jennsylvania

That's Some Bad Hat, Harry (Humor Hotel Column)

First, a little housekeeping...

Apparently If You Were Here is in the running for the Goodreads Choice Awards 2011 in the humor category against powerhouses like Tina Fey and Chelsea Handler.  I'm delighted to be recognized among such authors, especially Laurie Notaro, whose new book is her best yet.

Regardless, I'd like to win, particularly if there's a trophy involved.

Goodread members can go here to vote.  If you're not a Goodread member, you can sign up for a free membership which is actually very cool way to discover new books and discuss old favorites.

That being said, here's this month's Humor Hotel column...

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I don’t see many scary movies, largely because I don’t like to be scared, particularly when the privilege runs about eleven dollars.  And that’s before popcorn, parking, Junior Mints, and bucket of soda that, ounce for ounce, cost more than a gallon of gas. 

I’m more of an “Isn’t Sandra Bullock sassy?” filmgoer, with an occasional side of “Will Smith saves the world from aliens (again!) while tossing out one-liners sure to become part of the cultural zeitgeist.” 

(“Welcome to earth!”)

But in light of everything terrifying happening in the world that Will Smith has so bravely served - suicide bombers, Solyndra, drum circles, debates, etc. - suddenly the idea of voluntarily viewing an old school horror movie doesn’t seem so daunting.

As I thumb through the pay-per-view guide, I brief my husband Fletch on contenders.  “Let’s see… ooh, The Omen from 1976… The Exorcist… The Shining… and, although technically not appropriate for a Halloween weekend viewing, but still a classic, Jaws.  What sounds good to you?”

Fletch shrugs.  “Your call.  I’ve never seen any of them.”

Wait, what? 

The man with an encyclopedic memory of every zombie movie ever made hasn’t seen any classic horror films?  From Army of Darkness to Zombies, Zombies, Zombies!, I’m shocked he hasn’t taken a single foray away from the undead. 

“How’d you miss these?  Did you grow up Amish and not tell me?”

“We didn’t have HBO as a kid.”

“But you’ve had thirty-five years to catch up!  And you quote Jaws all the time!  Do you even know what you’re referring to when you say 'we need a bigger boat’?”

He shrugs again.

After forbidding him to quote anything he hasn’t viewed, I decide his education should begin with The Omen, which is more psychological thriller than bloodbath.  I haven’t watched the film since the early ‘80s but I clearly recall being petrified.  When it was released, all my aunts saw it on the first night of our extended family vacation and for the rest of the week they slept with the lights on.

The movie starts and not five minutes into it, Fletch begins to mock it.  “How did they not know the kid’s evil?  I mean, he’s five years old, yet he’s wearing a leisure suit.”

“This film grossed sixty million bucks in 1976 dollars and it was nominated for an Oscar,” I counter.

“For best film?”

I mumble into my sleeve.  “For best score.”

After Damien knocks his mother Lee Remick off the balcony, killing his unborn sibling and breaking her arm, Fletch quips, “And that’s why we ride our tricycles outdoors.”

The longer we watch, the less Fletch can contain himself.  After Gregory Peck wrestles evil Rottweilers and drags his demon spawn down the stairs by the arm, Fletch notes, “I’m not sure filmmakers monitored child and animal safety as stringently back then.”

Finally, when the photographer is decapitated in a graphic manner - almost unheard of in 1976 cinema – Fletch has to stifle a yawn before asking, “You want to watch The Walking Dead after this?”

But all is not lost because The Omen’s final image is absolutely chilling.  When we see that Damien has survived to fulfill his Biblical prophecy of doom, I can practically hear the collective gasp of the audience from 1976.

As the credits roll, I turn to Fletch for his final assessment.

“What’d you think?”

He looks thoughtful for a moment.  “I think that our next dog should be a Rottweiler.”

The rest of our weekend is booked with other classic film viewing and now what scares me is that the movies will likely inspire him to cook split pea soup and perhaps write a book.

On the plus side, maybe we’ll get a bigger boat.

* * *

In honor of my birthday, I'm doing some book giveaways next week... see you then!

July's TMS Humor Hotel Column - The Now 100% More Amish-Living Edition

My husband, Fletch, believes we should be prepared for any eventuality. Maybe it's his military training or perhaps he watches too much it's-the-end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it Discovery Channel programming. But for whatever reason, he's concerned an apocalypse will occur in our lifetime and when it happens, he assures me we'll be ready.

Bless his tin foil hat wearing-heart.

Fletch converted our basement to a veritable Army surplus store when we moved to the suburbs last year. Tucked between plastic tubs of ancient sorority sweatshirts and framed photos of me from a spectacularly big-haired time period, Fletch has been squirreling away everything from water purification tablets to Arctic weather-grade sleeping bags.

He promises nothing will catch us at unawares. Like, if a riot breaks out on the mean streets of Lake Forest? Perhaps in the main square by J. Crew or the Talbots? Across from the farmers market where they sell those magnificent heirloom tomatoes? Then his grenade simulators will disperse any crowd!

