Jen Lancaster's Blog, page 12

"Do I feel lucky?" Well, Do Ya, Punk?

Who's up for a giveaway? If your answer is, "I am, I am!" then this is your lucky day. To celebrate the release of my friend Caprice Crane's new novel With a Little Luck tomorrow, we're giving away signed copies today! Here's the official description: If love is in the cards, then somebody stacked the deck. Los Angeles radio DJ Beryl "Berry" Lambert, whose name means luck, doesn't much believe in it—although, thanks to her dear old gambling dad, she's a bit superstitious, certain that everything happens for a reason. She keeps a four-leaf clover in her wallet, never takes off her horseshoe necklace, and won't tempt fate by walking under a ladder or opening an umbrella indoors. Ever. When it comes to love, though, she could use a little luck. Two disastrous relationships back-to-back can mean only one thing to a woman who knows that everything good or bad happens in threes: A third Mr. Wrong is imminent. But fellow DJ Ryan Riley goes against the odds. Their on-air battle of the sexes is a hit for the station and sparks some serious heat after hours. Ryan is funny and sexy, and he thinks Berry's quirkiness is cute. Is their romance doomed by the numbers—or is a girl who leaves nothing to chance finally ready to gamble? Caprice Crane's witty, winsome novel about the game of modern romance proves that with a little luck and the right stakes, everybody wins. I loved this book. It's clever and charming with...

July's TMS Humor Hotel Column - The Now 100% More Amish-Living Edition

My husband, Fletch, believes we should be prepared for any eventuality. Maybe it's his military training or perhaps he watches too much it's-the-end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it Discovery Channel programming. But for whatever reason, he's concerned an apocalypse will occur in our lifetime and when it happens, he assures me we'll be ready. Bless his tin foil hat wearing-heart. Fletch converted our basement to a veritable Army surplus store when we moved to the suburbs last year. Tucked between plastic tubs of ancient sorority sweatshirts and framed photos of me from a spectacularly big-haired time period, Fletch has been squirreling away everything from water purification tablets to Arctic weather-grade sleeping bags. He promises nothing will catch us at unawares. Like, if a riot breaks out on the mean streets of Lake Forest? Perhaps in the main square by J. Crew or the Talbots? Across from the farmers market where they sell those magnificent heirloom tomatoes? Then his grenade simulators will disperse any crowd! Chemical attack? No worries! Fletch's pre-measured sheets of window sealing-plastic and industrial strength duct tape are located on the shelf next to the box containing my Christmas nativity scene. And if the Russians ever invade a la "Red Dawn," trust me when I say it will be Fletcher shouting "Wolverines!" and leading the counterattack. If being ready is a virtue, then my man is Mother Teresa on steroids. I, too, believe in being prepared. That's why you'll never find me without dental floss, an extra pair of sunglasses and a fully...

"Symptoms Include Mistaking Leggings for Pants"

So glad my BFF Stacey is back from her honeymoon because it means she has time to send me stuff like this: Now if they just made a vaccine to cure my Crocs virus...

Casey Anthony's Blood Money

(I posted this on my Facebook page yesterday, but if you don't go there, you wouldn't have seen it and I believe this is worth repeating.) I know very little about the law/proof beyond a reasonable doubt, so I won't speculate on whether justice was served. So let me say this - if you hate this verdict (and I know you do) don't allow the defense to profit from it. Don't buy their books, don't see their movies, don't watch them on interview shows. Capitalism isn't the last line of defense, but in this instance it might be the only one. According what I just read in the UK Daily Mail: "There is already speculation the compelling case could be turned into a movie, and she is likely to be inundated with lucrative television and book deals worth millions of dollars." (Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/artic...) Millions of dollars. But if there's no audience, there's no money. Think about it, won't you?

Summer Reading List: Melanoma, I Mean, July Edition

You know how I'm always saying my goal is to be homeless tan? Well, over the weekend, my friend Kramer pointed out that "homeless tan" would mean a deeply bronzed face and hands, with everything else pasty from the neck down. So now I can't say that any more. Yet at the moment my tan is... prompting strangers to comment about how dark it is. I'm even using sunscreen with the SPF factor of flannel, but considering I'm pretty much living outside (save for sleeping and watching The Secret Life of the American Teenageron Netflix) I guess this is what happens. A good 90% of my outdoors time entails me propped up on a float by my elbows, drifting around while reading a book. On days when I don't have meetings or deadlines, I've been inhaling entire books in one sitting floating. My most recent one-day conquest, and the coincidentally, the first recommendation on this month's list is Girl in Translation by Jean Kwok. I'd seen this cover around for a while, but I finally bought it because Jean Kwok had been on book tour right before me and I kept getting drivers who'd just been with her. Because I trend a bit hyper-competitive asshole, I had to pick it up and see what it was about. Fortunately, my hyper-competitive assholishness often leads me to fascinating books (same thing happened with The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks) and I can't imagine having a better poolside read. The novel follows the...

