jennsylvania

You In The Size Zero Pants, Finish Your Carrot Sticks And Skip This Post

As I promised on Twitter earlier, here's your Big Girls' Guide to Online Style post. 

(If you'd all hold on for a moment while I congratulate myself for actually doing what I promised I'd do when I promised I'd do it and not, say, at some distant point in the future when everyone will have forgotten the original promise, I'd appreciate it.)  (Of course, I'm pretty much writing this post as a way to put off my first round of book revisions.)  (Apparently the only way to get me to do anything is to assign me something slightly easier to accomplish than the original task.)

Anyway, clothing, yes.

Before I start posting links, I must first offer up a confession:  I hate shopping.

More specifically, I hate shopping for clothes. (FYI, I love shopping for rugs, candles, and dog toys.)  That doesn't mean I don't like having new things, but the process of buying clothes?  The process makes me weary. 

When I was younger, I used to shop for fun and leisure until it dawned on me that I despise the planning and the driving and the parking and the pawing through racks, searching for the right size at the right price, finally locating something potentially appropriate and affordable, entering a cramped little room, standing shoeless on a floor where a million other dirty feet have been before me, and only then realizing that all the work was for naught because the pants/skirt/dress/sweater is too big/small/ugly/wrong.

And that was before I got fat.

If you've ever shopped for plus size stuff, it's the same nightmare as above, only multiplied by 1,000. 

I've found the easiest way to get what I want is via the internet.  Yes, there are a few exceptional brick and mortar spots (Lenox Square Macy's in Buckhead, I'm looking at you, and Nordstrom, if you're having a sale) and some serviceable value choices (Target, Kohls, Lane Bryant) but the best variety is online.  Plus, when I shop at home, the only dirty floor my feet touch is my own.

Granted, if budget's no issue, you can always stock up in-store on beautiful, well-tailored items at places like Neiman Marcus and Saks... if you can find their fat girl shops through the employee break room, across the loading dock, behind the utility closet, and up a service elevator.  (Oh, and by the way, NeimanMarcus.com?  FUCK YOU for not using plus size girls to model anything but $300 velor track suits.  Do you really think seeing 1X sweaters on a size 2 model is the very best way to sell to us?  ARGH.)

Ahem, anyway, let's begin.

OHMIGOD, SHOES

Shoes may seem like an odd item to include first, because like purses or jewelry or scarves, shoes always fit, yes?  Yes, except for boots.  If your calves have a greater circumference than an Olive Garden breadstick, you probably have trouble finding boots that zip, unless you want to buy those stupid little ankle booties, which... no.

The good news is extended calf boots exist.

The bad news is your healthy-calved sisters already know they exist and those bitches will snap up every pair before you can say "Happy Thanksgiving."  So if you want them, buy them now, now, now!

Zappos is one of the best resources for extended calf boots.  For example, I got these last year and I LUF THEM.  Manufacturers like Ros Hommerson, Fitzwell, rsvp, and Naturalizer make boots with wider shafts and Zappos stocks them all.  Plus, they couldn't make it easier to get a few pair for sizing purposes and return what doesn't fit.

J. Crew has some pricier (but gorgeous) offerings, as do Eddie Bauer and Silhouettes.  And if you've got a pair that almost-so-close-so-close-so-close-but-not-quite fit, you can take them to a shoe repair shop and have them stretched.

PREPPY IS FOREVER

Today's one of those days I'm kicking myself for living in the midwest.  Were we to maintain a constant eighty degrees here, I'd pretty much never have to shop again, save for replacing a worn pair of khaki shorts or salad-dressing stained Lacoste.  Oh, and by the way, a lot of you - including the very, very famous person I talked to last year in my kitchen in an experience I've been contractually obligated to never write about - want to know how I find Lacostes that fit since the women's sizes aren't terribly generous.

Simple.

I wear men's. 

