jennsylvania

The Evolution Of A Bad Idea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

11:19 PM - I should tweeze this thing.

11:20 PM - I should find my tweezers.

11:21 PM - Ow.  Ow.  Ow.  Ow.  Ow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

11:43 PM - Microwaving.

11:44 PM - Microwaving.

11:45 PM - Microwaving.

11:46 PM - Microwaving.

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

11:48 PM - Ah, there we go.

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

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

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

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

11:53 PM - Is not hardening.

11:54 PM - Is not hardening.

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

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

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

11:57 PM - Hurty.

11:58 PM - Hurty.

11:59 PM - So very hurty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

12:06 AM - ...And it's finally off! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

12:13 AM -  !!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crisis Averted

My office is on the second floor and that's where I tend to spend most of the workday.  Because it's located an entire flight of stairs from the filtered water on the fridge door, I find myself going thirsty rather than taking the trek to the kitchen.

Yes, I understand exactly how lazy this is. 

(Do I need to remind anyone of how I once considered hiding a bucket in the first floor pantry in the old house rather than climbing twelve stairs to the bathroom?) 

(Fletch wouldn't let me, by the way.)

Anyway, I came up with a rather elegant solution.  I would buy a case of water and store it upstairs, thus I would never get thirsty to the point of dizziness again!  Genius! 

(Granted, a little bit pathetic, but mostly genius!)

I bought the water, brought it upstairs, and deposited it on the counter in the guest bathroom, where it remained in the way for the next few days.  Because this bath is right next to my office, I tend to favor it over the master bath which is a good twenty paces down the hall. 

(Y'all are noticing a theme here, aren't you?)

I kept having to work around the bulky case when I brushed my teeth, washed my face, etc. so I needed to find a place to store it.  I could bring it down to the laundry room off the master bedroom, but then I'd have to do all that rearranging to make it fit in the cabinet.

Turns out the solution to my problem was right next to me.  I drew back the shower curtain in front of the unused guest tub and placed the case in there, spic, span, and out of the way.  Plus, I figured, if anything happened to one of the bottles, leaking water would go directly down the drain.  Again, genius!

When Fletch got home, I proudly whipped open the curtain to show him where I'd stashed the water. 

He slowly looked from the case to me.  After a long pause, he finally said, "So... you've decided to store stuff in an empty tub.  Congratulations, you've just taken the first step to seeing yourself on Hoarders in twenty years."

Yeah.  I moved the bottles.

Never Bring A (Carving) Knife To A Gun Fight

Because I'm busy finishing edits, Fletch has totally picked up the slack in regard to Thanksgiving planning.  With help from our friend Stacey, he's got all the recipes organized, he's already ordered groceries, he's purchased all the additional dinnerware, and he's in the midst of tweaking the time/action plan for the day of the festivities. 

I'm really grateful at how detail-oriented he is.

He even made a list of all the tasks he's going to take care of on his own.

Dinner's at 6:00 sharp. 

(No need to bring your own ammo.)

A LOL In The Editing Process

Busy editing, so few words to spare.  But maybe you'll enjoy some photos?

 

 
 

Have a safe and happy Caturday!
 

That Seemed To Take A While, Didn't It?

Every year when November rolls around, I think, "I should participate in NaNoWriMo!"

Then I remember that I'll have just rolled off book deadline season and pretty much already did write 50,000 words in a month - twice - because I'm both a procrastinator and an idiot, and not necessarily in that order.  Also for the past few years - and always right before deadline - I've been thrown a monkeywrench. 

(Is this expression right?  Now that I've typed it, it seems all foreign and wrong.  And is the monkeywrench thrown at me?  Or into the works?  Because throwing a monkeywrench at me seems like it would be rather useful, e.g. "Here is a wrench; please catch it so you can fix all that needs a good wrenching.")

Regardless, last year's monkeywrench was my house sinking and filling with mold.  This year, my dog got sick and my editor left.  I don't recommend any of the above in terms of increasing productivity, although I'm really happy for my old editor and Maisy's treatment is going well.  (According to the canine oncologist, anorexia is a common side effect when going through chemotherapy.  Yet Maisy has gained nearly ten percent of her body weight and looks like a four-legged zeppelin, or a large, friendly tick.)

Point?

