jennsylvania

Happy Belated Birthday, America

Yesterday I became one of those people who VOLUNTARILY wear a holiday themed t-shirt for the Fourth of July.

I just took the first step toward the donning of the Dreaded Christmas Sweater, didn't I?

Shit.

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

 

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.

Today's Dose Of Shame Is Brought To You By Fox

Dear Self,

The reason that news story made no sense to you is because Haeley Vaughn and Haley Barbour are two entirely different people. 

One is the cute little girl who got kicked off of American Idol during the semi-final round and one is the Governor of Mississippi.  That explains why you were so surprised when you heard about the young singer - previously only seen hot-gluing silk flowers to headbands - questioning the constitutionality of the heath care bill.

Perhaps you should invest in one of those "I'm with Stupid" t-shirts, only you'll need to find one with the arrow pointing up.

Best,

Jen

P.S.  This is why I don't let you talk about politics on your website.

P.P.S.  You realize Haley Barbour isn't even a chick, yes?

You Realize I'm Not Actually Going To Live Outside, Yes?

Okay first, I have links to a couple of interviews I just did...

Here's the article on Suite 101

and here's the link for Pajamas and Coffee 

In other old business, your emails to Living editors are working and the response to the Humor Hotel columns has been great!  (I suspect emails from subscribers hold more weight than non-subscribers, just FYI.)  My first column comes out on March 23 and if you think I won't mention that a million more times between now and then, well, you'd be wrong.

In keeping with old business, we do net yet have a purchase or a rental home secured.  Ha, ha!  No panic here!  But it's getting warm out and Fletch and talked about finding a place with more outdoor living space.  And what has more outdoor living space that the actual outdoors?

In new business, it would appear that I've given myself pink eye.  Double barrel.  Because apparently I am both twelve years old and dirty.  My eyes started to get irritated a few weeks ago due to a combination of house stress and allergies.  Because I couldn't keep my filthy fingers out of them, hello conjunctivitis!

I made a relatively mortifying call to my physician to get eye drops.  My doctor sounded distressed, employing a shotgun line of questioning on exactly what had been going on with me lately.  I thought her concern was odd and a bit intrusive until I remembered the reason for my last visit. 

Earlier this winter, one of the kittens horked up a small worm.  If you recall when we rescued the guys this summer, they were about a day away from dying due to massive dehydration and infestation.  (Luckily, their problems were nothing three surgeries, seven thousand dollars, and a canceled Hawaiian vacation couldn't fix.)  My vet told me that no matter how thoroughly the kittens were treated, there's always the possibility of a straggler.  Also, if one kitten has worms, they all have worms.  And if the kittens have worms, the dogs probably have worms, so I took them to the vet, too.  After treatment, my dogs' vet mentioned if my pets have worms, then there's the slightest possibility I might have worms.

Awesome.

So I went to see my doctor.  In order for her to diagnose me, she needed a sample.  I sat there in my drafty paper gown, waiting for her to get out a needle and draw my blood.  Instead, she came back with what looked like an enormous white plastic top hat and instructed me to place it on my toilet seat and "go to town."  Then she gave me some little spatulas so that I could divide up said sample for various tests.

When I got home, I stared long and hard at my white plastic top hat and spatula collection.

And I decided I'd rather have worms.

And then I spent two weeks dodging my doctor's follow up calls.

So it makes sense that when I've presented twice with symptoms more commonly seen in the homeless, it stands to reason that she was worried.  I assured her that all was well, she didn't need to call Adult Protective Services, and that I wasn't living outside.

Yet.

The Evolution Of A Bad Idea

10:15 PM - Hmm, getting late.  I should get ready for bed.

10:30 PM - Hmm, getting even later.  I should get ready for bed.

10:45 PM - Someone on the internet is mistaken and I must express my displeasure with many upper-case letters and exclamation points.

11:00 PM - It's really not getting any earlier, is it?

11:10 PM - Nightly skin inspection in bathroom mirror.  Not perfect, but not bad for my age/lifestyle/aversion to sunscreen.

11:11 PM - Hey, what would happen if I used a magnifying mirror during my inspection?

11:12 PM - SWEET JESUS, MAKE IT STOP!

11:13 PM - Re-inspect by light of bedside lamp.  Ah, all better.

11:14 PM - But what if I put in a brighter bulb?

11:15 PM - IS FURRY BEAST!  KILL IT!  KIIIIIIIIL IT!

11:16 PM - "What do you think I'm doing?  I'm looking at my skin in this mirror.  And I've either got to wax this mustache or start giving rides on it, ha ha!"

11:16 PM - "What do you mean, 'I don't think that expression means what you think it means'?"

11:17 PM -  Oh.  Then that man at Target with the "Free Mustache Rides" logo was wearing a very dirty shirt.

11:18 PM - "Then I would like to amend my previous statement.  I need to wax this mustache or learn to twirl it, ha ha!"

11:19 PM - I should tweeze this thing.

11:20 PM - I should find my tweezers.

11:21 PM - Ow.  Ow.  Ow.  Ow.  Ow.

11:22 PM - Screw this.  I need a professional waxing.  Must make an appointment.

11:25 PM - Can't.  Stop.  Fondling.  Mustache.

