jennsylvania

Sucks To Be You, 2011

I keep running across blog posts and tweets and articles summarizing last year, all of which can be condensed into three words:

2011 Blew Goats

That's pretty much my assessment, too. 

Having lived through far more difficult times, I can't say that 2011 was my Worst. Year. Ever. but it definitely ranks in the top five, possibly the top three, at least in terms of stress and annoyances and situations going sideways. 

Seeing how we experienced three hundred and sixty-five days of illness (both of human and pet variety), professional catastrophes (oh, hi, one third of all bookstores closing), and overall worst case scenarios, I planned to ignore the holidays and start fresh in January. 

I decided we'd skip decorating/baking/shopping/entertaining and all the other assorted bits of holiday frippery because I just couldn't get behind putting a bow on the shit sandwich that was 2011.

I was resolved.

Fletch was not.

He insisted we give this awful year a Viking funeral, setting it all on fire and sending it out to sea. 

I'm not sure how, exactly, but the nihilist/cynic I married somehow morphed into the unholy love child of Martha Stewart and Clark W. Griswold, playing the Bing Crosby Christmas channel 24/7 while slapping lights, pine boughs, and glitter on every item in this house that didn't move.

And he even managed to decorate those items that did move.

(It's hard to look noble while wearing jingle bells, but Loki pulls it off.)

(Shame.  Now in convenient hat form.)

And then he made me invite house guests and helped throw a dinner party.

(That's Fletch in the argyle socks and red vest, the front of which matches the dogs' collars.  Oh, yes, it does.)

(Clearly discussing the fish I caught with the ladies.)

(Best stalker/house guest ever!)

And in so doing all of the above, Fletch managed to take one of the most hateful years on record and turned it into the best week ever.

Like I said, I have no idea how he did it, but I sure do appreciate it.

So what I'm saying, 2012, is that Fletch is running the show now so you'd better represent.

Or this guy's going to go all 2011 on your asses.

(Full of Christmas spirit or batshit, bugfuck, banana sandwich crazy?  2012, I wouldn't take my chances if I were you.)

(Not) Trapped in the Closet

Apparently you can't tell 50,000 Facebook followers about getting locked in the garage without providing the back story, so here goes:

A few years ago I received a silver key ring for making the best seller list.  I love this key ring, A) because of what it symbolizes and, B) shiny!  However, not long after I started using it, I learned that it's quirky.  You see, one of the silver balls screws off and that's how you add and remove keys.  Unless you're blessed with a patented GI Joe Kung-Fu grip, the ball will occasionally loosen.  The more times you toss your key ring in your bag, the looser it gets.

So, about once a month I have to remember to tighten the ball or all my keys will fall off and drown in the sea of lipstick, cough drops, antique Kleenex, and free range antacids rolling around the bottom of my bag, thus defeating the entire purpose of the key ring, shiny though it may be.

Last weekend my friend Joanna and I went to the opera.  She found a hotel downtown for less than a hundred bucks a night, so we decided we'd stay instead of waiting in the cold for a half an hour for the opera valet or taking the late train home. 

(The train is fine at that time of night; the Chicago train station, however, freaks me the hell out.) 

(Truly I am suburban now.)

(Also?  The Magic Flute?  With no murders, torrid affairs, OR swordfights?  Come on.  The production was fabulous, but going forward, I prefer my opera PG-13, at a minimum.) 

ANYWAY, being the hyper-paranoid douchebag that I am, I don't ever give my house key to the valet because I saw an episode of Fastlane once where Jamie Pressley was a high end thief who worked for a valet service and, using the house key, would steal jewels and art while the car owner was at dinner.  Mind you, I have no jewels or art, so I'm afraid these high end thieves would take my dogs out of spite and they wouldn't know when to give Maisy her heartburn medicine.

Point? 

I forgot to remove the key from the ring before I got into the car, so I had to do it en route.  I was able to secure the ball back on without incident, but as I had one hand on the wheel, I didn't get it very tight.

When I arrived home on Sunday, I forgot to reattach my car key to the ring.  Then, I used Fletch's car all week because it's more gas-efficient. 

Okay.  That's a lie.

I usually opt for Fletch's car because I'm lazy.  You see, you don't have to use the key to unlock or start it.  All you have to do is have the fob on your person somewhere, which is the greatest post-manicure feature in the world and which means I never have to dig it out from the swamp of wrappers and receipts and spent Starbucks gift cards that I lug around every day.  Because I only went out when he was home, I never had to reach for my house key because the garage door was unlocked.

(By the way, I'm providing this granular level of detail to prove to Fletch that I am not, in fact, a dingbat and this could have happened to anyone.)

So.  Yesterday.  I had to drop some stuff off so I took my car because it's bigger.  While I was driving I made a mental note that I had to tighten the stupid ball but never quite got to it.  I was in and out of the car a few times and eventually, my car key slid off the ring completely, not a big deal because it happens all the damn time.

When I arrived home and pulled into the garage, Fletch's car was gone, meaning I'd have to unlock the garage door myself.  I dug around in my bag for the key and kept coming up with handfuls of stuff such as three pair of Wayfarers, two chewy granola bars, a sewing kit, my lucky yellow binder clip, a variety of products from the Apple Corporation, and portable versions of the Declaration of Independence and U.S. Constitution.  (Hey, sometimes a gal wants to check on the 18 enumerated powers on the go.)

