jennsylvania

I'm Almost Sure This Isn't Worthy Of A Post, And Yet...

This really doesn't merit writing down, but, hey, it's Friday and you're probably trying to coast through the last hour of work, so here goes...

When my friend Tracey and her dog Maxie visited this weekend, they left a couple of dog toys.  One of them is an adorable and very realistic looking squeaky wine bottle, as seen here:

 

Yesterday I was working in my office - and this is another completely worthless aside, but it's Friday Afternoon Rules, so by "working" I mean "compulsively watching The Secret Life of the American Teenager on Netflix" - and I could hear the cleaning ladies in the media room across the hall.  I love listening to them because I'm charmed by English spoken with a Slavic accent and these gals inspired me to create my character Babcia.

Anyway, because they were speaking to each other and not us, they conversed solely in Polish.  I was only vaguely aware of them chatting and moving things around because I was way more focused on the kid with Downs syndrome ordering a prostitute off the internet.  (How are you not watching this show??  OMG, YOU MUST.  It's like a parody of a parody, but they're all completely serious.)  However, the gals stopped working to gather together and then this is what I heard:

Polish words question mark Polish words question mark Polish words question mark squeak squeak squeak

I assumed one of the dogs had a toy, but when I finally tore my eyes away from the screen, I noticed all three were all in the room with me, asleep across from my desk.

Polish Polish Polish squeak Polish Polish Polish

Did one of the cats have a toy? I wondered, then realized none of them would have the jaw/paw strength to make that kind of noise. 

Squeak Polish squeak squeak

Also, the cats get all stranger-danger so I was sure they'd be two floors away hiding in the basement.

Polish Polish squeak Polish squeak squeak

And that's when I realized the ladies had run across the very realistic toy and were trying to figure out whether or not it was an empty wine bottle that they should recycle. 

After a bit more conversation and squeaking, they left it on the table with a coaster underneath.

I don't really have a follow-up to this story, except to say that the ladies were adorable and the scene made me giggle and I now probably recognize the phrase, "What the fuck is that?" in Polish.

And maybe that's not quite as hilarious as watching two fifteen year olds procure fake IDs so they can get married (Netflix it!  I swear it's so bad it's good), but, hey, it's Friday and that's all I've got. 

Distinguish Yourself? Right.

A timeline leading up to my Purdue University College of Liberal Arts Distinguished Alumna award.

Five Months Ago - Me?  They want to honor me?  But they know I flunked out, right?  No, really?  Me?  Huh.  Cool.  Guess I have to write a speech.

Four Months Ago - I should get a head start on that speech.

Three Months Ago -Maybe I should jot a few thoughts down before it's April and I'm slammed with pre-pub deadlines.

Two Months Ago - Ooh, snow!  I'm not going to write a speech.  Instead, I'm going to watch SO MUCH TELEVISION!

One Month Ago - I should think about that speech.

One Week Ago - I should work on that speech, but my desk is so messy and I have all these dog pictures to post...

10:30 AM, Thursday, Day Before the Award Ceremony - Well, shit.

Time to write this damn thing.  Since I'm not the only one getting this award, I Google the other recipients in order to mention them, because the night is about US and not just me. 

So, there's me... there's a Sociology Professor/Department Chair who's devoted his life to the social justice surrounding capital punishment... there's an Ambassador... and there's the Pulitzer Prize winning Washington Bureau Chief for the New York Times.

Hmm.  I wonder if any of them read my most recent think-piece on Card Sharks.

Panic ensues, but I get my speech done due to the burst of failure-based adrenaline.  It's not bad.

2:00 PM - Manicure and pedicure, essential for all the important hands I'll be shaking.

3:00 PM - Palm Beach Tanning Co.  Earlier, noticed a bunch of NASA guys are getting the same award in the engineering department.  Wonder if any astronauts are getting ready for the big day with a spray tan.

7:00 PM - Pack neatly and efficiently.  If anyone were to give me an award, this is where I deserve it.  When it comes to traveling, I'm a Viking.  Unless I don't get my upgrade and then I'm kind of very much an asshole.  But we're driving, so it's no problem.  Fletch packs his bags but doesn't put his suit in because he thinks it will get wrinkled.  He says he'll remember to grab it in the morning.  I insist he put it in the car NOW NOW NOW because I'm not about to receive my major award with him in a Donkey Punch t-shirt.

11:00 AM, Friday -Incident-free trip down to West Lafayette.  Fletch breaks his cardinal rule of no food in the car because I was so busy not writing my speech that I didn't go to the grocery store and we had nothing to eat in the house.  We stop at Arby's!  Oh, forbidden potato cakes, you're the sweetest potato cakes of all.

4:30 PM -I arrive at the fancy pre-banquet reception in a pretty dress with a snappy Burberry scarf.  I do not mention to anyone that this what I call my "good eatin' scarf" which I wear all the time less as a fashion accessory and more as kind of a bib.  (Seriously!  Have saved hundreds in not ruining shirts with salad dressing and mayo and scarf rinses easily!)

Meet all the VIPs behind my getting the award and I apologize about my lack of Pulitzer Prize.  They seem to be okay with this.  But my next column is about TLC's Extreme Couponing, so the dream remains alive! 

I may or may not suggest to the other award recipients that we pose in a human pyramid when we get our photos taken, but I'm pretty sure they know I'm joking.  (But if I weren't, I'd be a base.  Am very sturdy.)

At no point do I swear, stammer, or sweat Chardonnay. 

#WINNING!

6:30 PM - I give my keynote address and it is well-received.  People laugh in the right places, everyone smiles, and the applause seems real.  What a fine, fine way to cap off an eleven year academic career!

7:00 PM - Other honorees give their speeches and the emcee lists all their other awards and community projects before they speak.  Their achievements and community involvement is daunting.  My only involvement is being a Charter Member of the Official Barbies Collectors Club.  (I have a membership card and everything!) 

8:45 PM - The ceremony ends and I get to chat with Brian Lamb who thinks my Bitter Congressshhh story is hilarious.

 

And I told him not to worry, even though I didn't get the C-SPAN internship, everything worked out.

A great end to a spectacular evening.

This is where I wish the story ended.

It doesn't.