11:30  PM - Fine, I'll do the goddamned thing myself.

11:40 PM - Can't find new tub of wax I purchased for just this very occasion, so locate old container.  Is very old.  Is possibly the exact same tub that Moses's wife used to remove her unwanted facial hair.  (Desert light is unforgiving.)

11:41 PM - But it's wax.  It's not like it could go bad, right?

11:42 PM - "I'm not 'banging around and keeping you awake.'  I'm doing something important."

11:43 PM - Microwaving.

11:44 PM - Microwaving.

11:45 PM - Microwaving.

11:46 PM - Microwaving.

11:47 PM - I think my microwave may be broken.

11:48 PM - Ah, there we go.

11:49 PM - I don't have a stick, so I'll just use my finger to stir this hot, molten lava.

11:50 PM - "Well, what do you expect?  I just seared off my own fingerprint!"

11:51 PM - Blow and cool.  Use damaged digit to spread wax liberally on my Tom Selleck.

11:52 PM - Wait for wax to harden so can pull off unsightly hairs in one (briefly painful) fell swoop.

11:53 PM - Is not hardening.

11:54 PM - Is not hardening.

11:55 PM - Is not hardening.  Is sitting on upper lip in a big, sticky blob.

11:56 PM - Begin to tentatively peel off wax millimeter by millimeter.  (Hate metric system.)

11:57 PM - Is like removing chewing gum from underneath cafeteria table, only ouchy.

11:57 PM - Hurty.

11:58 PM - Hurty.

11:59 PM - So very hurty.

12:00 AM - Use sticky bits of already-peeled wax to slowly pry off other gummy bits. 

12:01 AM - Oh, yeah, this is WAY better than waiting nine hours to pay a professional ten dollars to handle this in five seconds.

12:02 AM - The good news is the hair is coming off. 

12:03 AM -  The bad news is, so is my skin.

12:04 AM -  How mad will he be if I wake him up to help me?

12:05 AM -  On second thought, he'd be mad for a second, but the mocking would last a lifetime.  Must cowboy-up and finish job myself.

12:06 AM - ...And it's finally off! 

12:07 AM - Except for those small, tacky bits with the Kleenex stuck to them.

12:08 AM - I know, I'll use baby oil.  That gets rid of sticky stuff.

12:09 AM - Hmm, I don't have a baby oil.  Instead opt for canola oil.  (Is hearty-healthy.)

12:10 AM - Wax is off, now to remove oil.  Need toner.

12:11 AM - But tossed out toner after that whole "who thought it was a good idea to make this stuff the exact same shade of blue as the nail polish remover?" incident.

12:12 AM - Will use Fletch's toner.  Quietly.

12:13 AM -  !!!

12:14 AM - "WELL MAYBE THEY SHOULD HAVE WRITTEN 'GLYCOLIC ACID' IN BIGGER PRINT ON THE BOTTLE!"

12:15 AM - Probably should plan to make an "I'm sorry I got shouty after midnight mousse" tomorrow.

12:16 AM - Inspect skin in magnifying mirror by light of new bulb.  Hair is gone, but lip is swollen in manner of Simpson's character.

12:17 AM - So this is what I'd look like if I had the capability of growing a big, red fu-manchu mustache.  Noted.

12:18 AM - In retrospect, perhaps "learn to twirl it" wasn't such a bad idea.

12:19 AM - Is really late.  Must get ready for bed.

12:20 AM - I wonder if anyone else on the internet is wrong?

Leftovers

The polls are now closed. 

Thanks for your 3,234 tour city suggestions!!  I love that you guys are excited!  (However, I'm a tad less excited about counting and tabulating said results.  I suddenly wish I hadn't been too lazy to fill out the DePaul University paperwork last spring, as this is a job with UNPAID INTERN RECEIVING CLASS CREDIT written all over it.)

Anyway, this time of year is normally what I like to call The Holiday Drinking Season.  Generally I'm done with all my new-book work by Thanksgiving and I have until January to do a whole lot of nothing.  But for some reason this year I'm still busy writing and editing.  I have two more projects to complete before I can exhale, relax, and post a proper blog; I'm hoping to be done before Christmas.  Until then, I'll make due with another holiday staple - leftovers. 

Following you'll find a whole bunch of unrelated topics that I haven't had time to develop.  There's no theme to tie them together.  Plus, I don't have any kind of big finale, so chances are high I'll just end the post abruptly.  

Point? 

I'm going to stick all these thoughts in a big stuffing, mashed potato, and green bean casserole sandwich and call it lunch. 

Maybe it's not a real meal, but if you're hungry, it'll do.

* * *

A LOT OF SAP

We have a couple of big windows in the front of the house in a bumped-out section of the living room.  This spot's pretty much the perfect place to put a Christmas tree.  We didn't set it up there last year because I couldn't figure out how (read: was too lazy) to rearrange the furniture to accommodate one.  Plus, after spending so many years in apartments where trees wouldn't fit, we erred on the side of caution and bought one too small to properly fill out that space.  We ended up putting it next to the stairs, which was fine.

