So the basic purpose of this trip to NYC, really, was to spend a little time getting to know the large and diverse crowd of people in various departments and companies who now have total control over the deep core of my tender pink heart. I mean, over what happens with the book next. Okay, same thing.
Here is the nifty part: It’s a big NY publishing house --- that’s a job market that is SO competitive. To get the kind of jobs these folks have, you have to be:
1) Very good at whatever the job is, and
2) Bright, witty, well-read, articulate and at ease with yourself and the world
Because if you are only very good at your job, there are 50 people who want your job that are not just good at it, but also possess all the qualities listed above. So everyone was very easy to talk to and funny and low key and unstressed and unstressful. AND they ALSO did everything they could to make me feel at ease too and to pull me into the conversation…Between the whole car service thing and everyone being so nice, I am sure I am spoiled now and very rotten.
Since what they expected from me was mostly: Go to restaurants and eat things that taste SO AMAZING you have a hard time not rolling your eyes up into your head and sinking under the table and moaning in a state of catatonic ecstasy and go to bars and consume icy pink drinks that are chock full of nutritious liquor all while hanging out with cool people who have glamorous and interesting careers and who think sparkling repartee is the normal way to communicate, IT WAS A DARN FUN TRIP. In fact, if I could find someone willing to PAY me, I might give up writing and try to hang out with cool people professionally. It’s nice work if you can get it.
The ONLY bad moment came at 4 when my agent and my editor’s assistant and I headed down to a conference room for the larger of the two meetings. And we walked into this huge empty room, and it was so…professional. It was very cold in the room and it had a big square terrifying table surrounded by businessy power chairs, and you know, the whole room just scared the crap out of me.
This is the kind of room where flow charts and projected budgets and statistics occur naturally in the wild. It was SO NOT my habitat. I have never really done anything corporate. Put me in a coffee house, a classroom, a library, a bar, a bookstore, a restaurant, a living room ETC ETC, and I am happy as whole crowds of clams. But a boardroom? I will be in the closet thumbsucking, thanks. I could feel myself starting wither and panic simultaneously, shrinking so that my feet could no longer touch the floor, a five year old in clothes from the dress-up box who has just gotten caught frontin’ like a grown-up.
THEN the associate publisher came in alone and said “I just realized it’s silly to meet here for an hour and then troop all the exact same people downstairs for cocktails in the middle. Let’s skip this and go straight for the drinks.”
I COULD HAVE KISSED HIM. I came leaping up, suddenly feeling bright-eyed and easy and very much myself again, and we trit-trotted down and sat in a place both cozy and elegant and people came trickling in and joining the table by twos so I got to meet them in waves instead of in a BUNCH so it was very SOCIAL and NON THREATENING and I got a pretty good feel for who they all were and what they did, and I had SUCH fun the whole thing just FLEW by. I was sad when the waiter came and flapped at us in the nicest possible manner and told us to GET OUT. I think the bar was closing – it was a bar in the bottom floor of a big office building and I think they shut down at 6.
I am heading out IN THE EARLY AM tomorrow for my family vacation, BUT when I get home I have some FUN NYC CRAPS to tell you – let me make a list here so I do not forget:
1) The Toilets of New York
2) Matt, Faux-Matt and the SWANTATA
3) Trolling the airport for free chocolate and the six-play guessing game
4) SHOPPING and Shoes (girls only)
5) Lamb with Lamb Reduction and Lamb Sauce on a bed of Lamb
I will be back in 9 days, fatter, burned pink and peeling, rashy with sun poisoning, and VIOLENTLY SICK OF THE CAR. But happy!
OKAY -- I JUST got off the plane, I have had maybe 4 hours of sleep in the last 48 hours, I had a GREAT time, the stuff at Warner went well (I thought it did anyway), and I will I SWEAR be all detailed and forthcoming tomorrow. I am too sleepy to tell it all it all tonight.
Tonight I will just tell you about the Hot Cops.
I want to bed last night early --around 8 maybe, I was so tired from leaping at 4 am to catch my flight -- but could not sleep. Too hyper and revved up on thrill-of-New-Yorkness and adrenalyn and caffeine. So I decided to walk down to Times Square and people watch and march around to tire myself out a little.
