Sarah Dessen's Blog, page 33
January 16, 2011
EXCERPT from the new book!
Okay, so it's Sunday, my road STILL has patches of ice. The Golden Globe Awards are tonight, Gwyneth Paltrow was on SNL last night, and the sun has FINALLY been out enough that I am beginning to feel hopeful it will not be winter forever. But I can't write about any of that stuff. WHY?
Because my publisher has given me the okay to share with the first chapter of my tenth novel, WHAT HAPPENED TO GOODBYE, which will be published May 10th. What can I tell you? This is a full-service blog. And if you like it, I MIGHT be able to share Chapter Two as well. We shall see. I promise to return to my pop culture and motherhood mutterings soon, but for now I'm really excited to show you what ELSE I've been writing since, oh, 2009 or so. Hope you like it!
ONE
The table was sticky, there was a cloudy smudge on my water glass, and we'd been seated for ten minutes with no sign of a waitress. Still, I knew what my dad would say. By this point, it was part of the routine.
"Well, I gotta tell you. I see potential here."
He was looking around as he said this, taking in the décor. Luna Blu was described on the menu as "Contemporary Italian and old-fashioned good!" but from what I could tell from the few minutes we'd been there, the latter claim was questionable. First, it was 12:30 on a weekday, and we were one of only two tables in the place. Second, I'd just noticed a good quarter inch of dust on the plastic plant that was beside our table. But my dad had to be an optimist. It was his job.
Now, I looked across at him as he studied the menu, his brow furrowed. He needed glasses but had stopped wearing them after losing three pairs in a row, so now he just squinted a lot. On anyone else, this might have looked strange, but on my dad, it just added to his charm.
"They have calamari and guac," he said, reaching up to push his hair back from his eyes. "This is a first. Guess we have to order both."
"Yum," I said, as a waitress sporting lambskin boots and a miniskirt walked past, not even giving us a glance.
My dad followed her with his eyes, then shifted his gaze to me. I could tell he was wondering, as he always did when we made our various escapes, if I was upset with him. I wasn't. Sure, it was always jarring, up and leaving everything again. But it all came down to how you looked at it. Think earth-shattering, life-ruining change, and you're done. But cast it as a do-over, a chance to reinvent and begin again, and it's all good. We were in Lakeview. It was early January. I could be anyone from here.
There was a bang, and we both looked over to the bar, where a girl with long black hair, her arms covered with tattoos, had apparently just dropped a big cardboard box on the floor. She exhaled, clearly annoyed, and then fell to her knees, picking up paper cups as they rolled around her. Halfway through collecting them, she glanced up and saw us.
"Oh, no," she said. "You guys been waiting long?"
My dad put down his menu. "Not that long."
She gave him a look that made it clear she doubted this, then got to her feet, peering down the restaurant. "Tracey!" she called. Then she pointed at us. "You have a table. Could you please, maybe, go greet them and offer them drinks?"
I heard clomping noises, and a moment later, the wait in the boots turned the corner and came into view. She looked like she was about to deliver bad news as she pulled out her order pad. "Welcome to Luna Blu," she recited, her voice flat. "Can I get you a beverage."
"How's the calamari?" my dad asked her.
She just looked at him as if this might be a trick question. Then, finally, she said, "It's all right."
My dad smiled. "Wonderful. We'll take an order of that, and the guacamole. Oh, and a small house salad, as well."
"We only have vinaigrette today," Tracey told him.
"Perfect," my dad said. "That's exactly what we want."
She looked over her pad at him, her expression skeptical. Then she sighed and stuck her pen behind her ear and left. I was about to call after her, hoping for a Coke, when my dad's phone suddenly buzzed and jumped on the table, clanging against his fork and knife. He picked it up, squinted at the screen, put it down again, ignoring the message as he had all the others that had come since we'd left Westcott that morning. When he looked at me again, I made it a point to smile.
"I've got a good feeling about this place," I told him. "Serious potential."
He looked at me for a moment, then reached over, squeezing my shoulder. "You know what?" he said. "You are one awesome girl."
His phone buzzed again, but this time neither of us looked at it. And back in Westcott, another awesome girl sat texting or calling, wondering why on earth her boyfriend, the one who was so charming but just couldn't commit, wasn't returning her calls or messages. Maybe he was in the shower. Or forgot his phone again. Or maybe he was sitting in a restaurant in a town hundreds of miles away with his daughter, about to start their lives all over again.
A few minutes later, Tracey returned with the guaca-mole and salad, plunking them down between us on the table. "Calamari will be another minute," she informed us. "You guys need anything else right now?"
My dad looked across at me, and despite myself, I felt a twinge of fatigue, thinking of doing this all again. But I'd made my decision two years ago. To stay or go, to be one thing or many others. Say what you would about my dad, but life with him was never dull.
"No," he said now to Tracey, although he kept his eyes on me. Not squinting a bit, full and blue, just like my own. "We're doing just fine."
× × ×
Whenever my dad and I moved to a new town, the first thing we always did was go directly to the restaurant he'd been brought in to take over, and order a meal. We got the same appetizers each time: guacamole if it was a Mexican place, calamari for the Italian joints, and a simple green salad, regardless. My dad believed these to be the most basic of dishes, what anyplace worth its salt should do and do well, and as such they provided the baseline, the jumping-off point for whatever came next. Over time, they'd also become a gauge of how long I should expect us to be in the place we'd landed. Decent guac and somewhat crisp lettuce, I knew not to get too attached. Super rubbery squid, though, or greens edged with slimy black, and it was worth going out for a sport in school, or maybe even joining a club or two, as we'd be staying awhile.
After we ate, we'd pay our bill—tipping well, but not extravagantly—before we went to find our rental place. Once we'd unhitched the U-Haul, my dad would go back to the restaurant to officially introduce himself, and I'd get to work making us at home.
EAT INC, the restaurant conglomerate company my dad worked for as a consultant, always found our houses for us. In Westcott, the strip of a beach town in Florida we'd just left, they'd rented us a sweet bungalow a block from the water, all decorated in pinks and greens. There were plastic flamingos everywhere: on the lawn, in the bathroom, strung up in tiny lights across the mantel. Cheesy, but in an endearing way. Before that, in Petree, a suburb just outside Atlanta, we'd had a converted loft in a high-rise inhabited mostly by bachelors and businessmen. Everything was teak and dark, the furniture modern with sharp edges, and it was always quiet and very cold. Maybe this had been so noticeable to me because of our first place, in Montford Falls, a split-level on a cul-de-sac populated entirely by families. There were bikes on every lawn and little decorative flags flying from most porches: fat Santas for Christmas, ruby hearts for Valentine's, raindrops and rainbows in spring. The cabal of moms—all in yoga pants, pushing strollers as they power walked to meet the school bus in the mornings and afternoons—studied us unabashedly from the moment we arrived. They watched my dad come and go at his weird hours and cast me sympathetic looks as I brought in our groceries and mail. I'd known already, very well, that I was no longer part of what was considered a traditional family unit. But their stares confirmed it, just in case I'd missed the memo.
Everything was so different, that first move, that I didn't feel I had to be different as well. So the only thing I'd changed was my name, gently but firmly correcting my homeroom teacher on my first day of school. "Eliza," I told him. He glanced down at his roll sheet, then crossed out what was there and wrote this in. It was so easy. Just like that, in the hurried moments between announcements, I wrapped up and put away sixteen years of my life and was born again, all before first period even began.
I wasn't sure exactly what my dad thought of this. The first time someone called for Eliza, a few days later, he looked confused, even as I reached for the phone and he handed it over. But he never said anything. I knew he understood, in his own way. We'd both left the same town and same circumstances. He had to stay who he was, but I didn't doubt for a second that he would have changed if it had been an option.
As Eliza, I wasn't that different from who I'd been before. I'd inherited what my mother called her "corn-fed" looks—tall, strawberry blonde, and blue-eyed—so I looked like the other popular girls at school. Add in the fact that I had nothing to lose, which gave me confidence, and I fell in easily with the jocks and rah-rahs, collecting friends quickly. It helped that everyone in Montford Falls had known each other forever: being new blood, even if you looked familiar, made you exotic, different. I liked this feeling so much that, when we moved to Petree, our next place, I took it further, calling myself Lizbet and taking up with the drama mamas and dancers. I wore cutoff tights, black turtlenecks, and bright red lipstick, my hair pulled back into the tightest bun possible as I counted calories, took up cigarettes, and made everything Into A Production. It was different, for sure, but also exhausting. Which was probably why in Westcott, our most recent stop, I'd been more than happy to be Beth, student-council secretary and all-around joiner. I wrote for the school paper, served on yearbook, and tutored underachieving middle school kids. In my spare time, I organized car washes and bake sales to raise funds for the literary magazine, the debate team, the children in Honduras the Spanish club was hoping to build a rec center for. I was that girl, the one Everyone Knew, my face all over the yearbook. Which would make it that much more noticeable when I vanished from the next one.