Little did I know that Fletch spent the entire year imagining how magnificent a larger tree would look in that spot.  So, when we went to Home Depot on Saturday, he pulled an "I insist" and dragged me over to where they kept The Big Trees.  (The "I insist" card is an immediate and irrevocable debate-ender and can only be played by either party once per quarter.)  (This is my gift to you this holiday season.  When employed judiciously, the "I insist" will increase your marital happiness ten-fold.) 

After slicing open a dozen webbed behemoths and deeming them too sparse or too dry or too lopsided, Fletch spotted a quiet giant standing outside of the fray.  Fletch snapped closed his jack-knife, regarded the looming Frasier fir, and stated, "I have a good feeling about this one." 

We paid for our purchase and overtipped a couple of kids in Carhart jackets to help Fletch hurl and secure it onto the roof of the car.  That's when we got our first real clue as to the tree's true size.  "This thing must weight 150 pounds," Fletch said.

When we got home, we (read: Fletch) somehow managed to take it off the roof and wrestle it up the front stairs.  The second Fletch got to the living room, he dropped the beast onto the rug, thus causing the entire house to shake.  This was our second clue as to what might be looming beneath the festive green webbing. 

Then it was up to me to figure out new furniture placement.  (Turns out to have been easier than anticipated.)  After everything was moved, Fletch fought the tree into the stand and then slashed open the thin threads holding in all the branches.

Remember when you were a kid and they had those little dinosaur sponges that would instantaneously swell up ten times their original size when you got them wet? 

Yes? 

Then you've got an accurate picture of what happened once the tree was released from its plastic prison.  With a resounding WHOOMP, branches flew out in all directions and I suddenly found myself in the middle of a Chevy Chase movie.  Sticky green limbs boinged into the ceiling, knocked the spring-bar-loaded sheers out of the window frames, and smashed into the glass. 

Fortunately, whomever designed this house understood the Christmas Vacation vibe the bump-out would inspire and installed in reinforced panes. 

However, I'm not taking Pella off speed-dial because of the assholes also known as my kittens.  Do you have any idea how goddamned exciting it is for a pack of feral cats to suddenly find an eleven foot tree in the middle of their habitat? 

I could practically hear the thoughts rattling around their tiny brains as they assessed Treezilla. 

Chuck:  "DIS BELONGS TO CHUCK NORRIS!" 

Odin:  "IS OUTDOORS INDOORS NAO!  MUST MAKE PEES!" 

Angus:  "OH, NOES IS MONSTER, ATTACK, ATTACK, ATTACK!"

They've now spent the last five days hanging out under the tree, climbing the tree, doing their best to knock the tree through what I imagine are very expensive windows, and generally beating the stuffing out of the lower branches.  I've yet to decorate it because I fear exactly how batshit-crazy they'll go once it's covered in shiny round objects.

Also, did I mention how each of the kittens is coated in a healthy dose of sap? 

The only upside is each time the kittens walk across my computer desk, they smell like gin and tonic.  From an olfactory perspective, it's almost like I'm participating in The Holiday Drinking Season.  Which is nice.

* * *

CARDED

For yet another year in a row, I'm too disorganized to send out Christmas cards.  My intentions are always good and ideas rock-solid (everyone wants a photo of a pit bull in a Santa hat and beard, yes?) but it's been a perpetual FAIL in terms of execution.

However, with all the press the Copenhagen summit has received, I'm explaining my lack of holiday greetings as an attempt to be "green."

Am kind of a hero, really. 

(Unless you count driving a 14 MPG car against me?)

* * *

COLORIZED, INDEED

I've been working my way through a list of classic, must-see films.  This weekend, Fletch and I were feeling particularly festive after buying Treezilla, so we bought the colorized DVD of Holiday Inn.  If you're unfamiliar, it's a classic film starring Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire and it's full of famous Irving Berlin music.

We'd never seen it before, thus were completely shocked at how casually racist a few scenes were.  I mean, maybe those were different times and that kind of stuff was common back then, but sweet baby Jesus, was it ever culturally appropriate to perform an ode to Abraham Lincoln in blackface?  Fletch was all, "Is it just me, or is this incredibly offensive?"

No, honey, it's not just you.  

And by the way,"White Christmas" has an entirely new meaning for me after seeing that movie. 

Thanks a lot, Irving Berlin.

* * *

Hey, wait, this whole thing had kind of a theme afterall. 

But I can still end abruptly.

A Quick Essay Having To Do With Nothing

Here's a little sample of a project I've been busy with lately.  Ultimately, this piece wasn't successful but I still think it's decent enough to share.

I’m not normally one for conspiracy theories.  I mean, I don’t doubt the Apollo mission was real.  When Neil Armstrong took one giant leap for mankind, I’m convinced he did so on the moon and not a soundstage in West Hollywood.  

I believe Elvis is neither alive, well, nor patronizing a Burger King in Michigan.  I’m pretty sure most UFO sightings stem from the Heene family’s desire to be on television.  I feel like barcodes are nothing but inventory management keys and I’m willing to wager the biggest secret the Freemasons are keeping is where the keg’s hidden. 

Point?  My closet’s full of hats but none of them are made of aluminum foil.  Yet despite my firm belief most events can be explained by Occam’s Razor, I’m fairly certain people in my life are conspiring to kill me.