Chemical attack? No worries! Fletch's pre-measured sheets of window sealing-plastic and industrial strength duct tape are located on the shelf next to the box containing my Christmas nativity scene.

And if the Russians ever invade a la "Red Dawn," trust me when I say it will be Fletcher shouting "Wolverines!" and leading the counterattack.

If being ready is a virtue, then my man is Mother Teresa on steroids.

I, too, believe in being prepared. That's why you'll never find me without dental floss, an extra pair of sunglasses and a fully charged Kindle in my purse. Maybe I can't kill marauding communists from a bad '80s movie with these items, but I'm guaranteed to never squint, flash a spinach-laden smile or be forced to make awkward conversation in the checkout line at Costco.

We're finally put to the test almost a year after Fletch started stockpiling. The storm hits just as we're settling in for an evening of fine quality USA Network programming. Tornado sirens sound and we hustle anxious pets to the basement. We huddle in the interior corner by the abundant food and water supply, barely hearing the NOAA weather radio over the howling winds. That's when we lose power. So we illuminate the area with pre-staged lanterns, basking in the dim glow of prior preparation.

A quick post-storm stroll reveals that property damage is limited to downed trees, nothing Fletch can't fix with a gas-powered blade and a Kevlar chaps-type protective garment he calls his "chainsaw pants."

As we sit in the sticky darkness of our back porch after the storm, Fletch is content. I can't quite make out his smug look of self-satisfaction as he sits with his weapon at the ready, but I know it's there.

"You see how good it feels to be prepared?" he asks me as I read my Kindle by flashlight. While we were hunkered in the basement, all safe and secure from a raging storm, his preparations did feel good. But now? Not so much.

"I'm sorry," I reply, "I'm not able hear you over the roar of the neighbors' generators."

Of all the disaster supplies my husband's procured, the one he deemed unnecessary was a generator. "If the end of the world comes, what are we going to do when North Shore Gas stops pumping methane into our house?" he'd say every time I broached the subject.

"Look!" I point at the bright window next door. "They're watching 'Burn Notice'! Do you realize our neighborhood loses power once a quarter, while, despite your ample preparations, we've yet to experience a single zombie attack?"

He simply shrugs and gives me a beatific smile. "Power outages are temporary. Zombie wars are forever."

Unable to argue with that kind of logic, I return to my reading, but not before deciding to buy my own damn generator.

Because if the world's destined to end anyway? Then I'm going out with the lights on.

COPYRIGHT ©2011 JEN LANCASTER DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC.

This Month's Humor Hotel Column: The Real Role Models of Orange County

"Why are you watching that garbage again?"

My husband, Fletch, says this every time I tune into anything with "Real" and "Housewives" in the title. As three iterations are currently airing -- Orange County, New York, and New Jersey -- he asks this question a lot.

Each time, my answer's the same: "It's educational." Then he rolls his eyes and heads to his woodshop while I settle into the couch.

The thing is, I'm serious. If it weren't for the ladies of reality TV, I'd miss out on so many meaningful life lessons.

For example, now I know that it's important for us women to have jobs so we can be, like, independent and stuff outside of our ridiculously, ludicrously, disgustingly wealthy husbands. The Housewives teach us the very best careers are, coincidentally, the ones we used to dream about as kids: modeling, designing handbags and jewelry, creating super-clever names for lip gloss colors, and cutting albums despite lacking any discernable ability to read music or carry a tune. Who wants to go to the effort of becoming a systems analyst when we can just slap a hangtag with our names on someone else's dress design? Not me!

Through the Orange County Housewives, I've come to appreciate the "more is more" axiom. They show us that if breast augmentation is good, then bigger implants are even better. I've been taking notes as the Housewives compete with each other over size, engaging in a saline-based arms race that will eventually escalate to the winner losing all her peripheral vision. (Jen's note: my editor had to cut the end of the sentence which referenced losing said vision to side-boob.)  Ditto on the adage when it comes to hair extensions, since the gal with a ponytail closest to the size of a pony's tail wins!

Because of the Housewives, I know that when I have an issue with Fletch, I should avoid addressing problems with him directly. Instead, it's best to dredge up all the intimate details and share them with the rest of the cast so that they can resolve my dilemma in a series of snarky asides with the Bravo TV producers. Describing my impasse to members of the press will do in a pinch, too.

Should no drama currently exist between me and my significant other, I should definitely plan a bath-a-deux on camera and not bother adding a lot of pesky bubbles to obscure anything. I mean, those flotation devices are like a tree falling in the forest -- if no one sees them, do they even exist?

Without the New York Housewives, I'd never know how to behave when traveling abroad. When visiting a predominantly Muslim country, local custom dictates that one put on a strappy shirt, load up on Pinot Grigio, and stroll the souq. And wearing underpants? Yeah, if you're a sucker! Let's be real here . . . the phrase "ugly American' couldn't apply to anyone wearing these Blahniks.  (Jen's note: this sentence had previously ended "wearing these Blahniks, bitch.")  (Apparently newspapers don't like casual profanity, which is a damn shame.)

