jennsylvania

The Audacity of Hate

Who likes hate mail?

I do, I do!

Here's an absolute gem from today's mailbag:

Dear Jennifer,

I enjoyed your first "literary effort" a great deal although the astericks (sic - I think she means quotation marks) (and possibly a different spelling) got a bit annoying, I do realize that's part of your (sic) "schtick."  Naturally, I purchased your follow up and quite frankly was instantly turned off by the Fox "News" and Sean Hannity ("Sean Insanity" as I refer to him) references.  The final nail in the coffin though, was the part where you are on the bus and pull the Ann Coulter ("Man Coulter" imho) out of your tote bag.  My limit with you particular sensibilities was reached and I didn't even bother to use the drop box at the library (as a donation.)  It went right into the garbage compacter (sic) (to make certain it was good and truly crushed and destroyed.)

I feel bad for you.  You seemed like someone cool to hang out with, fun to read, etc...

Mare

My response?

You'll be missed.  "Not."

And then I laughed myself into an asthma attack and made some waffles.

Later, after I finished breakfast, I began to really think about the contents of this note as it relates to my writing.  In Bright Lights, Big Ass, it's true, I do mention I'm conservative.  And I mention I like FOX, Sean, and Ann because I do like them.  Rush, too.  Which in no way implies I hold every single thing they say to be God's Own Truth. 

Why? 

Because I'm capable of critical thinking and drawing my own conclusions based on material presented.   And because I can read and enjoy something without having to be in complete conceptual agreement.

What gets me about Mare's email is I go to great lengths to scrub my writing of conservative commentary.  I respect my readers and I'm well aware many of them have Obama 08 stickers on the back of their cars. 

(And that's pretty cool.  It's exciting to see Americans so damn fired up about a candidate, regardless of whether or not that politician reflects my views.) 

Speaking of my views, I'm extraordinarily careful not to touch on polarizing topics such as terrorism, gun control, Social Security, etc.  Yeah, there are venues where I express my political ideology, but my books aren't one of them.  I'd rather share the stuff that unites us, like our collective fear of taking our pants off in front of medical professionals or why our grocery stores play so damn much Journey.  And, please, the most political among us have been able to set aside differing opinions and enjoy each other's company, e.g. Tip O'Neill and Ronald Reagan routinely getting together for cold drinks and story-telling even after the most bloody battles on the House floor. 

For Mare to have such a violent reaction at my opposing views is just kind of... ignorant.  Especially when she never even heard (a) what that opinion entails or (b) the thought process behind it.  That'd be like me dismissing her because she sells 3M window film (note:  please refrain from using a Google-stalkable address when sending hate mail) or loathing anyone who doesn't eat waffles.

Were I to limit my exposure to those who exclusively shared my ideals, then the only person I'd ever talk to would be my husband.  As much as I love him, I'd be missing out on knowing a lot of great people.

Mare says she feels sorry for me. 

Which... really?

Because I feel sorry for you, Mare.  I'm sorry you feel that opposing (albeit unknown) viewpoints are such an anathema.  I'm sorry your mind is so closed that you can't get past the specifics of a small fraction of the TV I watch and the books that I read.  And I'm sorry you had to burn the time and gray matter this morning to let me know exactly how offensive my (unspoken) views are.

Again, you'll be missed. 

Not.

P.S.  You realize now I'm obligated to take the two dollars I earned from your purchase to buy Ann's newest, right?

Grab a Pen, I'm Giving Advice

First - since the bulk of the emails I've received from my last post are of the "No, seriously, this time it's not you who is the asshole," variety, I'm opening up comments.  Do not make me regret it. 

Speaking of mail, I've gotten a ton of notes lately from people in their early 20's seeking advice on how to get away from their oppressive corporate jobs and do something fun, meaningful, creative, and, of course, lucrative. 

Kids?  Here's my advice for you. 

PAY YOUR FUCKING DUES. 