I suspected my cleaning women had it out for me when they waxed the pedals on my elliptical machine, turning grippy rubber pads into tiny skating rinks.  (Fortunately, the machine is largely decorative.)  My misgivings were confirmed when I noticed the stairs had been glazed into glass with a hundred coats of Pledge, while my shower floor’s been untouched for so long it should be mowed, not scrubbed.

I have a hunch Jordan, my ancient gray tabby, is in on the plot.  For the past seventeen years, she’s been content to huddle motionless on a heating duct like a small, furry homeless person.  But ever since I had her decayed teeth removed, she’s taken to darting out in front of me a la Hogan’s Alley.  (Can she still chew, you ask?  Judging from the filet she swiped and inhaled last week, the answer is yes.) 

Hey, guess what, Jordie?  I’m not Leona Helmsley and you’re not in the will.  Also, after paying the equivalent of college tuition for your surgery, my only asset is a handful of plus-sized Madras plaid pants.  This brings me to the next likely conspirator - Martha Stewart.

Unless you’ve been living under a rock - or in a gym – you’ve noticed the cupcake revolution.  Once the bastion of school birthday parties, cupcakes are now sold in boutiques, not bakeries.  (Coincidentally, a dozen costs exactly as much as the original Apollo mission.)

Happily, gourmet cupcakes can be replicated at home using Martha Stewart’s recipes.  The woman calls for using a pound and a half of butter in a vanilla-cream frosting that’s so addictive the cake becomes nothing more than a lipid-delivery-vehicle.  I consider every insidiously delicious bite another step on my path to an angioplasty.

The fourth horseman in my coming apocalypse is the guy up the street with what I call the JFK assassination-mobile.  Said Lincoln Continental came complete with its original 1961 muffler, which stopped muffling around the time LBJ slapped a pair of longhorns on its hood.  The extent of my neighbor’s mechanical prowess entails revving the engine for hours on end, which serves the dual purpose of (a) causing the blood vessels in my brain to rupture and (b) nothing.

Last night, I’d just fallen asleep when the pictures on my wall began to rattle.  For 911 purposes, I needed to verify it was my neighbor’s car and not some other jerk with a forty-eight year old muffler.  So I dashed to the stairs where my socks hit the friction-free zone and caused me to take flight.  I banked off the wall and bumped down twelve of the slickest risers ever.  Miraculously, I landed on my feet only to stumble over the cat and into the leg of the couch.  The subsequent snapping in my left foot prompted shouting so loud I feared I’d burst a buttery artery.

As I clutched my chest and my foot, I finally realized the highly coordinated plot against me and I vowed to buy aluminum foil first thing in the morning.  You see, I have a hat to make.

Taylor, Show Me On The Doll Where The Bad Cougar Touched You

(Caveat: Yes, this is another Twilight post, and no, I'm not going to bust out the action figures.)

(Should you have already tired of my obsession, you might want to stop reading here.) 

(Also, I've gotten a lot of shit from people about digging the series, but come on!  Worldwide, Stephenie Meyer has sold EIGHTY-FIVE MILLION BOOKS.  As an author, how do I not get behind that enterprise?)

I'm finally finished with my edits, so I celebrated by seeing a New Moon matinee.  I'm fairly pressed for time the rest of the week, so I was delighted to have the opportunity to go yesterday.  Otherwise, I'd have had to wait until next week, which is fine, although there's something vaguely exciting about catching a movie at the beginning of its run. 

I got to the theater early and had plenty of time to collect my trashcan of popcorn and bucket of Cherry Coke before choosing a good seat.  (I never finish more than a third of either, yet having ample qualities of both is key.) 

As I settled into my chair, I began looking around at the rest of the crowd.  Normally weekday matinee audiences encompass all ages and sexes - there are the retirees who stop in to see a show after hitting the bookstore, college students killing time between classes, high school kids skipping class, Bally's members who just worked out so hard they're too rubber-legged to make it to the parking garage, the unemployed, and the underemployed. 

But yesterday I noticed the only people in the theater were women in their thirties and forties.

"Wow," I thought.  "Welcome to Cougar Town."

(I interrupt this New Moon post to say I just received seven pies via FedEx.  SEVEN PIES.  My friend works for FoodsAcrossAmerica.com and she's coming for Thanksgiving, so she said she'd take care of dessert... apparently for the rest of our lives.  She wasn't sure what everyone would like, so she sent one of everything.  Which is SEVEN.  Seven pies should go fairly nicely with the THIRTY-SIX pounds of wine I'm having delivered tomorrow.  Turkey?  Screw turkey, there's no room in the fridge for a bird.  Pie and wine for dinner it is!) 

(Would not be the first time.)

Ahem, ANYWAY, the second the movie started, the theater went quiet.  No, scratch that - dead silent.  I've never been in such a crowded place with so little noise.  People weren't even shifting around in their seats.  No one was pulling out cell phones to text message, nor was anyone whispering amongst themselves.  I'm talking utter, rapt, undivided attention.

Which made it all the more obvious when the entire audience gasped as Taylor Lautner removed his shirt. 