9:00 PM - We change into regular clothes and run across the street to Harry's, the scene of so many of my college crimes.  We're with my freshman roommate Joanna and her husband.  Joanna and I make a beeline for the back to see if our names are still carved in the side of a table.  There they are, twenty years later!!  Harry's world famous Long Islands for everyone! 

9:15 PM -More Long Islands for everyone!  And how is it possible that this bar hasn't changed one song on the jukebox since 1993?  I thought we'd hear nothing but Ke$sha and Pink, but instead it's all Billy Joel, Journey, and Jimmy Buffet.  Woo!

9:30 PM - What time is it?  Why, it's Long Island time!

9:45 PM -Pace myself?  You want me to pace myself because I rarely drink and when I do, it's two glasses of wine?  Pfft!  I'm fine!  No, I'm more than fine!  I'm DISTINGUISHED.

10:00 PM - It's Mom's weekend at Purdue and I'm a tad dismayed to realize that all those ladies who look like me are there with their kids.

10:30 PM - Hey, I don't look like one of those moms.  I look young!  Ask me about my Botox!  I bet those kids thinks I go here!  Yes!  Drinks for me and all my undergrad friends!

11:30 PM - JUST A SMALL TOWN BOY, BORN AND RAISED IN SOUTH DETROOOOOOOOIT! 

11:45 PM - Why did I punch you?  Becaushe that's the game!   STEEEEEEVE PERRRY!  Now get me another drink!  Itsch my birthday!  Oh.  Well then it FEEEEEELS like my birschday!

12:00 AM - Mike Alstott walks by.  He's in town with a whole bunch of NFL dudes who've been standing next to us all night.  I introduce myself, figuring he would like to know that I'm the distingui distinggush dtring I won a major award!  Then I tell him he made out with my friend.  He can't recall.  "Oh, itsch all right," I assure him.  "She made out with a lot of people."

12:30 AM -HOLD ON TO THAT FEEEEEEEEEELIIIIIIN'

1:00 AM -Letsch throw gang symbhols so everyone will thinksh we're tough! 

 

"Lake Forest Represent!!  Our colors are pink and spray tan!"

1:30 AM -STREEEEEET LIGHTS!  PEEEEEOPLE!  OOOOOOOOOOOH!

2:00 AM - Thus begins the random Hugging of the Strangers. 

2:15 AM - And the Handing out of the Business Cards while instructing recipients to "move to Lakesh Forry 'cuase we don't know anybody."

2:30 AM - Form a human toll bridge and stop all undergrads trying to leave to explain what makes me a distinguished alumni.  They are less "impressed" and more "fucking terrified."

2:35 AM -DON'T STOP BEEEEEEEEEELIVIN'!!

2:40 AM - Fletch notices I'm eating stray pieces of popcorn off the table and bench and decides it's time to wrestle me back to where we're staying at the Union.  Joanna decides we both must smuggle out beer pitchers to commemorate this momentous night.  As we both carry Mom-purses, this proves very, very easy.

2:45 AM -I leave, but not before announcing to the population at large that I'm returning to my sorority house where I totally live because I'm only 21!  WOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!  STEEEEVE PERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRY!

* * *

I wake up to discover that I am not, in fact, 21 and neither is my liver. 

As we have things to do at home, there's no time for a hangover-curing biscuits and gravy breakfast at the Triple X.  On the way to get the car, I pass the Pulitzer Prize winner and note that she does not smell like a fraternity party.

I do not distinguish myself in a parking garage trash can.  But it was touch and go there for a minute.

Now THAT is the true and fitting end to my illustrious college career.

And if I suddenly feel queasy the next time I hear a Journey song, this is why.

Let's Try This Again

You know how I'm always saying that in terms of smarts, Libby is very pretty?

Yeah.

Apparently I'm very pretty, too.

I couldn't figure out why I didn't hear from my contest winners.  I was all, "Wait, maybe they didn't want the book after all."  Turns out they can't contact me if I give them an email address that doesn't exist.

So, let's try this again:

jenwritesbooks (at) gmail (dot) com

Shameful.

This is why you all assumed I accidentally bought a toilet, isn't it?

The Next Company That Blindly Pitches Me Gets This

An Open Letter to Marketers

Dear Sir or Madam,

I'm not a mommyblogger.

There's nothing wrong with mommyblogging; it's just that I don't have kids.

Which means I never post about diapers.

I don't write about toys, save for the occasional Barbie head I might accidentally order while high on Ambien.

Your flavorings to make medicine administration easier aren't of use because I take my Ambien just fine.  Oh, wait - do you make one that tastes like Chardonnay.  No?  Then no thanks. 

I'm not interested in "spreading the word" about your interactive learning tools or educational initiatives.

Unless Morrissey recorded your children's song album, I don't care to hear it.

I have as much desire to write about about healthy snack alternatives as I do to eat healthy snack alternatives, which is to say none.

I'm not concerned about shaking off that last bit of baby weight because there is no baby.  To be more clear, there will never be a baby.  And yes, that's by choice, so I've no inclination to chat up infertility options.

I care not to promote your products that promote lactation.  If I somehow begin to lactate, I'm calling an exorcist, not your expert.

There are probably a ton more child-centric products that you, dear Marketer, are hot for me to pitch.  But I'm not going to pitch them because, if I haven't already made it crystal clear, I AM NOT A MOMMYBLOGGER.

And yet.

You keep emailing me about a bunch of crap I'd never, ever opt in to receive.  Then I get shitty and then you get offended, telling me there's no reason to be rude because you're just trying to do your job.

Oh, really?

Lemme tell you something about being successful in sales because ultimately that's what you're doing, yes?  Maybe you're hawking a product for your boss or your agency or your client but the end goal is to move goods or services.  You're attempting to piggy-back on my trust-capital by having me spread the word about your fine, fine product to my readers, with no compensation save for the opportunity to "post the kind of fresh content your readers want."

(Seriously?  Does that line ever actually work for you??)

Anyway, let's first agree that you are, indeed, in sales.

I used to be in sales.  Back in the day, we pros used this little-known trick we used to call "pre-qualifying a lead." 