Small women can't wear men's Lacostes because the crocodile hits in an unfortunate place but for those of us familiar with, um, gravity, that's not an issue.  As for sizing, Lacostes start at a 2, which is XXS, and go up to a 9, equivalent to 3XL.  And one time I saw Michael Clark Duncan in a Lacoste on Two and a Half Men.  Point?  If they can fit him, they can fit you.  And they come in 54 colors!

Yes, they average about $70 each, but I've been wearing them in my current size for about ten years and they've never fallen apart.  I've gotten rid of a few, but only because (a) salad-dressing stains, and, (b) I cut them up for a Dirty Shirty party.

Remember?  I ripped off this idea from The Preppy Handbook last year:

Yeah, I totally won Best Shirt prize.

Also, I went to the party again this year and had to top last year's entry.  I went with this:

 

Next year I'll have to suck it up and actually buy a stupid, profane print t-shirt because I don't have any more crocs to cut and the joke's getting old.

I've gotten some questions on where I got all the Madras plaid shorts and capris I wore on book tour.  I bought the fabric on Three Chickadees and had them made.  Price-wise, each item worked out to about $50 each.  In this economy, I'm not going to tell all the big girls, "Just have everything made!" but in the context of a special occasion item with a perfect fit, maybe it makes sense.  Also?  I supplemented my tour clothes with pieces from Land's End, Eddie Bauer, and L.L. Bean.  Good fit, easy return policies, quick shipping.  What's not to like? 

Speaking of classic, tailored clothing, why did no one tell me Talbots stocked plus??  Look at this sweater - look at it!  If this isn't the real me, I don't know what is.

 

WHAT IF I WANT SOMETHING THAT'S, YOU KNOW, ACTUALLY STYLISH?  AND WASN'T FEATURED IN THE PREPPY HANDBOOK?  (OR DOESN'T COME FROM A STORE THAT SELLS CANOES?)

Fine, you don't have to dress like me. 

(Which is not to say you shouldn't, because tailored items in stiffer cottons hang nicely and can be quite flattering.)

One of my favorite e-tailers is Alight.com.  I mean, for one, they have a boutique called Pretty in Plaid.  How do I not dig that?  Also, they have the most extensive collection of fun, casual dresses I've ever seen online.  Most are constructed with an Empire waist which will absolutely play up your best assets and cover those parts you don't love.  A lot of the dresses trend summer-y, but paired with leggings and a cardigan, they'd be adorable any season.

Igigi is a little more pricey than Alight, but they also have more sophisticated, professional items.  Today I stumbled across this dress and it pretty much took my breath away.   Kiyonna has gorgeous work clothes, too.

I love both Igigi and Kiyonna, although I'm more likely to wear basics from from Old Navy and J. Jill.  I'd complain that I can't buy their plus merchandise in the actual stores, but who am I kidding?  I'd much rather shop from home.

I've always been a fan of Ralph Lauren's plus stuff because these items seem to be cut with our proportions in mind.  Again, it's more pricey than a lot of what else I've listed, but sometimes paying more for a classic piece is worth it.

Torrid is a little young for me, but last year they sponsored part of Stephanie Klein's book tour and that kicks ass.  Stephanie's not plus-size, but her book Moose is a fat camp memoir and lots of the kids shopping in Torrid could identify with what she wrote. 

And... now I'll go off on a tangent, because it occurs to me that I'm bothered.  Lots of famous designers hold parties for authors.  Someone's always hosting a lavish fete in their posh Soho location and the press is always there, touting both the book and the style.  But outside of Torrid, I've never seen any designer or retail outlet associate with big girl.  And actually, one of my friends asked the Chicago Marina Rinaldi store to lend her an outfit for a huge public event and they were absolutely not interested.

Maybe it's just that big girls don't buy anything?

Oh, wait...

(P.S.  In terms of FTC disclosure, no one's given me anything to write about them.  And if they did, I'd probably ask to be paid in rugs, candles, and dog toys anyway.)