Which then made the entire audience laugh in embarrassment, and suddenly every Cougar for Cullen in that room started doing the kind of math that does not lead to any answer other than shame and possible jail time.  The great irony is when Robert Pattinson went shirtless later in the film, the audience didn't let out a peep.  You, with the pasty English belly - out of the way for the werewolf! 

I'm not writing this as a review, because despite how much I enjoyed the film, parts of it were just silly.  I mean, the CGI werewolves were supposed to be terrifying, not hilarious.  And regardless of accuracy, Jacob removing his shirt to staunch Bella's blood is only going to spur on gratuitous head wounds every time this poor kid walks in a room. 

I guess my point is if I were Pattinson, I'd be on the phone with my agent, like NOW, demanding that I have more face time in the next movie because the kid completely stole the show.  What's funny is Taylor Lautner's chemistry with Kristen Stewart was so much more palpable than hers with Pattinson, and they were actually dating at the time. 

I'm going to put the prediction out there that if Lautner continues to choose roles as well as he has, he's going to end up the biggest star of this whole enterprise.

He's got that kind of charisma.

And pecs.

I wonder how he feels about pie and wine?

(P.S.  Team Jacob!)

(P.P.S.  Team Age of Consent?)

(P.P.P.S.  Team Shame.)

New New Moon

Setting:  Our kitchen, last night.  I'm accidentally burning the steaks while Fletch goes around opening windows to let the smoke escape.

Fletch:  So, are you ready for Friday?  You have everything together?

Me:  Yeah, I guess.  I don't really know what I have to get together, though.  I think I just need to show up, right?  Maybe get some popcorn and milk duds?

Fletch:  We'll need any new receipts you have for fourth quarter.

Me:  Why the hell would I need receipts to see the very first showing of New Moon on opening day?

Fletch:  Um, Jen... you understand we're meeting with our accountant at 11:00 on Friday, yes?  We've got two hours blocked off with him.

Me:  Wait, that's this Friday?  11/20 Friday?  New Moon Friday? 

Fletch:  Yes.

Me:  NOOOO!!!!!

* * *

So apparently I'm going to be busy being an adult on Friday instead of seeing the first showing of New Moon.  

However, if you're in the same boat, fear not for I have come up with a rather elegant solution to our dilemma.  Thus I present to you New Moon... the Jennsylvania edition.  (Beware, spoilers abound.)

* * *
The Cullen Family:  "Happy eighteenth birthday, Bella!"

Bella:  "Oh, dear - I seem to have given myself a paper cut.  Wait, everyone stop trying to kill me!  It's just a flesh wound!"

Edward:  "Well, shit."

Edward:  "I cannot be with you but I will not destroy your soul."

Bella:  "Huh?"

Edwards:  "It's over.  I'm Audi 5000."

Bella:  "Just because your family tried to kill me?  Oh, please, that happens at everyone's family gatherings.  Remind me to tell you about the Swan 2006 Arbor Day Massacre.  Wait, hey, DON'T YOU WALK AWAY FROM ME, MISTER!"

Edward:  ***

Bella:  "I can't believe that motherfucker just walked away from me."

Bella:  "I'm probably going to need some elastic waist pants after this.  But I'll rally.  I'll totally rally.  I am woman, hear me roar!"

Bella:  "Yeah, I kind of didn't rally."

Jacob:  "I'm going to need Kleenex, four boxes of wine, and Meg Ryan's entire body of work on DVD, stat!"

Bella:  "Hey, Jacob... have you been working out?"

Bella:  "When I play with dangerous stuff, I can hear Edward's voice in my head, almost like he's standing behind me, surrounded by an iced tea pitcher.  Hey, you know what would kick ass?  Cliff diving."

Jacob:  "Do you see that bloodsucker saving you?  No.  It's me.  I saved you."

Bella:  "Do you suddenly feel the urge to have some soup?" 

Jacob:  "No, but here's a towel."

Jacob:  "So, let's totally live happily ever after now because, seriously?  Your old boyfriend was kind of a creepy stalker."

Bella:  "Well... okay.  You wanna play Grand Theft Auto?"

Jacob:  "Absolutely!"

Bella:  "It's not really the happily ever after I'd hoped for, but I guess it's fine."

 Victoria and Laurent:  "I'm sorry, but there are still 300 pages left in this damn book.  This ain't over."

Laurent and Victoria:  "End of the road, bitch."

Jacob:  "Run, Bella, run!"

Bella:  "I can't run!  They'll totally kill you!"

Jacob:  "Pfft."

Bella:  "I won't let you die!"

Jacob:  "Seriously, it's not an issue because I'm a..."

Jacob:  "... werewolf."

Bella:  "Cool."

 
Bella:  "Hey, Alice is back!"

Alice:  "I thought you were dead."

Bella:  "Nope."

Alice:  "You do have man-hands though."

Bella:  "Speak for yourself."

Alice:  "Oh, P.S. Edward's going to try and kill himself.  We've got to head to Italy.  I'll drive."

Alice:  "How do you feel about grand theft auto?"

Bella:  "It's my favorite game."

Alice:  "Sweet."

Bella:  "Hey, is Edward still trying to kill himself?"

Alice:  "Yep, he's meeting with the Volturi right now."

Bella:  "Who?"

Alice:  "The Italians."