So, there was all the usual fun Times Square stuff to look at -- a VERY GIANT wonderwoman drag queen pedaling tourists about on a rickshaw-slash-bicycle thing, for example, and also a guy dressed entirely in tinfoil who STOOD VERY VERY STILL for money. No, really. He basically wears tinfoil and STANDS STILL. That's his job. And he had this big TUB of money and people would stop and watch him stand still, and they would say, "MAN, that guy is still!" And then they would say "And he seems to be dressed entirely in tinfoil!" And then they would drop a dollar in his vat-o-cash. I watched that for quite some time.
I started to get tired so I began looking for 44th to walk back to my hotel. On the corner of what seemed like a probable 44th, some Hateful Street Preachers had taken up residence, and they were yelling many many racially inflammatory and dreadful things in the name of God. An Angry Crowd was massing and arguing with the hateful preachers and there was some verbal fussing going on, and so, just to keep an eye on things, a couple of New York's Finest came over.
When I say they were New York's Finest, I mean that on SEVERAL levels. If EITHER of these cops had pulled you over, you would NEVER believe you were getting a ticket. You would think that any moment they would flip the switch on a boombox and rip off their pants and start undulating about in leapard-print G-Strings. They were too cute to be real life cops. They were like TV pretty.
And look -- okay -- if you read this blog regularly, you probably by now have figured out that I honestly believe that the reason we HAVE a moon is because my husband climbed a big ladder carrying a lot of powertools and hung that sucker up there. BUT. That doesn't mean I can't pause for a moment and appreciate a truly hot cop. I'm only human. Also, you know, my dad and my brother were both airborn rangers, and so I have that whole MEN IN UNIFORM ARE COOL thing.
So an ugly crowd was watching the hateful preachers, and the hot cops were watching the crowd and the preachers, and I was pausing for a moment to watch the hot cops and getting tireder and tireder and thinking, OKAY really needing to find 44th.
Meanwhile the hateful preachers are thundering out utter tripe, drowning out members of the angry crowd who are trying to argue with them, and they keep saying what GOD SAID, they begin every sentence that way, and they are dead wrong every time.
and GOD SAID this hateful disgusting thing
and GOD SAID that other hateful, disgusting thing
and GOD SAID something Satan wouldn't utter on a bad day, and I turn to hot cop 1 and I say, "Did God say this was 44th street?" and hot cop 1 says, "Yes. God DID say that this was 44th street," and right on cue hot cop 2 chimes in and says "And Lo, it was good."
Hot AND quick-witted. New York really DOES have everything.
Okay, so. I leave town tomorrow for NYC. I will be back Friday, then Saturday I leave for nine days -- I will be at the beach and visiting family. I will barely be blogging AT ALL AT ALL in the back half of July.
I SWEAR I will pop in on Friday and burble about what happened on THE TRIP, and sorry I am a big stinky head who skips half a month blogging to gallivant about the universe like Britney Spears if Britney Spears was middle class and in her thirties and wore a lot more clothes.
To make up for it, before I go, I will go ahead tell you the secret to finding complete and total happiness for the rest of your life. I was saving it for BLOG SWEEPS WEEK, but I will go ahead and bust it out now...
You've read the studies. You know what the big boys at research universities have been saying for years. The secret to a successful marriage is ACTIVE LISTENING. Active listening is that thing where, during conflicts, you make sure your spouse knows that you are HEARING whatever stupid thing they are busting your chops about. It goes something like this.
ENRAGED WIFE: You are a big jerk. You hurt my feelings when you say mean things. You leave your socks on the floor, your bitter socks all stinky, and you expect that a sock fairy will come and lift them away to laundry land. WELL THE SOCK FAIRY HAS BEEN ME THIS WHOLE TIME. AND THE SOCK FAIRY IS STARTING TO HATE YOU.
ACTIVE LISTENING HUSBANDLY RESPONSE: I understand that when I leave my terrible socks on the floor it distresses you, especially when I compound the problem by saying mean things. It makes you think of me as a jerk and then you hate me and have hurt feelings. I probably leave the socks around because my mother always picked them up for me, and it is just a bad, bad habit.
