YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1!!!!!!!!OMG!!!1!!PONIES!!!ELEVENTY!!!1!!1WOOOOOOO!!!!  But wait... I wonder how Jake will feel about this?"

Edward:  "He's run away, so perhaps we'll never know..."

THE END

 

An Evening of Badassedness - UPDATED

Because I am essentially still a very lazy person, it's just now occurring to me that I should post this event information.

What:  An Evening of Badassedness.

What?:  Okay, it's technically An Evening with Jennifer Weiner and Jen Lancaster.

Really?  Jennifer Weiner?  May I Feel Free to Squeal Here?:  Absolutely, I know I did.

When:  Monday, July 26, 6:00 - 8:00 PM.

Where:  Stevenson High School's Performing Arts Center, 1 Stevenson Drive, Lincolnshire, IL.

Anything Else I Should Know?:  Yes, this is a ticketed event.  You have to either register at the Vernon Hills Public Library District website or call 847-634-3650.  And, prior to arriving at the Performing Arts Center, you must pick up your ticket for entry at the library.  (They'll be available at the Adult Services desk.)

That Sounds Like a Lot of Effort:  But it will be totally worth it for an evening of badassedness.

Too True.

Is That Everything?:  Oh, wait - books will be available for purchase on site by the Lake Forest Books.

So that's it!  Be there or be, um... whatever the opposite of badass is.

P.S.  Spellcheck just tried to change "badassedness" to "blessedness."  See?  Spellcheck knows EXACTLY how badass this is.

P.P.S.  All of which is to say CHICK LIT IS NOT DEAD.  And speaking of, the lovely ladies of chicklitisnotdead.com just posted five things you might not know about me.  Check it out!

Hey! This Post Isn't About Books!

I've talked about almost nothing but books lately, likely because books are what I turn to when I'm stressed.  My recipe for dialing anxiety down from eleven is an engrossing story read in or by a body of water.  (A pool's preferred, but bathtub works in a pinch.) 

Fortunately, most of my stress stems from stuff that will eventually manifest into something that makes me happy, e.g. the new memoir about volunteering.  We're also close to being done house hunting as we've narrowed our choices down to two.  Now we must determine if we want the place that needs work outside or needs work inside.  One's a lovely Colonial with a gorgeous pool and rose garden out back but acres of old Scalamandre wallpaper inside. 

Seriously, acres.  Literally.

One room features paper that appears to be monkeys perpetrating hate crimes against Chinese men.  Another displays tropical birds of every color, save for those in our furniture and rugs.  And don't get me started about the baby-blue bow and pinstripes combination room, complete with a shag carpeting in desperate need of a haircut. 

After we pay a crew millions of dollars to remove every inch of this stuff, we'd have to do some remodeling in the kitchen, e.g. reface the cabinets, replace the countertops, update the appliances, and remove the gun cabinet.  I've yet to figure out why there's a glass-faced gun display cabinet in the kitchen.  You think that'd be a selling point for Fletch, but even he has his limits.

The other house is much more updated inside (as in no green marble or gold fixtures) but the backyard's an unbroken strip of flat grass.  Although it's big enough that you can see the curve of the earth, we'd have to put in a pool or something just to make sure no spontaneous polo matches break out back there.

Anyway, these are good problems to have and I recognize that.  We're looking at both houses again next week and should make our decision shortly thereafter.

But until then, even I'm getting tired of hearing about what books are on my nightstand, so today I'll address one of the most asked questions when on tour.

"How are the Thundercats?"

They are, in a word, ridiculous.

I was going to say they're evil incarnate, but they're not malicious and plotting like some cats.  Actually, they're particularly sweet and loving and spend every evening curled up on our chests while we watch TV.  (It's freaking adorable.)  They don't bite, scratch, hiss, mess with the dogs, and they respect the authority of our two elder statesmen cats. 

Rather, the root of the problem with them is their large size - the concept of which they completely fail to recognize - and their ineffable stupidity.  They are three young bulls running amok in the china shop that is my house. 

Now, I've had cats for almost eighteen years, so I understand that this comes with a modicum of knocking-shit-down.  Yet none of the six cats that came before them had ever mastered the vertical leap like these idiots, particularly Chuck Norris.  A vase being bumped off an end table is one thing.  But a vase being bashed off the top of an eight-foot bookshelf with enough power to make it sail across the room before exploding into a veritable Kristallnacht is another.

Gus, perhaps dissatisfied by his personal hang time after a jump, has taken to climbing the walls.  He makes a running leap at the corner, then digs in with his claws and tries to see how high he can get.  As gravity is a factor in these pursuits, as is his considerable bulk, he must sink his claws deeper into the drywall which now appears to have been attacked multiple times by a small werewolf.  Goodbye, security deposit!