Edward:  "I feel such sadness, delicious, delicious sadness."

The Volturi:  "Maybe you should take your shirt off."

Meanwhile, on the road to Volturra...

Bella:  "Ohmigod, we're going to be too late!"

Alice:  "I suddenly regret stopping to buy these snappy accessories."

Bella:  "Whew!  We're here!  Let me just dash through this fountain and save Edward."

Bella:  "Hey... s'up?"

Edward:  "Nothing... I was just fixing to take off my shirt.  And die.  But now that you're here, I shall do neither."

Bella:  "Damn."

Edward:  "Listen, the Volturi want to chat before we leave."

The Volturi:  "FYI, you kind of need to kill Bella or make her a vampire.  Your choice."

Bella:  "Which choice will get him to take his shirt off faster?"

Edward:  "Woo, that's a real puzzler.  I can't live with you but I can't live without you.  Maybe we should get the hell out of here and discuss it on the plane?"

Alice:  "Shall I bring my accessories?"

Edward:  "Naturally."

Edward:  "Will you marry me?"

Bella:  "Will you take your shirt off if I say yes?"

Edward:  "If I must."

Bella:  "Done."

Alice:  "So, yeah, I guess this worked out nicely for all involved and there are absolutely no loose ends.  Now if you'll excuse me, I have a wedding to plan.  I call maid of honor!"

Jacob:  "NOOOO!!!!"

The End

(until Eclipse and Breaking Dawn)

* * *

I guess the good news for me is that technically I can write off the action figure purchases now.

So there's that.
 

VCA Lake Shore Animal Hosptial, The Sharpest Stick Is For You

Technically I was ready to put up a new post a couple of days ago except it's been so long since I logged on to my site that I forgot my Typepad password. 

Which is not an excuse so much as it is an explanation.

So... where've I been for the past month? 

Judging from the (increasingly aggressive) tone of some email I've received, this is a hot topic.  I'm flattered that many of you seem to have missed me.  You're very sweet and I thank you for sticking around.  (And for those who found fit to lecture me about my "responsibilities" as a blogger/author, well, let's just say it took all my willpower not to invite you to go fuck yourself with a very sharp stick.)

Usually around this time of year I get super-busy working on the next manuscript.  Posting becomes more sparse because I try really hard not to "cross-pollinate."  I don't want to fill my blog with what's going in the next book.  As the fifth one is all about current experiences rather than old memories, there's not much happening outside of what I've been doing for it.  So, as much as I'd like to tell you all about accidentally setting the curtains on fire at the Four Seasons in New York, unintentionally buying what may or may not have been black tar heroin in Chinatown, and the whole ear-candling debacle, I'm obligated to save those stories for print. 

My hope is that it will have been worth it.

Normally I can deal with working on deadline and posting with semi-regularity but this year's been different.  When I got back from tour, I noticed my ancient calico cat Maggie was looking more frail than usual so I brought her to the vet.  (We use Cat Hospital of Chicago and LOVE them.) 

Back when I had graduated from college, my cat Savannah got sick and we only had enough money to get baseline treatment at a different facility.  We ended up losing her when she was only seven and it was awful and I vowed that I'd never let finances dictate my pet's health again, regardless of what we might have to sacrifice.  Even when we were both broke and unemployed/without healthcare coverage, we made sure we had pet insurance.  (When you don't have kids, pets' lives take on extra significance.  Not to say that they don't for parents, too, but at least for us, our guys are an enormous part of who we are.)

So, when I brought Mags in, I told them price wasn't an issue and to do whatever they had to do to fix her.  We were back and forth to the vet's office all the time and I learned how get outside of my comfort zone and administer injections.  Unfortunately, she had intestinal lymphoma on top of panceratitis and all we could do was to make her final days as comfortable as possible.

Maggie was always a master manipulator and she took me at my pledge to spoil her as much as I could.  So, despite her waning appetite and failing systems, she managed to inhale $45 worth of fresh shrimp from Whole Foods' seafood bar before she left this realm.

Fletch and I were devastated the day we had to put her down, even though she was almost seventeen and, by all counts, had lived a long and happy life.  We knew losing her would impact us, but we didn't grasp what an effect it would have on the other pets.  I never realized it before but Maggie was their leader and they looked to her for how to behave - when to eat, where to sleep, when to play, etc.  Without her, our pets drifted around the house, confused and a little lost.  And that was heartbreaking.

Fletch and I went away for the Fourth, and the whole time we were gone, we talked about the pet situation and what to do next.  We have three other cats and they're all elderly.  If we're lucky, we'll get a few more years out of each of them.  I hated thinking about how soon we might go from four cats to none.

A few weeks before we lost Maggie, I went on a Little India adventure with my friend Gina.  (Note for the new book - Indian food?  Two thumbs up.  Indian threading?  OH, HELL NO.)  Gina mentioned that she was feeding a litter of kittens in her backyard and trying to place them with a shelter, but apparently it's "kitten season" and no one could take them.  As Gina's already been suckered into bringing in two stray cats who hate each other so much that they have to live in separate areas of her home, she couldn't keep them herself.  (Another new book story - the day Gina and I thought her cat and my menagerie would enjoy a play date.)  (FYI, there's a damn good reason "kitty parks" aren't a doggie park counterpart.)