So, in theory, the wife is charmed because her husband has parroted her words back to her, so she feels as if he REALLY understood her and cared. Now, if acting listening actually worked, the wife would then say something like this:
ACTIVE LISTENING WIFELY RESPONSE IN AN IDEAL WORLD: I see that your mother has not trained you to be a good sock putter awayer, and I understand that you have a bad habit. I realize that bad habits are hard to break, so why don't we work together to solve this problem. I will try to give gentle reminders to you, and you can leave yourself helpful post-it notes in places where your socks tend to congregate. Oh YAY! The problem is solved. Let us retire to the bedroom and have a lot of really great sex.
But this is not an ideal world. And that is not what Mrs. Anyone says. What she really says is this:
Wife: Why are you repeating everything I say back to me as if I were a stupid two-year-old? Why don't you pick up the damn socks? Forget it. Let's get a big, hateful divorce.
Luckily, the University of Washington has come along to save us all. They just released a new a study. They say active listening is a crock, something that a lot of people who have had big, hateful divorces already know. The say the secret to a good lasting relationship, a rock solid marriage providing years of happiness, the secret that gets you to the gold anniversary and the grandkids and big cake, is this: Let the girl get her way. Easy peasy. All you have to do is.....let the girl get her way.
They are not kidding. They have apparently spent years and years studying couples, and about half of the active listening ones blew it. But the marriages in which the girl gets her way are still trotting along happily. FASCINATING.
Needless to say, I love the University of Washington just about now, only a little less than I like getting my own way. And I think they have - beyond gratifying my deepest wishes - an actual point. Because I am a girl, and therefore I know things about girls, and one of the things I know is that we all, secretly, in our deepest hidden heart of hearts, want to be The Princess. Not the boss. The Princess. We don't really want to order our husbands around and stomp all over and be the despot king. And that's not what UW is saying either. UW doesn't say, "Be a whipped little boot licking dork." Trust me, no one likes a whipped little boot licking dork. I think they are saying, let us girls be The Princess.
My friend Mark has the whole thing down pat. Before he goes out with the guys, he asks for a kitchen pass. A kitchen pass is when your wife tells you it's ok to go and you tell her when you will be back and then (here is an important part) you are actually back on or around that time. And Mrs. Mark actually writes a cute little pass on a piece of paper, and she usually includes an enticing sexual promise for those who come home before their pass expires.
Now Mark is a big boy, and a successful businessy something at a downtown office, and he doesn't need permission to go have a beer after work. He knows this. His wife knows this. But he asks for the pass anyway, and she gives it to him anyway. Because it makes her feel like The Princess. All the guys at his office have laughed at Mark for YEARS about his kitchen passes, and slowly, one by one, they have laughed their way to big hateful divorce court. Meanwhile, Mark and Mrs. Mark and planning a big party to celebrate their 15th anniversary.
See you Friday.
Hello, my name is Joshilyn, and I am a monstrous geek.
Yeah. Like anyone who reads this blog hasn't clued in to that. *snork*
But I herewith offer you all new proof:
Remember I am going to New York on Wednesday? To meet with various marketing folks at Warner? Well, okay, I am thrilled down to the very core of my being, obviously, and that is not geeky or weird, that is WELL within the realm of normal human behavior. She said defensively.
BUT. Do you know what ELSE is thrilling me? Yea, down unto the already thrilled core of my being? I shall tell you....They are going to "send a car for me." THIS MEANS that when I get off the plane there will be a PERSON there, and the person will HAVE A SIGN, and the SIGN will have MY NAME ON IT and I will go up to the person and say, "Hello, why YES! That IS me! THAT IS ME ON THE SIGN YOU HAVE!"
I have a THING about it. Whenever I see a signholder at the airport, I always want to march straight up to him and say HI YES THAT'S ME. No matter what the sign says. "Hi, yes, that's me. Yes. I AM TOO Steve Jones! As a matter of fact. Yeah, that IS weird. Guess my dad really wanted a boy, huh? So. Where are you taking me? Oh? Really? I am a lawyer then, huh? OH! A Judge! COOL ON ME! Hmm do you think we could skip that and you could drive me straight to Madame Toussaud's Wax Museum? Because they just put in an INTERACTIVE JENNIFER LOPEZ. Seriously. She stands there with her back to you (for obvious great big voluptuous wax reasons) and looks over one shoulder, and if you talk to her, she blushes. Also they added Hulk."