Odin is a special kind of dumb due to being partially blind and a touch cross-eyed.  He tends to be the most nervous and when he gets scared, he somehow sinks his head back into his body, much like a furry tortoise.  Because of his compromised eyesight, I believe that everything from a distance looks both frightening and imposing to him... and thus must be destroyed.  Apparently our dining room rug "is scary monster" and has summarily been shredded.  He's also dug a hole in one of our leather couches so he can hide from the can opener, vacuum, doorbell, air, etc.  And yet as dumb as he is, it is patently impossible to keep a collar on him for more than four minutes.  No matter what kind we buy or how snug we fit it, he can wriggle out.

Of course, the penultimate instance of stupidity came a couple of months ago.  Our elderly cat Bones was in the end stage of kidney disease and would occasionally take a leak in inappropriate places, like on the dogs' bed.  Apparently this left quite the impression on young Gus whose little pea brain must have taken in this information and translated as, "Oh, dis what we do naows?"

One morning I was asleep and Gus hopped up to join me.  I petted him in a quick hello and then flipped over to my side.  He's generally a good little snuggler so I thought nothing of it.  But then Gus climbed across me and headed down to my midsection, whereupon he promptly took a leak. 

On me. 

Specifically, he whizzed on my bottom, thus giving me the exact sensation I vaguely remember from wetting my own pants a good thirty-five years ago.

Not only is this one of the least pleasant sensations in the entire world, but apparently he peed quickly enough and with sufficient force to get into - how shall I say this delicately? - my nooks and crannies. 

After I finished screaming, I leaped out of bed and promptly took a Silkwood shower.  I was particularly concerned with what contaminants may have lurked in his pee as I didn't want to get an infection.  Having just been to the doctor for both pink eye and what I thought might be worms, I figured if I presented with a complication from having been peed on, I would have gotten assigned to a case manager.

We lost Bones not longer after that.  We were pretty sad about it, but as soon as he was gone, Gus's stealth-whizzing stopped.  Which is good.

However, I'm not sure I want to discourage him from clawing the walls.

Those skills may be useful in removing hideous wallpaper.

"Gussie - is whats for dinners."
 

Because Saying Stuff Is The New Black Never Gets Old

The new column has been posted!  Have not yet seen it in the Trib, so I wonder if maybe I'm not supposed to link here yet. 

So... I guess read it now in case I have to yank the link?

Bonus Friday Post!

Just saw these links on Pub Rants... oh, you guys.  I'm not going to explain The Awesome.  Just watch them for yourselves.

And

And

And if you now spend the weekend calling everyone a stupid bitch?  You're welcome.

What's In Your Beach Bag? Yet Another Sequel, Misc. Edition

Before I get to my final round of slightly more esoteric beach reads, I've got to address a recent Twitter comment.  Someone sent me a tweet along the lines of, "Sigh... I long for the days when your summer reading suggestions weren't about cross-promotion."

Oh.  Really.

My initial response was to tweet back, "Sigh... and go fuck yourself with a very sharp, cross-promotional stick," but I've been trying to conduct myself in a more professional, less profane (possibly less psychotic) manner.  Also, although this statement addresses my sentiment, it doesn't adequately explain why this tweet made me angry.

First, if I'm "cross-promoting" anyone, it's because I honestly enjoy and endorse their writing.  And if I know them, the chances are good I met them because I'm a fan.  If an author's work moves me or makes me laugh, I'll email them or friend them on Facebook.  Sometimes I'll go to their signings.  Most authors aren't J.D. Salinger - they want to meet their peers.  We communicate and connect with each other because we're in a complicated business; we lean on each other and share advice and rally together to support new players.

I've paid for every book on this list except for a couple and that's only because their editors or agents sent me copies before I had the chance to buy them myself.  We tend to be friends with each other because it's the nature of the business.  And part of being friends is supporting ones friends.  That's why we actually spend our own money on one another's work and why we often buy multiple copies to give away on our websites.  Like, you know how waitresses are always the best tippers?  Same principle.  But apparently this gal on Twitter has confused "karma" with "conspiracy." 

As for "the days when [my] summer reading suggestions weren't about cross-promotion" I just looked at my recommendations from 2009.  Out of last year's authors, I'd either read an advance copy or met the author in person in every single case, whereas I only know about half the folks on this year's list.  On previous lists, I run about 50/50 on authors I know.  So I'm not doing a goddamed thing differently now than I've ever done. 