Don't get me wrong, I understand how awful it feels being at the bottom of the corporate totem pole.  Going from the college world of sleeping 'til 2:00 PM and wearing pajamas to class to waking your ass up at 5:30 AM to get on the train to catch the bus to then catch the second bus (because you're too broke to cab it) to then walk six blocks in uncomfortable shoes in order to get to a soul-sucking job where they talk to you like you're a slowpoke is no one's idea of a good time. 

Not only does every shit alphabetizing and stapling project land in your in-box, but you're the one most likely to be volunteered to clean hairy food out of the shared refrigerator.  It's you who has to take over the reception desk for Margie, the union employee who makes twice what you do, when she has a doctor's appointment.  No one listens to your ideas and if you dare to complain, the old-timers will cock their eyebrows and tell you, "Kid, you don't know how easy you have it," before launching into an esoteric, protracted tale having something to do with Life Before the Fax Machine.  (Which is bullshit because at least they used to get to have cocktails at lunch.)  ('Cause it's barely considered work if you get to be drunk while you're doing it.)  (Plus, they could smoke at their desks without it being considered a hate crime.)

Doing an entry level job is a lot like the hazing you receive as a pledge, except your superiors don't even do beer bongs with you afterward.  But here's the thing - you HAVE to go through this in order to figure out where you want to be next.  The mere fact you're asking me how to extricate yourselves from this situation tells me you have not suffered enough. 

Trust me, when you reach your breaking point, your next move will be crystal clear.  And maybe that will be off the corporate ladder.  Maybe it will be up.  Maybe it will be around.  But no one's going to know how you should proceed but you.

(Related story?  Fletch had his existential, angst-y, I-can't-stand-corporate-America moment about eleven years ago and he quit his entry level position administering employee benefits, opting to work as a bartender/bouncer.  Sure, he got to sleep 'til 2:00 PM again but he also had to wrestle both homeless guys who were peeing on the plate glass window of the bar and his bosses who were not only coked out of their minds but also heavily armed.  Two months into his tenure, the idea of health insurance, paid vacation, and wearing a tie to work were a lot less offensive.)

* * * * *

Anyway, I'm really, really going back to my edits now.  'Til I'm done (or sufficiently angry again) please visit Jess Riley's blog.  I'm reading an advance copy of her novel Riding with Larry Resnick coming out next summer and have to say there's something terribly, magnificently wrong with this girl.  I apologize for getting you psyched for a book that won't be out for another year, but she may well be my new favorite writer.  Also, the word you WILL steal from her is "shittacular."  (Please remember to give proper credit.)

Finally, since some of your notes specifically asked for recommendations, check out the following stuff I completely dig and in no way am being compensated for:

Monogram Marketplace - They sell the cutest Preppy t-shirts to ever exist.  Skulls, crossbones, and monograms?  Oh, HELL YES.

Philip B. - Ridiculously expensive beauty products I purchased solely because they were on the super-slash-extra-biggie markdown table at Ulta 3.  Am in serious trouble when I run out of all the sale priced bottles of White Truffle Oil shampoo I grabbed.  A black tar heroin addiction would be cheaper, yet the draw of soft, shiny, non-flammable colored hair is strong.  Also, the Nordic Wood product is like washing yourself with Christmas.  I'd give it two big holiday thumbs up except I'm driving myself crazy by inadvertently singing Norwegian Wood in the shower every time I use it, so it only gets one and a half thumbs.

Shoes, Betches - Not sure if the leopard style is only available online, but that's where I ordered mine.  They are 10,000 times cuter in 3D and fairly comfortable, too.  Be sure to page through Target's selection of heeled Mary Janes.  They aren't a perfect Manolo knock-off, but they are $535 cheaper and that has to count for something.

Back to work now... for ALL of us. 

P.S.  Twenty-somethings?  Keep at it and the uncomfortable shoes you're wearing to work could be the Manolos.

P.P.S.  I just found these!  You could pay $630 more for the little bow on the Manolo version.  And if you have this kind of cash to throw around, perhaps you'd also like to help me pay off one of my lower-balance credit cards.