I can't wait.
warning: I would say this entry is rated a solid PG 13. Maybe PG 15.
PEOPLE! THIS BLOG HAS OFICIALLY ARRIVED!
I know this because the wiener people found it. You know the wiener people. You get e-mail from them (unless you are Shawn Box and have godly filters). The wiener people are very concerned about the state of your personal wiener, even if you, like me, are a girl and therefore do not technically have one. They want to improve the living conditions and emotional well-being of my imaginary wiener -- they offer to make it 3 inches longer, feed it viagra which I can buy online, and show it pictures of the hot naughty teen bubble bath sleepover the wiener people apparently had with their beautiful young naked asian friends the other night. THANK GOODNESS the wiener people's digital cameras were waterproof!
I am generally unmoved by the wiener people. I do not wish to take them up on their kind offer to make my imaginary wiener 3 inches longer. Because of basic math. Walk through it with me on the chalkboard....Since my imaginary wiener does not technically EXIST, it is currently at ZERO, and zero plus three = a disappointing three. If you were a girl, would YOU respond to an email that read, essentially, "GET A THREE INCH WIENER!!!!"? Probably not, unless the very next words in the ad were "ATTACHED TO A KENNEDY WHO WANTS TO MARRY YOU!!!"
OKAY! *reigns self in as we edge toward NC-17*
ANYWAY. The point is, the MILDEST of the wiener people discovered this blog, and they machine gunned my comments section with FABULOUS OFFERS for getting CHEAP VIAGRA ONLINE! Hmph. I was mightily offended and called Shawn in a lather to have him work his godly filter magic on my comments, but he said, "Congratulations, you blog is now successful! You have attracted the spammers."
That's one way to look at it. So. Yay. And it led to my all-new Wiener People Principle which I will share now for the benefit of my fellow bloggers:
If you build it, they will come.
It's all fixed. Shawn turned Scott onto this MAGICAL ANTI SPAM THINGY that promises a WEINER FREE COMMENTS SECTION.
Now there's an ad I'll respond to!
I am going back to New York, looks like.
Up north of me at Time Warner, my editor (who was about to go on leave for eight weeks or so) decided to storm the building with the galleys for gods in Alabama. She sent one to every person in the building who had a pulse, and then she placed them on the graves of former editors, and then she put some more by the toilets. She went by personally and asked every person to read the galleys, employing a medium to ask the dead folks. Since asking the toilets seemed a bit over the top, she simply left graffiti: YOU + THIS BOOK = 2GETHER 4EVER and FOR HOT MONKEY LOVE, READ THIS BOOK.
I adore my editor. Really.
The result of her unwavering support was this: Someone in marketing read it and liked it. This led to other people in marketing reading/liking, and now the folks in Marketing want to meet with me. To say that I am excited about this is to say Patrick Henry thought liberty might be okay or whatever.
My husband was excited FOR me, until we had the following talk.
Scott: (kidding) This means shoe shopping, doesnt it?
Me: (deadly earnest) You better believe it.
So today I am going to this little shopping place I have never been that is rumored to have amazingly great shoes. Its called The Avenue at East Cobb. HUZZAH. I am going to get some power shoes and I have been thinking about them for two days now in a growing frenzy of desire. I have a chocolate brown short skirt and a cream patterned cami and blouse I am going to wear, but my old brown suit loafers are a little too Ally McBeal for 2004. SO CLEARLY, new shoes are required. I feel the shoes will be in the BRONZE family, and strappy, and scrutiating painful to walk across a ROOM in, much less 15 blocks in Manhattan. BUT HEY. THESE ARE THE THINGS WE DO FOR LOVE.
I called my friend Jan (who is both fashionable and thrifty) to see if she wanted to go with me and rein me in before I fell headlong into love with shoes that cost more than my car.
Me: What are you doing today?
Jan: Hoping someone will take a fork and kick it into my head and end this misery.
Jan: Hey. You asked. Im also cleaning out my garage.