Finally, on all the books I've mentioned over the years, maybe two of them have been on my label, the NAL imprint.  Believe me when I say there's zero pressure from my publisher to talk up their books.  Generally, when I get free copies of anything, they come from my friends who edit for competitors.  Even that's fairly rare. 

I guess the bottom line is this - I worked too hard to build a name and reputation for myself and the last thing I'd to do is abuse readers' trust because I owe someone a "cross-promotional" favor.  I get very angry when my integrity is questioned in a public forum, particularly when the Twitter accuser doesn't even have her facts straight. 

And that's why I Twitter-blocked the bitch.

Okay, so maybe I'm not quite professional yet.  But I didn't unleash an unholy army on her, so it's a step in the right direction.  Anyway, speaking of unholy armies, let's talk about zombie books.

ZOMBIE BOOKS

Apparently I love zombie books.  Zombies are totally the new angst-ridden teenage vampires.

 
Road Trip of the Living Dead by Mark Henry:  Mark Henry is a deeply twisted individual and I mean that in the best possible sense.  He's the one who made me realize I dug zombie books in the first place.  That's likely because his undead socialite heroine Amanda Feral is sort of the Bitter Is the New Black version of me... if I ate brains.  Does his writing get a little blue?  Yes.  Is it a bit gory in parts?  Yes.  Does he make me laugh out loud?  HELL, YES.  I absolutely adore every word Henry writes.  I realize zombie books aren't for everyone, but if you're so inclined, this is a great place to start.

 
The Forest of Hands and Teeth by Carrie Ryan:  I met Carrie at my book event in North Carolina.  When we chatted, she mentioned she was a writer.  She was so causal and low key about it that at no point did I realize that meant she was a NY Times best selling author.  (Me?  I slip that fact in every chance I get.)  (See?  I just did it again.)  Anyway, I downloaded her book that night and now I totally see why fans loved it.  The story is a more literaryTwilight meets M. Night Shymalan's The Village meets Dawn of the Dead.  Although the book is technically for young adults, there's all this amazing subtext about the state of society and organized religion that really captured my imagination.  Even though her zombies aren't Prada-wearing, cocktail-swilling smart-mouths like Henry's, I found the story no less riveting.

Knowing now that I dig the genre, I'm excited to see what else I discover.

YOUNG ADULT

Good writing is good writing; that's why I pick up the occasional YA book.  Novels don't need to be about me, or my situation, or my generation to be a great read.

 
An Off Year by Claire Zulkey:  In this novel, Zulkey chronicles protagonist Cecily's decision to not attend her freshman year of college.  Of course, she only comes to this conclusion once she reaches her new dorm, with her tuition paid and her entire life packed up in the trunk of her family car.  This coming of age story chronicles exactly what it's like to be trapped in that odd gap between childhood and adulthood.  There's no magical realism or big, happy coincidences, or sappy Hollywood ending.  Simply, this is a story that's so honest and direct that it's hard to believe it's not a memoir and it's a must-read for any parent about to send their kids to college.  (Or for anyone who just wants to get lost in a good book.)

 
Getting Revenge on Lauren Wood by Eileen Cook:  I love that Cook, one of my favorite chick lit authors, is now doing YA.  Her book is a perfect example of how hell hath no fury like a teenager scorned.  In it, the heroine's shamed so badly in junior high that she has to leave town, reinvents herself, and comes back years seeking revenge.  The book has just enough Mean Girls in it to be familiar but enough of Cook's quick wit to feel like an entirely new concept.  Now someone please quick make this into a movie because poor Lindsay Lohan could really use the work.

 
The Carrie Diaries by Candace Bushnell:  I saw Bushnell in Dallas in May and I wish I'd thought to ask her this next question.  She's gotten some criticism about her book on teenage Carrie Bradshaw.  Uber-fans have complained that the action in this story doesn't always line up stuff mentioned on the show, e.g. her first love.  I wonder how she handles this?  Is she all, "It's my goddamned book, my goddamned characters, and I'll create the back-story I want!"  (I suspect that's how I'd be.)  Regardless, I had such fun following Young Carrie's escapades and loved how Bushnell subtly showed the source of all of Adult Carrie's proclivities.  And the last page of the book could not have been more awesome.  Trust me on this.

In terms of full disclosure, I do know all of the authors on today's list.  Sort of.  I've met Bushnell three times and but as she continues to have no idea who I am, I'm pretty sure she doesn't count.

That's it for the 2010 summer cross-promoting reading list.

Enjoy!

Or sigh.

Your call.

What's In Your Beach Bag? The Sequel, Fiction Edition

Is there anything more satisfying than a day full of sun, sand, surf, the smell of Coppertone, and a good book?

No.  No, there isn't.