The strangest thing about all of this was that, before, in my old life, I hadn't been any of these things: not a student leader or an actress or an athlete. There, I was just average, normal, unremarkable. Just Mclean.
That was my real name, my given name. Also the name of the all-time winningest basketball coach of Defriese University, my parents' alma mater and my dad's favorite team of all time. To say he was a fan of Defriese basketball was an understatement, akin to saying the sun was simply a star. He lived and breathed DB—as he and his fellow obsessives called it—and had since his own days of growing up just five miles outside campus. He went to Defriese basketball camp in the summer, knew stats for every team and player by heart, and wore a Defriese jersey in just about every school picture from kindergarten to senior year. The actual playing time on the team he eventually got over the course of two years of riding the bench as an alternate were the best fourteen minutes of his life, hands down.
Except, of course, he always added hurriedly, my birth. That was great, too. So great that there was really no question that I'd be named after Mclean Rich, his onetime coach and the man he most admired and respected. My mother, knowing resistance to this choice was futile, agreed only on the condition that I get a normal middle name—Elizabeth—which provided alternate options, should I decide I wanted them. I hadn't really ever expected that to be the case. But you can never predict everything.
Three years ago my parents, college sweethearts, were happily married and raising me, their only child. We lived in Tyler, the college town of which Defriese U was the epi-center, where we had a restaurant, Mariposa Grill. My dad was the head chef, my mom handled the business end and front of house, and I grew up sitting in the cramped office, coloring on invoices, or perched on a prep table in the kitchen, watching the line guys throw things into the fryer. We held DB season tickets in the nosebleed section, where my dad and I sat screaming our lungs out as the players scrambled around, antlike, way down below. I knew Defriese team stats the way other girls stored knowledge of Disney princesses: past and present players, shooting average of starters and second stringers, how many Ws Mclean Rich needed to make all time winningest. The day he did, my dad and I hugged each other, toasting with beer (him) and ginger ale (me) like proud family.
When Mclean Rich retired, we mourned, then worried over the candidates for his replacement, studying their careers and offensive strategies. We agreed that Peter Hamilton, who was young and enthusiastic with a great record, was the best choice, and attended his welcome pep rally with the highest of hopes. Hopes that seemed entirely warranted, in fact, when Peter Hamilton himself dropped into Mariposa one night and liked the food so much he wanted to use our private party room for a team banquet. My dad was in total DB heaven, with two of his greatest passions—basketball and the restaurant—finally aligned. It was great. Then my mom fell in love with Peter Hamilton, which was not.
It would have been bad enough if she'd left my dad for anyone. But to me and my dad, DB fanatics that we were, Peter Hamilton was a god. But idols fall, and sometimes they land right on you and leave you flattened. They destroy your family, shame you in the eyes of the town you love, and ruin the sport of basketball for you forever.
Even all this time later, it still seemed impossible that she'd done it, the very act and fact still capable of unexpectedly knocking the wind out of me at random moments. In the first few shaky, strange weeks after my parents sat me down and told me they were separating, I kept combing back through the last year, trying to figure out how this could have happened. I mean, yes, the restaurant was struggling, and I knew there had been tension between them about that. And I could vouch for the fact that my mom was always saying my dad didn't spend enough time with us, which he pointed out would be much easier once we were living in a cardboard box on the side of the road. But all families had those kinds of arguments, didn't they? It didn't mean it was okay to run off with another man. Especially the coach of your husband and daughter's favorite team.
The one person who had the answers to these questions, though, wasn't talking. At least, not as much as I wanted her to. Maybe I should have expected this, as my mom had never been the touchy-feely, super-confessional type. But the few times when I tried to broach the million-dollar question—why?—in the shaky early days of the separation and the still- not-quite-stable ones that followed, she just wouldn't tell me what I wanted to hear. Instead, her party line was one sentence: "What happens in a marriage is between the two people within it. Your father and I both love you very much. That will never change." The first few times, this was said to me with sadness. Then, it took on a hint of annoyance. When her tone became sharp, I stopped asking questions.
HAMILTON HOMEWRECKER! screamed the sports blogs. I'LL TAKE YOUR WIFE, PLEASE. Funny how the headlines could be so cute, when the truth was downright ugly. And how weird, for me, that this thing that had always been part of my life—where my very name had come from—was now, literally, part of my life. It was like loving a movie, knowing every frame, and then suddenly finding yourself right inside of it. But it's not a romance or a comedy anymore, just your worst freaking nightmare.
Of course everyone was talking. The neighbors, the sportswriters, the kids at my school. They were probably still talking, three years and twin little Hamiltons later, but thankfully, I was not around to hear it. I'd left them there, with Mclean, when my dad and I hitched a U-Haul to our old Land Rover and headed to Montford Falls. And Petree. And Westcott. And now, here.
× × ×
It was the first thing I saw when we pulled in the driveway of our new rental house. Not the crisp white paint, the cheerful green trim, or the wide welcoming porch. I didn't even notice, initially, the houses on either side, similar in size and style, one with a carefully manicured lawn, the walk lined with neat shrubs, the other with cars parked in the yard, empty red plastic cups scattered around them. Instead, there was just this, sitting at the very end of the drive, waiting to welcome us personally.
We pulled right up to it, neither of us saying anything. Then my dad cut the engine, and we both leaned forward, looking up through the windshield as it loomed above us.
A basketball goal. Of course. Sometimes life is just hilarious.
For a moment, we both just stared. Then my dad dropped his hand from the ignition. "Let's get unpacked," he said, and pushed his door open. I did the same, following him back to the U-Haul. But I swear it was like I could feel it watching me as I pulled out my suitcase and carried it up the steps.
The house was cute, small but really cozy, and had clearly been renovated recently. The kitchen appliances looked new, and there were no tack or nail marks on the walls. My dad headed back outside, still unloading, while I gave myself a quick tour, getting my bearings. Cable already installed, and wireless: that was good. I had my own bathroom: even better. And from the looks of it, we were an easy walking distance from downtown, which meant less transportation hassle than the last place. I was actually feeling good about things, basketball reminders aside, at least until I stepped out onto the back porch and found someone stretched out there on a stack of patio furniture cushions.
I literally shrieked, the sound high-pitched and so girly I probably would have been embarrassed if I wasn't so startled. The person on the cushions was equally surprised, though, at least judging by the way he jumped, turning around to look at me as I scrambled back through the open door behind me, grabbing for the knob so I could shut it between us. As I flipped the dead bolt, my heart still pounding, I was able to put together that it was a guy in jeans and long hair, wearing a faded flannel shirt, beat-up Adidas on his feet. He'd been reading a book, something thick, when I interrupted him.
Now, as I watched, he sat up, putting it down beside him. He brushed back his hair, messy and black and kind of curly, then picked up a jacket he'd had balled up under his head, shaking it out. It was faded corduroy, with some kind of insignia on the front, and I stood there watching as he slipped it on, calm as you please, before getting to his feet and picking up whatever he'd been reading, which I now saw was a textbook of some kind. Then he pushed his hair back with one hand and turned, looking right at me through the glass of the door between us. Sorry, he mouthed. Sorry.
"Mclean," my dad yelled from the foyer, his voice echoing down the empty hall. "I've got your laptop. You want me to put it in your room?"
I just stood there, frozen, staring at the guy. His eyes were bright blue, his face winter pale but red-cheeked. I was still trying to decide if I should scream for help when he smiled at me and gave me a weird little salute, touching his fingers to his temple. Then he turned and pushed out the screen door into the yard. He ambled across the deck, under the basketball goal, and over to the fence of the house next door, which he jumped with what, to me, was a surprising amount of grace. As he walked up the side steps, the kitchen door opened. The last thing I saw was him squaring his shoulders, like he was bracing for something, before disappearing inside.
"Mclean?" my dad called again. He was coming closer now, his footsteps echoing. When he saw me, he held up my laptop case. "Know where you want this?"
I looked back at the house next door that the guy had just gone into, wondering what his story was. You didn't hang out in what you thought was an empty house when you lived right next door unless you didn't feel like being at home. And it was his home, that much was clear. You could just tell when a person belonged somewhere. That is something you can't fake, no matter how hard you try.
"Thanks," I said to my dad, turning to face him. "Just put it anywhere."
Have a good night, everyone!
Because my publisher has given me the okay to share with the first chapter of my tenth novel, WHAT HAPPENED TO GOODBYE, which will be published May 10th. What can I tell you? This is a full-service blog. And if you like it, I MIGHT be able to share Chapter Two as well. We shall see. I promise to return to my pop culture and motherhood mutterings soon, but for now I'm really excited to show you what ELSE I've been writing since, oh, 2009 or so. Hope you like it!
ONE
The table was sticky, there was a cloudy smudge on my water glass, and we'd been seated for ten minutes with no sign of a waitress. Still, I knew what my dad would say. By this point, it was part of the routine.
"Well, I gotta tell you. I see potential here."