After much pawing, I finally dumped out my bag and noticed that both the silver ball and the key were missing, and... then I had a small temper tantrum and threw my purse across the garage, not realizing my car key was still inside, ergo locking myself in the garage and out of my car and precipitating an unpleasant Easter egg hunt.

Eventually I found my car key, which was nice but not necessary because for reasons too stupid to explain (yes, even I have my limits) we have a couch in there.  But the car was warmer, so I climbed in and started calling people.  Fletch was in the middle of an errand and couldn't get home for about 45 minutes, so I dialed my friend Angie.  While we were on the phone, I noticed that we had raccoon paw prints on the wall, leading from where the top of the window slid open last week to a shelf and down to Fletch's workbench, all of which neatly explains what I've been hearing in the attic.  I told her I was relieved to scratch "ghosts" off my possible list of explanations.  Then Angie asked me how I ever made to to adulthood and I replied that I didn't know.

Within the hour, Fletch came home and all is well, except that I still don't have a way to let myself into the house.  He was worried that we'd have to change the locks but considering I lost the key somewhere between here and the Mag Mile, I suspect whomever finds it will have to spend many years trying locks before he or she hits upon this particular house.  What's a shame is that the valet didn't steal my key because at least I know where to find him. 

Now what's puzzling is when I was changing into my jammies last night, something fell out of my shirt.  I thought I lost an earring, but instead it was the errant silver ball that caps the keyring. 

WTF?? 

Then I poked around in my bra to see if I somehow lost the key in there (like when I find popcorn after going to the movies) but no luck.

In summary?

I lost a key but gained a raccoon.

And THAT is why Fletch wants to buy me a helmet for Christmas.

Just Call Me Mia - A Timeline

Move-in Day Last Year:  "So the bedroom drapes aren't exactly our style, but they're fine and they're custom-made and even though they look like they should line a coffin, Imma keep 'em because I'm cheap and practical."

The Rest of Last Year:  "Can't sleep, drapes will eat me."

Sunday After Thanksgiving:  "The Restoration Hardware Outlet's having a 20% off sale, making each curtain panel $25?  Seriously, Fletch, we must buy new drapes... for America."

Monday After Thanksgiving:  "Whoa, THIS is how much the hardware costs?  That's where they get you.  They screw you in the drive-thru.  They lure you in with $25 panels and then they shove eight million dollars worth of finials and round clips up your ass."

Last Thursday Afternoon:  "The cartons of hardware are here!  And half of them have busted open during shipping!  For eight million dollars, you'd think they'd have packaged them using something other than tissue paper and spite."

Last Thursday Night:  "Maybe Libby just tore the rest of the boxes open because she heard me complaining about how badly they were wrapped.  And you have to be a little bit impressed that she can carry around a six foot long oil rubbed bronze curtain rod, right?  Right?"

Last Saturday:  "HA, HA, HA, SEE YOU IN HELL, DEATH DRAPES!  Or, more likely, at the Habitat for Humanity ReStore.  Still, sayonara!"

Last Sunday:  "Now that the spackling is dry, we can patch the paint and be done?  New curtains hanging by tomorrow?  YAY!"

Monday:  "Oh, please, don't be ridiculous.  OF COURSE it's the same color beige.  That's why the old owners only left one can of it instead of two.  I mean, who's going to paint with two nearly identical shades of beige?  That's crazy talk!  Impossible and impractical.  I guarantee this is the right color.  No, you don't need to do a test patch first.  It's fine.  IT'S FINE.  Come on - you're burning daylight." 

Tuesday:  "It'll lighten up when it dries."

Wednesday:  "Clearly it's not dry yet.  It did rain earlier this week.  Just give it some time."

Thursday:  "Um..."

Friday:  "So I guess you're painting the bedroom today?"

This is why we didn't buy a fixer upper like my characters in If You Were Here. 

I imagine it would be hard to type having being impaled with a curtain rod.

I Love Lamp

Good morning!

This photo has no bearing on what I'm writing next.  I just really wanted to share the awesome that is the $10 milk frother I bought.  I'm so quick to complain about what I don't like that I often forget to document what I do, so I'm making a point to post this.

Seriously, look at this cup! 

It's foamy! 

It's magnificent! 

I feel like I'm having my morning coffee in Italy... if Italy were a filthy home office littered with cat toys.

Speaking of cats, I wanted to share the success we've had integrating Patsy and Edina into our household. 

Ha!

Honestly?  I'm beginning to understand why they were longtime shelter residents.  They are... not terribly nice.  These two are all, "Come for the biting, stay for the hissing, swatting, and shaking in impotent rage!"

(Spoiler alert: Don't worry - they're here for the long haul and nothing bad happens.) 

(Of course, Mr. Fletcher Bleedyhands would beg to differ about something bad happening.)

Anyway, we've been following every bit of advice I could find in regard to introducing new cats to a multiple pet household.  For the first week, they were completely separated in their own room.  I'd hang out with them and we'd all watch Real Housewives on Bravo together.  They seem to dig me.  (And NeNe, for that matter.)  I'd bring the same quilt into and out of the room so the ladies would become familiar with the scents of the other cats and dogs.