Oh, don't give me that "birth of my child" or "graduating from law school" business.  I'm trying to make a point about summer reading.  Besides, having a kid is more of a one-to-four-times-in-a-lifetime kind of deal (unless you're a Duggar or an alley cat) whereas spending the day at the beach with an enthralling read is possible every single day... provided you have the right book.

Anyway, today I'm all about fresh, fun summer fiction. 

First up, my friend Maureen...

Not Ready for Mom Jeans by Maureen Lipinski:  One wouldn't think I'd be into a book about motherhood because I'm pretty sure the state would get involved should Fletch and I ever choose to reproduce.  The logical question is if I'm not a mom, why would I read about them?  Yeah, well, I'm also not a vampire, werewolf, or stupid teenage girl, yet I dig the Twilight series.  My point is I don't have to be a newly minted parent struggling to balance it all to appreciate Lipinski's quick wit or engaging narrative.  The bonus here is this book is a sequel to the equally charming A Bump in the Road, although you don't have to have read it first.  Rather, once you crack the spine and find yourself enamored by Lipinski's writing, you can go back and check out the first.  Win-win, people.  Win-win.

In related news, I have four autographed copies of Mom Jeans to give away and will do so as soon as I think of a contest that won't be too taxing for Fletch to organize.

 

Spooky Little Girl by Laurie Notaro:  We all love Notaro's memoirs like The Idiot Girls' Action Adventure Club and We Thought You Would Be Prettier, yes?  What you might not know is Notaro's were among the first memoirs I ever read.  Before her, I never knew you could just write funny stories about your life AND PEOPLE MIGHT BUY THEM.  Let me tell you, that revelation changed everything.  I was thrilled to finally thank her for the inspiration in person a couple of years ago.  (We had grilled cheese sandwiches together; it was awesome!) 

But today's about fiction, so lucky for us, Notaro obliged by writing her second novel and going "magical realism" all over our asses.  (Magical realism may be my favorite subset of fiction.)  Spooky Little Girl explores the afterlife once the heroine meets her "surprise demise."  The story's full of Notaro's trademark humor and tons of heart.  There's a bit about the dog that made me cry, but the ending makes it all worthwhile.  If you're happy that I have a career, thank Laurie by picking up a copy.

 

The One That I Want by Allison Winn Scotch:  Remember when I went on and on about The Department of Lost and Found?  And couple of years after that I was all about Time of My Life?  Yes?  Well, Winn Scotch is back with an enthralling read about a woman who thinks she has everything she wants in life... until she gets the "gift" of clairvoyance and sees that her perfect life isn't as good as it seems.  Every women's magazine has this as one of their summer book picks, so I'm not the only one who got wrapped up in this story.  On top of that, Winn Scotch is in the process of running a kick-ass contest where one lucky reader can win more than twenty different autographed copies of books by some of the most loved names in women's fiction.  Check out details on how to enter here!

 

The Opposite of Me by Sarah Pekkanen:  Lately my Kindle's been tricking me into buying YA and Christian novels.  Well, the joke's on them because I've enjoyed most of what they suggested (although I did wonder at first why none of the characters in them ever swore or hooked up.)  However, it seems the books I find most satisfying are the ones suggested by authors I respect.  So when I saw that Winn Scotch, Beth Harbison, and Jennifer Weiner were singing this book's praises, that's all the persuasion I needed.  That trio is like the Good Housekeeping seal of approval of stuff I dig.  I inhaled this book about sibling rivalry and personal reinvention, relishing the snappy dialogue and well-drawn characters.  My only complaint is that I was stuck reading it on airplanes and in cabs, and not poolside with a frosty tropical beverage.

The Heart of the Matter by Emily Giffin:  Okay, so I know Giffin IRL and everything.  And even though we've chatted and I've met her friends and we've exchanged notes, it's still hard for me to talk about her work without lapsing into total squealing fan-girl mode.  She's just that good.  Her trademark is creating protagonists with a contrarian point of view, e.g. the girl who sleeps with her best friend's guy, the woman who doesn't want kids, the spiteful narcissist, etc.  Her genius is taking characters we'd normally consider villains, or at least not worthy of our empathy, and makes their situations relatable... do you know how hard that is to do?  Like, impossible. 

In her newest, Giffin gives the perspective of not only the wife, but also from the woman with whom her husband cheats.  And although this kind of story generally has one distinct victim and one clear perpetrator, Giffin artfully muddies the waters in such a way that the reader understands both points of view.  In a word?  It's riveting.  Open this book on a bright summer afternoon and you'll be sunburned long before you want to close it.