He was looking around as he said this, taking in the décor. Luna Blu was described on the menu as "Contemporary Italian and old-fashioned good!" but from what I could tell from the few minutes we'd been there, the latter claim was questionable. First, it was 12:30 on a weekday, and we were one of only two tables in the place. Second, I'd just noticed a good quarter inch of dust on the plastic plant that was beside our table. But my dad had to be an optimist. It was his job.
Now, I looked across at him as he studied the menu, his brow furrowed. He needed glasses but had stopped wearing them after losing three pairs in a row, so now he just squinted a lot. On anyone else, this might have looked strange, but on my dad, it just added to his charm.
"They have calamari and guac," he said, reaching up to push his hair back from his eyes. "This is a first. Guess we have to order both."
"Yum," I said, as a waitress sporting lambskin boots and a miniskirt walked past, not even giving us a glance.
My dad followed her with his eyes, then shifted his gaze to me. I could tell he was wondering, as he always did when we made our various escapes, if I was upset with him. I wasn't. Sure, it was always jarring, up and leaving everything again. But it all came down to how you looked at it. Think earth-shattering, life-ruining change, and you're done. But cast it as a do-over, a chance to reinvent and begin again, and it's all good. We were in Lakeview. It was early January. I could be anyone from here.
There was a bang, and we both looked over to the bar, where a girl with long black hair, her arms covered with tattoos, had apparently just dropped a big cardboard box on the floor. She exhaled, clearly annoyed, and then fell to her knees, picking up paper cups as they rolled around her. Halfway through collecting them, she glanced up and saw us.
"Oh, no," she said. "You guys been waiting long?"
My dad put down his menu. "Not that long."
She gave him a look that made it clear she doubted this, then got to her feet, peering down the restaurant. "Tracey!" she called. Then she pointed at us. "You have a table. Could you please, maybe, go greet them and offer them drinks?"
I heard clomping noises, and a moment later, the wait in the boots turned the corner and came into view. She looked like she was about to deliver bad news as she pulled out her order pad. "Welcome to Luna Blu," she recited, her voice flat. "Can I get you a beverage."
"How's the calamari?" my dad asked her.
She just looked at him as if this might be a trick question. Then, finally, she said, "It's all right."
My dad smiled. "Wonderful. We'll take an order of that, and the guacamole. Oh, and a small house salad, as well."
"We only have vinaigrette today," Tracey told him.
"Perfect," my dad said. "That's exactly what we want."
She looked over her pad at him, her expression skeptical. Then she sighed and stuck her pen behind her ear and left. I was about to call after her, hoping for a Coke, when my dad's phone suddenly buzzed and jumped on the table, clanging against his fork and knife. He picked it up, squinted at the screen, put it down again, ignoring the message as he had all the others that had come since we'd left Westcott that morning. When he looked at me again, I made it a point to smile.
"I've got a good feeling about this place," I told him. "Serious potential."
He looked at me for a moment, then reached over, squeezing my shoulder. "You know what?" he said. "You are one awesome girl."
His phone buzzed again, but this time neither of us looked at it. And back in Westcott, another awesome girl sat texting or calling, wondering why on earth her boyfriend, the one who was so charming but just couldn't commit, wasn't returning her calls or messages. Maybe he was in the shower. Or forgot his phone again. Or maybe he was sitting in a restaurant in a town hundreds of miles away with his daughter, about to start their lives all over again.
A few minutes later, Tracey returned with the guaca-mole and salad, plunking them down between us on the table. "Calamari will be another minute," she informed us. "You guys need anything else right now?"
My dad looked across at me, and despite myself, I felt a twinge of fatigue, thinking of doing this all again. But I'd made my decision two years ago. To stay or go, to be one thing or many others. Say what you would about my dad, but life with him was never dull.
"No," he said now to Tracey, although he kept his eyes on me. Not squinting a bit, full and blue, just like my own. "We're doing just fine."
× × ×
Whenever my dad and I moved to a new town, the first thing we always did was go directly to the restaurant he'd been brought in to take over, and order a meal. We got the same appetizers each time: guacamole if it was a Mexican place, calamari for the Italian joints, and a simple green salad, regardless. My dad believed these to be the most basic of dishes, what anyplace worth its salt should do and do well, and as such they provided the baseline, the jumping-off point for whatever came next. Over time, they'd also become a gauge of how long I should expect us to be in the place we'd landed. Decent guac and somewhat crisp lettuce, I knew not to get too attached. Super rubbery squid, though, or greens edged with slimy black, and it was worth going out for a sport in school, or maybe even joining a club or two, as we'd be staying awhile.
After we ate, we'd pay our bill—tipping well, but not extravagantly—before we went to find our rental place. Once we'd unhitched the U-Haul, my dad would go back to the restaurant to officially introduce himself, and I'd get to work making us at home.
EAT INC, the restaurant conglomerate company my dad worked for as a consultant, always found our houses for us. In Westcott, the strip of a beach town in Florida we'd just left, they'd rented us a sweet bungalow a block from the water, all decorated in pinks and greens. There were plastic flamingos everywhere: on the lawn, in the bathroom, strung up in tiny lights across the mantel. Cheesy, but in an endearing way. Before that, in Petree, a suburb just outside Atlanta, we'd had a converted loft in a high-rise inhabited mostly by bachelors and businessmen. Everything was teak and dark, the furniture modern with sharp edges, and it was always quiet and very cold. Maybe this had been so noticeable to me because of our first place, in Montford Falls, a split-level on a cul-de-sac populated entirely by families. There were bikes on every lawn and little decorative flags flying from most porches: fat Santas for Christmas, ruby hearts for Valentine's, raindrops and rainbows in spring. The cabal of moms—all in yoga pants, pushing strollers as they power walked to meet the school bus in the mornings and afternoons—studied us unabashedly from the moment we arrived. They watched my dad come and go at his weird hours and cast me sympathetic looks as I brought in our groceries and mail. I'd known already, very well, that I was no longer part of what was considered a traditional family unit. But their stares confirmed it, just in case I'd missed the memo.
Everything was so different, that first move, that I didn't feel I had to be different as well. So the only thing I'd changed was my name, gently but firmly correcting my homeroom teacher on my first day of school. "Eliza," I told him. He glanced down at his roll sheet, then crossed out what was there and wrote this in. It was so easy. Just like that, in the hurried moments between announcements, I wrapped up and put away sixteen years of my life and was born again, all before first period even began.
I wasn't sure exactly what my dad thought of this. The first time someone called for Eliza, a few days later, he looked confused, even as I reached for the phone and he handed it over. But he never said anything. I knew he understood, in his own way. We'd both left the same town and same circumstances. He had to stay who he was, but I didn't doubt for a second that he would have changed if it had been an option.
As Eliza, I wasn't that different from who I'd been before. I'd inherited what my mother called her "corn-fed" looks—tall, strawberry blonde, and blue-eyed—so I looked like the other popular girls at school. Add in the fact that I had nothing to lose, which gave me confidence, and I fell in easily with the jocks and rah-rahs, collecting friends quickly. It helped that everyone in Montford Falls had known each other forever: being new blood, even if you looked familiar, made you exotic, different. I liked this feeling so much that, when we moved to Petree, our next place, I took it further, calling myself Lizbet and taking up with the drama mamas and dancers. I wore cutoff tights, black turtlenecks, and bright red lipstick, my hair pulled back into the tightest bun possible as I counted calories, took up cigarettes, and made everything Into A Production. It was different, for sure, but also exhausting. Which was probably why in Westcott, our most recent stop, I'd been more than happy to be Beth, student-council secretary and all-around joiner. I wrote for the school paper, served on yearbook, and tutored underachieving middle school kids. In my spare time, I organized car washes and bake sales to raise funds for the literary magazine, the debate team, the children in Honduras the Spanish club was hoping to build a rec center for. I was that girl, the one Everyone Knew, my face all over the yearbook. Which would make it that much more noticeable when I vanished from the next one.
The strangest thing about all of this was that, before, in my old life, I hadn't been any of these things: not a student leader or an actress or an athlete. There, I was just average, normal, unremarkable. Just Mclean.
That was my real name, my given name. Also the name of the all-time winningest basketball coach of Defriese University, my parents' alma mater and my dad's favorite team of all time. To say he was a fan of Defriese basketball was an understatement, akin to saying the sun was simply a star. He lived and breathed DB—as he and his fellow obsessives called it—and had since his own days of growing up just five miles outside campus. He went to Defriese basketball camp in the summer, knew stats for every team and player by heart, and wore a Defriese jersey in just about every school picture from kindergarten to senior year. The actual playing time on the team he eventually got over the course of two years of riding the bench as an alternate were the best fourteen minutes of his life, hands down.
Except, of course, he always added hurriedly, my birth. That was great, too. So great that there was really no question that I'd be named after Mclean Rich, his onetime coach and the man he most admired and respected. My mother, knowing resistance to this choice was futile, agreed only on the condition that I get a normal middle name—Elizabeth—which provided alternate options, should I decide I wanted them. I hadn't really ever expected that to be the case. But you can never predict everything.