BTW, here's a shot of Patsy.  It's kind of blurry and awful (as per my usual) but you can get a peek of how blue-eyed and wide-caboosed she is:

And here's Eddie with the one thing she loves in this world - the lampshade:

She spends hours every day nuzzling and licking it.  I don't get it.

Last week my dad was here, so they didn't quite get the proper Week Two socialization.  That means we're still doing the Week Two gradual introduction business.  That's mostly entailed two lazy pit bulls sleeping on the bed while Patsy and Edina glower, smoke, and sip Bolly.  Libby's been able to nuzzle Patsy a little without having her snout slashed to ribbons, so that's a bonus.

The other thing we've done is put a baby gate in front of the open office door so everyone can see each other without touching.  At first I thought this was genius because Patsy's too fat to clamber over and Edina's too reticent.  What I didn't realize is the Thundercats can scale anything so they sometimes pop over to inspect the girls' toys, thus invoking the wrath of Khan.  (Having anticipated this, I clipped all claws down to stubs, so it's more like they're slapping and less like they're Edward Scissorshanding one another.)

But last night while the door was open, Eddie decided to venture out, unbeknownst to us.  I realized this when I stepped into the bathroom downstairs and found a shredded toilet paper roll (she also loves to rip paper), stray tufts of fur, and what I'd classify as "terror turds."  She must have encountered one of the boys while she was on walkabout.

We found her happily hanging out on a pile of sweaters in my closet.  Whatever had happened, she was over it.  Fletch picked up the sweet, nice kitty and on our way out of the bedroom, Libby and Loki flew past the door while chasing each other.

To say Eddie freaked the fuck out would be an understatement.

Fletch was holding her and instead of just letting her drop and run back to the closet, he tried to keep a grip on her, wresting four pounds of cat like she was a prize marlin.

Mistake.

Big, huge mistake.

She bit him about nine hundred times in rapid succession before sinking her teeth into my hand.  She then banked off me and dashed under the bed.  Fletch was shrieking, "She hit an artery!" before he realized the warm liquid gushing down his arm wasn't blood.

Oh, come on. 

I couldn't not laugh.

While Fletch disinfected dressed his wounds, all, "What did I have for Thanksgiving?  A staph infection!" I tried to calm Eddie.  I knew we had to get her out from under the bed because we didn't want ten thousand free-range, bare-knuckle boxing matches to break out while we were sleeping.

We have this weird cat pheromone spray we got from the vet so I sprayed it all over and just as I was asphyxiating myself, I spied the warning about not inhaling the fumes. 

Noted.

Eddie was considerably more calm after I'd doused myself with Feliway, but she still wasn't budging from under the bed, despite offers of treats and catnip.

I tried to nudge her out with my good grabbing stick but had no luck.  Then, Fletch then positioned himself on the other side of the bed with a Swiffer.  However, the bed was too wide and she kept slipping through the gap where our poles wouldn't meet.

Also, she was getting mad again and every time she growled, Fletch flinched. 

He kept picturing her attaching to his face squirrel-in-Christmas-Vacation-style.

Then I grabbed a broom and Fletch took the extend-a-pole we use to change lights outside and, thirty delightful minutes later, we managed to flush her out.

I'm not sure why I seem so different while lying next to the bed as opposed to sitting on it, but the minute she spotted me, she ran over to sit in my lap and she was totally fine.

We got her back upstairs without incident, where she immediately began to make out with her lampshade again. 

In retrospect, I should have just brought the lamp downstairs and lured her out with that.

Anyway, everyone's fine today, with the possible exception of Fletch who has yet to believe that these cats were a good idea. 

That's when I explained to him that last year our dogs were wild Indians who only got worse once we introduced a new puppy to the mix. 

But with the proper training, consistent discipline, and a commitment to making it work, our little family is all the happier for it... even if we did lose a few light bulbs, remote controls, and shoes along the way.

Happy First Anniversary, Libby!

"Happy Thanksgiving!  And I hope you don't get a staph infection!"

 

Breaking Down Breaking Dawn

Well?

Have you seen Breaking Dawn yet?

Are you such a Twihard that you went to the midnight showing on Thursday?

Or are you less hardcore in that you waited until the 10:30 showing on opening day?

Perhaps you're planning to see it over the weekend or next week while you're on vacation? 

Or do you really not give a flying fig about sparkly vampires finally making amore and you saw Moneyball instead... yet you dug the New Moon and Eclipse reenactments enough that you're back for more?

Then you're in luck because I'd like to present Breaking Dawn, the Jennsylvania edition! 

This reenactment should neatly replicate my film viewing experience, except that unlike the asshole sitting behind me in the theater, I haven't brought my toddler with me.  Mostly because I don't have a toddler, but partly because even if I did, I wouldn't want them witnessing a lot of sparkly vampire sex. 

But that's just me. 

Anyway, here goes...

Bella:  "I can't believe I'm getting married!  I'm practically vomiting with excitement!  Yet I'm vaguely concerned that something could go horribly, horribly awry."