So, that's it for today and I hope you enjoy the suggestions!  Later this week I'll be back with the best in Young Adult and Zombie Lit (no, it really is a category) plus everything I've already pre-ordered for the rest of the summer.

And remember, although these are excellent beach reads, there's nothing in the rules that says you can't save them for a rainy day.

What's In Your Beach Bag? (Memoir Edition)

I planned to put out my summer reading list last Friday, but I was waylaid by a stupid afternoon spent at the hospital and it threw off the rest of my weekend.  Apparently there's nothing wrong with me that can't be fixed with Xanax (or ice cream) as it turns out everything is stress-related.  Honestly, I'm fine, but I'll be even better once I'm able to check a few items off my to-do list.  As my summer reading list is on said list, let's get to it.

I've broken the books out into category, so there's no confusion.  I want to make sure the genre is clear because although I enjoy all types of books, there's a chance you care for neither YA nor zombie books.  (I can't imagine why because they're awesome, but you know, just in case.)  Also, I'm going to do this over the course of the week because my eyes tend to glaze over when I see a list of more than four or five things and I don't want anyone to miss out on a great read because I'm long-winded. 

Today's all about the memoir.  The only thing I love more than a happy ending is a true story, so when an author's able to combine both those elements, it's heaven for me.  What's ironic is I never really read memoirs before I wrote memoirs and I hate that I missed out on so many good books over the years.  But I'm making up for it now as my purchases are heavily weighted towards the genre.

Marcus of Umbria by Justine Van der Leun:  I had the pleasure of reading an early copy of this book, so those of you who know me have heard me go on and on about this memoir for months.  It's a story of a twenty-something American girl who goes to Italy to find love.  And she does... in the form of a rescued English pointer.  Capturing the magic of such books as Under the Tuscan Sun and Marley and Me, Marcus is nothing short of pure pleasure and will absolutely delight anyone who loves dogs or travel or self-discovery.  (And no need to hold your breath because the ending is totally happy.)

 

The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption, and Pee by Sarah Silverman:  In terms of full disclosure, I bought this book because I was competing against it on the NY Times list and I wanted to see what I was up against.  I desperately wanted this memoir to be half-assed and scattered and gross because, hello, competition.  Instead Silverman's honesty and humility and talent absolutely charmed me, damn it.  (Note: I got four weeks on the best seller list with My Fair Lazy, and even though she consistently beat me, I ain't mad atcha, Sarah; your book rocks.)

 

Orange Is the New Black; My Year in a Women's Prison by Piper Kerman:  I was less than thrilled to see anything with this title, but after I started reading, I realized exactly how perfect said title is for this memoir about federal prison.  I have a great deal of respect for how Kerman takes total responsibility for her actions and how she never lapses into self pity while she recounts her time behind bars for a ten year old offense.  She tells her story in such a way that I found myself very sympathetic to not only her plight, but that of others.  What surprised me most were the little moments of kindness and compassion Kerman described. You wouldn't think a book about prison would be uplifting, and yet...  (Fine.  Apparently The Shawshank Redemption is uplifting but I've never read the novella or seen the movie.)  (I KNOW, I KNOW, it's on the list of stuff I have to do.)  Anyway, save this book for vacation, or at least a moment when you've got some time because it's almost impossible to put down.

 

Undress Me in the Temple of Heaven by Susan Jane Gilman:  From the title, I assumed this was going to be a lighthearted essay collection about a year of post-grad gallivanting across the world and fun cultural misunderstandings, which, hey, interested me enough to buy the book in the first place.  When Gilman and her friend started that journey, that's what they were anticipating, too.  However, their adventure quickly soured as they got deeper into Communist China (circa 1986) and things began to go horribly awry.  Gilman has the uncanny ability to put the reader in the center of the action, thus the last few chapters left me breathless.  The epilogue is ultimately satisfying, too.  So good, you guys.  So, so good.

 

Mennonite in a Little Black Dress by Rhoda Janzen:  Long time readers know I have a deep and abiding love for anything that smacks of being or having been Amish.  Granted, Mennonites aren't Amish, but it's close enough for me to have purchased this book on subject matter alone.  This is Janzen's memoir of going home to her Mennonite family after a terrible accident and also losing her husband to a man he'd met on Gay.com.  Again, despite less than ideal circumstances, Janzen never lapses into self-pity and she tells her story with tons of heart and humor, always a winning combination.  I feel like I'm not doing this book justice, so just read the excerpt on the Amazon page and you'll see exactly why I found this story so enthralling, okay?

My hope is that you guys enjoy these books as much as I did, so that's it for today.  Tomorrow(ish) we do fiction!  Until then, I shall be working on trying to better manage my stress.