Because it can't be said enough, I AM NOT A MOMMYBLOGGER.  Which would be evident if you spent ten pre-qualifying seconds on my website.  But, ah!  What if you're the kind of marketer who plays chess, not checkers, and you did look at my website, thinking, "Hey!  This woman isn't a mommyblogger, but I bet a ton of her readers have kids!"

You'd be right.

And yet.

Readers don't come here for content on car seats or baby wipes or Legos, even if they themselves are mommybloggers.  If I tried to force-feed anyone that kind of post, they wouldn't come back. 

As for me being rude, I'm rude because your feckless pitches waste my time and squander my resources.  So I guess I'm "just trying to do my job," too, and that job is to make readers happy.  I do this by putting out a book or two every year, as well as writing a monthly syndicated column, magazine articles here and there, and the occasional blog. 

But on top of that, I need to stay connected to fans, which includes reading their emails.  I want to know what they like, what they love, and what's not working for them about my writing.  I'm fascinated by their stories and I'm grateful they think enough of me to transcribe their thoughts and feelings. 

Because it's important to me to make sure no word's left unread, I've gotten desperately behind on my correspondence to the point that now I pay one of my friends to help me manage it.  When you send me a pitch cleverly disguised with an esoteric subject line and and an opening paragraph about how you read my blog, I'm sucked into reading it.  If it's me reading, that's time I'll never get back and if it's my friend who's fielding your note, then I just paid her to do it. 

Maybe you're all, "Jesus, lady!  It's one tiny email!  Get over yourself."

And yet.

Multiply your one email by a dozen or a hundred and suddenly that makes an impact on how I manage my business.  Your misguided pitches rob me of resources and steal away time from those who make my career possible in the first place. 

So one more time, so we're all on the same page, and so there's not a shadow of a doubt:

I am not a mommyblogger, so take me off your mailing list. 

Best,

Jen

P.S. If you want a mommyblogger to promote your products, THEN YOU NEED TO FUCKING PAY HER. 

 

Caveats, Conversation, And Conservatism

I lost seven Twitter followers on Friday when I posted these tweets:

If you send me an email with the subject line "I Read Your Shit and Now You're Going to Read Mine," rest assured, I will not. #delete

If you email me to say "What up, my bitch? Get yo' ass posting, you slacker!" and I don't know you, rest assured, I will not. #delete

If you use sad-face emoticons to complain about how I don't respond to all of your tweets and we've not met, rest assured, I will block.

Rest assured, I am also not Google, not Trip Advisor, not an ATM, not a literary agent, not a therapist, and not your mother. #delete

Finally, I will not meet "my number one fan" for breakfast, lunch, dinner, or drinks because I've seen the movie Misery. #anniewilkes

So if we're all cool with the rules now, I'm going to get back to the one thing I will do, which is try to write a book you guys will like.

For the seven people who unfollowed me during this morning's rant, please know that I'll miss the updates on what you had for lunch.

Did I crack myself up with these tweets?  Yes.  A lot. 

Did they express a certain level of frustration with a handful of people?  Yes.  A lot. 

Am I sorry I posted them?  Not even a little bit.

Would it have been more appropriate for me to use more than 140 characters to make a point?  Possibly, although I refer you back to the first point about making myself - and hopefully others - laugh.

The background is I've been getting some increasingly weird/intrusive mail lately.  I reference a little of this in an interview that was just posted with a conservative website.  I'm about to link to the interview, but before I do, I want to make it doubly clear that I discuss my conservative leanings and if this in any way bothers you, I suggest you don't click here.

Maybe these emails are simply a function of my work becoming more and more mainstream and that's a good thing.  I should really make a point of expressing more thankfulness and less 'crankfulness,' but, hi, have you read me?  Not exactly my M.O. 

Also, I find the more books I sell, the more people criticize.  Comes with the territory, I guess.  What gets me is when folks are all "You're fat!"  "You're condescending!"  "You're egomaniacal!"  "You're a narcissist!" 

Wait, what? 

I am? 

Oh, if only I'd had the self-awareness to put those terms on a book cover...  

Anyway, the mail.  I'm frustrated by the lack of respect/sense of entitlement I'm seeing more and more often.  There's a whole generation of Special Snowflakes out there who've been raised on soccer and social media and cellular communication.  If you want to talk about narcissism, I refer you to the kids who've yet to accomplish anything, but have been acting as their own ad hoc publicists for years, broadcasting messages about themselves since the minute they got their first internet connection. 

These are the ones whose letters make me a little crazy.  I would never in a million years tell a stranger, "I read your shit and now you're going to read mine," let alone someone I admire or from whom I wanted to solicit advice.  Maybe this is a bad example and she was just trying to be funny, but I'll never know because I couldn't get past the obnoxious subject line.

Take the "What up, my bitch" point.  Again, this is from a real email.  Perhaps I'm being overly sensitive about some random person trying to tell me how to do what they perceive as my job, but I ask you this - would you ever say something along those lines to someone else at work, say, a waitress?  "Get yo' ass serving me more iced tea!"  Would you ever say "What up, bitch?" to a traffic cop?  (I mean, if you weren't drunk or Tucker Max.)  It's beyond the pale.  I'm not looking for anything overly solicitous, but if the basic rules of civility were followed, I'd appreciate it. 

A few requests I've gotten lately have been mind-blowing.  One person wanted me (at my own expense) to fly across country and spend the weekend in a hotel.  Not for charity or anything, but just so I could party with her book club.  The thing is, she lives an hour away from the airport, so really, it would be best if I just rented a car, too, because picking me up would be inconvenient. 

Another complete stranger sent me her schedule of when and where she'd be in Chicago and demanded I pick from a couple of times she had available for me to come down and meet with her. 

The best one was where someone wanted a loan AND help getting published - which was key because, otherwise, how would he pay me back?

Unbefreakinglievable.

So, that's the story behind those tongue-in-cheek tweets. 

Maybe some of the Twitter followers I lost never really liked my writing in the first place and they were looking for an excuse to stomp off in a huff.  And I hope publicly complaining about how awful I am as a person and an author gave them the kind fulfilment they so desperately seek.  In which case, you're welcome, champ. 

Maybe I hurt a few Special Snowflakes' feeeeeeelings, in which case, good.  Grow a thicker skin or the world is going to eat you alive once you leave your parents' house. 