Three years ago my parents, college sweethearts, were happily married and raising me, their only child. We lived in Tyler, the college town of which Defriese U was the epi-center, where we had a restaurant, Mariposa Grill. My dad was the head chef, my mom handled the business end and front of house, and I grew up sitting in the cramped office, coloring on invoices, or perched on a prep table in the kitchen, watching the line guys throw things into the fryer. We held DB season tickets in the nosebleed section, where my dad and I sat screaming our lungs out as the players scrambled around, antlike, way down below. I knew Defriese team stats the way other girls stored knowledge of Disney princesses: past and present players, shooting average of starters and second stringers, how many Ws Mclean Rich needed to make all time winningest. The day he did, my dad and I hugged each other, toasting with beer (him) and ginger ale (me) like proud family.
When Mclean Rich retired, we mourned, then worried over the candidates for his replacement, studying their careers and offensive strategies. We agreed that Peter Hamilton, who was young and enthusiastic with a great record, was the best choice, and attended his welcome pep rally with the highest of hopes. Hopes that seemed entirely warranted, in fact, when Peter Hamilton himself dropped into Mariposa one night and liked the food so much he wanted to use our private party room for a team banquet. My dad was in total DB heaven, with two of his greatest passions—basketball and the restaurant—finally aligned. It was great. Then my mom fell in love with Peter Hamilton, which was not.
It would have been bad enough if she'd left my dad for anyone. But to me and my dad, DB fanatics that we were, Peter Hamilton was a god. But idols fall, and sometimes they land right on you and leave you flattened. They destroy your family, shame you in the eyes of the town you love, and ruin the sport of basketball for you forever.
Even all this time later, it still seemed impossible that she'd done it, the very act and fact still capable of unexpectedly knocking the wind out of me at random moments. In the first few shaky, strange weeks after my parents sat me down and told me they were separating, I kept combing back through the last year, trying to figure out how this could have happened. I mean, yes, the restaurant was struggling, and I knew there had been tension between them about that. And I could vouch for the fact that my mom was always saying my dad didn't spend enough time with us, which he pointed out would be much easier once we were living in a cardboard box on the side of the road. But all families had those kinds of arguments, didn't they? It didn't mean it was okay to run off with another man. Especially the coach of your husband and daughter's favorite team.
The one person who had the answers to these questions, though, wasn't talking. At least, not as much as I wanted her to. Maybe I should have expected this, as my mom had never been the touchy-feely, super-confessional type. But the few times when I tried to broach the million-dollar question—why?—in the shaky early days of the separation and the still- not-quite-stable ones that followed, she just wouldn't tell me what I wanted to hear. Instead, her party line was one sentence: "What happens in a marriage is between the two people within it. Your father and I both love you very much. That will never change." The first few times, this was said to me with sadness. Then, it took on a hint of annoyance. When her tone became sharp, I stopped asking questions.
HAMILTON HOMEWRECKER! screamed the sports blogs. I'LL TAKE YOUR WIFE, PLEASE. Funny how the headlines could be so cute, when the truth was downright ugly. And how weird, for me, that this thing that had always been part of my life—where my very name had come from—was now, literally, part of my life. It was like loving a movie, knowing every frame, and then suddenly finding yourself right inside of it. But it's not a romance or a comedy anymore, just your worst freaking nightmare.
Of course everyone was talking. The neighbors, the sportswriters, the kids at my school. They were probably still talking, three years and twin little Hamiltons later, but thankfully, I was not around to hear it. I'd left them there, with Mclean, when my dad and I hitched a U-Haul to our old Land Rover and headed to Montford Falls. And Petree. And Westcott. And now, here.
× × ×
It was the first thing I saw when we pulled in the driveway of our new rental house. Not the crisp white paint, the cheerful green trim, or the wide welcoming porch. I didn't even notice, initially, the houses on either side, similar in size and style, one with a carefully manicured lawn, the walk lined with neat shrubs, the other with cars parked in the yard, empty red plastic cups scattered around them. Instead, there was just this, sitting at the very end of the drive, waiting to welcome us personally.
We pulled right up to it, neither of us saying anything. Then my dad cut the engine, and we both leaned forward, looking up through the windshield as it loomed above us.
A basketball goal. Of course. Sometimes life is just hilarious.
For a moment, we both just stared. Then my dad dropped his hand from the ignition. "Let's get unpacked," he said, and pushed his door open. I did the same, following him back to the U-Haul. But I swear it was like I could feel it watching me as I pulled out my suitcase and carried it up the steps.
The house was cute, small but really cozy, and had clearly been renovated recently. The kitchen appliances looked new, and there were no tack or nail marks on the walls. My dad headed back outside, still unloading, while I gave myself a quick tour, getting my bearings. Cable already installed, and wireless: that was good. I had my own bathroom: even better. And from the looks of it, we were an easy walking distance from downtown, which meant less transportation hassle than the last place. I was actually feeling good about things, basketball reminders aside, at least until I stepped out onto the back porch and found someone stretched out there on a stack of patio furniture cushions.
I literally shrieked, the sound high-pitched and so girly I probably would have been embarrassed if I wasn't so startled. The person on the cushions was equally surprised, though, at least judging by the way he jumped, turning around to look at me as I scrambled back through the open door behind me, grabbing for the knob so I could shut it between us. As I flipped the dead bolt, my heart still pounding, I was able to put together that it was a guy in jeans and long hair, wearing a faded flannel shirt, beat-up Adidas on his feet. He'd been reading a book, something thick, when I interrupted him.
Now, as I watched, he sat up, putting it down beside him. He brushed back his hair, messy and black and kind of curly, then picked up a jacket he'd had balled up under his head, shaking it out. It was faded corduroy, with some kind of insignia on the front, and I stood there watching as he slipped it on, calm as you please, before getting to his feet and picking up whatever he'd been reading, which I now saw was a textbook of some kind. Then he pushed his hair back with one hand and turned, looking right at me through the glass of the door between us. Sorry, he mouthed. Sorry.
"Mclean," my dad yelled from the foyer, his voice echoing down the empty hall. "I've got your laptop. You want me to put it in your room?"
I just stood there, frozen, staring at the guy. His eyes were bright blue, his face winter pale but red-cheeked. I was still trying to decide if I should scream for help when he smiled at me and gave me a weird little salute, touching his fingers to his temple. Then he turned and pushed out the screen door into the yard. He ambled across the deck, under the basketball goal, and over to the fence of the house next door, which he jumped with what, to me, was a surprising amount of grace. As he walked up the side steps, the kitchen door opened. The last thing I saw was him squaring his shoulders, like he was bracing for something, before disappearing inside.
"Mclean?" my dad called again. He was coming closer now, his footsteps echoing. When he saw me, he held up my laptop case. "Know where you want this?"
I looked back at the house next door that the guy had just gone into, wondering what his story was. You didn't hang out in what you thought was an empty house when you lived right next door unless you didn't feel like being at home. And it was his home, that much was clear. You could just tell when a person belonged somewhere. That is something you can't fake, no matter how hard you try.
"Thanks," I said to my dad, turning to face him. "Just put it anywhere."
Have a good night, everyone!
January 13, 2011
The Five!
1. One of my New Year's resolutions was to clear out the clutter, both literally and spiritually. The spiritual part is harder, so I decided to tackle the literal first. I've been doing a lot of culling, packing bags for the thrift shop and swap shed, that sort of thing. Yesterday, I FINALLY managed to open up the huge backlog of fan mail that had been collecting in my office. It was a big heap, and every time I looked at it I just felt horribly guilty that I hadn't responded. I'm so flattered and honored to get letters, and I love reading them. But if I answered every single one I'd never get ANY writing done. Or housework. Or, um, anything. I used to send postcards, and then I sent form letters to people who included SASEs, and now....well, now I just read them and appreciate them and hope that's enough. Maybe someday I will come up with the perfect way to respond and not have it take up so much time. Maybe another author already has? If so, fill me in! I'll be waiting.
2. The other thing I've been needing to clear out is my foreign editions. I'm incredibly lucky that my books have now been translated into TONS of languages, including German, Japanese, Italian, French, Polish and others. Getting the foreign editions is always a blast, and I keep one copy of each on my office bookshelf. The extras, in the past, I have given to local high school foreign language departments, shipped to teachers who said they could use them, and given to friends who teach. But somehow I STILL ended up with a big box of them that I could not find homes for. My mother suggested that I take them down to Dey Hall, which houses the foreign language classes at UNC, and leave them there for the taking. And so began my stealth book drop off. Step one: I put the books in bags. Step two: made a sign that said FREE BOOKS! IN MANY LANGUAGES! FREE! TAKE ONE! OR TWO! Step three: I risked the wrath of the UNC Parking Department by sneaking into a totally illegal space, then sprinting to Dey, where I hurriedly stacked the books inside the main entrance, taped up my sign, and then ran back to my car, hoping I hadn't been towed. I had not! I have no idea if the books have been taken, but I am DYING to know. I may have to get one of my babysitters to do some reconnaissance tomorrow. If they are still there, unloved and unwanted, it will kill me. And I will most likely traipse BACK up there and retrieve them. But at least I tried.