As we watched the fireworks in Las Vegas and talked, Fletch came to the conclusion that we had enough room in our home/hearts for a new kitten. 

Of course, I came to the conclusion that we had enough room in our home/hearts for THREE new kittens.

Seriously, how could I break up a set?  How could I take just one?  What would determine who got to live in luxury and who might die horribly on the mean streets of Chicago?  They were litter-mates and they'd be so helpless and weak and scared and, really, it's not like dogs where as each one is exponentially more work. 

Three is no big deal. 

Three is fine. 

Three would effectively replace all the cats we've lost over the past ten years.  Three is the new black.

We made a plan to round up our newest family members on Monday as we weren't getting back from Vegas until Sunday.

Before I even brought my suitcase up the stairs upon arrival home, I was hit with a voicemail telling my my pit bull Maisy had cancerous tumors.

Let's just say I did not take this news well.

For years Maisy's been covered with these gross lumps.  The vet always told us they were essentially big doggie zits and they weren't a problem and yeah, we could have them removed but it would be traumatic for Maisy and to not worry about them.  Finally, something dawned on me this year and I insisted they not only aspirate one of the lumps, but also get a formal lab report.

Malignant.

(BTW, thank you VCA Lake Shore Animal Hospital, for charging me $800/year for doggie wellness visits in which your care did nothing to promote their wellness.  Added kudos for refusing to forward our records to another vet for a second opinion until you spoke to us to try and persuade us to let you keep the business and do the surgery.  I sincerely hope this is the exact quality of care you receive if you're to get sick.)

We couldn't get Maisy in to see the new vet on Thursday and I figured the best thing for me would be some distraction, so we headed down to Gina's on Monday night.  Gina told us all about how cute the little guys were and said they were really, really sweet.

Which they were.

Until cornered.

Gina had been able to lure them into her gingerbread house with a can of Trader Joe's tuna.  Complications only arose when Fletch tried to move them from Gina's trap to our carrier.

Suddenly these tiny grey beings who Gina had called "The Cherubs" because they were so stinking cute turned into a tiny tank full of sharks. 

Covered in lasers.

They bit Fletch hard - and repeatedly - as he moved them from one carrier to another.  Neither Gina nor I were of any help because we were laughing so much.  When Gina offered Fletch some rubbing alcohol for his puncture wounds, he dryly remarked, "Yes.  That will certainly stop the rabies."

Gina had never been allowed a real look at the little guys and when we finally did see them up close, we noticed they were in rough shape.  Sneezy, rheumy, wheezy, itchy, and one of them had what appeared to be a giant pink balloon attached to his butt. 

That couldn't be good. 

We got them home and sequestered them in our treadmill room (it's nice to know it's useful for something) and I brought them to our cat vet first thing in the morning.  Turns out the poor little guys wouldn't have made it for more than another day or two.  They had eye infections, upper respiratory infections, dehydration, ear mites, fleas, worms, and one of them had a prolapsed rectum, which essentially means the little guy had such bad diarrhea that he blew out his o-ring.  As they were so sick, I didn't want to name them in case we lost one, so I just called them collectively The Thundercats.

Fortunately for Fletch, they didn't have rabies, nor did they have any of the fatal cat diseases so we went ahead with treatment, thus incurring the first pet surgery to repair Thundercat One's bunghole.

There was an issue with Thundercat Two's eye and the vet kept a close watch on it.  She did her best to treat it but it was too far gone due to infection so on Wednesday we were referred to a feline opthamology clinic.

Nope, I didn't know such a thing existed, either.

I found out that Thundercat Two needed an operation to sew his third eyelid over the eye if there was any chance he'd be able to keep it.  I confirmed that even with one eye Thundercat Two would have an excellent quality of life, so I authorized the surgery and named him Odin.  (Come on, it's the perfect name.  And if we ever have a three-legged dog we're going to call him Tripod.)

In the mean time, Thundercat Three had made an almost complete recovery, but he was still an asshole.  The vet's nurse said she'd hold him up in the window of his incubator so everyone could get a glimpse of his "mean face."  She said she kept intending to bring in her camera so she could take a LOLcat photo with an "I has an evil" caption.

Naturally, we named him Chuck Norris.

On Thursday we took Maisy to her new vet and got a thorough workup.  We found out that not only had VCA misdiagnosed her, but they also missed two more mast cell tumors at which point I asked Fletch to hide all stabby/shoot-y/explode-y elements in our house for fear I'd go Columbine on them. 

Our new doggie vet explained how serious this condition could be and referred us to "the Mayo Clinic for pets" in the suburbs where Maisy would be operated on by a board-certified surgeon and her follow-up treatment would be taken care of by a canine oncologist.

Yes, canine oncologist. 

Apparently they exist, too.

Maisy had surgery on Monday and she came though like a champ.  (For those of you keeping track at home, that's three pet surgeries in one week.)  Her blood, urine, xrays, and ultrasounds look clear, so at this point there's not a lot of evidence that the tumors metastasized, but we won't have a real conclusion until the pathology reports are back next week.  She'll start seeing an oncologist but hopefully more for preventative treatment than anything else.  And if her prognosis isn't as positive as we hope, we're off to the vet school in Madison where they do miraculous stuff with animals. 