Alice:  "Except for the fact that you were previously almost offed by James, Victoria, Laurent, Riley and a bunch of newborns, Jasper on accident, a pack of horny townies, a motorcycle, a skidding panel van, a cliff dive, a cavalcade of pissed off ancient Italians, and seasonal affective depression, what could go wrong?"

Bella:  "You're totes right.  And now I'll finally get a ride in Edward's Volvo, if you know what I mean!" 

Edward:  "Love is patient, love is kind, it does not envy-"

Bella:  "So, that Volvo of yours... it's all warmed up, yes?"

Bella's Friends and Family:  "A toast to Bella who totally doesn't look pregnant in that dress because this isn't the kind of movie where foreshadowing is important!"

Bella's Friends and Family:  "Drink up, bitches!"

Bella's Friends and Family:  "Um, is anyone else confused by this wallpaper?"

Roger Sterling:  "Pfft.  You don't know how to drink. Your whole generation, you drink for the wrong reasons. My generation, we drink because it's good, because it feels better than unbuttoning your collar, because we deserve it. We drink because it's what men do."

Joan Holloway:  "Ooookay."

Roger:  "I'll tell you the same thing I told my daughter: if you put a penny in a jar every time you make love in the first year of marriage, and then you take a penny out of the jar every time you make love in the second year, you know what you have? A jar full of pennies."

Joan:  "Uh huh."

Roger:  "Why are we even here, Joanie?"

Joan Holloway:  "Because Mad Men isn't back until next June and we have nothing else to do?"

Roger:  "That doesn't sound right."

Joan:  "Because I'm going to teach Bella about birth control just like I did with Peggy Olson?"

Roger:  "Please."

Joan:  "Because we're trying to appeal to a more sophisticated demographic?"

Roger:  "Negatory."

Joan:  "Because Jen wants to write the cost of buying us off her taxes?"

Roger:  "There we go.  Now get me a scotch, a Lucky Strike, and an introduction to Blondie in the bikini."

Bella:  "Hey, Jacob!  You're here!  And you're wearing a shirt.  S'up with that?"

Jacob:  "I told the producers I wasn't down with showing my abs."

Bella:  "Are you familiar with the concept of 'staying in your wheelhouse'?  Those ladies ain't here for me."

Jacob:  "Whatevs.  Wanted to see you before you're all undead and stuff."

Bella:  "Not going vamp during my honeymoon."

Jacob:  "But you're still planning to ride in Edward's Volvo?"

Bella:  "Natch."

Jacob:  "You're an idiot!"

Bella:  "And you're still wearing a shirt.  Who's the idiot now?"

Edward:  "Next stop, honeymoon!"

Bella:  "This isn't what I meant when I talked about a ride in your Volvo."

Edward:  "But it's tasseled for your pleasure!"

Edward:  "Care for an awkward midnight swim?"

Bella:  "Dunno.  Does your Volvo operate underwater?"

Edward:  "So, here we are in our marriage bed.  Whoo, don't know about you but I'm wiped.  G'night!"

Bella:  "I did not wait four films for your jetlagged ass to pass out now.  Gimme the keys; we're going for a ride.  I'll drive myself if I have to."

Edward:  "OMFG!!!!!  THIS IS THE GREATEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE!  WOO!  TOUCHDOWN!  HOUSTON, WE DO NOT HAVE A PROBLEM!!  I'M FACEBOOKING MY STATUS TO 'IN A COMMITTED RELATIONSHIP' RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!!!11!!"

Bella:  "So... how long is forever exactly?"

Jen:  "Yes.  This is the perfect time for the preschooler sitting behind me to start telling everyone she loves Elmo.  Thanks for that."

Bella:  "In totally unrelated news, I'm starving.  Must be the island air and not the spawning of an unholy demon seed in my downstairs ladybits.  I'm going to eat fifty eggs for breakfast!"

Edward:  "Whatever you say, Cool Hand Luke."

Jacob:  "You're back!  You're looking... well."

Bella:  "Guess I'm going to be a teen mom after all.  Did not see that coming."

Jacob:  "Yeah, prolly going to have to kill your baby after this.  No offense."

Bella:  "None taken.  See?  See how amenable everyone is when you take off your shirt?"

Edward:  "I've come up with a rather elegant solution to that whole 'demon seed' thing."

Bella:  "See Dead Body; Over My."

Edward:  "Okay, fine, we'll try to save the damn baby.  But what might make you feel better?  Chicken soup?  A bathrobe?  Some celebrity magazines?"

Bella:  "No."

Alice:  "How about a nice, big glass of blood?"

Bella:  "Really?  That's where your mind goes next?  Really?"

Edward:  "We'll put it in a sippy cup for you."

Bella:  "Sold!"

Alice:  "It's so weird how you look fatter and thinner."

Bella:  "I know, right?"

Alice:  "Whatcha gonna name the baby?"

Bella:  "Renesmee."

Alice:  "Ha!  No, seriously."

Bella:  "I am serious."

Alice:  "Um, hey!  Look over there!  It's an angry wolf pack!"

Angry Wolf Pack:  "Let's get ready to ruuuuuuummmmmmmbbbbbblllllle!"

Bella:  "Shit!  My water broke all over Carrie's shoes!"

Jen:  "Wrong chick flick, sweetie."

Edward:  "This scene is awful!"