The gals from New Jersey have shown us that it's never not the right time to flip a table. And that every Italian-American family celebrates Thanksgiving with a mechanical bull ride.

The Housewives have enlightened us on one of the greatest lessons of them all -- that taking care of ourselves is key. Apparently we can accomplish this by hiring domestic help to complete the mundane chores, like doing laundry, cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, and raising our children.

I mean, if we can't steal away for six hours worth of Pilates, followed by body shots with frenemies and binge shopping, then is life even worth living? I think not. Also? Never, ever worry about price tags -- if we spend all our ridiculously, ludicrously, disgustingly wealthy husband's earnings, he'll just make more!

Clearly, these Housewives are doing their best to instruct the rest of us on how we can be just like them, and I, for one, appreciate the education.

Of course, half of the Orange County Housewives are in the process of getting divorced and the other half are in foreclosure.

But I'm sure that's just a coincidence.

COPYRIGHT ©2011 JEN LANCASTER DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC.

May's Humor Hotel Column - With the Extra Cranky, Strep Throat-Based Travel Edition Edit

Remember when air travel was glamorous?

Once upon a time, men took trans-Atlantic flights clad in suits and fedoras and ladies didn't step onto the tarmac without seamed stockings and white gloves. And the stewardesses? No, not flight attendants, stewardesses -- were pretty much sex on a stick.

Actually, those days existed long before I ever booked a ticket, however I'm a huge fan of "Mad Men" and have thus lived vicariously through the oh-so-civilized Don Draper.

(EDIT - not the adultery or the chain smoking.  Just the good grooming, sense of decorum, and day drinking.)

If Don Draper were flying the Friendly Skies today, I wonder how he'd feel about the vagaries of modern travel, considering the elegance has gone the way of the smoking section. As I'm currently on a cross-country tour promoting my first novel, I'm well-versed in everything wrong with the state of aviation.

My concerns don't center on the indignity of a TSA groping (without benefit of dinner), departure times best described as "guesstimates," or the constant nickel-and-diming on all things luggage-related. I view these aspects as cost of doing business in a post 9/11 world. Complaining isn't going to make a difference.

(EDIT - I've revised my view on this after a thorough rogering by the Kansas City TSA due to trace elements of chemicals on my hands.  Should you prefer to avoid the potential of having to bend and cough, please refrain from applying DHA-based spray tan twenty-four hours prior to boarding.)

Rather, my issue stems from behavior within passengers' own control. Here's the thing: I make every effort to be polite. I hold doors, I thank and tip egregiously, and anyone with 10 items or fewer is always invited to step in line in front of me.

(EDIT - Plus, I always give you the "please, it's your turn, I insist" wave at four-way stops.  I suggest you do the same if you don't want me to follow you home.)

In return for my courtesy, I'd appreciate a modicum of respect. That means if I'm dozing in the seat next to you, eyes closed, headphones on, please do not poke me midflight to reaffirm that we are, indeed, still heading to Atlanta. Had you any doubt, perhaps you should have checked with the nice lady in the polyester uniform who greeted you upon boarding.

(EDIT - Sat next to a woman on my NY flight who first thought she was on the wrong plane because I was in the aisle seat and she always has the aisle seat so she just assumed she was on a different flight.  Once righted and settled, she spent the whole trip reading top-secret documents about our country's strategic initiatives in the Middle East while I watched an episode of Pretty Little Liars.  Roll your eyes at me all you want, ma'am.  In the scheme of things, my watching a teenager's show doesn't have the potential to compromise national security.)

Some foods lend themselves to consumption in close public spaces, like the main cabin in Coach. Deli sandwiches are an excellent choice, as are fruits, salads, chips, and bags of trail mix.

St. Louis-style spare ribs are not.

Also? Please don't force me to suggest you place the licked-clean bones somewhere other than the seatback pocket in front of you.

(EDIT - Memphis to Kansas City passengers, I'm looking at you.)

It's never appropriate to direct your sneeze toward my Diet Coke in order to keep your iPad dry.

(EDIT - Thanks for the strep throat, dickweed!)

There's a time and place to apply deodorant, tweeze your chin hairs, and floss your teeth. Taxiing down the runway is not that time.

A mute button exists on the Super Mario Brothers DS. I know; I Googled it. And sir? You're 40 years old; it's time to put the video games away. Authors like James Patterson and Tucker Max exist specifically so your demographic can read happily on the plane.

No one likes a whistler. No one.

I agree, Jesus is nice. But all your talk about the imminent prospect of Heaven is making me nervous. What Would Jesus Do? Save his chatter about the Promised Land for baggage claim, most likely.

(EDIT - according to a man's tennis-ball yellow Family Bible t-shirt at ORD, the world will end on May 21st of this year.  Please adjust your travel plans accordingly.)

Finally, it's my right to recline my seat, which, out of consideration, I only do when I score an upgrade. Despite the ample square footage in First Class, I'm happy to readjust should your need arise.

Or, you could be like the passive aggressive gentleman in 4B yesterday, who choose to continually shove the back of my seat instead of actually speaking to me.

Of course, he never expected me to shove back.