3. This morning, I was pulling on a pair of my favorite jeans and the zipper broke. Just broke, BOOM!, with one tug. It was like I could hear the universe saying: "That is enough pie, Sarah." I have to admit, I've gotten a little bit carried away with this whole pie and coffee thing. It's like I'm channelling the whole town of Twin Peaks. (And if you got that reference, I'm so glad! I wonder if anyone will.) Add in my new habit of potato chips before bed and I think I have my answer about the zipper. Point taken, universe. Will hit treadmill tomorrow. And the next day.....
4. The Golden Globes are this weekend, and I am so excited...even though I have hardly seen any of the films nominated. Used to be I was really up on movies, but then I had a baby, and time got tight, and then I started trying to write regularly, and time got tighter. Still, I WILL watch the Globes and the Oscars, and am hoping I can at least get to Black Swan before one or both of them. Although I hear it is scary. And that you shouldn't see it alone. But it's about ballet! Isn't ballet soft and pretty? No? Oh. Okay. Maybe I'll wait for the DVD....
5. I am a person who does not like controversy. I avoid conflict like the plague, often to my detriment, but whatever. Which is why I am going to present to you without commentary or comment this story that currently has the publishing blogs (and other blogs) all a-Twitter (so so speak). It's been tradition that the winners of the biggest children's book awards, the Newbery and the Caldecott, appear on the Today show the day after they are announced. This year, however, Today said they were fully booked for the week and couldn't accommodate them. On the SAME show, however, they did have Snooki from Jersey Shore talking about HER debut novel. Which has kicked off all this discussion about what it means to be an author and who decides the parameters. Is it because you wrote a book? Or because your name is on a book? Or because you had an idea for a book and someone helped you flesh out said idea?
I do not know the answers to these questions, but am hoping that maybe one of you might. While you are at it, maybe you will advise me on the fan mail, foreign editions, how to give up pie, and whether I should see Black Swan. Talk about codependent. What would I do without you guys?
Have a great weekend, everyone!
2. The other thing I've been needing to clear out is my foreign editions. I'm incredibly lucky that my books have now been translated into TONS of languages, including German, Japanese, Italian, French, Polish and others. Getting the foreign editions is always a blast, and I keep one copy of each on my office bookshelf. The extras, in the past, I have given to local high school foreign language departments, shipped to teachers who said they could use them, and given to friends who teach. But somehow I STILL ended up with a big box of them that I could not find homes for. My mother suggested that I take them down to Dey Hall, which houses the foreign language classes at UNC, and leave them there for the taking. And so began my stealth book drop off. Step one: I put the books in bags. Step two: made a sign that said FREE BOOKS! IN MANY LANGUAGES! FREE! TAKE ONE! OR TWO! Step three: I risked the wrath of the UNC Parking Department by sneaking into a totally illegal space, then sprinting to Dey, where I hurriedly stacked the books inside the main entrance, taped up my sign, and then ran back to my car, hoping I hadn't been towed. I had not! I have no idea if the books have been taken, but I am DYING to know. I may have to get one of my babysitters to do some reconnaissance tomorrow. If they are still there, unloved and unwanted, it will kill me. And I will most likely traipse BACK up there and retrieve them. But at least I tried.
3. This morning, I was pulling on a pair of my favorite jeans and the zipper broke. Just broke, BOOM!, with one tug. It was like I could hear the universe saying: "That is enough pie, Sarah." I have to admit, I've gotten a little bit carried away with this whole pie and coffee thing. It's like I'm channelling the whole town of Twin Peaks. (And if you got that reference, I'm so glad! I wonder if anyone will.) Add in my new habit of potato chips before bed and I think I have my answer about the zipper. Point taken, universe. Will hit treadmill tomorrow. And the next day.....
4. The Golden Globes are this weekend, and I am so excited...even though I have hardly seen any of the films nominated. Used to be I was really up on movies, but then I had a baby, and time got tight, and then I started trying to write regularly, and time got tighter. Still, I WILL watch the Globes and the Oscars, and am hoping I can at least get to Black Swan before one or both of them. Although I hear it is scary. And that you shouldn't see it alone. But it's about ballet! Isn't ballet soft and pretty? No? Oh. Okay. Maybe I'll wait for the DVD....
5. I am a person who does not like controversy. I avoid conflict like the plague, often to my detriment, but whatever. Which is why I am going to present to you without commentary or comment this story that currently has the publishing blogs (and other blogs) all a-Twitter (so so speak). It's been tradition that the winners of the biggest children's book awards, the Newbery and the Caldecott, appear on the Today show the day after they are announced. This year, however, Today said they were fully booked for the week and couldn't accommodate them. On the SAME show, however, they did have Snooki from Jersey Shore talking about HER debut novel. Which has kicked off all this discussion about what it means to be an author and who decides the parameters. Is it because you wrote a book? Or because your name is on a book? Or because you had an idea for a book and someone helped you flesh out said idea?
I do not know the answers to these questions, but am hoping that maybe one of you might. While you are at it, maybe you will advise me on the fan mail, foreign editions, how to give up pie, and whether I should see Black Swan. Talk about codependent. What would I do without you guys?
Have a great weekend, everyone!
January 11, 2011
writergrl @ 2011-01-11T17:44:00
I'm going to apologize in advance in case this entry seems....a little nutty. I've been home all day, as there is an inch of snow covered with a layer of ice on our road, and I MAY be going a bit bonkers. Since we got up at 6am, we've finger painted, played Pet Shop, organized the playroom, made a lemonade stand, watched a DVD about the San Diego Zoo three times, taken naps, and played school. And it's not bedtime yet. Not even CLOSE. Thank goodness for coffee and pie, which got me through the last eleven hours. I am hoping wine and cheese will carry me through the next.
Anyway, I planned to write today, but with the road impassable it just wasn't happening, so I had to find my creative outlet elsewhere. It helps that I have a toddler who loves to pretend. Pair that with my need to control SOMETHING when the weather is completely controlling me and you'll understand why I just spent the last half hour carefully putting everything in place in her dollhouse. It's a sickness, I swear. The minute I stop, I KNOW she will swipe a hand through everything, laughing maniacally. And yet, I can't help myself. It's the same thing that makes me pick up the playroom all day instead of waiting until the end and tackling the mess one time, all at once. I was so proud of what I accomplished in this latest endeavor that I had to document it. Again: I think I have cabin fever. Or a fever. Or disco fever.
Oh, dear.
Anyway, I decided that the dollhouse folks were snowed in as well. So this is how they spent THEIR day. The girls and a chicken were having wine and cookies and turkey by the Christmas tree:
The Buddha was taking a bath while Zoe from Sesame Street played him an ode on her tambourine:
The hedgehog family was hanging out with the little girl from the Loving Family while Daddy worked out on the treadmill:
While The Dudes and Tolee did what I REALLY wanted to do: packed up and headed for the beach:
Of course, in the time it has taken me to write this entry, all the above has most likely been destroyed. But in creating them, I am counting it as doing SOMETHING with my brain today. Now I will focus my mind powers on making this snow melt before I really go crazy.
Stay warm, everyone!
Anyway, I planned to write today, but with the road impassable it just wasn't happening, so I had to find my creative outlet elsewhere. It helps that I have a toddler who loves to pretend. Pair that with my need to control SOMETHING when the weather is completely controlling me and you'll understand why I just spent the last half hour carefully putting everything in place in her dollhouse. It's a sickness, I swear. The minute I stop, I KNOW she will swipe a hand through everything, laughing maniacally. And yet, I can't help myself. It's the same thing that makes me pick up the playroom all day instead of waiting until the end and tackling the mess one time, all at once. I was so proud of what I accomplished in this latest endeavor that I had to document it. Again: I think I have cabin fever. Or a fever. Or disco fever.
Oh, dear.
Anyway, I decided that the dollhouse folks were snowed in as well. So this is how they spent THEIR day. The girls and a chicken were having wine and cookies and turkey by the Christmas tree:
The Buddha was taking a bath while Zoe from Sesame Street played him an ode on her tambourine:
The hedgehog family was hanging out with the little girl from the Loving Family while Daddy worked out on the treadmill:
While The Dudes and Tolee did what I REALLY wanted to do: packed up and headed for the beach:
Of course, in the time it has taken me to write this entry, all the above has most likely been destroyed. But in creating them, I am counting it as doing SOMETHING with my brain today. Now I will focus my mind powers on making this snow melt before I really go crazy.
Stay warm, everyone!
January 9, 2011
brr, ugh, etc...
They're calling for a "wintry mix" here tonight and I am....less than enthused. I know, I know. I had a gorgeous summer last year and this is the required payment for another one: I am earning those sunny, blue-sky warm days. But that doesn't mean I have to be happy about it.