   

The Audacity of Audacity

I'm knee-deep in re-writes at the moment and I hadn't planned on blogging while I'm working because during the editing process, my focus is way more intense than the first draft stage.  (Which, you may recall, I cried so much about for most of the summer.) 

Writing is all about ideas and general concepts in the initial manuscript process.  In editing, I go line by line to make sure it's as on-point as I can get it, adding not only my own corrections and improvements but also those from my editor.  (This is where I take out all the egregious ums, OKs, reallys, and seriouslys, because, um, OK, really, seriously, sometimes I need to open a Thesaurus.) 

The upside is the editing process quite appeals to my inner perfectionist.  The downside is until I'm done and present a manuscript with proper organization and fully fleshed-out ideas, I don't get paid. 

And, um... OK?  Really?  Seriously? 

Getting paid is the whole damn point of why I write. 

Professionally, I've done contract negotiations and fetched coffee and juggled spreadsheets and sat in three-hour meetings discussing amorphous mission statements, and far and away writing is the most satisfying way I've found to cover my rent.

I love what I do and I don't mean to sound like a mercenary.  Were I so concerned about garnering a paycheck, this site would be covered in text links, graphics, and pop-ups.  As you can see, there are no ads on this page.  I don't collect marketing data from visitors, even though you guys are one hell of a demographic.  And I politely decline any gifts or free samples from vendors and businesses in exchange for a mention.  If I say I like something on here, it's because I like it.  Period.  (Don't misunderstand me - there's NOTHING wrong with making money off your blog, because, yay, capitalism!  Smoke 'em if you've got 'em.  This is simply not a choice I've made.) 

Because I feel extraordinarily fortunate to be doing this job, I've not pounced on every opportunity to generate revenue.  I'm so appreciative people enjoy my work and that's why I've paid a designer and a hosting company to provide this improved forum with no obligations to the readers.  My gratitude is why I do stuff like travel to book clubs and cover any incidental expenses such as parking.  Gratitude is why I don't require a speaking fee.  Because I'm thankful, as often as possible I donate whatever I can in terms of time, books, or cash when queried by charities. 

Sometimes people want me to send a note to a friend who's lost their job or to check out their daughter's website and I'm touched be be held in the kind of esteem where what I might offer or say matters.  I can't do everything I'm asked, but I try so damn hard, often to my own financial detriment.

And that's why my head exploded when I read this paragraph at the end of what had been a lovely, chatty, very personal email from a gal named Kelly:

"If you are successful at [writing books], I don't want much in return.  However, helping me pay off one of my lower balance credit cards would be really, really helpful as I had to move in with my nagging but loving mother."

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

I've been stewing over this for the past two days to the extent I had to stop the editing I was doing to properly address my roiling anger.   

Just so we're clear, Kelly, I'm happy to pay off your credit cards as soon as I finish taking care of the following items in my own life:

*  The $40,000 Fletch and I still owe the Department of Education for our student loans

*  The $20,000 outstanding on our car notes to get them paid in full

*  Finishing cleaning up the remaining $3000 dollars on our credit report we still owe from old collections back when we were unemployed and NOT living for free with my mother so we can can get a fucking mortgage and start building some equity instead of flushing $24,000/year down the toilet on rent

*  Oh, and maybe $50,000 for a down-payment on the as-yet mythical starter house which will probably be so far out in the western burbs it will be in Iowa and may or may not contain indoor plumbing (again, if we can even GET a mortgage, let alone one with an interest rate that isn't considered usury)

*  The $1000 on my own credit cards

*  The $2500 it will take to get my cat the oral surgery he requires so his breath stops smelling like hot garbage water

*  The hundreds and hundreds of dollars we spend monthly on silly stuff like gas, electric, insurance, groceries, dry cleaning, and all those other accouterments that go hand in hand with living indoors and wearing pants

*  And maybe, just maybe whatever cash it would take to purchase a plane ticket and pay for a hotel and some sunscreen so I can go on vacation for the first time in five years

I cannot get past the audacity of this request.  I just do not comprehend the sense of entitlement here.  You like my books, ergo I should give you a handful of money for having said so?  Are you talking about those funds Fletch and I have both worked our asses off for the past five years?  And for which we made ten billion sacrifices in order to get to a place where we have the above liabilities but aren't cowering in the dark, shaking in financial impotence at impending doom?  Is this the account from which you'd like me to cut that check?  Or should I get it from my savings account?  (Which might be rough because it only contains $7.) 