Alice:  "This scene is horrifying!"

Jen:  "This scene is why you don't bring a three year old to the goddamned movies."

Jacob:  "Did anyone else notice that Bella croaked?"

Jacob:  "Bella's Audi 5000 now.  But I got the wolf pack to stand down.  So there's that."

Jacob:  "And in even more good news, it turns out that I imprinted.  So first, Imma help raise the baby... and then Imma marry her!"

Edward:  "Aces."

Bella:  "Um, hello?  Not actually dead.  But I am calling my agent because I'll be damned if I'm not hot in the next movie."

Everyone:  "Hooray!" 

Bella:  "So... yeah.  Everything worked out really well even though it was touch and go for a hot minute.  To recap, I've got the guy, the baby, the Volvo, an ass that will never sag, and Jacob learned an important lesson about what cougars like.  Looks like Alice was right and nothing that went wrong stayed wrong.  And I don't even have to worry about those pesky Italians now!  The end!"

The Italians:  "What we have here is a Situation."

FIN

If You Were Here (in Florida)

Every year when we plan book tour cities, I promise the folks in Florida that I'll do my best to get there.

And I have always failed you, Florida.

Until now.

Which is why I'm delighted to announce Jen's Spring Break Book Tour, coordinating with the paperback release of If You Were Here!

Before I get to the details, here's a look at the new cover and step-back (the page behind the cover that peeks through.)

Get it?  The house is a cutout and it opens to a bucket of yellow paint.  I'm crazy in love with the new look for fiction because hopefully this will lessen the amount of angry email I receive, admonishing me for buying Jake Ryan's house and changing my name to Mia without explanation. 

I wish I were kidding.

Actually, that's why I felt it was important to include a reader's guide with this book along with a behind the scenes explanation of what is and isn't true.  (Hint: a lot less than you'd expect.)  I'll make the reader's guide available free/online as soon as the paperback comes out in March.

Or I could just tell you about everything in person at the following events:

TUESDAY, MARCH 6

MIAMI, FL

Books & Books

265 Aragon Ave

Coral Gables, FL  33134

8 PM

 

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 7

VERO BEACH, FL

Vero Beach Book Center

2145 Indian River Blvd

Vero Beach, FL  32960

6 PM

 

THURSDAY, MARCH 8

JACKSONVILLE, FL

Barnes and Noble

10280 Midtown Parkway

Jacksonville, FL  32246

7 PM

 

FRIDAY, MARCH 9

PHOENIX, AZ

Barnes and Noble

21001 N. Tatum Blvd.

Phoenix, AZ  85050

7 PM

We're hoping that those who don't live down there might be on spring break at that time, in which case I look forward to meeting non-Floridians, too!  If you're not in Florida (or Arizona) fear not, because I'll be doing some other fun events, like a John Hughes bus tour of the North Shore.

Two months after that, I'll be on a national tour for the new memoir Jeneration X and probably again in the late fall for my yet untitled novel. 

What I'm saying is you'll see a lot of me next year.

I should probably start working out again.

Most likely I'll just spray-tan.

See you then!

Three of You Are Winners!! (The Rest of You Get Cat Pictures)

First up, the winners of yesterday's It's Hard Not to Hate You book giveaway are...

Beth D.

Marlene Bates

Melissa Chapman

(But you know this because I already emailed you.)

For everyone else, I have a story.  (So, really, you're all winners!  Yay!!)

Ahem.  Anyway, last week was my birthday. 

Neither Fletch nor I are usually big birthday people, so I wanted to keep the day low-key, particularly since last year we actually had an elaborate celebration with friends in from New York.  I've also been sick ever since that asshole sneezed in my mouth in Detroit so I didn't feel up to going out for dinner in the city.  Plus, I received my present early when I stumbled across an old poster chest (like a steamer trunk flipped on its side) at an antiques store.

I love the trunk so much that it took every ounce of willpower I possess to not to email a shot of it everyone I know with the caption, "Look at my chest!"  I would, of course, follow that up with a photo of the brilliant red shrubs on the side of the house with the caption, "Check out my bush!"

This is why no one ever emails me back.

Anyway, I was kind of mopey on my birthday because (at my insistence) we weren't doing anything and I didn't have a present to open.  Finally, Fletch couldn't take the melancholy anymore and suggested we stop at the Orphans of the Storm animal shelter on the way to the grocery store.

To backtrack, we lost two of our elderly cats this year.  Jordan and Tucker were 19 and 18 respectively and they lived long, happy, and in Tucker's case, slightly date-rapey lives.  Ever since they've been gone, I've insisted that we had space on our roster for two more team members, while Fletch insisted that the game was over.  Also?  He's tired of always having fur in his mouth.

But I can't stop quoting the stories I've read about how shelters are overrun because families can't afford to care for their pets any more and it breaks my heart.  So when Fletch asked if bringing on another cat would give me a happy birthday, I said yes!

We went to the shelter with one goal in mind - to find the hardest-to-place cat/pair of cats they had.  Everyone always wants kittens, but no one ever looks for a five year old black cat who may or may not quite grasp the concept of using a litter box.

When we got to the cat part of the shelter, immediately in front of us was a room full of ledges and windows, swarming with hundreds of cats hanging out together.  I pointed to the area and said, "Hey, Fletch?  That's what my life's going to look like when you die."