Cover Story

You know how I was pretty much MIA here on this site for the past six months? 

And I kept telling you I was working on a new book? 

Yet you had no tangible proof that was true? 

And you started to suspect I was just hiding out in my basement, eating candy, and watching The Real Housewives?

(Okay, that part might have happened a little bit.)

Well, today I have some proof by way of new cover and a release date. 

And yet me being me, I must first take a circuitous route prior to the big reveal.

So, we know book covers are important, yes?  And that whole can't-judge-a-book business is horseshit because if the cover doesn't appeal to you, why would you even pick it up?  (Sidenote: I'm aware there are people who don't abide by this rule.  I occasionally get unhappy emails where these readers are angry because my books are filled with curse words.  Yet I maintain when there's profanity IN THE FUCKING TITLE, one should probably expect more blue language to follow.)

Anyway, before I show the new cover, I thought it might be fun to share a couple of covers that didn't make the cut for previous books.  First up, Bitter...

Honestly, I thought this cover was pretty cool and it would totally catch my interest on the front table at Borders or B&N.  And yet my argument against it was that a book about a defiant fat girl was not best represented by a defeated six-foot model with an ass small enough to fit on a Hello Kitty suitcase.  So the art department went back to the drawing board and came up with the concept of the iconic dress which to this day I love so fiercely it makes my heart hurt.

For Bright Lights, there were no prototypes - the image on the cover now was the first and only one I saw.  In my opinion, it could not have been more perfect.  What's funny is the designer got cover inspiration by looking at a line of Marc Jacobs handbags.  Then, a year after the book's release, Marc Jacobs came out with this purse, called the Jen.

Coincidence?

Although, really, if I was somehow Marc Jacob's muse, the polite thing for him to do would have been to send me one of these bags.

Such a Pretty Fat took some tweaking...

... before we nailed the concept.  And then it was just a matter of adjusting colors.

 
 
 
For Pretty in Plaid, I was desperate for the loafers to be featured on the front cover, but they just looked weird, so the art department made sure I got a little jpeg of them on the back cover.  (Which kicks ass because technically authors have no control over covers.)

Point?  Penguin's art department has been making me happy for five years and I need to say thank you for creating the kind of books that can absolutely be judged by their covers.  You guys are the best!

Anyway, I hope you all dig their latest effort as much as I do...

In bookstores May 4, 2010 and available for preorder now! 

(P.S.  I swear in this book, too.)

Trick Or Treat For Dignity!

Setting:  My family room, last week.  We are watching television and two feral kittens are curled up on my chest and shoulders, and one on Fletch's lap.

Me:  Hey, I was doing some research online about kitten development and I found out the Thundercats aren't always going to be so sweet.  I guess in the next few months they're going to hit "adolescence" and we can expect them to be bratty and distance themselves from us.

Fletch:  Where'd you find this information, CrazyCatLady.com?

Me:  No!  I think I found it on maybe Purina.com.  And I'm not a crazy cat lady, so shut it.  Anyway, you know what would be funny?  If I got all the guys costumes and took pictures of them for Halloween.

Fletch:  Yeah, you're not really helping your case here.

* * *

First up, Chuck.  Behold the bigness of this five month old kitten!

 "Not only shall you die for this, but it is I who'll do the killin'."

Here's Gus in his trick or treat finery.

"While you take this photo, my minion will spit on your ice cubes."

And here's Odin, who's too mellow to put up a fight.

"Yeah, this is WAY better than living on the street."

Oh, look Charlie Brown!  There really IS a great pumpkin!

"Even my outfit is laughing at me."

Anyway, have a safe and happy Halloween! 

(And P.S. You're not a crazy cat lady if your husband HELPS you take the photos.)

"And let Maisy know if you has any extra candy."
 

Bet You Big Teaser, Huh?

Just emailed my friend the following note:

Hey, are you up for coming over here tonight for Top Chef?  Am thinking you need to see these kittens so you can properly describe them to the police/animal control/a priest after they eat us.