So. Maybe not. Since Jan apparently has *cough* other plans and Julie has her kids (Jans and mine are going on a fieldtrip with the church kids) I am going to go alone and place my so-fierce-it-borders-on-mental-illness love of shoes and my sky miles credit card at the mercy of a saleswoman.
We who are about to need a second mortgage salute you.
The second of my three daily dose blogs is KiWords. Can't not read KiWords. Its the first blog I check in the morning, even before Chez Miscarriage. I cant read Chez Miscarriage before my second cuppa. KiWords is softer---it's a love letter to motherhood. A love letter written by a hip chick with a great sense of humor and a Mental Illness Number that is similar to mine. Like todays entry. The purse. Mentally Ill, obviously, but not DANGEROUSLY so.
I bring it up because today she talks about rollerblading, and I was commenting on her blog and my comment kept growing and growing until finally I said FUGGETIT and came over to here to write about rollerblading myself. WHY NOT. All the cool kids are doing it.
I USED TO ROLLERBLADE! I had hot pink and lime green skates and some of those bicycle shorts that are like Canadian Geese in their migratory habits except the geese go inexorably to Canada and the shorts only go to ones buttcrack. But inexorably. So.
I had a lime green helmet that made my skin look like CHEESE! And I had SAFETY PADS! I had all the pads there were. Knee, wrist, I even had ELBOW pads. I have long skinny arms and long skinny legs and with the bulging round knob of pad on each joint I looked like a bug.
I had them all because I am essentially graceless. Kira says theres this one curve she cant take so she CHOOSES to bottom out on the soft grass. Heh. For me, bottoming out was not a choice. I fell over all the time into the soft grass or the soft asphalt or the soft approaching traffic. Whatever was handy. It finally occurred to me that, yes, I WAS going to die if I kept it up. SO now I have a pair of "outdoor skates." They do not go half as fast and HELLO no one but a five year old wears OUTDOOR SKATES. Oh well, at least mine are lace-ups and do not clip onto my shoes. I say this to comfort myself but I KNOW, okay. I might as well tattoo SUPREME DORK on my forehead.
Still---Better dorky than dead. Anyone who thinks bottoming out in the soft grass is a CHOICE is probably
1) not me
2) able to survive rollerblading and
3) a pretty good dancer!
Last night I went to see a LAWN MOVIE. Thats where they set up the big screen outside and you come with blankets and chairs and picnics and lie down in the dark of night like an all-you-can-poke blood buffet for mosquitoes.
The movie was To Kill a Mockingbird unless you are a seven-year-old boy. Then you think it is HOW To Kill a Mockingbird, which probably sounds like a much better movie to you. You hope the answer to the titular question is with mass quantities of highly unstable plastic explosives attached to ninja hurling stars thrown by some sort of mutant superhero. When that is NOT the answer (or even the title), you eat your body weight in lemon-pops and Oreos and go to sleep on the blanket.
But your mom watches the movie and remembers several things:
1) There is NOTHING wrong with Gregory Peck. Yum.
2) Harper Lee is an astounding genius. The movie is good, but it made me remember all the things about the book that amaze me and break my heart and make my brain wake up, and I sat there with my friend Amy whispering back and forth OH REMEMBER IN THE BOOK THIS IS WHERE SCOUT etc etc and we were both getting weepy and hysterical by turns over scenes that arent even IN the movie. Thats a BOOK, folks.
3) If you are a writer, and you are watching a movie made from POSSIBLY the book you admire the VERY MOST in all of life, SOMEONE is BOUND to come up and say to you, Wow. Bet you wish you wrote THAT book, huh? And then you will become six inches tall and squat on your blanket imagining all your friends around you are secretly shaking their heads sadly as they cluck and tut at your complete failure to be Harper Lee and write the best book in the universe, win the Pulitzer, and retire .
Who is it all about? Thats right. Me.
Could someone please pass the explosive ninja hurling stars?
I have sun poisoning in spite of frequent application of 45 sunblock.... So lily is my whiteness that I am going to have to get a BIG FLOPPY HAT and a 1920's throat to ankles bathing costume to survive my upcoming family week at the beach.
I have been entertaining myself in my red, peeling, blotchy, poisoned suffering by surfing around look at writing contests.