I wanted the very first set of cats that we met.  The shelter directed us to Rocky and Crystal, two of the fattest cats I've ever seen.  Seriously, each of them looked like a stuffed animal bedroom slipper.  (I envisioned myself sending out emails boasting the heading, "Look at my fat p-u-s..." but then realized it would take too much spelling.)  They'd previously been together but the family had to dump them to take work in Texas and the poor guys had been in the shelter for two years.  At eight and six, no one was exactly lining up for them and there was a good chance that they'd live in the shelter for the rest of their lives.  Plus, these guys loved dogs and they're the cats they use to proof dogs in the shelter.  What's not to want?

Rocky and Crystal are all the volunteer's favorite cats and can't understand why nobody ever wants them.  However, we wanted to take them immediately, but Rocky seemed to have a cold so the shelter workers said both cats would have to be treated with antibiotics before we could take them.  Which, fine, no problem.  We'd be back.

The next day the shelter director called us and explained that Rocky didn't have a cold; rather he had some slight ongoing respiratory problems, likely from the stress of living in a shelter for two years.  I said we were fine with that and we had the means to treat him.  So we went in to claim our cats, with the plans to change Crystal's name to Adrian.  (I mean, come on!  Rocky and Adrian?  Yo!)

However, after we finished the paperwork and were about to put them in their boxes to bring them home, the shelter insisted on one last FIV test.

Rocky tested positive, as did Crystal.

We were heartbroken.

This wouldn't be a big deal if we were bringing them to a cat-free environment.  Cats who test positive can live long, happy, healthy lives.  However, they can spread the disease through scratches and bites and the shelter advised us not to take them for the safety of our other cats.  The volunteers took Rocky and Crystal/Adrian and put them back into their cage while I tried to not cry.  That's when I told Fletch, "I am not leaving here without two cats."

The shelter workers begged us not to feel bad because it didn't matter if we took those guys or another set of cats - we'd be freeing up space and resources for more needy pets and we were doing a good thing.  So we looked at the second hardest-to-place cats in the joint, a couple of four year old female cats named Patsy and Tonka.  One had the blue, slanty eyes of a Siamese and the other was an amalgamation of the features of every girl cat I ever had, so of course they were a yes.  They were both so pretty and sweet that I couldn't figure out why they'd been stuck in a cage for over a year.

We brought them home.

Before I get to the rest of the story, if there's ANYONE local who's looking for two amazing cats, please, please, please check out Rocky and Crystal at Orphans of the Storm in Deerfield.  They're so sweet and mellow and lovable that they're going to make someone the best pets if they're just given a chance.

Anyway, we brought them home and I immediately rechristened them with their new AbFab names.

This is Patsy...

And her BFF Edina...

The only group photo I've been able to take so far...

They were such sweetie-darlings that none of us (my friend Tracey accompanied us) could figure out why no one had adopted them until we got them home and realized they're biters.

Mind you, they're not angry biters. 

They're loving biters. 

All they want to do is give us hugs... with their teeth.

But I figure that living in a crate with anyone for a year might make you touchy.  And in the scheme of things, being bitten is better than what Dirty Old Mr. Tucker used to do after luring kittens into his panel van with warm saucers of milk and when Jordan decided litter boxes were for suckers.

I'll be interested to see what happens as we slowly transition them into the household.  Currently they live in my guest room and we're following a stringent program of how to introduce them to the rest of the clan.  So far they've met all the Thundercats from afar and even though the ladies are half their size and twice their age, they managed to scare the bejesus out of the boys.

This should be fun.

(Those don't sound like famous last words at all.)

You can find out more about Orphans of the Storm here.

 

It's Hard Not to Hate You Book Giveaway!

Ever want to buy a book based on the cover or title alone?

Yeah.  Me, too.

I adored this book before I ever opened it. 

And then I read what Val Frankel had to say and I really fell in love.

From the Amazon.com description:

"The hate in you has got to come out." After being advised to reduce stress by her doctor, humorist Valerie Frankel realized the biggest source of pressure in her life was maintaining an unflappable easing-going persona. After years of glossing over the negative, Frankel goes on a mission of emotional honesty, vowing to let herself feel and express all the toxic emotions she'd long suppressed or denied: jealousy, rage, greed, envy, impatience, regret. Frankel reveals her personal History of Hate, from mean girls in junior high, selfish boyfriends in her twenties and old professional rivals.

Hate stomps through her current life, too, with snobby neighbors, rude cell phone talkers, scary doctors and helicopter moms. Regarding her husband, she asks, "How Do I Hate You? Let Me Count the Ways." (FYI: There are three.) By the end of her authentic emotional experience, Frankel concludes that toxic emotions are actually good for you. The positive thinkers, aka, The Secret crowd, have it backwards. Trying to ward off negativity was what'd been causing Frankel's career stagnation, as well as her health and personal problems. With the guidance of celebrity friends like Joan Rivers and psychic Mary T. Browne, Frankel now uses anger, jealousy and impatience as tools to be a better, balanced and deeper person. IT'S HARD NOT TO HATE YOU sends the message that there are no wrong emotions, only wrong ways of dealing with them.