If you don't follow me on Twitter, you've not yet heard tales of Chuck Norris, nor are you aware that the average size for kittens this age is three to six pounds.

Chuck's already passed the ten pound mark.

I fear for us.

Photos to follow tomorrow.

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!)

Hey, What If You Had An Upcoming Event But Forgot To Tell Anyone About It?

Let's not let that happen...

What:  The third annual Witty Women Writers event at the Book Cellar

When:  Thursday, October 15, 7:00 PM

Where:  4736 N. Lincoln Ave, Chicago, IL

Why:  What do you mean, why?  It's an event; it's fun.  Amy Guth and Stacey Ballis will be there, too, and we'll all be doing our best to make you laugh.  I'll even be reading stuff from the not-yet-finished-being-written book My Fair Lazy.

Who:  I think I just covered this above.

What Else:  I'm not saying the event last year was so crowded we all may have died should there have been a fire.  But I am saying that this year attendance will still be free, but seating will be more strictly limited (and decidedly less flammable.)  You must RSVP by calling (773) 293-2665.

'Til then, I'll be hustling to finally finish the new manuscript and likely not showering on a regular basis.

As for you, please take this time to enjoy the shot of a box of kitten scaring the bejesus out of the pit bull.

 

 

Yes, This Post Is Two Years Old, But Pertinent Because I'm Making This Soup Today

Setting:  On the couch at my friend Stacey's house, catching up before watching Top Chef.

Stacey:  What did you do for Labor Day weekend?

Me:  Fletch went to his 20th class reunion in Indiana and I stayed home and worked on my stupid book.  (Note:  Apparently I DO have people and they would like you to know I do not feel this book is stupid.)

Stacey:  I'm sorry, that had to suck.

Me:  What's worse is it was our five-year anniversary and I couldn't go with him because I was buried in work.  By the way, try to guess what he brought me for a present.  I'll start you off.  One dozen...

Stacey:  Roses? 

Me:  Nope.

Stacey:  Orchids? 

Me:  Try again.

Stacey:  Gardenias?

Me:  No.  One dozen EARS OF CORN.

Stacey:  (thoughtful pause) I hope they were at least long-stemmed.

* * * * *

OK, please no hate mail to Fletch because I bought him... nothing.  We aren't 'elaborate present' people and the 'no gifts' thing is a long anniversary tradition.  Also, at this time of year few things can compare to picked-in-Indiana-that-day produce and he brought home a ton of it because he is a fine husband.

Point?

I had a bunch of tomatoes at their peak of ripeness from his trip, so I emailed Stacey for her soon-to-be-world-famous tomato soup recipe and I cooked it today. 

Following you'll find instructions in case you'd like to make it.  You'll also find my helpful comments in italics.

STACEY'S (MAGICALLY) ROASTY TOMATO SOUP

Can be served hot or cold and can easily be turned into a million other recipes.  (Is magic soup??)

Approx 4 lbs. tomatoes - I use a mix of plum, cherry, and grape for depth of flavor, but it is essential they be fresh and ripe. (How many pounds is one square foot?  Because that's how many I have on my counter.)

1 medium sweet onion or 4 large shallots, diced (Shallot is one of my favorite words - is pretty, like Charlotte, only more exotic.  But would cause non-existent daughter to be teased on playground and children would taunt, "Your name is Onion!"  Possible good dog name, though, particularly if of stinky pit bull variety.)

2 T Herbs de Provence (Did not know this existed in our house until opened spice cabinet.  Magic cabinet?)

Olive Oil

Salt and pepper

Preheat oven to 250 degrees.  (Remove stored Tupperware first.)  (Or remove melted Tupperware after.  Your choice.)

Cut tomatoes in half, toss in olive oil to coat, and arrange cut side down on oiled sheet pans.  (Debate washing cookie tin with stuff still burnt on from mid-summer's lasagna debacle.  Opt for big casserole pan.  Is close enough.)