I THOUGHT I had managed to end all this wintry precipitation, simply because I finally broke down and bought myself some good rain/snow/ice boots. This after being in such denial that I had to wear motorcycle or cowboy boots during the last couple of storms, which made me look like a fashion victim as I'm out making snow angels with my kid. Luckily we live so far out no one could see me, but still. Sort of embarrassing. So I ordered these really nice black galoshes, tall and impenetrable, all the while assuming that of COURSE because I'd spent the money it would now never snow or ice again. Because that is Just My Luck. Also, I Control the Elements. Apparently. Or, um, not. If we have to have something, I am just HOPING it is snow, because ice scares me. Ice means downed power lines, which means no heat or running water (country living, we have an electric well pump!) which means inside camping, which is fun for about...oh, twenty minutes. Since we've been in this house, we've had The Big Snow of 00, where we got, like two feet and the entire world shut down for days, as well as what we delicately refer to as the Big Eff You of 02, the ice storm where we were without power for over a week. I do not feel like coming up with a clever rhyme for 2011. Just saying.
Remember the summer? Beach trips? Flip flops? Fresh tomatoes, not pale ones with white specks? When it didn't get dark until 7 or 8? Yeah, me neither.
In other news, thanks to DirecTV pay per view, I am FINALLY getting to see some movies that are kind-of current. Last weekend, it was The Other Guys, with Will Ferrell and Mark Wahlberg, which was not that great, which was sort of surprising. Then last night, we tried Dinner for Schmucks, with Steve Carrell and Paul Rudd. How much do I heart Paul Rudd, people? Oh, sa-woon! Adorable. And of course I love Steve Carrell even when he isn't Michael Scott, but especially when he is. But this movie, too, was not what I expected. it was....odd. I'm used to having a solid opinion about things like books and movies, either a yay or nay, but I wasn't sure HOW I felt when this one was over. Nyay? I'll get back to you about it.
Speaking of movies, like a lot of authors, I get asked fairly often if any of my books are going to be made into movies. My first two books, That Summer and Someone Like You, were adapted into the movie How To Deal back in 2003, but since then there hasn't been much happening on that front. Why? Well, there are any number of reasons. They might be hard to adapt, or there isn't a producer who was really in love with my work, like Bill Teitler was with the How to Deal script. (Thanks, Bill!) I would love, love, LOVE to see any of my other books make the jump to the big screen, but I long ago learned it's best not to hold my breath. This weekend, the fab YA author Ally Carter addressed this issue better than I EVER could with this blog entry, which should be required reading for any writer with Hollywood hopes. It's like my friend and mentor Lee Smith said to me when I signed my option, a million years ago, and was convinced I'd see my name on the big screen within a week or two: "Sarah, I think that's great. It really is. But you should know all my books have been optioned at one time or another, and nothing's ever come of any of them." Hard words to hear, but true. But, you say, your movie DID get made. Which is true! But it was seriously like winning the lottery, and had nothing to do with me or my books as much as a dedicated producer and the fact that Mandy Moore liked the script. I had about as much control over it as I do over....well, anything. Which isn't much. I mean, look what happened with the whole managing the elements thing?
Oh, well. At least I have boots.
Stay warm, everyone!
I THOUGHT I had managed to end all this wintry precipitation, simply because I finally broke down and bought myself some good rain/snow/ice boots. This after being in such denial that I had to wear motorcycle or cowboy boots during the last couple of storms, which made me look like a fashion victim as I'm out making snow angels with my kid. Luckily we live so far out no one could see me, but still. Sort of embarrassing. So I ordered these really nice black galoshes, tall and impenetrable, all the while assuming that of COURSE because I'd spent the money it would now never snow or ice again. Because that is Just My Luck. Also, I Control the Elements. Apparently. Or, um, not. If we have to have something, I am just HOPING it is snow, because ice scares me. Ice means downed power lines, which means no heat or running water (country living, we have an electric well pump!) which means inside camping, which is fun for about...oh, twenty minutes. Since we've been in this house, we've had The Big Snow of 00, where we got, like two feet and the entire world shut down for days, as well as what we delicately refer to as the Big Eff You of 02, the ice storm where we were without power for over a week. I do not feel like coming up with a clever rhyme for 2011. Just saying.
Remember the summer? Beach trips? Flip flops? Fresh tomatoes, not pale ones with white specks? When it didn't get dark until 7 or 8? Yeah, me neither.
In other news, thanks to DirecTV pay per view, I am FINALLY getting to see some movies that are kind-of current. Last weekend, it was The Other Guys, with Will Ferrell and Mark Wahlberg, which was not that great, which was sort of surprising. Then last night, we tried Dinner for Schmucks, with Steve Carrell and Paul Rudd. How much do I heart Paul Rudd, people? Oh, sa-woon! Adorable. And of course I love Steve Carrell even when he isn't Michael Scott, but especially when he is. But this movie, too, was not what I expected. it was....odd. I'm used to having a solid opinion about things like books and movies, either a yay or nay, but I wasn't sure HOW I felt when this one was over. Nyay? I'll get back to you about it.
Speaking of movies, like a lot of authors, I get asked fairly often if any of my books are going to be made into movies. My first two books, That Summer and Someone Like You, were adapted into the movie How To Deal back in 2003, but since then there hasn't been much happening on that front. Why? Well, there are any number of reasons. They might be hard to adapt, or there isn't a producer who was really in love with my work, like Bill Teitler was with the How to Deal script. (Thanks, Bill!) I would love, love, LOVE to see any of my other books make the jump to the big screen, but I long ago learned it's best not to hold my breath. This weekend, the fab YA author Ally Carter addressed this issue better than I EVER could with this blog entry, which should be required reading for any writer with Hollywood hopes. It's like my friend and mentor Lee Smith said to me when I signed my option, a million years ago, and was convinced I'd see my name on the big screen within a week or two: "Sarah, I think that's great. It really is. But you should know all my books have been optioned at one time or another, and nothing's ever come of any of them." Hard words to hear, but true. But, you say, your movie DID get made. Which is true! But it was seriously like winning the lottery, and had nothing to do with me or my books as much as a dedicated producer and the fact that Mandy Moore liked the script. I had about as much control over it as I do over....well, anything. Which isn't much. I mean, look what happened with the whole managing the elements thing?
Oh, well. At least I have boots.
Stay warm, everyone!
January 6, 2011
The Five!
1. Yesterday, I finished signing my tip-in sheets. That's 3500 of them, each one with a signature, and it took me....well, longer than I thought yet not forever. Which is a nice little gray area I will gladly take. For those who haven't been following, tip-ins are single sheets I sign that are then bound into finished copies of my new book, What Happened to Goodbye, so people can buy signed copies. A lot of folks have asked where these will be available, and the answer is...I have no idea. But I will try to find out! Other burning questions I'm seeing here in the new year that I can quickly respond to: When will the book be out? May 10. Where will I be touring? Not sure yet, hope to know sometime next month. Will I survive the stress and anxiety of worrying for the next five months or so if people will like this novel? Umm...that one I can't answer yet. Or ever. Oh, well, two out of three.
2. The new season of Jersey Shore premieres tonight, and I have to say, I will probably watch. Oh, I feel dirty just admitting that. The cast was on GMA this morning, and I pretty much suffered cultural whiplash going from an in-depth discussion about John Boehner and the new Congress to one that involved the new girl, Deena, talking about how her panties fell off her first night in the house. WHOA! G-Step and Robin looked equally traumatized. In a perfect world, I wouldn't even know who Snooki and J-Woww are, and I'd be dedicating this space to a discussion of Nova or Frontline. But this world isn't perfect. I mean, how can it be when Deena's panties just, you know, "fall off?" I rest my case.
3. I just spent a full minute making SURE that I spelled John Boehner's name correctly up above, as I did not want a repeat of what happened when I misspelled Justin Bieber's name on Twitter. I am still traumatized by the names I was called, for real. Those girls are SERIOUS! Then again, I can't imagine that John Boehner, who is the new Speaker of the House, has that kind of rabid following. But you never know. And as someone whose name is always spelled wrong---even on the box of 3500 tip-in sheets I just signed---I do my best to prevent doing it to others. Seriously, though: can you imagine if Boehner was as popular as Bieber? The mind boggles.
4. They now have an app store for Mac Laptops and desktops. Oh, dear. This is just what I don't need. I have this really bad habit of wasting entirely too much time shopping around for things I think will Solve All My Problems, Get Me Completely Organized and Basically Make My Life Easier. Hate to say it, but there's really NOT an app for that. Although I keep thinking there MUST be, so I go look again, and the cycle continues. I mostly stick to free apps, and avoid games entirely....except for Animatch, which I play with my daughter. It does not solve all my problems, but makes long waits at the bank or post office bearable for both us and everyone around us in line. That is worth ANY price, people. You parents know what I mean.