Had he known, he might have repositioned his beverage.

My point is this: If you don't want to spend the entire flight back from Dallas with a damp lap, I suggest you embrace civility.

After all, I'm on the road for two more weeks.

(EDIT - one more week.  And that son of a bitch should have been glad it wasn't hot coffee.)

COPYRIGHT ©2011 JEN LANCASTER DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC.

(EDIT - the swearing and sociopathy are 100% copyrighted to me.)

 

New TMS Humor Hotel Column - Any Coupons Today?

Anyone else completely enamored with the show Extreme Couponing?

Not since Deadliest Catch's maiden voyage have I been this obsessed with a television program. Premiering around the time of my first book tour, I was so taken with All Things Crab that instead of discussing my work, I couldn't stop yapping about the unforgiving Bering Sea and Capt. Phil and how the Opies might be running.

I'd be embarrassed about my fixation now, but 10 million people tuned in for the first episode of the seventh season, so I'm not alone.

I suspect Extreme Couponing was originally supposed to be part of TLC's Evening of Squalor lineup since it followed Hoarding: Buried Alive. The first special featured folks who were so obsessed with clipping coupons that they did wacky stuff like take their toddler Dumpster diving at the recycling center. Seemed like a couple of those people were but a single petrified cat carcass away from appearing on the previous hour.

To be fair, most started clipping coupons as a hedge against a questionable economy. Viewers must have connected with that aspect, and now the show's more heavily weighted towards the happy savings and less about the sad pathology of consumption.

Don't get me wrong, I always root for the couponers and every time someone snags $1,000 worth of groceries for 14 cents, I cheer like I just hit the trifecta.

Yet I'm left with niggling questions.

For example, one couponer snagged 62 bottles of mustard for virtually nothing. This fascinates me for a number of reasons, primarily being that I've had the same exact jar since I purchased ham sandwich fixings back in 2009.

More important, what on earth are they going to do with 62 mustards? I mean, if the apocalypse they're preparing for comes, are they really going to care whether or not they can smear a little Gulden's on their Polish dog?

Or is it that neighborhood kids are in for the worst trick or treat ever?

Another set of couponers had to call their friends to stand in line with them so they could break up their order to save 10 dollars and people actually came! Yet I wonder if anyone they called was all, "Yeah, busy with the day job, cheapskate. How about I just give you 10 bucks and I stay here?"

Shopping off their meticulously detailed lists can take three hours and the checkout process up to five. Eight hours! A whole workday! I don't want to lie on a tropical beach and drink pina coladas for eight hours, let alone stand in line for a lifetime supply of Grey Poupon. Plus, when I'm stuck in a checkout for longer than it takes to scan the headlines about the half-boy, half-bat on The Weekly World News, I use my shopping cart as a herding device to ease the slowpokes out of my way. How do couponers not get impatient? And how do their hundred boxes of cream cheese not spoil while they're waiting?

Do couponers ever feel guilty paying full price for produce? You rarely see huge savings on fresh stuff, so I have to wonder. (My theory is apple trees aren't as intent on building brand identity through coupons, as say, Kraft, which is why they don't offer extra savings.) Or are their diets entirely composed of processed foods?

Do couponers realize they're raising a generation of kids who'll never touch jarred spaghetti sauce or boxed pasta again?

Does anyone ever get sick from poor stock rotation? Or rickets from an unbalanced diet?

Finally, is it a rule that everyone who aggressively shops with coupons must pronounce them "cue-pons"? That's one mystery TLC should please solve.

So, even though I'm a huge fan, I wish Extreme Couponing answered those questions.

Also?

Everyone should buy more crab to support the Deadliest Catch fishermen. Even without a coupon.

COPYRIGHT ©2011 JEN LANCASTER DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC.

 

This Month's Column: #WINNING? I Think Not.

By Jen Lancaster, Tribune Media Services,
Humor Hotel
Posted 03/22/2011 at 3:00 pm EST

I'm overwhelmed.

Much as I appreciate the 24/7 access to information from cable television, the Internet and satellite radio (plus special alerts sent directly to my phone, in case I somehow avoided all the real-time updates from the other sources), I find myself faced with news overload.

I'm not equipped to cope with endless tragic stories about war, civil unrest and escalating gas prices. I can't handle another toxic eruption from the Shinmoedake volcano . . . or the Sober Valley Lodge.

I need a break. I need good news.

I need some (non-hashtag-based) winning.

As a kid, my favorite escape from the pressure-cooker otherwise known as grammar school was watching game shows. No matter how badly I'd bombed my spelling test and regardless of any hopscotch-based playground drama, I knew salvation was but a center-square-for-the-win away.

Although I loved the kitsch of "The Gong Show" and Bob Eubank's prolific use of the word "whoopee" on "The Newlywed Game," Mark Goodson-Bill Todman productions were my drug of choice. "Match Game" boasted the best double entendres, Richard Dawson's charisma on "Family Feud" was practically infectious, and the game-stopping power of having drawn a seven on "Card Sharks" was nothing short of mesmerizing.