Add onion or shallot on top of the tomatoes.  Sprinkle with the herbs and liberal salt and pepper.  Roast approx 1.5 to 2 hours until skins are loose and the flesh is soft.  (Much like own self's.) 

Peel skins off tomatoes and discard.  (Or taste skins, declare delicious, and scarf right up.)  Dump the contents of the sheet pans (casserole dish) into a large bowl, using an immersion blender.  (Call Fletch to find out what 'immersion blender' is.)  (Call Fletch back to ask if we have one.)  (We do!  Magic Fletch!)

Blend into chunky soup.  (Change out of white shirt after operating very splashy immersion blender for first time.)  Adjust seasonings.

I serve either warm or cold with a dollop of creme fraiche (fancy!) or sour cream and some chopped fresh mint for grown-ups.  Add alphabet noodles or cooked rice for kids.  (Genius!  Too bad do not have daughter Shallot to feed to.)  Stir in toasted croutons and drizzle with olive oil and Parmesan for a classic Pappa al Pomodoro.  (Am pretty sure is Italian for "father of the spaghetti.")  Add fresh basil and garlic and you have a chunky pasta sauce. (!) Add fresh oregano and it becomes pizza sauce.  (!!) Freezes beautifully, can be canned if you are ambitious (right), and lasts up to two weeks in fridge.  (I TOLD YOU IT WAS MAGIC SOUP!)

(Serve in giant tub and inhale entire delicious contents while watching Survivor on DVD, saving none for Fletch.)

(A few hours later, find out what happens after inhaling one square foot of tomatoes, including skins.)

(Hint:  IS NOT MAGIC.)

Two Week Notice

I've got two weeks left to finish this book, so until that's done, I won't be putting up any new posts as I shall be busy both writing and crying about deadlines to anyone within earshot.  (You can probably expect some increasingly panicked Twitters, though.)

Regardless, the internet exists almost exclusively to display pictures of kittens anyway.  As I'm not without resources, I've got you covered.

Although, given the fact that Chuck Norris is already almost seven pounds at four months old, he's less of an alley kitten and more of an alley cougar. 

Behold the bigness that is Chuck Norris!

Am thinking "Clint Eastwood" may have been an appropriate name, too.  The LOLCat caption on this one would have to be "GET OFF MAH LAWN."

Odin and Angus, or "Dis my uther bruther Daryl."

 "Shut up about your stupid deadline already!  God!"

P.S.  See you in a few weeks!

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."

And Yes, I Believe I CAN Fly

"Did you watch Mad Men this week?" Stacey asks.

"Actually, I don't watch it at all," I reply, taking a big swig of my Turkish coffee which is so thick I can practically chew it.  I've put away most of the pot and am down to the ultra-concentrated layer of sludge at the bottom. 

(If you're unfamiliar, this is the kind of coffee that coffee would drink for breakfast.  Imagine Cuban coffee on crack which is like regular coffee on crack so essentially Turkish coffee is coffee to the second power.  You could use it for jet fuel.) 

(Actually, drink enough and you wouldn't even need a plane to take flight.) 

"How can that be?  It's the best written, acted, directed, and styled show on television!"

"Well, I've got a bunch of other stuff on the TiVo..."

"Too busy watching For the Love of Ray J. to make time to see it?"

"No, shut up, I didn't even watch that.  Much.  But, hey, the good news is I'm not involved with Megan Wants a Millionaire any more."

"The what?"

"It's a show about this big blonde gold digger named Megan who got her start on reality TV by winning Beauty and Geek which is a show where nerds and cute girls have to learn to work together and she had kind of a nice change of heart on the show but as soon as she went on Rock of Love she turned into a huge bitch again and then when she didn't win that, she went on the first season of I Love Money and then, I'd have to check to confirm this, but I'm pretty sure she was on the second season of I Love Money 2 which she didn't win either, but the producers loved her so they gave her a show where she could date a bunch of millionaires because her ultimate goal is to be a trophy wife but VH1 had to pull it because one of the finalists was that guy all over the news last week for killing his swimsuit model wife and the worst part - other than the horrible murder, of course - is that they're probably not event going to run I Love Money 3 so I guess what I'm saying is my television watching schedule just freed itself up a bit.  Maybe I'll give it a shot."