People always say, "It doesn't hurt to ask!"  But in this case, it DOES hurt to ask because Kelly's having done so makes me way less enthusiastic to honor any other request I get.

And now, um, OK?  Really?  Seriously?  I've stated my point and I need to get back to work so I can get paid.

Because I have hot garbage water breath to fix.

Things I Have Learned This Week

Now in convenient list form!

*  Mother Nature does not appreciate even the merest implication of fisting and will raise the temperature thirty degrees outdoors to mess with your Shark Week (for Soup) plans.

*  Proceeding with Shark Week (for Soup) anyway and using the oven will also raise the temperature thirty degrees indoors.  And what goes best with roasty vegetable soup with mini-meatballs?  Profuse sweating.

*  Miss Tyra Banks IS going to exploit your pain on national TV.  Count on that.

*  Speaking of pain, if you wrestle with the pit bull and try to drape her around your shoulders, you WILL throw out your back again and your doctor WILL laugh at you.

*  Books you think you are finished writing are apparently not finished being written.

* * * * *

Until I'm done with the editing process and can pay attention to this blog, I highly/happily recommend the following books.

From Alison Pace, author of Pug Hill (also loved!), check out Through Thick and Thin.

From Rajaa Alsanea, I found The Girls of Riyadh completely fascinating.

Finally, my favorite book I read this year, Lost and Found by Carolyn Parkhurst.

(The hardcover has parrots and maps on it and you might think it's a changes-in-attitudes-changes-in-latitudes-Buffett-book.)  (Which it isn't.)

Anyway, read, enjoy, and talk amongst yourselves.  I'll be back as soon as I'm done!

Briefly

Overheard at the grocery store tonight:

"So I said, 'Get your clothes on, we're going to Red Lobster, bitch.'"

Two hours later, it's still funny.

The Supercilious

Following please find the random thoughts I had driving home from the gym a little while ago, windows open and AC blasting in a bid not to barf.  (I'm healthy - I just had my ass kicked by my trainer today.)

* In the area around Elston and Milwaukee Avenues, there are dozens of full color signs up about a lost pet.  Obviously posting these notices shows how much the people cherish their lost family member and I feel for them; really, I do, and I hope the pet makes his way back safely.  However, the animal in question is a parakeet.  I'm not sure he's "lost" so much as he simply "left." 

*  I was behind a guy in a brand new convertible Mercedes today with a vanity plate reading ALL MINE.  Um... dude?  Showing a modicum of humility or self awareness can make the difference between being a happy motorist and being the guy whose car gets keyed every day.  Perhaps when it's time to renew your plates, you'll opt for a more benign VRY GNROUS or U LK PRTY or TNY UNIT.  Just a thought. 

*  I'm completely loving having access to the community pool although I'm also aggravated at myself.  I've lived within two miles of it for the past ten years and I never went there before this week.  The water is really nice and the whole scene is way less Caddy Day at Bushwood than I thought.  (Or, at least somewhat.)  I'm hoping the pool staff is better at preserving life than they are at preserving order, though.  At some point I assumed the lifeguards would stop the fourteen year olds from trying to drown each other, but not so much.  Am sorely tempted to bring a whistle and start beaching the troublemakers myself. 

OK, am less queasy finally, so I'm going back to work.

Or possibly the pool. 

What Kind of Fuckery Is This?

If you're one of the people who CAMPED OUT in front of the AT&T store yesterday to buy an iPhone, I reserve the right to point and laugh and post your photo here.

   

For fuck's sake, it's a phone. 

It's not a cure for cancer. 