I've had to ask Fletch for some extra help around here in the past month.  Mind you, Fletch is particularly gifted when it comes to killing arachnids and keeping me amused, but less so in terms of common household tasks.  For example, we recently got a new five-way printer.  When I say recently, I mean back in June, where upon arrival, it hung out behind my living room couch for three months, waiting for someone to connect it to a power source.

(Procrastination is contagious in this house.)

Anyway, last month Fletch finally put the printer together and hooked up the fax machine.  Right around this time, our phone started acting oddly.  Instead of the standard five rings, it would only ring twice and our voice mail would never engage.  I spent three weeks sprinting away from my desk to answer the phone, and one week simply using my cell phone, as our line had gone completely dead.  (If you called me last month... sorry!) 

What's funny is at no point did my husband - a telecom engineer- wonder if these two events might be related.  He had a number of theories on what might be going wrong, e.g. a bad switch, a glitch in the voicemail system, faulty wiring somewhere between the POP and our house, etc.  We finally had a technician out who diagnosed the problem within fifteen seconds, leading to a great deal of smirking on my account, considering my first question also had been, "Is it possible anything is hooked up wrong?" 

Which brings us to the rug.  In our bedroom, we have a 10 X 12 sisal rug.  In our city, we've had six weeks of perpetual rain.  One might not think these factors are related, but one would be wrong.  Because we've had so much rain, our backyard is completely squishy and Maisy hates to put her paws on wet grass, preferring to relieve herself on the dry grass of oh, say, a sisal rug.

So, four weeks ago when I was knee-deep in manuscript, I asked Fletch to please remedy the situation.  I guess my assumption was that he'd take the rug off the hardwood, haul it down to the basement, and steam the section in question.

A while later, I heard my dog barking in the front yard.  "Odd," I thought to myself.  "Why would Loki be out front?"  So I peeked out the window and saw that Fletch had taken the rug out of the bedroom, laid it out across our front lawn and sidewalk, and was spraying it down with a garden hose. 

And I realized that in the history of every crappy neighborhood we lived in, with all the drug dealing and street fights and domestic violence and public intoxication and garbage-bag covered windows and dirty children running around in pajamas at 11:00 PM on a school night, this was in fact the most white-trash act I've ever witnessed.

Upon soaking the already hundred-pound sisal rug, Fletch discovered that it now weighed something like three hundred pounds and could not be moved until dry.  For four days we had a carpeted front yard. 

Eventually enough water leeched out for Fletch to roll the rug into an enormous, rotting, sisal burrito, and that sat in front of our house for another week, whereupon it got re-soaked by Chicago's torrential rains and Loki's uncanny aim.

We finally got a day of sun, and working together, we manged to haul it to the backyard where it sat in a sodden lump for another week and a half, until again, it dried just enough for us to hang it over a porch railing.  And this is where it remains right now, getting drenched repeatedly by our daily deluge because if you weren't aware, Chicago is totally the new Forks, Washington.

I had lunch with my friend Stacey last week and I recounted the whole tale-of-rug-woe to her, whereupon she said, "You know you can't get sisal wet, right?"  Now we're waiting for a break in the unmitigating rain so the rug can dry enough for us to roll it up and toss it in the trash. 

The great irony here is that the damp sisal is a perfect breeding ground for spiders and the whole situation has been an endless source of amusement. 

But the good news is I finally have the time to shop for a new rug.  So there's that.

(Coming later this week - feral kittens in pumpkin costumes!)

This Doesn't Count Towards Today's 2000 Word Total

I'm getting down to the wire here on the new book, both in terms of writing and also finishing up having the experiences about which I need to write. 

The latter's going better than the former, as, obviously, it's way more tempting to have an adventure than to catalog it. 

This weekend was chock-full of documentable occurrences, like trying foods from previously untasted countries in the company of good friends, attending a benefit and meeting new people, reading classic literature (am finding Faulkner un-put-downable, whereas last week's Welty made me want to kill self/others), hitting a book signing, watching a fascinating documentary, drinking great wine with my husband, and otherwise enjoying the gorgeous - albeit premature - fall weather.

And yet, as collectively lovey as the above happenings were, none of these events entailed best moment of the weekend, which was...

Setting:  The car, in the parking lot at Grand and Ogden, Saturday afternoon.