I can't not get behind a book where HATE is the key to happiness, you know?

And for three lucky readers today, we're giving away signed copies!  To win your copy, all you have to do is write "It's hard not to hate you" in the comments section.  How easy is that?  The contest runs from now until noon CST tomorrow.  One entry per person/IP address and void where prohibited.

Good luck and go get hatin'!

 

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...

* * *

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!

Victory Lap

Seven.

I have seven books under my belt now.

Sometimes they're easy to write, like Bitter or Such a Pretty Fat.

And sometimes they're rough, like when my house filled with mold and I had to move, like it did during Pretty in Plaid.

I've been working on Jeneration X, the new memoir, all summer. This one's been fun to write, yet it took FREAKING FOREVER, way longer than anticipated. I feel like I missed out on some of the best days this year because I was up in my office working while my pool sat there, all blue and clear and empty and unloved. (Yeah, the blog was empty and unloved, too. I know. But when I finished writing for the day the last thing I wanted to do was write more. That's just how it goes every fall.)

Anyway, this book was a tough one because things kept happening during the process, like losing our electricity four times. FOUR TIMES. Then I waged war with Lands End and a Ford dealership and a bunch of other behind the scenes stuff, none of it urgent, but all of it taking time away from my goal of being finished. And when I finally got on a roll and felt like I was at the home stretch, some asshole getting off a plane from Detroit sneezed before I could cover a yawn and that knocked me on my ass for a week.

I vowed I'd finish this book before we closed the pool and when I did, I'd take my victory lap. I wanted to take one swim this year that didn't make me feel guilty for not doing my work.

We're closing the pool tomorrow.

I finished right under the wire.

And I took my victory lap.

Yet, when I think back on this, I'll probably remember it as the day my chest cold turned to pneumonia.

So what I'm saying is I'm back.

(Until my edits are due.)

What's Your Number? - UPDATED WITH WINNERS!

Okay, winners will have just received an email from me and from Karyn, but in case you're looking here first and not your inbox, they are:

With- Wendi Roach, Heidi Eicher

Withouth - Amy Goddard, Arlene A (aecarb), and Amy (seanamy)

Thanks so much for playing!

* * *

This is my friend Karyn.

Nope, she's not the bride.

She's the one with her feet in the air.

I chose this shot because it best sums up everything Karyn is.

I've known Karyn a number of years ago but I knew of her long before that because she was my nemesis. She'd turned her website SaveKaryn.com into a book and sold a movie about it, too. I'd log on to her site, read about her success, and I'd use my bitterness about what she'd accomplished as motivation to start my own website and write my own book. (Still waiting for the movie, though.)

When I finally met her, she won me over in the first five seconds and she's since become one of my dearest friends.

Isn't she adorable?

Anyway, even though she sold her memoir to a movie studio, that's no guarantee it would ever see an audience. Ninety-nine percent of the time, the movie doesn't get made. Which sucks.

But that's not the kind of detail that stops Karyn. I mean look at the top picture; if she doesn't care about pesky stuff like the laws of gravity, she's certainly not going to worry about percentages.

So she wrote a novel and called it Twenty Times a Lady.

And she sold another movie based on her book.

And this time? Karyn's movie got made.

You can see What's Your Number in theaters everyone September 30th!

To celebrate the coming film and the re-release of the Twenty Times a Lady book (now called What's Your Number?,) we're giving away signed copies to five lucky winners!

We've got three copies of the US version and two of the UK version. Here's what they look like:

The US version

And here's the UK version

Again, because this is Karyn, it makes total sense that Captain America is on the cover of the British version and not the American one. (Other than the covers, they're completely the same inside.) When Karyn and I discussed how I should do this contest, Karyn suggested that everyone write their "number" in the comments section, but... no. This is not information I want to have, nor do you need to share with the whole Internet in order to win a book.

To enter to win one of the copies, write in the comments section "With" if you prefer the cover with Captain America or "Without" if you want the American version. That's it, just "with" or "without." One entry per person/IP address, and the winners will be chosen at random. I'm going to leave the contest open until 12:00 PM tomorrow and I'll announce the winners tomorrow afternoon.

So... happy reading, happy viewing, and good luck!

P.S. When Fletch saw the trailer for the first time, he was quiet for a minute before he said, "This really happened to her, didn't it?"

I guess we'll never know...

 

Knowledge Is Power(?)

While reading last night, I ran across the word "merlon" and I didn't know what it meant, so I looked it up.

According to the Kindle dictionary, a "merlon" is "the solid part of an embattled parapet between two embrasures."

Well... thanks very much for the clarification.

(In my head I've decided it's the red wine that wizards drink.)

The Last Blast of Summer Giveaway - UPADTED WITH WINNER!

UPDATE:  And the winner is... Jackie Nelson!  Jackie, I'll be emailing you shortly to get your shipping info.  For everyone else, thanks for playing and happy reading!

* * *

I'm now halfway through the second book in the Game of Thrones series and I'm pretty much driving Fletch crazy at this point with all my talk of Imps and smallfolk and kingslayers. 

When I called him for dinner by suggesting he join me in sharing meat and mead, he begged me to please, for the love of God, read something else.

And I will.  Eventually.