And if this is all just a logical cost of doing business, then I thank the rest of you for allowing me to be in this business.  Hearing from the 99% of you who are cool makes it all worthwhile. 

Now I'm going to go back to working my ass off on the new book in the hopes that it will make you happy.

 

How Do You Say "Jackass" in Polish?

I'm holed up in my office when I hear their rising voices. 

Now I don't speak Polish, but I do speak panic, and from the tone of what they're saying, I suspect there's trouble afoot. 

As I hear the slap of flip-flops barreling down the hallway, I think to myself, "Whatever this is can't be good."

To backtrack, I spend every Friday from 11-2 hiding in my office when our cleaning ladies come.  Mind you, this is the newer service, as we fired the old team due to theft.  Also, I realize in an economy like this, weekly maid service is an extravagance, but Fletch and I made a deal.  As long as I'm working on a project, I'm allowed to outsource our housekeeping.  I'm currently knee-deep in two books, getting ahead on my monthly Tribune column, contributing to an anthology for the Humane Society, and preparing a speech for an event next month, so I'd say my dance card is full in regard to work. 

(The fact that I was less "writing" in my office and more "watching The Real Housewives of New York" is really beside the point.) 

(Seriously?  This season?  OMG!) 

Anyway, one of the ladies is calling "Excuse!  Excuse!" to which my Pavlovian response is to fork over a check and a generous tip, which is really kind of a pain in the ass when trying to navigate a crowd.  Common sense kicks in and I realize they've only been here fifteen minutes and can't possibly be done. 

At this point it occurs to me that neither of the ladies has ever actually said anything to me except for "excuse."  (Fletch told me once when he was here and I wasn't, one of the gals held a cell phone to his head and said, "Ask boss," when he inquired if they could fold a couple of baskets of laundry.  I hate that I missed it.) 

Before I continue, I must note that I'm absolutely enamored with any Eastern European accent having been raised on a steady diet of Bullwinkle.  (I think that's why I'm such a fan of spa services.  Every hotel esthetician I ever met was ex-Soviet bloc and sounded just like Natasha Fatale.)   So, since this cleaning team started, I've been plotting to find a way to get one of them to say "moose and squirrel" but have yet to find a way to work it into conversation, particularly as conversation at this point has been fairly one-note. 

(Yes, I understand exactly why this makes me a jackass.  No need to email me.)

I open my door and find one of the ladies in what can best be described as a state.  "Do you want me?" I ask.  "Is something wrong?  Can I help?"  I figure whatever the problem is, I can fix it.  If someone hurt herself, I can grab our first aid kit, call 911, or do an ER run.  If something broke, I can glue it back together.  If they're simply appalled at how dirty the floors got while I was at SXSW and Fletch was in charge of the house, I can give them more money.

She replies to my line of questioning by saying the one thing that doesn't have a readily apparent solution.

"The shit is small."

"I'm sorry?" I ask.  "The shit is small?"  I repeat myself a couple of times while I try to work it all out.

She nods emphatically and points in the direction of the master bedroom at the opposite end of the hallway.  "The shit is small."

As we both rush back down the hallway, my head races with grim possibilities. 

Where did the small shit come from? 

And where is the small shit now? 

Is the small shit on my duvet?  That's not such a big deal because I can wash it.

Is the small shit on my linen chair?  Um, more problematic, because I'm not sure how to clean that fabric.  Scrub brush?

Oh, God, please tell me there's no small shit on my prized Persian rug with the delicate swirls of celery and cerulean blue woven throughout the magenta wool.

Wait, is this like the time one of our cats barfed in the cleaning lady's shoe, only a million times more gross? 

Or did Loki deposit another "I got nervous" bomb somewhere terribly inopportune? 

Did something go horribly awry in Fletch's bathroom due to my cavalier attitude toward using an antique banana in his smoothie yesterday?

I get to the master bedroom expecting chaos... carnage... destruction... or at the very least, a diminutive pile of something steaming.

Instead I find that I've laid out the wrong bedding, accidentally setting out a Queen set instead of King and for the better part of five minutes, they've been attempting to wrestle them on to the bed.

Oh... I get it. 

The sheet is small.

I start to laugh, then I apologize profusely, swapping out Queens for Kings.  I head back to my office, where I spend the next two hours and forty five minutes giggling, as I'm unable to stop delighting in the phraseology of the shit being small.

And then it occurs to me... this probably why our old cleaning ladies stole from us.

Sheet.

Great Moments In Personal Narcissism

Did I bump directly into one Miss Oprah Winfrey tonight at Shaw's Crab House?

Yes, I did.

Was the waiting area so packed that we ended up face to face, about six inches away from each other for a good ten seconds?

Yes, we were. 

Was my first thought, "Hey, I wonder if she recognizes me?"

Yes, it was.

Am I ashamed at my incredibly narcissistic thought process?

Yes... but not as much as you'd think.

That's The Chicago Way

Hey, Stacey, you'll never guess what kind of, um, romantic present Fletch just gave me!  No, wait!  Don't guess!  You'll never guess.  I'll just show you tomorrow when I pick you up.  xo, jen

 

Jen - I really thought this isn't anything I'd ever have to say to anyone, but DO NOT BRING A GUN TO LUNCH.  XO, Stacey

And no, I didn't bring a gun to lunch.  That would be illegal and also super dangerous considering the Turkish coffee I drank.  (There was one point where I was cruising home all hopped up on caffeine and I said to Stacey, "I should turn on California at the light?" and she got a little pale before replying, "Um, no.  Because there's a building in the way.") 

(This is probably why she didn't want to come to Whole Foods with me afterward.)

Anyway, what I brought is this cool set Fletch got from the NRA -- okay, she wasn't that far off -- for paying his lifetime membership dues.  It's a set of webbed straps with a Leatherman tool attached, but there's also a flashlight and big, sharp knife built in, too. 

So, last night when we were walking from the parking lot to our wine tasting class, I said to Fletch, "Don't worry, if anyone tries to mug us, I'm ready."

He said, "It's daylight and we're in the middle of Lincoln Square.  I'm not worried."