(Possibly with my good friends Ben and Jerry.)

Fletcher's Choice: Like Sophie's Choice But Without All The Nazis - UPDATED

Setting:  My kitchen, twenty minutes ago.

Fletch:  Do these new gym shorts shorts look okay?

Me: (not looking because I'm busy making coffee) They're fine.

Fletch:  How about the shirt?  It's new, too.

Me: (pouring, not looking) S'fine. (adding cream and Splenda, then glancing at clock) Hey, it's already 8:30.  How are you going to work out and then have enough time to get to your 10:15 facial? 

Fletch:  Shit, is that this morning?  And I thought I didn't have to go until 11:15.  Are you sure?

Me:  Yep.  I wrote it in my calendar when I booked it for you.

Fletch:  Damn. (sighing deeply and glancing down at his snappy new ensemble) I guess I have to skip the gym.

Me:  Okay, then.  I'm going to go back upstairs to write my column.

* * *

I'd now like to break this scene down for you.  Please note the following:

I am not the one dressed in a snappy new gym outfit.

I am making and serving my own coffee.

I am not only booking his appointments but also apparently managing his calendar.

I will be busy working while he has a spa treatment.

Now you all know how much I adore him, but let's be honest... this man is not a good assistant.

But with a little effort, he could be an excellent trophy wife.

UPDATE:  He just called to see what I'd like him to buy for lunch.  Now that's more like it.

UPDATE, PART II:  He came home empty-handed because the line at Jimmy John's was too long.  I swear to you that some day these posts just write themselves.

The Stories Behind Some Random Crap I Alluded To On Twitter

While I was on tour, people in each city asked if I was going to do a summer reading list.  Since a lot of you seem to want this, I'm happy to oblige and I anticipate posting this by Friday.

In the interim, I've got a couple of stories to update.  I tried to do most of these on Twitter, but apparently sometimes you need more than 140 characters to best express a thought.  So here goes...

Maisy's feeling better after her bout with kennel cough and I thank you all for your prayers and nice thoughts.  She was exposed about three weeks ago at doggie daycare.  I hate that in trying to give her a fun day at her favorite place, I inadvertently contributed to her getting sick.  Argh.  She's now back to her regular schedule of begging, farting, and bed-hogging, so it's all good.

Now, this should be the point where I prattle on about my beautiful new house and its magical Forks-y backyard. 

And yet I do not have a new house. 

When we left on Friday, we thought the inspection had gone well.  The owner was with us for the whole inspection, which, in retrospect, was a bit awkward.  He'd done most of the home's renovations himself and I found myself trying to justify and minimize the deficiencies pointed out by the inspector so he wouldn't feel bad.  (Interesting My Fair Lazy side note - surprisingly, since writing this book, I've actually become fairly empathetic and socially adept.)  (Not surprisingly, it's generally to my own detriment.) 

Anyway, there were little things wrong here and there, but in terms of the big picture, they seemed innocuous.  The roof didn't need to be replaced, the air conditioners were fine, the furnace was in good shape, etc.  Because the house was a short sale, we couldn't ask for credits even if there were problems.  Basically, we just wanted a fair idea of what we'd need to budget before we moved in.

Flash forward to Saturday when we got the formal inspection report.  The minor problems were all documented and each of them on their own seemed just that - minor.  Piddly.  Nothing to worry about.  However, when all the little deficiencies were put together, they told a very different story.  The inspector pointed out instance after instance of what he called "amateur craftsmanship." 

Yeah. 

THAT'S what you want to hear about the biggest investment of your life.

That term caused us to wonder that if we could see a dozen examples of sub-par work, what about all the things we couldn't see? 

On top of that, the house seemed to have more than its fair share of leaks.  Some of the skylights were damaged and they seemed like an easy enough repair, but there were enough instances of unrelated water spots throughout the house that we really began to question the wisdom of this purchase.  In retrospect, we should have hoped for a bad furnace or a shoddy roof because those are tangible fixes, whereas the notion of chasing down the source of the water is far more slippery.  Our inspector's direct quote was, "I'm certainly not impressed with any home that has this many water problems."

Even though we had the budget for the needed repairs, we decided to err on the side of caution.  Having lived through The Great Rental Home Mold Debacle of 2008, we know firsthand that you do not screw around with water and we withdrew our offer, AS WAS OUR RIGHT.

(Notice how I capitalized that last part?  Yes?  Just checking.)