So, if due to my George R.R. Martin suggestion, you're making your own bannermen family nutty, I offer you this small fix:

 

I'm giving away this collection of fun beach reads today to one lucky winner to enjoy before the summer's over.  I love each of these books so much - Beth Harbison's story is witty, soulful, and introspective (with bonus '80s nostalgia, so you know I'm all about that,) Celia Rivenbark is my liberal Southern soul sister, and Laurie Notaro not only invented/perfected the funny essay but continues to raise the bar.

To enter, write the phrase "Winter is coming"in the comments section.  That's it.  Nothing more, nothing less.  Entries will close at 5:00 PM CST and I'll pick a winner by random number generation.  One entry per person/IP address and void where prohibited and all that jazz.

Good luck! 

Now I've got to go see a man about a dragon... 

Libby Lessons

Check out the left cheek action going on here.

 
What did Libby learn today?

Bees bite back. 

The (Mid)August Reading List

One of the best things I've ever read isn't a book at all. 

Rather, it's a journal post by Neil Gaiman and it includes the greatest line ever written:

George R.R. Martin is not your bitch.

Okay, fine, feel free to argue that other authors have tossed out a few better one liners, e.g. "It was the best of times; it was the worst of times," or  "Happy families are all alike, every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."  But personally, no other line has spoken to me more as an author, which is why I quote it all the damn time. 

Honestly, I get frustrated when readers complain about my not writing enough... or enough of what they want.  You'd be shocked at the vitriol in some of the mail I've received about If You Were Here.  There's a small faction who are completely incensed at my having penned a novel instead of another memoir. 

But here's the thing - Fletch and I have worked so hard to create a normal, secure life.  We've made the kind of decisions that specifically insure that crazy shit happens a whole lot less often.  For example, we bought a house where we wouldn't have run-ins with our neighbors because I don't actually enjoy having run-ins with our neighbors.  (Of course, Fletch does.  But fortunately, lawn maintenance has become his ad hoc nemesis, so it's all good.) 

Point?  Our lives are calm (ergo boring) by design.

Another drawback is that in having had some publishing success, I'm no longer completely anonymous.  That's limiting.  Were I to write a scathing chapter about an interaction, there's a chance the person I wrote about is going to read it, and I'll be honest, I'm not in the business of intentionally hurting people's feelings.  I'm enough of a jerk naturally without actually trying to be one.

Also, if I were to, say, describe business details that have bothered me, like exactly what I think about the (allegedly, of course) thieving, cheating, conniving, dirt-bag from whom we rented our last house and whom I Google all the damn time in order to track his downfall and whom I would hit with a sock full of oranges given the opportunity, I could be sued.  Not a big fan of lawsuits. 

So I have to do a lot more self-editing, thus my pool of stories has gotten smaller.  That's why I had so much fun writing If You Were Here.  I loved being able to tell true tales, twisting them just enough as to not be incriminating.  Plus, there was the whole "make shit up" element which happens to be far more convenient than simply sticking to reality. 

Anyway, not to worry, I have more memoirs on tap!  

All that I'm saying is I had to be ready to write them.  And, in no small part due to the creative exercise of If You Were Here, I am.

Which brings me to George R.R. Martin.

As I've been quoting a line about him for almost two years, I figured I might want to finally read him.  I didn't know a thing about his work, except that people were batty for it.  (And the trailer for the HBO series seemed intriguing.)

When I read that the Stark and Lannister families in A Game of Thrones; A Song of Fire and Ice were loosely representative of the folks involved in the War of the Roses, I was in.  Rumor has it that I'm a direct descendant of the House of Lancaster and that's just bad-ass. 

Granted, my grandfather told me this and he also used to talk up Moon Island, the place where everything you flushed went, so he may or may not have been the greatest source of accurate information. 

(He was right about Nova Scotia being a real place though.) 

(Did not know that until junior high school geography.)

(Embarrassing!)

(Sorry, Canada!)

Moving on.

I started the book with some trepidation because fantasy is not my genre.  I'm way more likely to purchase something with shoes on the cover than I am dragons or swords.  But I gave the first couple of chapters a chance and I'm so glad that I did because I'm simply enthralled with everything I've read.

George R.R. Martin pretty much yanked me into his world and he's yet to let me go.  That's why this is the one and only book on August's list.  At 807 pages, it's pretty much the only thing that I've been reading.

What won me over is Martin's fearlessness.  Along with not being your bitch, George R.R. Martin is also not afraid to do what other books don't.  Where other authors would hesitate to kill off a popular character (man or animal), Martin has no problem doing so. 

Taboo subjects?  Oh, he goes there. 

Big time. 

And my sort-of namesake, the Lannisters? 

Apparently I'm descended from a long ling of assholes.   

I've been so mesmerized by his work, I keep telling Fletch that I want to, like, ride around in George R.R. Martin's beard for a couple of weeks, just to get an idea of how he thinks.  Of course, I've been yammering about this book and the noble houses of Westeros and chain mail so much that Fletch asked if I want to borrow his old 20-sided dice. 

You know what?  If Dungeons and Dragons is anything like this, I just might.  Comic-Con, here I come!

So I guess what I'm saying is that even though George R.R. Martin is not your bitch... I may be his.

 

Happy reading!