"Yes, but if that changes, I'm prepared.  Like, if a mugger comes up to me and wants my wallet, I'm going to reach into my bag.  He'll think I'm going for my wallet, but he won't know about my kit.  And then I'll pull out the knife and be all, 'Slash!  You are stabbed.'"

"That sounds like a bad idea."

"Are you kidding?  They'd never see it coming.  They'd expect eight dollars, some lip gloss, and maybe a debit card, but instead, 'Slash!  You are stabbed.'"

"No, they'd probably stand there really confused.  Maybe you could take that opportunity to run away."

"I probably couldn't run that far, so I'd keep my knife out for when they caught up to me and, 'Slash!  You are stabbed.'"

"If anything like that happens, promise me you'll just give them your bag."

"No way!  I had to wait six months for Nordstrom to mark this thing down.  When am I going to get Jimmy Choo at 40% off again?  Never, that's when.  No, sir - I shall defend what's mine.  Slash!  You are stabbed."

"And what happens when they take your knife away from you?"

I stop in my tracks and think about this for a moment.  "Um... I guess... Slash.  I am stabbed."

Yes, I Know How Long It's Been Since I Posted Last...

... so there's no need to remind me. 

Sending me emails demanding I post again doesn't make me write faster. 

It doesn't make the things I have to do after being away from home for a month get done any quicker.

It doesn't make all the work I must complete for the fifth book's looming deadline go away. 

All it does is extend the time between posts because now in addition to being really busy, I'm annoyed.

Listen, I love writing for an audience and I'm happy to share my life with you both online and in print.  I appreciate having each and every one of you as readers and I value your feedback.   

But, seriously, enough with the demands already.

I'll post again after the holiday.

In the meantime, please keep in mind that George R.R. Martin is not your bitch.

I Was So Lucky Getting Mono. That Was, Like, The Best Diet Ever.

The big surprise - and it's not really even a surprise - is that the new book is a prequel to Bitter.  The bulk of it takes place in the 70's and 80's and it's super nostalgic, which is going to nicely tie into the theme of the tour events.  (Oh, wait.  I guess that's the surprise.  Shhh, you didn't hear it from me.)

While writing Pretty in Plaid, I spent a lot of time with my old yearbooks on display for inspiration.  As I listened to my favorite 80's tunes from Wham and Duran Duran and Culture Club, I pored over the faded pages, reliving every speech meet... every school play... every newspaper assignment... and all the other nerdy activities in which I was involved. 

In terms of my social standing, I turn to Milhouse in the Grade School Confidential episode of The Simpsons to best sum it up.  "Three and a half.  We get beat up, but we get an explanation." 

Granted, I was kind of a bitch back in the day, but mostly because I was A) terrified of garnering the attention/ire of the popular kids, and B) couldn't ever eat lunch, having derived the bulk of my self esteem from wedging myself into a pair of size five Jordache jeans. 

You guys?  A single grilled cheese sandwich could have been disastrous. 

So I'd say my low blood sugar was as much to blame as my aggressive-following personality. 

I may have been an ass in high school, but I was only an ass to those who posed a direct threat, e.g. in competition for boyfriends, a speech team rival, at the newspaper, etc.  I've never claimed to be a saint, but I was always empathetic.  I was absolutely, unapologetically mean to the play leads and the prom queens, yet I went out of my way to be kind to those people the popular kids shunned. 

You do not fuck with an underdog on my watch. 

If you wrote bad poetry on the knee of your jeans?  I was sweet to you. 

The boy-crazy boys?  We were BFF.

 Kids who received discounted lunch tickets?  Mock them and you had to answer to me.

Wore your saddle shoes and pleated cheerleading skirt on game days?  Bitch, you were going down.       

I guess that's why I was kind of floored to receive this note today, almost twenty-four years after high school graduation:

So my daughter calls me today and this was the conversation:

Daughter - Mom, I have a strange question
 
Mom - OK; what is it?
 
Daughter - Do you know a girl named Jennifer Lancaster?
 
Mom - Unfortunately yes, why do you ask?
 
Daughter - I had purchased a book and she made a reference to [our hometown] in 1985
 
Mom-  Unbelievable!
 
Daughter - Were you two friends?
 
Mom - Far from it.  I went to high school with her, church and spent two weeks at bible camp with her in the same cabin.  She made no hesitation in letting people know she did not like you.  She would giggle, point, comment on me whenever I went to church.  She was a person who I considered a snob and someone I would classify as being one of the girls on the movie "Mean Girls."  She was not a nice person.
 
Daughter - Oh sorry, I thought you two were friends.
 
Mom - Nope...What is her book about?
 
Daughter - About losing weight?
 
Mom - Hmmm.... (I'll keep the rest of my comments to myself)

How funny I thought that my daughter would end up purchasing a book written by someone who made a point to let me know she didn't like me.
 
Now my daughter is 19 and she has her own life and does what she wants.  But I will tell you this.. If I would have purchased the book and found out that you wrote it.. I would have asked for a refund.

Um, here's the thing... I HAVE NO IDEA WHO THIS PERSON IS.

I'm sitting here with my yearbook open and... yeah, I've got nothing.  We were enemies?  How could we be?  Her name rings no bells, nor does her face.  And I clearly remember who I didn't like in high school, having just written all those stories for this new book.  This girl is just, well, she's Ann Veal.  She's a blank slate.  She's got a low center of gravity.  You'd accidentally forget her in Mexico.  Under her picture it says "Not pictured."  (This will only be funny if you're an Arrested Development fan.) 

I mean, I feel bad that she's harbored a grudge against me all these years but, again, I HAVE NO CLUE WHO SHE IS.  If I recalled being a jerk, I'd apologize.  I don't want people mad at me.  And I love hearing from high school classmates.  If I were to get a Facebook request from my worst high school enemy now, I'd be all, "OHMIGHOD, HOW ARE YOU, WE MUST GET TOGETHER, SQUEEEE!!" 

Seriously, I embrace my past and I take responsibility for my actions.   

But this girl? 

With this reaction? 

Oh, sweetie, you've kind of got to let it got.  We went to camp together in 1981, which is just about the time I stopped having to go to church, so I'm pretty sure we've had zero interaction since then or else I would have known you. 