We chose not to renegotiate any repair work or get a second opinion, despite the home's discounted price and all the gorgeous upgrades.  The thermal camera doesn't lie, nor does it have any skin in the game.  We trusted the findings of the skilled professional.  And honestly, we'd rather pay to remodel a smaller, less attractive house than tear down walls in trying to figure out how fix an already pretty one.  All I could picture was our old kitchen with its pre-fab pressboard cabinets stacked up on top of each other in the living room while the mold remediation guys tried to staunch the leaks.  As much as that hurt my heart, I can't imagine how much I'd hate seeing thousands and thousands of dollars worth of custom cabinetry THAT I OWNED AND WASN'T JUST RENTING in the same situation.  Especially having gone into it willingly.

Since we canceled the contract, our poor realtor's been on the receiving end of some... interesting communication from the sellers' end. 

Apparently Fletch and I are big dummies (not a direct quote) for taking the neutral third party's professional opinions as gospel, our inspector is an asshat (again, not a direct quote) for being a big fat Chicken Little, and our realtor's a moron (these continue not to be direct quotes, despite reflecting the spirit of said note) for not being able to properly explain the VALUE (in big, shout-y DOOCECAPS) we'd be getting in the lovely, albeit waterlogged, house.

I'm curious... has insulting all related parties ever been an effective sales tool? 

And if this place is such a fantastic deal, how come we're the only ones who wanted it?

The plus side is we feel like we dodged an enormous, moist bullet.  The down side is we haven't even moved to the damn town yet and we're already disliked by the only people we've met up there. 

So we start over, a little wiser and a lot drier.  There's one place that I'm hoping works out because there's a pool and a pond.  Whereas I'd never buy a place with water issues, I'd absolutely purchase a home on the basis that it allowed me to quote Caddyshack with impunity.

Anyway, I now have a summer reading list to create... and a cool, damp snout to kiss.

Not Forks, But Close

We're one step closer to getting our house.

Maybe.

We think.

The thing is, we want to buy this particular house as much as the owners would like to sell it to us.  However, because it's a short sale and because we can't close until July, the process is more convoluted and frustrating than anyone should have to handle without a bottle of Xanax or a pitcher of margaritas.  (Or, if you're feeling saucy, both.)

We still don't know if their bank's going to let the deal happen, despite all interested parties' high hopes.  But in the spirit of having a positive outlook, we went ahead with the six-hour inspection today.

It should come as no suprise to anyone that I completely lost interest in the inspection process about fifteen minutes into it. 

So, while the inspector, Fletch, the owner, and our realtor poked at furnaces and examined sump pumps for what seemed like an eternity, I took the opportunity to explore the backyard.

Let me just say this before I show you the (hopefully) new yard - I never had a backyard requiring exploration before.  I've only had two yards in my adult life and each has been the size of a postage stamp.  Observe:

"Determinashions; I has 'em."

I specifically chose this shot because of the scale of the bird house and the squirrel.  They aren't out of proportion; the yard truly was that wee.

And this:

"I'm not really a werewolf, I just play one in cheesy teenage vampire film reenactments."

In our current house, the deck is nice, but the yard only extends about six feet past where's Loki's sitting.  You don't exactly need to be Thor Heyerdahl to get the lay of the land back there.

Anyway, I ventured past the patio and the pool (pool!  POOL!!) and into the acre of woods, where I promptly A) became tangled in the brush, B) was almost entirely consumed by mosquitoes, and C) got completely lost.

Even though I had my phone, I chose not to call or text Fletch to come and find me because I didn't want the inspector, the owner, or our realtor to find out and decide that I was in fact too stupid to own a home. 

But lest you judge me too harshly, check this out:

"Edward?  Jacob?  Bella??"

Seriously.

Anyway, the good news is the inspection verified the house doesn't have any scary problems, e.g. mold, termites, plumbing issues, dry rot, vampires, etc.  So, God and Wells Fargo willing, we definitely want it. 

Now I guess the big question is if we'll get it... and exactly how much poison ivy I touched.

Putting The "Ass" In "Assistant"

Because I'm now on track to do two books a year instead of one, it made business sense to finally hire an assistant. 

I'm normally such an I-can-do-it-myself-er that this was a difficult decision to make.  I'm not good at asking for help and even worse at letting go of control.  And yet for the past few months I've been woefully behind on everything because there are too many moving pieces to manage on my own. 

Enter my new assistant.

He came to me highly recommended and seemingly with the right mix of skills to manage this job.  I needed someone who not only understood the business of writing books, but also wasn't afraid to do grunt work, like walking dogs and picking up dry cleaning and getting my lunch.

On paper, the guy I hired was perfect.  He had six years experience of working with demanding authors and aptly managed a chaotic household full of cats and dogs.  His enthusiasm about the job was unbounded and he seemed trustworthy enough, so I took a chance.  His first day coincided with the day I had to leave for book tour.