THE BEST ONE: The Wergle Flomp Poetry Contest
It won't make sense to you unless you know about the SCUMBAGGERY perpetrated by poetry.com. You can catch up on that little scam over at Wocky Jivvy.
Once you are up on the latest way to bilk unsuspecting and hopeful fledgling poets, you should go pen some scrutiating bad verse and win $817.70 from the WERGLE FLOMP.
If you, like me, have a federal injunction that prohibits you from even attempting to perpetrate poetry, you can always go win the BULWER-LYTTON. This is a contest that rewards the worst possible opening sentence for a novel...Ah the joys of bad prose!
Without the BULWER-LYTTON, I would never have shot a goodly portion of my liver out of my left nostril because I was laughing so hard. Blame the following sentence:
"His priest-blessed sword was forged in the boiling feces of the Damned."
Another internal organ-rupturing favorite is this Grand Prize Winning entry by STEVE GARMON, a guy from my hometown. He went to my high school but was 4 years ahead of me, so I did not know him well enough to consider it a real brush with infamy. But!!! I once made out with his little brother in the dim hallway behind the school auditorium. SO! Does that count? Anyway -- here is the entry:
The lovely woman-child Kaa was mercilessly chained to the cruel post of the warrior-chief Beast, with his barbarous tribe now stacking wood at her nubile feet, when the strong, clear voice of the poetic and heroic Handsomas roared, "Flick your Bic, crisp that chick, and you'll feel my steel through your last meal."
Last night Scott and I took an entire gaggle of small boychildren to see Spiderman II. I am married to one of the nation's foremost comic book geeks, so Scott was almost as excited as the young burgeoning piles of manhood who sat in the back of the van exuding such thick clouds of immature testosterone that I had to ride with my head out the window like a golden retriever to try and get a clean breath.
Scott was almost beside himself with excitement. On the way to the movie theatre we had this conversation:
Scott: Spiderman 2 is the best super hero movie that will ever be made.
Me: How can you say that? You have not even seen it.
Scott: (in the tone one might use to explain to a drooling moron that WATER is WET) Honey... Spiderman 2 has Doctor Octopus.
1)There is one scene where Sam Raimi had an evil dead flashback and forgot he was directing a summer action flick. It was a little....too. Not violent...too INTENSE. In a horror way. The boys seemed unfazed but I worried for their developing brains. Once that scene was over, Raimi kinda got it together and kept the extreme levels of violence ridiculously cartoony and unreal, JUST HOW I LIKE IT.
2) At one point an actor says, VERY SERIOUSLY "You killed my father." And of course IMMEDIATELY, and in PERFECT UNISON, Scott and I called out "PREPARE TO DIE." It was a response so involuntary it was pretty much Pavlovian---That line is OWNED RE-INVENTED and PATENTED by Mandy Patinkin and NO ONE ELSE SHOULD EVER SAY IT.
3) Toby experiences moderate levels of Angst. I think Toby is a very fine actor, and if one must do angst, he does it well, but I prefer not to have any. Just NOT INTERESTED. I want Spiderman to save banks and old ladies while being unable to deliver pizza or make an 8 o'clock curtain. THAT IS WHAT WE LIKE. I don't want him to have a psychosomatic illness. I wanted to say, "OH COME ON, Run along and shoot webs and bounce off cars and stop the city from blowing up and kiss that cute Dunst girl. Leave the mental problems to Batman. KTHANXDRIVETHROUGH."
1)All Sam Raimi's PET ACTORS cameo. HELLO TED/JOXXER! GOOD TA SEE YA! HELLO BRUCE! AGING WELL, BRUCE! STILL HOT, BRUCE! SMOKIN'!
2) EVERYTHING ELSE.
Trivia: The guy who plays Doc Ock was Tevya in Fiddler on Broadway. And a darn good one. How is that for RANGE?
I have become addicted to a blog about one couple's war on infertility. I can not miss it. I get up in the morning, pour myself a cuppa, and while my prodigious amount of e-mail that either offers me highly addictive anti-depressants by mail OR tells me how I can get myself a larger penis via the STRETCHMASTER PAINTHOUSAND is DLing, I go read this blog. If she hasn't put up an entry I feel rather put out.
I will give you the url in a sec, but....