In the meantime, the Thundercats (with Three now named Angus) came home this weekend. 

You might think they'd show a little bit of appreciation for the people who wrote four-figured checks on their behalf.

You would be wrong.

At one point, Fletch asked me if people couldn't get sweet, socialized, non-feral kittens for $25 at PAWS.

"Um, yeah," I replied, "but only if they don't like a challenge." 

However, we're slowly winning them over, one can of kitten food at a time.  Now their hissing and cowering is cursory at best. 

As of this moment, Odin's surgery didn't take and he's still going to need to have an eye removed, but we've got to hold off while his orbital bone grows with the rest of his face.  This has in no way stopped him from being the quintessential leaping, cavorting, frolicking kitty.  He just does it all in an e-collar.

Maisy is in fabulous spirits, too, although I have to try and keep her from leaping, cavorting, and frolicking until her stitches come out.  She acts like everything was simply like that season on Dallas where it was all Bobby's bad dream.

As for me, yesterday was the first day in a couple of weeks that I didn't have to spend hauling pets to specialty clinics or having panic attacks. 

That was nice.

Which means now I have to start concentrating on the fifth book, a task made less easy when being stared at by eight seven and a half sets of eyes.

Odin - "Tryin' to catch the deluge in a plastic paper cup."

 

Angus - "Bungholier than thou."

 

Chuck Norris - "One pounds of fury."

 

FrankenMaisy - "We has teh technolgees.  We cans rebuild her."

 

"Heaven's awesome, but please send more shrimp."

P.S. Does anyone know what Hawaii's like at Christmas?  Because we're not going to find out this year.

I Need More Than 140 Characters

Heading into my busy season prior to Pretty in Plaid's release.  This is the most crucial point in preparing for publication.  Getting ready entails a thousand small but important tasks, so I'm sorry for the sporadic entries. 

I'll put up a real post in the next week - or whenever my to-do list gets a tad shorter - but until then you can follow me on Twitter if you don't mind short sentences.

(Or you could just email me demanding I drop whatever I'm doing and post.)

(Because that's certainly helpful.)

FYI, This Is Why I Decided Against Posting Ads, Too

I'm a little bit buried with other stuff at the moment so I won't be posting for a few days. 

All is well (saving a possible instance of strep throat) and I'm doing the oh-so-annoying-I'm-not-going-to-post-post which I hate, but just didn't want anyone to assume I was in a cupcake coma.

Cool? 

Cool.

Does God Like Starbucks?

We're supposed to go to a christening this morning at what I consider to be a very un-Godly hour and our friends won't tell us where the lunch is afterwards because they know we'd ditch the church portion given the chance so I've been running around getting ready for it while also trying to pry Fletch out of bed so we're not late and it's weird that he's so tired and reticent to get up considering he normally rises FIVE hours earlier than this for this gym during the week and it's not like we went to bed super late although I did stay up to read although maybe the problem is it's really cold in here since I cranked the heat down to fifty-eight degrees because we got our second gas bill where the total was over five hundred and fifty-five dollars which I swore was a mistake until I asked the neighbors and they were all, "Yeah, that's about right" and in my haste of hot-rollering and dashing across icy cold floors in my stocking feet and "GET UP, GET UP, GET UP!"-ing I grabbed the invitation to Mapquest the directions only to find that we misread the invitation and don't need to be anywhere until 11:00.

So my question is this -  to those of you who've seen the inside of a church in the last decade, can I bring coffee?

UPDATE:  This was definitely a no-coffee kind of church.  Fortunately the point was moot because Snoozy McLazyass didn't get up in time for us to stop at Starbucks. 

Also?  I've been forbidden to turn the heat down to 58 degrees ever again.

Technologically Challenged

My computer just died so I'm trying to type a post on Fletch's stupid Mac book WHICH I HATE SO MUCH and I can't tell if the problem is this stupid computer or if my stupid hosting platform Typepad is the problem.  Regardless, everything's all screwy (and stupid) so this is going to be quick.

First, do me a proper and check out the trailer for this film:

http://www.thedukes-movie.com/

Not only am I totally in love with the concept - which looks like Ocean's Eleven meets The Sunshine Boys - but I'm all excited because I'm supposed to be on a panel with star Robert Davi next year.  (It's a session within a whole weekend of sessions for a conservative PAC so I won't be talking about it here.)

What else?  Oh, I'm told that the cover for Pretty in Plaid is up on Amazon now but I don't know how to open another browser on Mac to link to it BECAUSE I HATE IT AND REFUSE TO LEARN.  Interested to hear what you think - about the cover, and not about my preference for PCs.

Finally, I'll post more details when I'm not on this devil machine, but if you're local, I'm doing an interview live from the Hideout on Dec. 5th.  The host promises me it's not going to be an ambush like that one time I accidentally got booked on an ex-Black Panther's show because the radio publicist didn't understand that Bitter Is the New Black wasn't a book about race relations.  Anyway, the Hideout is a bar and there's a five dollar cover charge and it should be fun.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to kick this stupid computer down a couple of flights of stairs.