Does it not stand to reason I might be a different person at 41 years old than I was at 13??  I mean, I don't have a Dorothy Hamill haircut now and I no longer cut shots of Jimmy Baio (Scott's cousin from Soap) out of TigerBeat.  I'm pretty sure I didn't get Botox back then, so is it possible I could have changed a tiny bit for the better in the past twenty-eight years?  Matured, perhaps? 

Besides, did we learn nothing from Romy and Michele's High School Reunion?  Everyone gets picked on in high school, regardless of social stature.  To paraphrase my favorite scene, "The whole time you were making my life hell, the 'A' group was making your life hell?  I didn't know."  "I hurt your feelings?"  "Yeah, all the time."  "That's tremendous!  Go get your stupid yearbook.  I would be happy to sign it."

Anyway, I'm not claiming to not be a an asshole now because I kind of couldn't help myself after getting blind-sighted.  My response?  "I seriously don't know who you are." 

To which she replied, "It's usually the people who get made fun of who wear the scars and remember.  Good luck with your diet."

OK, not only did she call me out on shit of which I have no recollection, but she also just called me fat?  Granted, it's true.  But that's not karma, honey... it's carbs.  And choices.  And I've made peace with both.

When I tweeted a synopsis, my friend Badger summed it up best:  "I graduated high school in 1984. Anyone who's been pissed at me THAT long can bite me on their way to getting a life." 

Yeah.  What she said.

Yet there's a tiny part of me that agonizes over someone who I may have inadvertently impacted.

So there's that.

 

And I Didn't Mention Spy Kids, Either

First, a word from Stacey:

Dear Friends and Fans (Frans?) of Jen -
 
I am touched, humbled, and so very very grateful for your voting for me and my little cocktail.  (and yes, Jen knows that I fully intend to give her and you all the credit if I get the trip, and that she can request I deliver Mionetini’s to her whenever she likes for the rest of her natural life!)  I have had the good fortune to meet some of you at Jen’s events, and I am always struck by what a truly fun, warm, smart group you are.  Which doesn’t really surprise me, since like attracts like, and Jen is a major source of light in my universe and I am daily glad to have her in my life, so it goes to follow that her Frans are a group I would be damn lucky to know and raise a glass with.
 
I will be waiting until the whole thing is over to post the article as promised, in part because the outcome will affect the ending which I will need to rewrite as a result of your amazing generosity. 
 
In the meantime, I wanted to make sure that I acknowledged you all…and that includes those of you who haven’t yet voted, I thank you in advance for your support.  My mom would probably prefer that I send you all individual thank you notes on decent stationary, but as I do not have your addresses, I hope you will forgive me that little bit of etiquette.  However, if you go to my website, www.staceyballis.com and send me a note via the Contact page, you will at least have your personalized e-mail asap.   
 
(and I should say, in the spirit of sportsmanship, if you scroll down the list and see a cocktail you think is tastier sounding than mine, do feel free to vote for them instead…)
 
FYI:  grains of paradise, really cool African pepper, less bite than black pepper with hints of floral and citrus notes and really yummy on salads.  You can get it here:  www.thespicehouse.com
 
Elderflower liqueur:  St. Germain  (about $28 a bottle, but it is a beautiful bottle!)
 
I send you all deep thanks, and will keep you posted!
 
Rock the Vote.
 
Biglove, 
Stacey

* * *

By the way, if you host an '80's party, talk to Stacey and she'll give you a blueprint for exactly how to do it.  For my party, she nailed the smallest details like suggesting I serve Razzles on the buffet and play movies such as Lost Boys and Labyrinth on the TVs in the background.  Fortunately, she even came early to help set up.  However, I did lose twenty minutes of valuable prep time gawping at her level of authenticity.  Observe:

 

And, yeah, that IS an original Hands Across America pin.  (Not pictured: hot pink tights and Pumas.)  She even ordered shoulder pads and baby-blue mascara online.

We were all duly awed. 

When she was leaving her house, she ran into her neighbor who before she turned around said, "Hey, where are you going all dressed up for... (long, awkward pause) the eighties?"  My sole disappointment is that she didn't respond, "Where I'm going, we don't need any roads." 

(Award yourself ten points if you got the Back to the Future reference.)

(Which she also has in her video library, along with Lost Boys and Labyrinth.)

ANYWAY, before Stacey decided to write full time she was Education Director at the Goodman Theatre.  What this means now is she gets free tickets to every opening night.  This week her date had to cancel last minute so she invited me to see the Eugene O'Neill play Desire Under the Elms starring Brian Dennehy and Carla Gugino.  I said yes with the caveat that no one would get naked on stage, unlike the last time I went out to get a little culture with her.

Technically, this time no one got naked... instead, two people stripped.  TWO!  However, they weren't wrapped in enormous sheets of dry-cleaning film, nor were they dropping plastic babies out of their dresses or wearing gas masks so the nudity made sense within the context of the show.  Also, Dennehy kept his pants on the whole time.  That was nice.

Because of Stacey's connections, we were invited to the cast party afterward, meaning I got to meet the stars.  Some of you may be aware of my level of social retardation and had I blurted, "I loved you as Big Tom Callahan!" upon meeting Dennehy, I doubt anyone would be surprised... but I didn't.  Yay, me!  Who says I no longer show personal growth on this blog? 

(I mean, other than the ex-fan who emailed me to say this yesterday.) 

(My friend Texie who's been reading my blog since 2003 was all, "Did it ever?")

I also managed not to bring up the Pauly Shore connection when I met Gugino.  Somehow mentioning Son in Law seemed wrong after she'd given the performance of a lifetime on one of the most prestigious stages in the world.  I'd count this in the win column except I kind of spent too much time grilling her on the wig she wore on stage.  Pretty much our conversation consisted of me sputtering and sweating Sauvignon Blanc, saying:

"Hey!  That wasn't your real hair.  It really looked like your real hair.  Your own hair is dark.  I almost missed saying hi to you because you look different with your real hair.  Hey, that is your real hair, right?  It's way darker than I thought.  I went dark now, too.  Not as dark as you though.  Yours is super dark.  Like, black.  Inky black.  Super black.  Tar black.  But good, you know?  I like it.  Black is the new black, ha ha!  The dark is nice, but the wig was also nice.  Didn't your hair used to be the color of your wig?  You know, you could kind of look at the play from your wig's perspective.  I mean, your 'do told a story.  First it was all tight and rolled, and then it got sort of loose and then it got all messy and then-"

At this point Stacey noticed she was making scaredy-get-this-weirdo-away-from-me-eyes so Stacey explained that we had to go.  I shook Gugino's hand and was summarily yanked away before I could lay a paw on her hair.  