Could Charles Nelson Reilly mind-meld with the housewife from Yorba Linda to win $500? Would the returning champion remain victorious in the Money Cards bonus round? Might the scion of the Johnson family rally once released from the isolation booth during the fast money segment? Survey said . . . yes!

Of course, nothing was better than "The Price is Right." I adored Bob Barker's curled lip of disdain for overly handsy contestants or those who chose to spin the wheel again when they already had 90 cents. I cheered for every college student winning a roomful of indoor-outdoor carpeting and each senior citizen who went home with an electric guitar. Nothing matched my enthusiasm for those rare moments when a player guessed the cost of his or her showcase within $100 and won everything on stage.

And a new car? Don't even start me on a new car.

Game shows today aren't joyful anymore; they're just stressful. The prizes are too big. Back in the day, a year's supply of Rice-A-Roni was nice, but no one agonized over not taking it home. I recently watched a show where a pair of players could win up to a million dollars by placing the cash on the proper trap door. Drop by drop and with each wrong answer, I watched in horror as couples had their dreams crushed. Oops, there goes the money for your wedding! Oops, no college education for Junior! Oh, no! Now you'll never get to retire!

This is why I hate the new-school game shows; there's too much on the line. They don't relieve stress; they induce it. I don't want contestants' entire life and livelihood to be impacted. Watching some guy opt for what turns out to be a donkey in a straw hat behind Curtain No. 3 is hilarious; seeing folks lose the kind of cash that would save them from foreclosure isn't.

I just read about a new program coming to ABC called "101 Ways to Leave a Game Show." According to the press release, losers will be ejected by "being flown away strapped to the wing of a biplane, shot out of a cannon, pushed off the top of a moving semi truck, dragged underwater by a one-ton anchor or yanked off a dock by a speed boat."

I hate everything about this show already. With all that's going wrong in the world, the last thing I need is a program where I'm supposed to root for the players to fail in spectacularly dangerous ways.

Because I want some real winning, I'm opting for the classics on the Game Show Network.

Tune in next time, and please remember to have your pets spayed or neutered.

(Jen Lancaster is author of the books "Such a Pretty Fat," "Pretty in Plaid" and "Bitter is the New Black" and the recently published "My Fair Lazy." Visit her online at jennsylvania.com.)

COPYRIGHT ©2011 JEN LANCASTER DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC.

This Month's Humor Hotel Column - Losing the Battle of the Sexes

I married a man who isn't afraid to wash a dish, scrub a toilet or have his unibrow waxed into submission by a licensed professional.

That's not because my husband, Fletcher, is so in touch with his feminine side, spending inordinate amounts of time sharing his feeeeelings over pints of Ben & Jerry's. Rather, we're fairly egalitarian with household duties and don't always subscribe to traditional gender roles. For example, I'm the primary breadwinner and he rarely watches televised sports or scratches himself inappropriately.

So, when the time came to paint the old dresser I've been storing in a damp basement for the past decade, I decided to do it myself.

Until I saw the spider.

Correction: spiders.

That's when I turned into a prototypical '50s sitcom wife, tottering around helplessly as though deeply encumbered by heels, a frilly apron and the right to vote. I outsourced the job to my husband, who seemed rather pleased to have a project that didn't entail fabric softener or a bottle of Mr. Clean.

"This will take, what two or three days?" I asked. "We've got leftover paint from the cabinets and a couple of brushes, so we should be all set."

Oh, if it were only that easy.

What I didn't realize at the time was that in tasking my husband with "man's work," I awoke a sleeping giant.

Before he could even begin to envision slapping a few coats on the dresser, he had to ready his workshop. Clearly the basement was too dusty for paint to properly adhere, which necessitated the purchase of an enormous, expensive shop vac.

After his workspace was sterile enough to perform your garden-variety tracheotomy, he realized he didn't have enough places to set things down. I suggested perhaps he use the now-immaculate floor. He laughed, yet I wasn't joking.

Instead, he invested in a hammer drill to hang studs on the concrete basement walls. Then he mounted pegboards on the studs and loaded them up with tools artfully displayed by make, size, and shape. Dissatisfied with his handiwork, he took all the tools down to paint the pegboards. My suggestion of, "Why not hit the dresser while you've got the brushes out?" fell on deaf ears.

Workshop complete, Fletch disassembled the dresser and began to sand. He didn't care for the job the orbital sander did, declaring the need for a disc sander.

"How much does that cost?" I asked.

"You can't put a price on a job well done," he said.

"Um, when it's a $50 dresser you can."

But the disc sander worked well. In fact, it worked so well that Fletch smoothed out some parts meant to stay pointy, which required the purchase of a table saw.

"You need a saw? To paint?" I demanded.

"All part of the process," he assured me, while lovingly assembling a machine costing roughly the same amount as my first year of college.

"Wait a minute," I said, recalling the dismemberment stories he'd shared about his father, uncles, and maternal and paternal grandfathers. "Don't you come from a long line of nine-fingered Fletchers?"

"Everyone gets 10. That way you have some extras," he replied.