Me:  I don't want any coffee, but, hey!  There's a Jimmy John's right next to Starbucks!  You get coffee and I'm going to get a sandwich.

Fletch:  Don't get a sandwich. 

Me:  But if I eat before we go to the grocery store, we won't come back with six kinds of bread like last time.

Fletch:  Don't get a sandwich. 

Me:  Why not?

Fletch:  It'll make a huge mess.

Me:  Oh.  Well, okay...

(pause)

Me:  Hey!  Wait a minute.  This is my car.  I picked it out, I paid for it, and my name's on the title.  Remember we had this conversation at the dealership?  I specifically laid out the rule, which was if I want to eat in MY car, you're not allowed to forbid it.

Fletch:  I'm not forbidding anything; I'm just saying it's a bad idea.  You're going to get shredded lettuce everywhere.

Me:  And I think it's the best idea I ever had.  I'll meet you back here in five minutes.

Thus, as we cruised up to the nice Fresh Market up in Wilmette, he sipped his coffee and I enjoyed the best goddamned sandwich of my life.

Of course, Fletch drove my car today so he could drop it off at the hand-wash detailing place. 

Apparently it's in need of a thorough vacuuming.

My Husband, Ansel Adams

Setting:  Late May, 2009, The Webster Place Barnes & Noble, immediately following the question and answer session of my book reading.

Me:  Honey, there's a million people in line and I only have one person up here helping me and she's putting name post-it notes in the books.  Do me a favor and use people's cameras for them if they want pictures with me. 

Fletch:  Nah.

Me:  Excuse me?  "Nah" is not an option.  Please take their pictures, this line is really, really long and it would help move things along.

Fletch:  Nah, I don't want to break their cameras because I don't know how to use them.

Me:  You won't break them. 

Fletch:  Nah.  I'd probably break 'em.  Besides, a lot of them want my autograph so I'm busy. 

Me:  Okay, A) you didn't write shit, ergo you have nothing to sign and B) they're just cameras; how hard could it be?

Fletch:  Nah, I don't feel comfortable doing it.

Me:  (through gritted teeth) Take. The. Fucking. Pictures. Please. Now. Before. I. Kill. You.

Fletch:  Trust me, it's better if I don't.  (turns to greet fans and signs their books while tiny blood vessels begin to pop in my brain.)

* * *

Setting:  Early August, 2009, The East Hampton Library Authors Night fund raiser, right after the doors open.

Me:  I still haven't forgiven you for the last signing debacle, so you WILL take photos tonight and you WILL NOT bitch about it.

Fletch:  I don't think I'm very good at it, but I'll try.

Me:  Thank you.  Effort is all that I ask.

* * *

Setting:  Last night, in my home office, sitting in front of the computer.

Me:  So... yeah.  I uploaded the photos that you took.  Maybe you'd like to, oh, I don't know, give me your perspective on what you shot. 

Me:  A little on the blurry side.

Fletch:  I didn't know how to focus.

Me:  It has auto-focus.

Fletch:  Oh, then I guess I was trying to balance my wine glass while I was holding the camera and I got wobbly.

Me:  Okay... then how about this one?

Fletch:  That's Barbara Walter's handler's coat.

Me:  Awesome.  And how about this?

Fletch:  That asshole jumped right in front of me while I was taking Barbara Walter's picture.

Me:  Yeah, that's because was INTERVIEWING her. 

Fletch:  Don't worry - I got a great one of her.

 

Me:  That's her BUTT.  I can see her UNDERPANTS, not her face.

Fletch:  Won't you sleep better tonight having seen her panty lines and knowing she doesn't wear a thong?  Besides, I got that cool picture of you, Anne Heche, and Alec Baldwin.

Me:  That's another winner.  I like it almost as much as this one, which is... ?

Fletch:  Baldwin wasn't wearing a belt.

Me:  Of course.  Going with the whole celebrity buttocks theme.  I get it.  Excellent.  The self-portraits are nice, too.  Glad you were able to get the focus to work.

Fletch:  I set my wine down for those.

Me:  And here I thought you didn't get any real celebrity shots, but look!  It's Kenny Powers!

Fletch:  But what about Evil James Lipton?  That's kind of bad ass.

Me:  Yeah, or just bad.  I particularly like this one where I asked you to get a shot of me meeting Jay McInerney while the Countess and Candace Bushnell were right there in conversation.  It could have been my ultimate pop culture moment.  And intstead, it's... this. 