Which is probably for the best.   

As we were walking to the car, I said to Stacey, "So I guess I had a fifty percent success ratio at the party.  Gugino thinks I'm bugfuck crazy - with a possible wig fetish - but I didn't embarrass myself in front of Dennehy. "

Stacey looked thoughtful and replied, "Yeah, but if this evening were baseball, you'd be batting .500.  That's an excellent statistic.  Good job!"

And that's precisely why I adore her.

Thanks again for your vote!

I'm Working on a Real Post, But This Had to Be Said First

Dear Bank of America,

I hope you slide under a gas truck and die tasting your own blood.

Best,

Jen

P.S.  And yes, this IS about being charged $105 in fees for Fletch's three trips to Starbucks last Friday because you chose to hold his direct deposit until Monday.  The salted caramel hot chocolates are good, but they're not that fucking good.

P.P.S.  Don't even get me started about how you held my last book check for TEN business days or I swear I will find the nearest bell tower.

"You've Found A Kindred Spirit In Crap Music"*

I've been off the grid lately.  Between real vacation, accidental vacation, deadlines, and living in a house that has suddenly gone from three baths to one, the blog's gotten lost in the shuffle. 

Plus, I didn't think I had anything to write about but apparently each of the above topics could stand to be addressed, so here goes.

Part One, Real Vacation

It was, in a word, lovely  (if for no reason other than not having to share a bathroom with Fletch.  More on that in Part Four.)  Our hotel was all resort-y and they did stuff like bring personal pitchers of iced lemon water the second anyone sat down by the pool.  And the staff would come by and spritz guests with Evian water and every hour or so they'd distribute Popsicles or Dippin' Dots or frozen fruit or chilled washcloths. 

We had a giant dish of little-bitty wrapped Italian candies on the coffee table in our room.  I told Fletch that if he thought I wasn't going to turn into my grandmother and dump every last one of them into my purse before we left, he was sadly mistaken.  (Then he mentioned possibly discovering 500 $1 line-item charges on our room bill and I thought better of it.)

One of the highlights was getting to hang out with my friend Amy in person.  We've known each other ever since the early days of my "All About Jen" website but we've never met.  We drank vats of wine and ate seafood I've never heard of before (scorpion fish? mullet fish?) and generally had a fantastic time.  The bonus is she let me have a CD one of her friends made when they took a girls-only road trip to Sedona because she'd already burned it onto her iPod.  I listened to her CD all the way up to my accidental vacation (Part Two) and it was like unwrapping nineteen separate Easter eggs.

The CD is a perfect blend of cheese and sing-out-loud stuff.  It's called Three AGDs and a DG (the road trip participants respective sororities) and contains the following:

Gwen Stefani - The Sweet Escape

Rihanna - Pon De Replay

J Lo - Jenny from the Block

Stacey Q - Two of Hearts (remember her??)

Justin Timberlake - Sexy Back

Nelly Furtado - Promiscuous Girl

Rihanna - SOS (Rescue Me)

Coolio - Gangster's Paradise

Natasha Bedingfield - Unwritten

Fergie - Fergalicious

Britney Spears - Hit Me Baby One More Time

Beyonce - Irreplaceable

Shannon - Let the Music Play

LL Cool J - Going Back to Cali

Lisa Love - I Wonder If I Take You Home

Gwen Stefani - Hollaback Girl

Beyonce - Crazy in Love

Pink - Get the Party Started

Nelly Furtado - Say It Right

Enjoy!

*Fletch's quote when I told him what was on the play list

The first night in Vegas (after my traditional Fourth of July pool-wallow) I started getting ready to go to dinner.  I took a bath and was drying my hair when I felt a huge knot form in my throat.  While I put on my makeup and got dressed, I noticed my palms were sweating and my pulse raced.  I couldn't figure out why I was anxious until I realized I was going through all the exact same motions of being in a hotel room, getting ready for a book event.  As much as I enjoyed my tour, it was nice to just be able to put on a dress without the added pressure of having to give a speech. 

(I also recognize if it weren't for you guys, I wouldn't have been on my first vacation in six years, so THANK YOU ALL!)

* * *

Part Two, Accidental Vacation

We were only in Vegas for three days, but that's all it took to ruin me for regular life.  I'm all, "I'm hot!  Spritz me!" but no one does.  Remember those old cruise line commercials?  They featured a bunch of people wandering around their dank gray offices, drinking crappy coffee and fighting with janky mini-blinds.  The actors kept referencing their magnificent trip, saying stuff like, "I was a king and my butler knew just how I liked my tea," and "Every day my room was filled with fresh flowers."  For me?  That commercial finally makes sense.

At the moment, my life is filled with non-functional toilets in odd places and missing walls and a thick coating of drywall dust that just won't go away with vigorous dusting.  So when my friend Stacey invited me to visit her at her family's vacation place, I grabbed a beach bag and ran to my car. 

I'm on my way and I'm happily tooling along at both a safe distance from other cars and a sensible speed (nerd alert) when I notice a box fly off the pickup truck fifty yards ahead of me.  I was far enough back that it didn't come crashing through my windshield, thank God, but there was so much traffic in the right lane that I had no where to go but forward.  I ended up hitting the box which contained a very heavy piece of furniture.

You guys? 

I got into a head-on collision with an Adirondack chair.

The pickup driver and I both pulled over.  And when the driver got out of the other car, I was gearing up to yell like I've never yelled before when he introduced himself as Reverend So-and-so. 

Perhaps you all can shout at God's emissary, but I can't.  So while he went back to his car to call the police, I was stuck muttering to myself about Reverend TossyBox from the Church of the Flying Lawn Furniture.  I was already shaken up by the time I got to Stacey's house and when the biblical-type big storm hit that evening, the only rational choice was to stay over. 