Much Ado About A Suit (Or, Social Media, UR Doin It Wrong)

If I genuinely like something, I tell everyone. If I don't like something, I also tell everyone. Of course, in the age of social media, "tell everyone" translates to "post on Twitter and Facebook." Seems like lately whenever I get mad, companies offer me special privileges in the hope of my removing my negative commentary. Ironically, this also makes me mad. When I express my displeasure with a service or a product, I'm not trolling for coupons or discounts (or a merchandise-based bribe) in exchange for shutting up. I'm not trying to bully companies into giving me something I didn't pay for or haven't earned. When I bitch about my Dyson on Twitter, I don't want some free, random vacuum shipped to me by a PR flack in a week; I want the one I paid full price for to suck up this hairy mess right now. I want the ability to express my momentary righteous indignation. Sometimes I don't want a solution, I just want to be heard. I also want to connect with others who've had similar experiences to verify that I'm not being an enormous brat. For example, when American Airlines cancelled my Gold medallion status, I lost my shit about it over Twitter. You'd have thought they shot my dog. I was livid that I couldn't buy it back and fuming over a customer service rep I thought was rude. What made me feel better was finding out that the airline consistently applies their policies to...

This Month's Humor Hotel Column: The Real Role Models of Orange County

"Why are you watching that garbage again?" My husband, Fletch, says this every time I tune into anything with "Real" and "Housewives" in the title. As three iterations are currently airing -- Orange County, New York, and New Jersey -- he asks this question a lot. Each time, my answer's the same: "It's educational." Then he rolls his eyes and heads to his woodshop while I settle into the couch. The thing is, I'm serious. If it weren't for the ladies of reality TV, I'd miss out on so many meaningful life lessons. For example, now I know that it's important for us women to have jobs so we can be, like, independent and stuff outside of our ridiculously, ludicrously, disgustingly wealthy husbands. The Housewives teach us the very best careers are, coincidentally, the ones we used to dream about as kids: modeling, designing handbags and jewelry, creating super-clever names for lip gloss colors, and cutting albums despite lacking any discernable ability to read music or carry a tune. Who wants to go to the effort of becoming a systems analyst when we can just slap a hangtag with our names on someone else's dress design? Not me! Through the Orange County Housewives, I've come to appreciate the "more is more" axiom. They show us that if breast augmentation is good, then bigger implants are even better. I've been taking notes as the Housewives compete with each other over size, engaging in a saline-based arms race that will eventually escalate...

The Photo Weiner Should Have Been Tweeting

First, hat tip to my friend Quinn for describing what really makes the average woman over the age of 25 dewy-eyed. Seriously, is this not the hottest thing you've ever seen? Here's Fletch voluntarily mopping dog pee off the porch because it needed to be done. RAWR.

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

This really doesn't merit writing down, but, hey, it's Friday and you're probably trying to coast through the last hour of work, so here goes... When my friend Tracey and her dog Maxie visited this weekend, they left a couple of dog toys. One of them is an adorable and very realistic looking squeaky wine bottle, as seen here: Yesterday I was working in my office - and this is another completely worthless aside, but it's Friday Afternoon Rules, so by "working" I mean "compulsively watching The Secret Life of the American Teenager on Netflix" - and I could hear the cleaning ladies in the media room across the hall. I love listening to them because I'm charmed by English spoken with a Slavic accent and these gals inspired me to create my character Babcia. Anyway, because they were speaking to each other and not us, they conversed solely in Polish. I was only vaguely aware of them chatting and moving things around because I was way more focused on the kid with Downs syndrome ordering a prostitute off the internet. (How are you not watching this show?? OMG, YOU MUST. It's like a parody of a parody, but they're all completely serious.) However, the gals stopped working to gather together and then this is what I heard: Polish words question mark Polish words question mark Polish words question mark squeak squeak squeak I assumed one of the dogs had a toy, but when I finally tore my eyes away...

Hurricane Libby

Shameful. My absence around here has been shameful. I'm aware that it's shameful and I feel terrible about it, although, apparently, not quite badly enough to haul my fat ass out of the pool to offer written explanation. So let me just say this in my defense - I was tired after being away from home for so long and it was hot and sunny for the first time in about nine months. The end. The good news is I'm tanned roughly the color of a baked potato. I've actually been very conscientious about using sunscreen, which is why I'm not tanned into the hue of a steak or a Hershey bar. (What I'm saying is my tan is all kinds of delicious.) I blame Henrietta Lacks because if I hadn't picked up the book about her, I might have done something in a week other than wallow and read. Anyway, today we need to discuss Libby. I got home from tour the first week and I couldn't help but notice that Libby had... changed. When I left, she had a whippet-slim little waist and elegantly muscled legs. She was light and lithe and quick as the devil. But when I got home, it appeared as though someone had stuffed fifty-five pounds of pit bull into a forty-five pound package. She bulged like an over-stuffed kielbasa. When she'd sit, her backside arranged itself into multiple velvety folds of flab sticking out over her haunches. Fletch tried to explain this away...