5. I'm sure regular readers have noticed lately that I'm having a bit of internal conflict about this blog. I checked back the other day and I've been writing it now for nine years and four months. That's a LOT of entries, and more and more I've been wondering if anyone reads blogs anymore, or if our collective attention span has gotten to the point where we can't handle more than 140 characters at a time. I keep going back and forth, wanting to quit, wanting to continue. But now, I've made my solid decision: the blog stays. My entries might be lame at times, or short, but I'm not stopping, and additionally, I'm going to stop even TALKING about stopping. So there you go. Brace yourself for even more TV talk, self-promotion (I do have a book coming out in May, you know) and whatever else pops into my distracted, anxiety-ridden head. As Ben Lee said, we're all in this together. Right?
Have a great weekend, everyone!
2. The new season of Jersey Shore premieres tonight, and I have to say, I will probably watch. Oh, I feel dirty just admitting that. The cast was on GMA this morning, and I pretty much suffered cultural whiplash going from an in-depth discussion about John Boehner and the new Congress to one that involved the new girl, Deena, talking about how her panties fell off her first night in the house. WHOA! G-Step and Robin looked equally traumatized. In a perfect world, I wouldn't even know who Snooki and J-Woww are, and I'd be dedicating this space to a discussion of Nova or Frontline. But this world isn't perfect. I mean, how can it be when Deena's panties just, you know, "fall off?" I rest my case.
3. I just spent a full minute making SURE that I spelled John Boehner's name correctly up above, as I did not want a repeat of what happened when I misspelled Justin Bieber's name on Twitter. I am still traumatized by the names I was called, for real. Those girls are SERIOUS! Then again, I can't imagine that John Boehner, who is the new Speaker of the House, has that kind of rabid following. But you never know. And as someone whose name is always spelled wrong---even on the box of 3500 tip-in sheets I just signed---I do my best to prevent doing it to others. Seriously, though: can you imagine if Boehner was as popular as Bieber? The mind boggles.
4. They now have an app store for Mac Laptops and desktops. Oh, dear. This is just what I don't need. I have this really bad habit of wasting entirely too much time shopping around for things I think will Solve All My Problems, Get Me Completely Organized and Basically Make My Life Easier. Hate to say it, but there's really NOT an app for that. Although I keep thinking there MUST be, so I go look again, and the cycle continues. I mostly stick to free apps, and avoid games entirely....except for Animatch, which I play with my daughter. It does not solve all my problems, but makes long waits at the bank or post office bearable for both us and everyone around us in line. That is worth ANY price, people. You parents know what I mean.
5. I'm sure regular readers have noticed lately that I'm having a bit of internal conflict about this blog. I checked back the other day and I've been writing it now for nine years and four months. That's a LOT of entries, and more and more I've been wondering if anyone reads blogs anymore, or if our collective attention span has gotten to the point where we can't handle more than 140 characters at a time. I keep going back and forth, wanting to quit, wanting to continue. But now, I've made my solid decision: the blog stays. My entries might be lame at times, or short, but I'm not stopping, and additionally, I'm going to stop even TALKING about stopping. So there you go. Brace yourself for even more TV talk, self-promotion (I do have a book coming out in May, you know) and whatever else pops into my distracted, anxiety-ridden head. As Ben Lee said, we're all in this together. Right?
Have a great weekend, everyone!
January 5, 2011
re-entry...
I was the FIRST person on board with this whole New Year, 2011, let's-get-it-going-right-NOW thing. Then, of course, on Monday the true reality of being back at work, along with the rest of the world and all the attendant chaos and issues, hit me full force. Whoa. I know change is a good thing, but that doesn't mean I have to love it every second, right? Hope not.
Right now, as I write this, I have just finished searching the playroom for my daughter's toy drumsticks, which she is currently banging onto the drum at FULL VOLUME. I also unearthed several dust bunnies and some fuzzy objects I think were grapes, but am not entirely sure. It's moments like this, when I am dealing with work stress on one side and moldy produce on the other, that I just have to try and stop to BREATHE and remind myself that it will all work out somehow. Even in the din and the noise. After all, it's like The Fresh Beat Band is singing right this very second: "There's no problem we can't solve, if we put our heads together and get involved." At least, I'm pretty sure that's what they are singing. I can't exactly hear them.
Anyway. Happy New Year! In honor of 2011, I thought I'd post a few questions I have, in the hopes of seeing them answered in the next twelve months. Here we go...
1. Will I ever be able to stretch out with my daughter in her bed while she dozes off without falling asleep myself?
2. Will Bret Michaels really be happy with just one Rock of Love? I mean, we know it is the mother of his children, but what about his history?
3. Will this be the year we see Lindsay Lohan make a major comeback and return to her glory as an awesome actress? See: Mean Girls, Freaky Friday. (Oh please, please!)
4. Can I somehow, in the next month of so, figure out how to get the makers of Friday Night Lights to do another season, even though this is the last one? (A girl can dream.)
5. Will I EVER be able to give up the unfortunate habit of eating cookies at 9am with my coffee, one I picked up over the holidays? I used to eat low-fat string cheese. Something tells me the Weight Watchers Points Plus values are not the same. Just a hunch.
6. Will I somehow, this year, be able to find that delicate balance between having a good internet presence and not missing out on things AND being sane and having a private life?
7. Will Toy Story 3, and the sobs I held in while watching it, forever prevent me from being able to take ANY of my daughter's toys to Goodwill?
8. Is there ANY way for me to rig my bathroom mirror so it somehow makes clothes look as good as they do in the Anthropologie dressing room? What do they use? Magic angles? Special lighting? Voodoo?
9. Is it weird that I am already looking at beach houses for summer rentals and comparing prices for Havianas online?
10. Will 2011 be the year I stop asking questions, and start answering them?
Only time will tell. About Bret Michaels, and everything else. For now, though, I will embrace the unknown. Or, you know, obsess and stress about it. Whatever.
Have a good night, everyone!
Right now, as I write this, I have just finished searching the playroom for my daughter's toy drumsticks, which she is currently banging onto the drum at FULL VOLUME. I also unearthed several dust bunnies and some fuzzy objects I think were grapes, but am not entirely sure. It's moments like this, when I am dealing with work stress on one side and moldy produce on the other, that I just have to try and stop to BREATHE and remind myself that it will all work out somehow. Even in the din and the noise. After all, it's like The Fresh Beat Band is singing right this very second: "There's no problem we can't solve, if we put our heads together and get involved." At least, I'm pretty sure that's what they are singing. I can't exactly hear them.
Anyway. Happy New Year! In honor of 2011, I thought I'd post a few questions I have, in the hopes of seeing them answered in the next twelve months. Here we go...
1. Will I ever be able to stretch out with my daughter in her bed while she dozes off without falling asleep myself?
2. Will Bret Michaels really be happy with just one Rock of Love? I mean, we know it is the mother of his children, but what about his history?
3. Will this be the year we see Lindsay Lohan make a major comeback and return to her glory as an awesome actress? See: Mean Girls, Freaky Friday. (Oh please, please!)
4. Can I somehow, in the next month of so, figure out how to get the makers of Friday Night Lights to do another season, even though this is the last one? (A girl can dream.)
5. Will I EVER be able to give up the unfortunate habit of eating cookies at 9am with my coffee, one I picked up over the holidays? I used to eat low-fat string cheese. Something tells me the Weight Watchers Points Plus values are not the same. Just a hunch.
6. Will I somehow, this year, be able to find that delicate balance between having a good internet presence and not missing out on things AND being sane and having a private life?
7. Will Toy Story 3, and the sobs I held in while watching it, forever prevent me from being able to take ANY of my daughter's toys to Goodwill?
8. Is there ANY way for me to rig my bathroom mirror so it somehow makes clothes look as good as they do in the Anthropologie dressing room? What do they use? Magic angles? Special lighting? Voodoo?
9. Is it weird that I am already looking at beach houses for summer rentals and comparing prices for Havianas online?
10. Will 2011 be the year I stop asking questions, and start answering them?
Only time will tell. About Bret Michaels, and everything else. For now, though, I will embrace the unknown. Or, you know, obsess and stress about it. Whatever.
Have a good night, everyone!
December 31, 2010
an end, a beginning, etc...
Okay, so it's the last day of 2010 and I've been spending a lot of time thinking about my New Year's resolutions. Things I should change, things I can do better. You know the drill. But then I realized that the one thing that I really learned this year was to STOP pushing so hard and raising the bar so high. Instead of listing what I'd like to be, I'm going to focus on what's already been accomplished. So without further ado, and before the year gets any older, here's a list of a few things I learned in 2010, in no particular order: (these are cross-posted to Twitter, as well, which is why they are so concise)
1. Just about ANY monotonous task can be made bearable by watching The Real Housewives as you do it.
2. No matter how hard the writing gets, it won't literally kill me. At least, it hasn't yet.
3. It is okay that I don't like Indian food. No, really. It is!
4. It is better to buy country ham biscuits than to make them. For the smell they make cooking alone.
5. A good liquid eyeliner is really all I need to take me from barely upright to "making an effort."
6. It doesn't matter HOW good I think I am at anything else. If I have a bad day as a parent, I feel like a failure.
7. The health of the people I love is all that really matters in this world. Period.
8. Forgiveness is hard. Acceptance is doable.
9. Sometimes really, really bad things happen to people, and there is no explanation and no reason whatsoever.
10. There are worse addictions than reality TV, chocolate and coffee.
Of course, there are more. I am sure I will keep thinking of them as this night, and the end of this year, goes on. For now, all that matters is that I keep in mind that learning is what really matters anyway. Not perfection, no ideals. Just doing the best you can, picking yourself up and brushing yourself off when it doesn't work out, and moving on. Oh, and laughing helps too. In fact, it's crucial.