There's a long, pregnant pause at the table before Stacey replies.  "Two things; first, do yourself a favor and watch Mad Men.  Second, do yourself another favor and STOP DRINKING THAT COFFEE."

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.

You Know, For Kids

Just when you think I have no more live events, I have a new live event. 

Other than the annual Witty Women event in October, this is pretty much it until I go on tour next May.  So, if you're interested in seeing me stammer, spit, and sweat Chardonnay live and in person, there's no time like the present.  And seriously, this takes place in a bar.  Drinks will be involved which always adds an interesting dimension and ups my natural propensity for hugging, like, a thousand percent.   

Anyway...

What:  A benefit for Chicago-based nonprofit Literacy Works.

Um, What?:  I'm doing a reading from Pretty in Plaid, followed by live Q & A

Well, That Sounds Worthy, Where Do I Go?:  The Hopleaf Bar in Uptown, located at 5148 N. Clark

When: This Wednesday night, August 19th at 7:30 PM

Do I Need to Know Anything Else?:  Suggested donation is $10 (cash)

Hope to see you there and thanks so much for helping support a noble cause!

Can You Tell I Finally Figured Out How To Download Photos From The New Camera?

Last month my friend Poppy's post-BlogHer party, Fletch and I had the opportunity to sit down and drink nine hundred glasses of wine with musician Chris Mann. 

I am Chris Mann.  (And you are not.)

For those of you who don't know him, he's a classically trained opera singer who's since moved into the whole modern pop singer/songwriter genre.  Combining his talent, charm, looks, and sincere fan interaction, my prediction is he's going to be the Next Big Thing. 

I also predict that in five years he'll win a Grammy and break Jennifer Aniston's heart and the whole sordid mess will play out on the pages of Star magazine, but that's not important right now. 

What IS important is that his EP drops today.  You can check it out here, or you can give him a shout on Twitter here.

Of course, Fletch thinks what's important is that Chris took his vacant seat at the party. 

"Win all the awards you want, Mr. Music.  I can still kick you in the throat."

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.

Book Mitzvah

I've been telling you guys about this for a year and today's finally the day!  So, I'm delighted to say that my good friend Danny Evans' book has finally been released!

 

Here's a quick synopsis of Danny's memoir:

MESHUGENAH [meh-shuh-geh-nuh] adjective

1. mad; crazy;
2. mentally deranged; demented; insane

[origin: 1892, from Heb. meshugga, part. of shagag "to go astray, wander." The adj. has forms meshugener, meshugenah before a noun]

In his early thirties, Danny Evans had it all—a hot wife, a new baby, and a steady advertising job. Then, in the span of one week, a series of inauspicious events plunged Evans into a crushing depression. At turns poignant and uproarious, RAGE AGAINST THE MESHUGENAH vividly traces Evans' journey through the minefield of mental illness from a modern man's point of view.

The stigma surrounding clinical depression is ominous enough to prevent many men from discussing it, but Evans (author of the wildly popular DadGoneMad.com) holds nothing back. Through his confrontations with sexual side effects, his self-medication with beer and porn, and even his private therapy sessions, Evans boldly details his odyssey to get back to being himself.

You can purchase your own copy here, here, here, here, or here.

His appearances begin tonight and if you'd like to hear him read from Rage and have your copy autographed, his tour schedule is here.

If you'd like to wish him a happy publication day, he's on Twitter @dadgonemad.

Finally, Danny, congratulations!  I'm so proud of you and this book.  You've worked your ass off to get to today - now it's time for you and your family to sit back and enjoy what you've accomplished.

Mazel tov!