Me:  Ah, and here I am arm-wrestling Candace, or perhaps luring her into my gingerbread house.  Again, AWESOME.

Fletch:  Wait, look at that one - it's great!  You can't get mad at me for that one.
 

Me:  You do realize we'd handed the camera to a stranger at that point, don't you?

Fletch:  Oh.  How about that?

Me:  On the bright side, you're officially relieved of camera duties ever again.

Some Wives

Some wives send naked photos of themselves to their husbands at work.

Some wives send shots of their kids.

And some wives send pictures of their artfully crafted lunch.

Can you guess which way I lean?

 

Team Sandwich rules!

Why I Owe Fletch A Really Big TV

First, New Business:

You guys want me to do more local events?  Well, I'm doing a local event. 

What:  The Interview Show with Mark Bazer

When:  Friday, December 5th at 6:30 PM

Where:  The Hideout, 1354 West Wabansia, Chicago, IL  (773) 227-4433

Wait, Where?:  It's kind of hidden (hence the name) so check out their website for specific instructions.

What Else Do I Need to Know?:  Admission is $5 and other guests include alt-country musician Robbie Fulks, author and Sun Timescolumnist Neil Steinberg, and stand up comedian Robert Buscemi.

Will You Be Drunk?:  Probably

Will It Be Like That One Interview When Your Temporary Radio Publicist Accidentally Booked You on That Ex-Black Panther's Show and You Spent an Hour Getting Yelled at for the State of Race Relations in the United States Because You Wrote a Book Called Bitter Is the New Black?:  If so, then see answer above.

Will Fletch Be There?:  Yes, if he's speaking to me... which brings us to Old Business.

So, Jolene - one of my favorite people in the world - was in town last night to do a reading with some other authors at my favorite indie book store.  The night had a rock and roll theme and featured Jolene plus Joe Meno, Stephanie Kuehnert, and Chris Connelly. 

I was looking forward to the event because I always dig hearing Jolene read bits of her book.  What I didn't expect was to be so enamored with the other authors' work.  Seriously, you guys?  I had to buy all their stuff and now I'm conflicted over which to read first. 

Joe Meno read from his short story collection called Demons in the Spring and his description of art-school-poser Audrey was so vivid that I swear I've run into her at Kinko's before.  (I hate to advocate stalking, but you should keep checking his website for upcoming events because he doesn't read so much as he performs.)

Stephanie Kuenert excerpted part of her first chapter of I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone.  The book is YA but it's YA like Twilight is YA - sure young adults will read it, but when adults-proper read it, they'll enjoy it on a whole new level.  Again, fabulous and edgy.  

The last author up was Chris Connelly.  Those of you who don't have the musical sensibilities of a strip club DJ (e.g. myself) will recognize this name instantly from his groundbreaking work with Ministry, RevCo, and Pigface.  His book is Concrete, Bulletproof, Invisible and Fried: My Life as a Revolting Cock. 

I decided to get Chris to sign a book for Fletch because these are Fletch's all time FAVORITE bands and he loves Chris Connelly so much.  So when it was my turn to get the book signed, I recognized the gravity of the situation and I kind of got this nervous talking thing and I sort of babbled about how Fletch spends every morning with Chris at the gym and how he's kind of Fletch's idol and how his music is a big reason why Fletch has gotten so healthy lately. 

But again, I was babbling - possibly spitting - and at some point in my super-speedy diatribe I gave Chris the idea that Fletch was not listening to his music while huffing away all punk-rock by lifting heavy hunks of metal and instead that Fletch was listening to him on his iPod IN SPIN CLASS. 

Chris signed Fletch's book wishing him the best of luck and to KEEP SPINNING.   And Chris is a rock star so I didn't want to correct him and tell him, "No, no, I think I said that wrong," so now Fletch's rock idol thinks he takes SPIN CLASS and most likely walked away from our encounter wondering how the fuck one might spin to Pigface.

And then - then! - I asked to get a picture together and he sweetly obliged each of the fifteen times I demanded because the shots never actually saved because I'd filled up my BlackBerry's memory by taking too damn many photos of my new dining room table which I then inadvertently admitted out loud and then Jolene had to take the photo with her camera because I was really starting to make him nervous.  