It's not a ticket to see the Beatles reunion tour with newly-risen-from-the-grave original members.

It's not an opportunity to have a bucket of drinks with Vince Vaughn.

It's not even free candy.

Will someone please explain to me why people would take time off from work (because this shot was captured mid-afternoon and these people obviously have jobs) and wait in line for a stupid phone?  Does it connect you directly to Jesus?  Does it make you invisible or give you other assorted super powers?  Does it come with an automatic promotion, pay raise, or barring that, unlimited lap-dances?

Seriously, I would like to know.

P.S.  I would be even more smug right now had I not squealed yesterday when I learned I could email myself a photo with my phone...

Hey, at Least Forbes Likes Me!

But BecomeAlpha?  Probably not so much, either.  Yo, check it.  (Hold tight - a Forbes flash ad comes up first before redirecting the URL to the right spot.)   

My only regret is they didn't publish the part where I called Life Coaching "horseshit."

Words, Words, Words

Today I shall smack you down! 

And then chat you up! 

And leave you wanting more (maybe?) with a couple of paragraphs I wrote for Forbes yesterday about a life coaching company (but have no idea if they'll actually print.) 

BecomeAlpha claims to be a hard-core, Marine-style boot camp for individuals who are tired of complacency and mediocrity.  They say the only way to become an Alpha is to do something about it, rather than doing nothing, which... OK, sure.  That makes sense.  Doing stuff beats not doing stuff.  For example, the guy who made piles of money by inventing the knit beer can cap sat around and emptied a lot of Miller High Lifes first.  His fortune only came when he said, “Hey, what if I added some yarn?” 

BecomeAlpha instructs students on tapping into their uber-selves through a variety of workshops and conference calls.  Among other classes, they teach sessions on hypnosis.  Funny, but when my father discussed his Marine boot camp experience, he talked a lot about the 26-mile road marches on Parris Island, but never mentioned the hypnotherapy.  (To be fair, maybe Big Daddy missed Hypnosis Day because he was busy fighting a war with the North Koreans.)  BecomeAlpha also provides coursework on Intimacy and Seduction, crucial in any boardroom situation, don't you think?  (Ten bucks says they advise you pull your spouse's hair during the act of love, which may be sexy the first time, but will likely land you a spot on the couch with the dog if you try it twice.)   

My wrists hurt now.  Must administer pie.

Ringtones Are the New Black

In the new issue of Us Weekly, music therapist (huh?) Al Bumanis analyzes what stars' ringtones say about their personalities.   

According to the article, Katie Couric's phone plays the Pussycat Dolls' Don't Cha when it rings and Bumais says this means “she's trying to be younger,” which... maybe.  The more likely story is her kids got a hold of it and now she has no idea how to change it back and if it goes off one more time while she's having lunch with Dan Rather to brainstorm on how she can bring more gravitas to the nightly news, they can fucking forget about having MTV film their Super Sweet Sixteen. 

Jennifer Lopez reportedly has the theme from Sex and the City programmed.  Bumanis explains this means she's “sexy and successful” as “it's the music of a strong, modern woman.”  However, I think it's reminiscent of her happier Bennifer days, back when her dresses made front-page news and long before Marc Anthony shackled her to a dresser, placed her under house arrest, and took away her liquid eyeliner. 

Jessica Biel has SexyBack and Bumanis says it's Jessica's sly way of letting the world know she and Justin are a couple.  So... okay, sure.  But then would that mean Justin's secretly dating every fourteen year old girl in America, too?  (People, I have been to the food court and I know of which I speak.)  (Also, I could make a joke here about this being the reason Britney has I Hate You as her ringtone, but no one would understand an esoteric reference to Slayer except my husband.)   

Finally, Scarlett Johansson says hers is the theme to Psycho, but only has it programmed to ring when certain people call.  Bumanis says this means she's intense.  I say it means she's probably catty and funny and bitchy should use said phone to schedule drinks with me post-haste. 

As for my ringtone?  Could it be anything but Back in Black?   

No.  No, it could not.