WARNING: she is bleak, she is bitter, she is profane, she is EDGY(and by this I mean she has ZERO sentiment and 17 zillion metric tons of passion), she is the angriest person I have ever read, she uses 'scrutiatingly bad language so it's not a blog you can read out loud with the kids in the room. (When she DOES have her child I imagine this will change. Nothing like having to say to your mother-in-law "OH! UM! Jr's first word is TRUCK, he is just having a little problem pronouncing his TEE AITCHES," to clean a lady's mouth up hehehe. Not that I am speaking from experience or anything. *cough*.)
She's also one of the funniest, one of the brightest, and some of entries put me on the floor weeping and some of them make me laugh so hard I barely make it to the bathroom. And WOW the girl can WRITE. She's astounding. She's amazing. Reading her is a BIT depressing because she is a pure raw natural fount of UNENDING talent, and she doesn't even think of herself as a writer or DO anything writing related.
It's like seeing Michael Jordan on a playground b-ball court where you are KILLING YOURSELF practicing to try and get a shot at the minors, and having him say "Oh I play a little ball yeah. but I'm not, like, going to make a CAREER out of it." It makes you boggle. If she would organize that blog into Creative Non-Fiction (as we must all call memoirs these days in acknowledgement of the the high LIE FACTOR) she could make 70 squidzillion dollars and thus fund as many rounds of fertility treatments as it TAKES and then fly to China and adopt 20 or 30 siblings for him/her. AND she could sell the book I bet because CLEARLY this is a woman who will not let a little rejection STOP her when she has a serious goal.
I wrote her and told she was a writer.
She wrote me back and said she wasn't, she was just an angry miscarrying person.
I told her that wasn't a very good job, and PS she was CLEARLY a writer.
She wrote me back and said OKAY CRACK SMOKER! in the kindest possible way.
By now she has filed my e-mails in the "mentally unstable stalker" file and gone right on being brilliant and SO undiscovered that not even SHE realizes she is The Voice of Her Generation.
Oh well. If you go, DO NOT MISS the June 17th and June 30th entries. Boldly HIT THE ARCHIVES. If you want to laugh until your appendix pops out your nose, surf the section called PEOPLE WE HATE.
I have to say -- if you are easily shocked and offended or if you are squeamish about medical procedures OR most especially if you are my 13 year old nephew who sometimes reads this blog---Don't go clicking that.
1) Sam was over at Jans house (Home of Beloved Caroline) and he asked Jan for a pickle. Jan said, Whats the password, and he said, Please. So he got the pickle and then later he was sitting in the family room kinda mooning at Caroline and he accidentally said what he was thinking out loud. It just popped out.. (That happens to ME too sometimes, so I know how he feels.)
SO sitting right there in the room with her, he accidentally said, I love Caroline. And then he heard his own voice saying it and he froze. Jan was passing through the room and she said, What did you say Sam? And he got all flustered and backpedaled, saying, Thats the new password. To get a pickle you have to say I love Caroline. OKAY? OKAY? in this desperate voice. They all pretended like they thought that was a fine new password for pickles.
2) We were driving home through the pouring rain and Sam said, Mommy, I know what the weather book says about how it makes precipitation, but I do not think so. I think there are children up there who live on top. And when the clouds get full and they run on the clouds, that makes the rain comes out. And when the children are roughhousing, that is what makes the rain be Torrential Rain. And sometimes when they make Torrential Rain they have a big crank they can turn on this machine and the machine twists the cloud up and that is how you get tornados.
And I did not know what was more amazing, his vocabulary or his imagination.
3) Sam has taken to lurking. He sidles up behind me and creeps about in my wake and sits on the other side of doorways, back pressed to the wall, big-eyed and listening. I will be in my office and hear him breathing as he crawls along the baseboard. IT IS GIVING ME THE COMPLETE WIG.
You know those sleep number beds?If you are a veteran of the insomnia wars, I AM SURE YOU DO.
While I sat up watching the sleep number bed infomercial at a zillion o'clock in the black pit of night, I decided I need my own ranking system. I need a mental illness number. The scale will be 1 - 100 with 1 being grounded in reality and relatively cheerful, and 50 being needs medication and 100 being sucking own toes and paddling about in the bloody remains of the neighbors dog.