To recap, Fletch's idol thinks:

A) He spins.

and

B) He's married to an idiot with a predilection for fast-talking and table porn.

Yeah, pretty sure I'm obligated to get Fletch the new flat-screen TV he really wants for the media room now.  Fortunately, I had the wherewithal not to mention Fletch couldn't come in the first place because of a run-in with Thanksgiving leftovers that had turned.

The good news is I don't have to buy him a surround-sound system, too.

 

Pfft.  Pearls are plenty punk rock. 

24

Twenty-four hours ago:

"Pfft.  We don't need no stinking professional!  We can install the chandelier ourselves!"

Now:

"What time is the electrician coming to restore power to the front of the house?"

(A Highly Profane) Happy Birthday to Fletch

Today is Fletch's birthday and I've got lots to do to get ready for it. 

And by "lots to do," I mean work on editing my new book. 

Hey, what can I say?  We're not really "birthday people."  Now, instead of writing flowery prose about how much I love him and prattling on about how he's my soul mate and exactly why he's so full of the wow and the awesome, I'm going in a different direction.  I'm going to pay tribute to him by posting clips to some of his favorite stuff. 

If you're at work, I suggest you don't watch at full volume because apparently Fletch believes that profanity is the greatest gift of all.

Enjoy.

The Big Lebowski:

Idiocracy:

Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back:

Rushmore:

No Cure for Cancer:

Clerks:

Superbad:

Happy 40th birthday, motherfucker!

As You Wish

Lotta ground to cover here today, so prepare yourself.

OK, here we go.

RECOMMENDED READING

First, you people want book recommendations?  You got 'em.  Here's everything I've finished in the last month:

Queen of the Road is basically what would happen if you took me, gave me a modicum of maturity and a better education, and then tricked me into living on a (very nice) bus with my husband and pets for a year.  I loved this book and I love this author.  If you want a taste of what I'm talking about, check out Doreen Orion's website; it's probably the best author's site I've ever seen.  Lots of multimedia stuff and you can read parts of the book!

A hidden bonus of going on book tour is meeting bookstore owners and employees.  Such was the case at Good Great Place for Books in Oakland.  (BTW, all of you who warned me about how murder-y Oakland is?  Yeah, my biggest fear in this 'hood was being run over by a Range Rover.)  Anyway, the owner picked out The Book of Joe by Jonathan Tropper and promised I'd enjoy it.  She was so right.  It's a story about an author who wrote a novel trashing the town where he grew up and what happens when he finally returns to that town years later.

Whacked by Jules Asner frustrates me, but only because as soon as I finished it I wanted to send Jules a big, squealing fangirl note and there's pretty much no way to contact her.  No website, no MySpace, no Facebook, no nothing.  (My guess it's because she's married to director Steven Soderberg and probably doesn't need ten billion aspiring screenwriters and actors using her book as an excuse to get to him.)  Regardless, Whacked is kind of dark chick lit where the heroine is a stalker, but you root for her anyway.  And love you, Jules Asner!  Call me!  Don't make me continue to stalk YOU.

Allison Winn Scotch recommended Confessions of a Contractor by Richard Murphy.  (Do you read Allison's blog?  I buy everything she recommends and I've yet to be anything less than delighted.)  What's nice is this book actually explains why the fuck it took eight weeks to finish my bathroom, but more importantly, tells a solidly-crafted story about a contractor getting too involved with the lives of his clients.

The Opposite of Love by Julie Buxbaum is another AWS suggestion.  I picked it up about a month ago and didn't put it down until I was done.  It's a great novel about loss and love and finally figuring out who you are.  Spellbinding, seriously.

And now, for what I'm about to read:

Alison Pace is one of my favorite authors, so her new novel City Dog is at the top of my stack.  She excels at creating well-defined, witty characters.  City Dog is about a serious novelist who takes a segue into writing bestselling children's books -it's sure to be a treat!  Check out her Amazon blog and you can read the beginning!

Joanne Rendell is one of my MySpace buddies and her new book The Professors' Wives' Club just came out.  It's being billed as Sex and the City for the academic set, and how can that not be interesting? 