To date, he's forked out more than $2,000 on this project and that's without factoring in the cost of three weeks' labor. For a dresser that's still in a dozen pieces and has yet to see a single drop of primer.

I suspect this has all been an elaborate ruse to get out of doing laundry.

Next time? I'm just going to paint over the spiders myself.

COPYRIGHT ©2011 JEN LANCASTER DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC.

UPDATE FROM WHEN I WROTE THIS ON 2/18:

The dresser isn't done but the good news is we now own a jigsaw and some kind of industrial hairdryer that removes veneer and makes the house smell like a campfire. 

At this point, the project has morphed into absurdist performance art and the finished dresser is Godot. 

And Godot is never coming. 

But Fletch did fold some laundry last night.  So there's that.

The (Second) American Revolution

Here's this month's Humor Hotel piece.  (Meant to do it as a video blog, but, you know... lazy.)

There's a growing problem in this country and I can't turn the other way anymore.

I'll remain in denial no longer.

Why? Because I'm tired of being encroached upon, I'm angry about being undermined and I'm sick of being mocked. I can't take it another minute, so I'm here to give voice to a movement that's quietly but surely building momentum.

I implore you, my fellow countrymen, my brethren across these great states of ours, to help me put a stop to this madness. Unite with me in my cause. Let's join in -- past purple mountain majesty, above the fruited plain, and from sea to shining sea -- to band together to quiet those voices filling us with self-doubt and crushing the very dreams upon which we built this nation.

I'm talking, of course, about snarky British hosts on American television programs.

For years, our collective self-esteem was crushed by a certain smart-mouth Brit who had the audacity to tell the least-talented among us the cold, hard truth in no uncertain terms. What right did Simon Cowell possess to so cruelly discourage the tone-deaf, the pitchy and the flat? I mean, he's not even American; how could he possibly judge who might constitute our idol? And what do the Brits know about music anyway? Granted, they gave us The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and The Smiths, but the Spice Girls singlehandedly destroyed their credibility.

Fortunately, order was returned to our tidy little universe when Mr. Cowell exited the show, making way for a doddering Steven Tyler to sexually harass the better-endowed female contestants while Jennifer Lopez (triple threat AND national treasure, thank you very much) sweetly and serenely provides the kind of nonsensical-yet-uplifting feedback we'd so missed from Paula Abdul.

Sadly, whenever we remove one head of the beast, three more sprout up in its place. Seems like every time I turn around, Gordon Ramsay's right there, smug and overbearing in his stern chef's whites, berating good, honest American cooks for deep frying every item on the menu. By the way, you know who doesn't indulge in an occasional deep-fried candy bar? Queen Elizabeth, that's who.  Also?  Nazis.

Of course, there's Jo Frost, otherwise known as the Supernanny, filling our heads with nonsense about "consistently disciplining" our children and "behaving like the parent." I simply cannot stand for such blasphemy!

Iconic Larry King passed his microphone to Piers Morgan, who not only has the nerve to judge exactly which American's Got Talent, but also stole the title of Donald Trump's "Celebrity Apprentice" from rightful owner Trace Adkins. And why Piers Morgan? Were we plum out of old, suspender-clad, bad-haired serial-monogamists in this country? We've now got to outsource this job?

And, in the final insult, how dare Ricky Gervais tease the most sacred among us, the most beloved, those shining faces that launched a thousand tabloids and who work damn hard anywhere from six to eight weeks a year to earn their multimillion dollar paychecks?

No, sir. Not in MY America.

So this is it, our call to action. Join me in rising up against our snotty British overlords. Let's tell the ghost of old King George that they don't know us, they don't belong and in the sage words of philosopher/poet/patriot Dee Snyder, we're not gonna take it anymore.

We're going to wrest control from those smarmy Earl Grey-sipping, Union Jack-waving, soul-stomping Limeys once and for all and toss each of them in Boston Harbor like so many barrels of the East India Trading Company's finest.

And we'll call our new revolution . . . the Tea Party!

Wait, that name's already being used?

OK, fine, we'll come up with something because that's what we do around here.

God bless the USA, NBC, CBS, ABC, and FOX.

Especially FOX.

Oh, and P.S.: Canada? Don't be so quick to laugh. We're sending them your way next.

COPYRIGHT © 2011 JEN LANCASTER DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC.

Perhaps You Can't Hear Me Over The Sound Of My Eyes Rolling

The Chicago Tribune posted my new column.  You can read it here.

Let's just say this column has not been embraced by some readers who, if hurling personal insults is any indication, most likely received copies of Rules for Radicals for Christmas.  Seriously, check out the comments section; it's priceless. I love the person who says I'm an "irresponsible journalist."  That may go on my business card.

Anyway, for my fans, hope you enjoy the piece.  I had fun writing it. 

For you nay-sayers who've come here to find my email address to berate me for being stupid, naive, or simply a terrible American who in no way speaks for you, I invite you to do better.

No, really. 

Please, write your own take on this subject.

Here are the rules:

First, remember this is a humor column, not a news story.  Facts take a backseat to funny.