(Although the bloody remains part would be JUSTIFIABLE DOGRICIDE because that great hairy object habitually comes over and has his morning constitutional RIGHT BY THE MAILBOX ON THE CONCRETE OF MY DRIVEWAY. Which really, I should kill the neighbors who have apparently never heard of BAGGIES or COURTESY, not the dog, but by the time one has a mental illness number of 100, these fine distinctions are beyond one.)
After several days of mental illness numbers in the high 50s and low 60s, I think I got over 70 yesterday. NOT GOOD. I showed my butt to my friend Theresa who NEVER shows her butt. That makes it infinitely worse. I mean, Julie and Jan are USED to me being a complete headcase, but I have tried to keep a lid on it around Theresa because she is the most GROUNDED person I know. Her mental illness number is about negative 7.
BUT NO. I had to have a big old tantrum in front of her. See--- I had to miss my class because the nursery worker did not show up. AND I REALLY WANTED TO GO TO THIS ONE. Its my marriage enrichment class, and I have to say it has been a very good class. We have really enjoyed it, and I wouldnt want to miss it ANYWAY .BUT. THIS WEEK WAS SPECIAL.
It was the SEX TALK week. Our teachers have been married to each other for over 60 years so the writer in me was dying DYING to be at this particular class. Come on!!! Material like that does not just walk in off the street!!! And I missed it. MISSED IT!!!!
And everyone in the class SWORE to give me a play by play and then after class they all kind of shrugged as I avidly questioned them and said Oh it was, you know, a good class. Like always. It was fine. Julie added, tantalizingly, Oh, one of the teachers did talk about swinging. AND THEN THEY ALL PROBABLY SWAPPED KEYS WENT HOME WITH EACH OTHERS HUSBANDS BECAUSE THEY WERE SO CHOCK FULL OF FANTASTIC UNSHARED OCTOGENARIAN SWINGER STORIES.
I went home and ate half a box of chocolate covered cherries and watched infomercials, completely unfulfilled as a woman.
ALL THREE THINGS that needed to come to fruition have magically, amazingly, astoundingly fruitted. In other words *DRUMROLL* We are under contract to sell our baby house on the 27th of August and on the 30th of August we shall go to live forever in THE DREAM HOUSE. Due no doubt to fervent prayer and Tiff's good juju.
So everything here is fabulous except the bacon.
See, I have to make Fat Casserole to take over to a pot luck supper at my friend Theresa's house tonight. Fat Casserole is VERY VERY VERY GREAT. As my son used to say "It's nice to eat it in your mouth." I would say "As opposed to....?" and he would look blankly at me because he was three and did not know what "As opposed to?" meant. BUT I DIGRESS.
Fat Casserole has half a pound of butter in it, a pound of cheese, 3 cups of crumbled lard patties (aka Ritz Crackers) a pound of bacon, and a buncha eggs to make it all stick together. After you get all that in there, if there is room left in your mixing bowl, you can sprinkle in a little squash and maybe some onion. And that is what we in the south call "a vegetable."
BUT. I accidentally bought LOWER SODIUM BACON.
Lower Sodium Bacon means "Has less sodium than a block of pure sodium, but still more sodium than all of Guam, and PS doesn't taste as good."
See also: turkey bacon
I mean "doesn't taste as good as real bacon"
Not "doesn't taste as good as Guam"
I quite frankly have never tasted Guam.
It's not that my mother did not try ("Oh come on, Baby, just give Guam a little lick!") it is more that I was picky.
Can you tell I am beyond giddy over this house thing? THE DREAM HOUSE has an OFFICE. The OFFICE has doors on it. Speaking as a person who is currently trying to write a novel to deadline in the middle of a completely open floor plan in a house with 1380 square feet of living space and TWO OF THE LOUDEST HUMAN CHILDREN ON THE PLANET who are apparently ON A MISSION FROM GOD to perfectly approximate the shrieks of the damned any time they both want the same toy which is EVERY MINUTE THEY HAVE BREATH IN THEIR TINY BODIES, allow me to say LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LALALALALALALA!LA!LA!LA!
Oh lovely August 30th, come soon! La!