I bought Sheer Abandon by Penny Vincenzi because I opened it to a random page in the middle of the book and totally wanted to read more.  (That's my litmus test for any book, BTW.)  From what I understand it's about a baby born and abandoned in Heathrow airport and what happens when the kid grows up and wants to know who her mom is.  I totally got a Lace vibe from it and, naturally, that spoke to my 80's-Phoebe-Cates-loving heart.  ("Which one of you bitches is my mother?)

Twilight by Stephenie Meyer - this is my reward for finishing my own book.  NO ONE TELL ME WHAT HAPPENS.  I figure anything that's inspired that much Facebook flair has to be addictive.

Sometimes I buy a book just for the cover.  Check out Assisted Loving: True Tales of Double Dating with My Dad by Bob Morris.  Because 80 is the new 70.

WHAT I'M WATCHING

First, Gossip Girl.  Duh.  But I've also been totally and completely obsessed with the CBS show Swingtown. 

You guys, this is SO GOOD. 

The story takes place in a wealthy Chicago suburb in 1976.  It's about a nice nuclear family on its way up the social ladder.  They move from their bucolic middle class neighborhood to a big house by the lake, across the street from a couple with an open marriage who suck them in to a swinger lifestyle.

Yes, all of the above sounds really cheesy and tawdry, but the writers have done an amazing job making every character complex, like the head of the swingers who secretly wishes to be a regular housewife and the old neighbor who has trouble coming to terms with her friend's family's success.  Essentially the show is a bold look at the fallout from the sexual revolution of the 60's.  And it's available on iTunes if you're interested and you may be able to see full episodes on CBS.com, free.  Watch it for no reason other than to see the role Grant Show was born to play.

WEBSITES I OBSESSIVELY CHECK

If you all aren't already reading Jenny at the Blogess then do so immediately.  Four words for you:  Angry Transvestite Lego Army.

Senior editor Josh Wolk of EW has a blog and his take on pop culture is no less than brilliant.  Enjoy!  (And the next time I hit the bookstore, I'm getting his memoir Cabin Pressure.)

BATHROOM BEFORE AND AFTERS

Here's what my house looked like for eight weeks.

This was actually taken after some of the stuff was moved to the basement.  Please note how I cannot get to my side of the bed, as well as the inch-thick drywall dust.

This is our dressing area.  Do you know how many times I worried Fletch would get up in the dark and just whiz in the available toilet? 

Why I couldn't get to my treadmill for eight weeks.

The tiling that took weeks.  Multiple weeks.

Was it worth it?

The new ceiling in the powder room (that also took this bath out of the mix for eight weeks.)

My magnificent shower.  You can't really see the detail but the little tiles are onyx and are a million different shades of beach-glass green.

You also can't see the sink detail but it's a slab of quartz with tiny slashes of sage green and brown marbling.  You also can't see where Fletch had to shove the bucket because he just discovered that the sink is leaking.  HA, HA, HA, FUCK.

FINALLY, WHAT PASSES FOR HUMOR AROUND HERE

Fletch was shaving off his goatee but insisted I get shots of him with just a mustache first.  He laughed so hard he almost wet his pants when he saw this.  I was all, "You look like a Chicago cop, what of it?"

"I haz a butt."  "I haz a butt, too."

And finally, what I like to call Nature's Own Post-It Notes

Alrighty, I'll be back when the book is done! 

(If you guys have any suggestions for good books, shows, or websites in the interim, put them in the comments.)

First Day of School, 2008

They grow up so fast, don't they?

Team Jen

"... and my heart felt like it was playing a game of Quidditch in my chest."

"What?"  He stops the car to look at me full in the face.

"You know, Quidditch.  The flying broom-soccer-dodgeball game from Harry Potter?  It's all whizzy and jumpy and bounce, bounce, bounce.  That's totally the perfect description of what a heart palpitation feels like."*

He starts driving again.  "Pfft.  Maybe if you're trying to explain it to a twelve year old."

"Right.  Because no one over the age of twelve ever bought a Harry Potter book or saw a Harry Potter movie."  I shake my head.  Seriously, have all the VH1 pop culture shows we've watched been in vain? 

He shrugs.  "I'm just saying that's an esoteric reference."

"And I'm saying you're wrong."

Internet, what say you?  If another adult mentioned Quidditch, would you catch the reference? 

(Or possibly the Snitch?)

*am healthy and fine - talking about an incident a long time ago

"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."