Make the topic of leaking classified documents both accessible and relatable to all newspaper readers both in print and online, including everyone in each demographic from soccer moms to retirees.

Personalize said topic of leaking classified documents, bringing in examples from your own life. 

Then, using creative word-play, express your thoughts in such a way that has the potential to inspire anyone who isn't completely devoid of a sense of humor to crack a smile over a plate of waffles while reading at the breakfast table. 

 

Of course, you'll want to use short sentences and please save your SAT words for Lexulous. 

  

Avoid using any profanity stronger than hell or damn, resorting to cliches, or plagiarizing The Daily Show.   

 

The narrative should include both an A concept and a B concept and both concepts should neatly tie together in the final line or paragraph. 

  

In six hundred words or less. 

 

Before doing all of the above, you'll want to have written no less than three New York Times bestsellers as you'll need to bring that audience to the column as well. 

 

Bonus points will be awarded should you work in references to the Jersey Shore or Kim Kardashian. 

 

Finally, you have one hour to write it.

 

Good luck,

 

Jen

 

Portraits In Procrastination

This blog will appear in a handy timeline format.  (You're welcome.)

June 10th, 11:00 PM:  My column is due tomorrow morning.  Perhaps I should start writing it.

June 11th, early morning:  DONE!  Okay, I'm never waiting until the last minute again.

June 12th:  But surely I'd like to take the weekend off.

June 14th:  Pfft, I've got FOUR WEEKS before that thing's due again.

June 21st:  Pfft, I've got THREE WEEKS before that thing's due again.

June 28th:  Pfft, I've got TWO WEEKS before that thing's due again.  Also, if I keep at it, I will achieve my dream of finally being "homeless tan."

July 5th, 11:00 AM:  Technically, today's still a holiday.  My time would be better spent at the pool.

July 5th, 6:00 PM:  "I just feel so relaxed today."  "You had three Mai-tais in an hour.  You're not relaxed, you're drunk."

July 6th:  I should probably think about writing that column.  Probably.

July 7th:  Well, I can't write it today because I'm busy looking at houses.  And going to lunch.

July 8th, 9:00 AM:  Shit, my column's due tomorrow. 

9:00 AM to 11:55 AM:  Read blogs and drink coffee.  Number of words written for column = 0.  But a Word document has been opened.  So there's that.

12:00 PM to 1:45 PM:  Lunch with girlfriends and Fletch.  We all linger over pie.  I mean to discuss potential column topics but I forget. 

2:00 PM to 3:00 PM:  Grocery shopping.

3:00 PM:  Okay, I've got to get this damn thing started.  Stare at blank page.  Immediately call friend Angie for inspiration.  Talk on phone for two hours.  Forget to discuss column.

5:00 PM:  You know what would inspire me?  Ice cream.  Grab bowl of B&J's new white chocolate raspberry and try to get to work.

5:15 PM:  I have nothing... but an ice cream hangover.

5:16 PM to 8:00 PM:  Write and re-write two dreadful paragraphs on how Chicago residents know it's finally summer when illegal fireworks claim their first hand of the season.  Is possibly the worst shit not only that I've ever written, but also that I've ever read.

8:00 PM:  Decide that dinner would inspire me.

8:20 PM:  It doesn't.

8:21 PM:  Decide that So You Think You Can Dance will inspire me.

9:00 PM:  It doesn't. 

9:01 PM:  Perhaps a cupcake will inspire me.

9:02 PM:  Nope.

9:03 PM:  What about a second cupcake?

9:04 PM:  Nope, unless I want to write a column about The Day I Had Three Desserts.

9:05 PM:  Perhaps the new season of Big Brother will inspire me.

10:00 PM:  Nope.

10:01 PM:  Perhaps crying to Fletch about how this is SO HARD and how I have NO TIME will inspire me.

10:02 PM:  "You spent an entire month drinking fruity rum punch by a pool and baking yourself into a basketball.  Suck it up, cupcake."

10:03 PM to 11:00 PM:  Google divorce lawyers.

11:01 PM:  Delete everything from the open Word document and start again.  Get on the intercom and demand that Fletch bring me "my address book, four beers, and my conversation hat."

11:02 PM:  Find that quoting classic Simpsons episodes actually IS inspirational.

11:03 PM:  Or possibly it's the Dos Equis.

1:47 AM:  FINISH COLUMN!!

1:48 AM:  Pledge to never do this again and promise myself that I'll get a jump start on next month's column, like, tomorrow.

11:06 AM:  Decide that it's way too beautiful out to be cooped up in front of my computer and get ready to head to the pool.  After all, the new column isn't due for a month.

11:07 AM:  I think we all know how this is going to end.

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?

Alert The Presses! Oh, Wait...

Yay!  My Chicago Tribune column has been posted!

Am not yet sure when or how it gets to other papers, but I know it's right here right now:

Don't Blame Mii, Japan

Hope you dig it!

And I Thought I Was Mad Last Night - UPDATED WITH 100% MORE JUSTICE

First, I'll post the link to my column as soon as I get it.  I guess I misunderstood how the whole syndication thing works - the column hits the AP wire today and then gets distributed to papers so the earliest it will go to print is tomorrow.  Some papers will have the electronic version up today and as soon as I get one of those links, consider it posted.  (I'll get this right eventually, promise.)