Perhaps it wasn't as big a treat to her, as I mentioned, "I hit a box of chair," at least 900 times.  Also, while we were in her pool (which is on the lip of some deep woods) I got to say one of the greatest sentences of all time:

"Dude, there's a mini-frog on your neck."

* * *

Part Three, Deadlines

Deadlines still suck.  And they're keeping me from posting blogs more frequently.  But I figure I can do a bunch of half-assed blogs, or concentrate on a whole-ass book.

I choose whole-ass.

* * *

Part Four, The Bathroom Situation

A leaking shower pan has led to the utter destruction of almost every place to relieve oneself in this house.  We've lost a bunch of walls and ceilings and there's studs and plywood everywhere.  We're now down two bathrooms and I'm all, "Hey, why not take out the third, too?  I can just whiz in a pail."

In Bitter (I think) I talk about looking at apartments and telling leasing agents that we need at least two baths or else I will get divorced. 

Apparently I wasn't kidding.

Don't get me wrong; Fletch is an excellent roommate and he's quite tidy in the bathroom.  He never does stuff like leaving a sink full of whiskers and always wipes off the counter when he's done.  He's actually neater than me.  My bathroom is in no way suffering from his presence and yet I HATE having him in there because I'm ridiculously territorial.  He's none too thrilled with me, either, especially every time I suggest he'd be happier using the washroom at Target or the mop sink in the basement.

So he doesn't divorce me - or possibly beat me with one of many flanges laying around here - he's taken to staying home from work until the contractor arrives.  I'd been in charge of making Important Renovation Decisions but it turns out I don't speak Contractor and the guy doing all the work thinks I'm a dingbat when I say stuff like, "you know, those drip-ity things." 

The good news is ever since Fletch took over managing communication, the work has been going swimmingly (get it?  water pun) and I hope to have him out of my bath within the week.

* * *

Now I've sufficiently screwed around enough that I have no choice but to get back to my manuscript, thus I do not have time to come up with an ending that would have neatly tied all these unrelated topics together.  'Tis a pity. 

And because it can't be said enough:

"Dude, there's a mini-frog on your neck." 

And Speaking of Apologies

While I was on tour, a lot of you asked about Fletch.  I responded by sharing stories of his general ineptitude at taking care of himself/the household, e.g. the food poisoning incident (Part One Million) and the panic over not knowing how to deal with a maid with cat yack in her shoe and The Great Drycleaning Debacle.

In the course of this discussion, I explained my simple rule for a happy marriage.  For those of you who weren't there to hear it, my rule is to never, ever talk against your spouse when there's an actual problem.  (Bad cooking and cat puke bitchpanic don't count.)  (Actually, anything funny doesn't count.) 

When the rare Issue (as opposed to small-i issue) comes up and we get mad at each other, I don't go running to my friends or family or the internet.  I keep the Issue between us.  My thought is that if I bring someone else into my Problem, I begin to breach marital trust and drive a friend/family/internet-shaped wedge between us both.  My experience is when others get involved, people choose sides and what was an Issue becomes an ISSUE with battle lines drawn.  By keeping the problem between ourselves, the only other person I can obsess to is my partner.  There's no escalation.  Only talking to each other expedites solutions and makes for a harmonious life together. 

(Keeping this philosophy in mind, try to guess how much I liked the Sex and the City movie.  Seriously, if one glib comment kept Big from marrying Carrie, maybe the foundation of her relationship wasn't as strong as she thought, in which case she should have THANKED Miranda.)

(And the part where the kid answered the phone by saying "sex"?  UGH to the point of insulting my intelligence.) 

(And for everyone else, why are you still dressing up to view the film?  CARRIE BRADSHAW CAN'T SEE YOU IN THE AUDIENCE AND YOU'RE JUST GOING TO GET BUTTERFINGER SHARDS AND POPCORN GREASE ON YOUR PRETTY SKIRT AND SWEATER SET, NOT THAT I KNOW THIS FROM EXPERIENCE.)

Anyway, yes. 

Back to the topic at hand.

As a caveat, this keep-it-to-yourselves strategy works in my situation because generally I'm the hothead/blowhard and my spouse is usually the voice of reason.  One size of this advice may not fit all.  What will work for everyone is to learn the magic words, "I was wrong and I am sorry." Yeah, it's trite but truly, saying them can fix most anything.

And in case you're curious at my having brought up Problems and Issues, ours are rarely exciting or dramatic.  The most recent Issue occurred while I was on tour.  I convinced myself that Fletch wasn't taking care of the backyard like he should and I worked myself up into quite a lather over how I'd put all that work into making it pretty and that everything was going to die because he wasn't watering and damn it, I spent a lot of money and it's all going to go to waste and THIS IS BULLSHIT and why aren't you answering your phone to tell me everything is fine when I call you fifteen times in a row? 

(Answer?  Because he was in a meeting.)

By the way, this what I came home to:

Fletch loses no points for the graffiti-covered dumpster - that's not his doing.

If you look closely, you'll see how I re-purposed our old charcoal grill.  (Bonus points for me!)

Fine, he does lose a couple of points for the cigarette butts.

This one's my favorite. 

The shady side of the yard.

Can you see how big the tomato plant already is in the corner?  Am growing my own.  I plan to auction these salmonella-free beauties off to the highest bidder!  Who needs J.P. Morgan when I have MiracleGrow?

Again, it can't be said enough.  He did take great care of my plants while I was gone.

So I was wrong and I am sorry.

And I'm going to sell our tomato and make us rich.

Feeling Minnesota

NOTE:  THE MINNEAPOLIS PAPER HAD THE SIGNING TIME WRONG - IT'S DEFINITELY AT 7:00 PM!

* * *

I'm going back out on the road in a few hours.  But before I go, I had to post this line from a note I got from my friend Shayla in Minneapolis:

Since you'll doubtless be surrounded by gushing adoring fans, I can also serve as the voice of reason who reminds you of the time that you got into a drunken argument with a homeless guy outside the Sears Tower (after leaving the Metropolitan Club) about his insistence that he needed $7, a figure you found to be too large, arbitrary and random and therefore worthy of argument.

I totally forgot the incident and thus have been giggling all day.

Hey, I told you guys I used to be an asshole.