As it turns out, he's a terrible assistant. 

He spent the entire month I was on tour almost completely ignoring my to-do list, instead opting to curl up in front of the television, watching hour after hour of The Military Channel, helping himself to our cache of small-batch whiskey. 

Granted, the pets have been delighted with his constant presence and he's pretty good about providing lunch in a timely manner, but that's hardly a reason to keep someone in my employ. 

Worse yet, he's not even a little bit afraid of me.  That's a problem.

The thing is, I'd fire him but then I'd have to pay his damn unemployment claims.

Also, I'm married to him.

 

"Will Work for Bourbon."

It's a good thing he's charming.

And, P.S., when I told him I was writing this post, his only response was, "Okay, but will I have to do anything?" 

CASE IN POINT, PEOPLE.  Case in point.

Flabby

It figures that the minute I finally have time to sit down and write a post, I can't remember what I wanted to say.  Perhaps that's a by-product of spending the past four weeks speaking of nothing but myself? 

Seriously, as much fun as I had going to interviews and doing events this past month, if no one asks me a personal question for a while, that'll be just fine.  Also, given my recent schedule, I'm finally starting to believe that singers/starlets might not be faking it when they're treated for exhaustion.  Granted, I wasn't doing rail after rail of blow while on tour, unless by "doing coke" you mean "inhaling room service french fries," but the fatigue is similar. 

Anyway, I hate when I get out of the habit of writing because it takes such effort to get back into the swing of things.  I always tell budding authors that the best way to be a writer is to write; the ability to write is a muscle and it's got to be worked daily.  Presently my writing muscles are flabby and weak, chugging along at two point five miles an hour on a treadmill with no incline.

So what I have to offer you until I get the hang of blogging again is a photo with a little bit of back-story.

Two weeks ago I had the opportunity to appear on the Joy Behar Showas part of a pop culture panel.  Other panelists included Carson Kressley and Daisy Fuentes.  As this was my first national television appearance, pretty much my only goal was to not drop any f-bombs. 

(Yes, I was on that one huge show once but since neither my last name nor the title of my book was mentioned, it doesn't really count.  Also, I signed a very scary legal document agreeing to never write about said appearance, so if you're scratching your head right now... sorry for being cryptic.  Maisy was on with me and signed no such nondisclosure agreement, but unfortunately she has terrible handwriting - no thumbs - and thus cannot share her recollections.  If she could, she'd tell you how her mumma made the Queen of All Media laugh both hard and often, but she can't so we'll just have to move on.)

Anyway, the segment went as well as I could hope.  Joy read the entire book title and they showed a big cover graphic.  I was able to deliver a couple of profanity-free zingers and overall I was happy.  I didn't do as well as Daisy or Carson, but they're both actual celebrities with years of media training whereas I'm someone who spends most of her day with dirty hair, talking to her dogs. 

I can't describe how much I loved meeting Carson.  You know how quippy and adorable he came across on Queer Eye?  That's exactly what he was like in real life.  He was sweet and genuine and fabulous.  More importantly, he was nice to everyone in the room and now I'm a fan for life.

As for Daisy, she was friendly and pleasant, but that's not what I'll take away from having met her.  Up close, she's completely stunning.  Her skin's impeccable, her hair's a riot of chocolate and honey, and she's built like a 90s supermodel, back when they were allowed to digest.  She looks like God used an airbrush on her, buffing away any imperfections, leaving everything flawless.

We did our bit on the panel and Daisy and I made our way back to the green room.  (Carson stayed on set for another segment.)  We had a nice chat about our respective books while I craned my neck up at her, shuffling along, taking two steps to her every one.  Seriously, her legs ended approximately where my bra hits.

We got back to the green room and ran smack into Miss USA.  I guess she and Daisy have met somehow through the Miss USA organization, as Daisy's previously hosted the competition.  They laughed and hugged and immediately started taking pictures together.  Now don't get me wrong, I'm never one for self-loathing.  Aside from grousing about the occasional bout of frizzy hair or forehead crease, I'm happy with my appearance.  I'm pleased with most of what I've got going on and I never shy away from a mirror.  However, when I'm standing a foot away from Miss USA as well as the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, it's easy to forget that I rather like me.

Which is why I looked at those two and announced, "Hey!  Let's all take a picture together so I can feel really good about myself!"

And they fucking thought I was serious, so they yanked me into the shot with them.

 

"One of these things is not like the other, one of these things does not belong..."

I guess the good news is that superior physical genetics don't include the gene that detects sarcasm.

And yet somehow that doesn't make me feel better.

Anyway, I'm rusty, but I'm back, so thanks for being here!