Anyway, I'm particularly cranky today because I was up most of the night due to a car alarm.  For more than three hours beginning at midnight, a minivan's alarm went off in front of my house.  Let's just say I called 911 more than once.  Considering the car was parking in a tow zone, I understand this isn't priority, but come on, illegally parked and incessantly bleating?  Shit, I've gotten tickets for legally parking in this city.  I figured a car alarm in a tow zone would merit a SWAT Team.

Now, I realize the police department isn't my own personal cabana boy at the Four Seasons, which is precisely why I ordered a squad car and not a pina colada.  My main goal in asking for police assistance was that I wasn't sure I had the self control not to beat the minivan with a shovel.  Fortunately, my exhaustion was slightly more powerful than my aggravation and I fell asleep instead of heading to the garage to grab a spade.

So, given my mood, today was not the best day to learn that there's a blogger out there passing off my content as her own.  Okay, not to be all arrogant here, but if you're going to steal writing, maybe you should target someone who hasn't been on the New York Times best selling list.  An alert reader tipped me off to the plagiarism and I went to her site where I found pages and pages of my own words.

In an Alanis Morrisette-level of irony, this asshole's tag line is "I Can Write It Better Than You Ever Felt It."

No, you can't write it better, bitch. 

You can only copy it better.

And by the way, some of the shit she swiped is in the next book.  I'm willing to wager my publisher has even less of a sense of humor about plagiarism than I do.

Last night I kept myself from administering street justice.  I'm not feeling quite so magnanimous today.

Here's her URL:

Peace, Love and Kelsey

Shovels welcome.

UPDATE:  Kelsey's entire blog has been taken down.  I imagine it took too much work to remove all those individual entries. 

An apology has been received and I'm pretty sure a lesson has been learned.

Well played, shovels.  Well played.

Galley Copy Winners!

Thanks to all of you who wrote in to your local papers to request they carry Humor Hotel!  The Trib's gotten a great response so far, which means hopefully I'll be coming soon to a town near you.  (In print.)  (But you probably already figured that out.)

Anyway, I used a random number generator to pick the winners and they are as follows:

Sarah B. - 552

Stephanie S. - 196

Jennifer J. - 555

Rebecca M. - 199

Sarah E. - 332

(Somehow I felt like you guys wouldn't want your whole name spelled out here.  I've already emailed each of the winners, so you should know who you are.  If I don't hear back from you in a few days, I'll try again.  If I don't hear back in a week, I'll pick a different winner.)

Anyway, you're welcome, no, scratch that, encouraged to continue to contact your local Living editor about carrying the Humor Hotel package.  With talents like Mark Bazer, Michael Showalter, and Diane Farr, you kind of can't go wrong.

Thanks again for your help and I hope to have other My Fair Lazy give-aways closer to the release date!

My Fair Lazy Galley Copy Contest - UPDATED

* THE GOOD NEWS IS THAT MANY OF YOU HAVE CONTACTED YOUR LOCAL NEWSPAPER.  THE BAD NEWS IS THAT SOME OF THE EDITORS ARE WORRIED THAT YOU'RE ASKING FOR HUMOR HOTEL FOR NO REASON OTHER THAT YOU WANT TO WIN STUFF. 

AS IT'S NOT YOUR RESPONSIBILITY TO CONVINCE THESE EDITORS THAT NOT ONLY DO YOU WANT TO WIN BOOKS, YOU ACTUALLY WANT TO BUY THEIR PAPERS TO READ THE COLUMN, I'M SHUTTING THE CONTEST DOWN AS OF 5:00 CST TONIGHT.

WINNERS WILL BE ANNOUNCED ON FRIDAY.

THANKS FOR PLAYING AND I ENCOURAGE YOU TO KEEP CONTACTING YOUR PAPER.  MY FIRST COLUMN DEBUTS MARCH 23.  TOPIC?  WHY WE HATE JAPAN.  (HINT: IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE TOYOTA SNAFU.)

Here's how things look to me:

You want an advance copy of My Fair Lazy and I want to be in your newspaper. 

Should both of these premises be true, I've got a contest for you.

I have five copies of the new book that I'll personalize and send to five winners chosen at random.  To enter the contest, you have to do the following:

1) Email the features editor of your local newspaper telling them you want them to carry the Humor Hotel package.

2) In your email, include the link to Tribune Media Services that describes the package.

3) Either CC or forward me a copy of this email at jenwritesbooks (at) gmail (dot) com.

4) Put Humor Hotel on the subject line.

(I'm not going to make it a rule that you buy whatever newspaper it is that carries our columns because I'm just assuming you'll want to do so, yes?)

5) One entry per person.

6) There are no more rules except to follow the rules previously posted.

I'm going to keep the contest open until next Friday at today at 5:00 PM CST and winners will be chosen by a random number generator and announced next Saturday Friday. 

Cool?

Okay, then see you in the funny papers.

(I hope.)