I hope you all have a very happy and safe New Year's Eve, and the very best in 2011!
Have a great night, everyone!
1. Just about ANY monotonous task can be made bearable by watching The Real Housewives as you do it.
2. No matter how hard the writing gets, it won't literally kill me. At least, it hasn't yet.
3. It is okay that I don't like Indian food. No, really. It is!
4. It is better to buy country ham biscuits than to make them. For the smell they make cooking alone.
5. A good liquid eyeliner is really all I need to take me from barely upright to "making an effort."
6. It doesn't matter HOW good I think I am at anything else. If I have a bad day as a parent, I feel like a failure.
7. The health of the people I love is all that really matters in this world. Period.
8. Forgiveness is hard. Acceptance is doable.
9. Sometimes really, really bad things happen to people, and there is no explanation and no reason whatsoever.
10. There are worse addictions than reality TV, chocolate and coffee.
Of course, there are more. I am sure I will keep thinking of them as this night, and the end of this year, goes on. For now, all that matters is that I keep in mind that learning is what really matters anyway. Not perfection, no ideals. Just doing the best you can, picking yourself up and brushing yourself off when it doesn't work out, and moving on. Oh, and laughing helps too. In fact, it's crucial.
I hope you all have a very happy and safe New Year's Eve, and the very best in 2011!
Have a great night, everyone!
December 28, 2010
the end of the year, and signing your name....
So here we are, in that weird space between Christmas and New Year's. The visitors have gone home, the tree and decorations are down, and I have no idea what day it is. Seriously. I keep thinking it's Sunday, like, EVERY day. Such are the holidays.
Really, though, it was a great Christmas. Lots of food and friends and family, laughing. Oh, yeah, and SNOW! I know up North they got seriously hit (and are still digging out) but we had enough to slow everyone and thing down here as well. Five inches, give or take, but that's all we need for a serious state of emergency. Not even kidding: the governor declared one. For real! Now things are melting, a bit, but everything still being covered only fits in with this whole year-winding-down thing. There's just a feeling of lull in these last waning days of December, like even the calendar has lost all its energy. Come Saturday morning, and 2011, we'll all perk up. But until then: zzzzzzzzzzzz.......
Oh, but wait! I can't snooze because I have work to do. My publisher sent me 3500 tip-in sheets to sign, and I really would like to get them done so I can devote the time I have help with the toddler to actual writing.
(Yes, my name is spelled wrong. What did I tell you? It's the story of my life. But anyway.)
What are tip-in sheets, you ask? They are single sheets of paper that will be bound into copies of What Happened to Goodbye. I sign them, and voila!, signed copies. I did this with Lock and Key while I was pregnant, and Along for the Ride while I was sleep deprived. Now I'm here, watching Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work (which is amazing) writing my name over and over and over and over again. Today, I decided to do about 1/8 of the box, which is about 437 or so:
So I set them aside, with some necessary accessories:
An hour or so later, I was done.
Which means I only have 3063, and 7 hours left to go. That's not much, right?
*sigh*
I think we're going to be needing more chocolate.
Truthfully, though, I like tip-ins, because it means that signed books are available even in places I don't get to on tour. Plus, I love the idea of someone out there buying a book with a sheet in it that I signed while sitting here on the floor of my office, watching Joan Rivers, on the very same clipboard I took notes on in college. (True story!) Just like somewhere, out there, someone has on their shelf ones I signed when I was, like, ten months pregnant and exhausted and watching Friday Night Lights, or while I was yawning and listening to my baby on the monitor. My life to yours, courtesy of a simple sheet of paper. And lots of ink. And, um, chocolate.
I hope you all had a very happy holiday, and that the very best will come to you in 2011. I would LOVE to have all these sheets done by then, but since it's already Tuesday (or Wednesday? Or Sunday?) I'm not sure it's going to happen. But it will get done, this year or next. See, when I put it like that, it sounds easy!
Have a good night, everyone!
Really, though, it was a great Christmas. Lots of food and friends and family, laughing. Oh, yeah, and SNOW! I know up North they got seriously hit (and are still digging out) but we had enough to slow everyone and thing down here as well. Five inches, give or take, but that's all we need for a serious state of emergency. Not even kidding: the governor declared one. For real! Now things are melting, a bit, but everything still being covered only fits in with this whole year-winding-down thing. There's just a feeling of lull in these last waning days of December, like even the calendar has lost all its energy. Come Saturday morning, and 2011, we'll all perk up. But until then: zzzzzzzzzzzz.......
Oh, but wait! I can't snooze because I have work to do. My publisher sent me 3500 tip-in sheets to sign, and I really would like to get them done so I can devote the time I have help with the toddler to actual writing.
(Yes, my name is spelled wrong. What did I tell you? It's the story of my life. But anyway.)
What are tip-in sheets, you ask? They are single sheets of paper that will be bound into copies of What Happened to Goodbye. I sign them, and voila!, signed copies. I did this with Lock and Key while I was pregnant, and Along for the Ride while I was sleep deprived. Now I'm here, watching Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work (which is amazing) writing my name over and over and over and over again. Today, I decided to do about 1/8 of the box, which is about 437 or so:
So I set them aside, with some necessary accessories:
An hour or so later, I was done.
Which means I only have 3063, and 7 hours left to go. That's not much, right?
*sigh*
I think we're going to be needing more chocolate.
Truthfully, though, I like tip-ins, because it means that signed books are available even in places I don't get to on tour. Plus, I love the idea of someone out there buying a book with a sheet in it that I signed while sitting here on the floor of my office, watching Joan Rivers, on the very same clipboard I took notes on in college. (True story!) Just like somewhere, out there, someone has on their shelf ones I signed when I was, like, ten months pregnant and exhausted and watching Friday Night Lights, or while I was yawning and listening to my baby on the monitor. My life to yours, courtesy of a simple sheet of paper. And lots of ink. And, um, chocolate.
I hope you all had a very happy holiday, and that the very best will come to you in 2011. I would LOVE to have all these sheets done by then, but since it's already Tuesday (or Wednesday? Or Sunday?) I'm not sure it's going to happen. But it will get done, this year or next. See, when I put it like that, it sounds easy!
Have a good night, everyone!
December 23, 2010
tidings of comfort and....
I've been so busy the last couple of days. You know, tying on my gingham check apron to make batches of gingerbread cookies. Roasting chestnuts. Wrapping gifts with homemade paper I stamp-printed myself, making home-cooked meals for dozens of people, all while maintaining happy Christmas cheer. Oh, excuse me! I think my hot apple cinnamon cider is ready!
*snort*
Okay, okay. I can't even keep going with that, because of course you KNOW what it's really been like. House in disarray, toddler throwing tantrums, mad dashes to incredibly crowded grocery stores. Husband is sick, I'm still recovering from the Cold That Will Not Leave, and you know I don't even have an apron, much less a gingham checked one. What am I. June Cleaver? Not quite. Still, though, I have to say, even with all the madness I love this time of year. I like Christmas Eve even more than Christmas. I guess it's that sense of expectation. Plus everyone who's been out and grumpy is finally done with their stuff, leaving only the cheerful procrastinators, and I LOVE those folks. How can you not?
AND they are calling for some snow here on Christmas. A white Christmas? In North Carolina? Whoa. Personally I'm just happy because so many family and friends are coming home, and I'll get to see my high school girlfriends and their kids. On the flip side, I also need to be vigilant because this is the time of year that everyone ELSE I went to school with returns, and I seem to always see the guy I was crazy hot for in eighth grade at the gas station or grocery store. But I think as long as I am not wearing a gingham apron, I'll be okay.
Maybe, INSTEAD of that, I'll sport one of these:
Although I think that's a BIT self promotional. Still, they are cute, right? Yay for local business Bread and Butter Screenprinting, which yet again came up with a great design for me. I think I am going to have to do some kind of fun giveaway of these in the new year, maybe with a galley of the new book or something. Hmmmm.....
Okay, but that's LATER. Now is...well, pouring a glass of wine, frosting some (box-mix) cupcakes, and watching Love, Actually again. I wish you all the happiest of holidays, safe travels if you are going somewhere, stress-free home time if you're not, and peace and joy regardless.
Have a good night, everyone!
*snort*
Okay, okay. I can't even keep going with that, because of course you KNOW what it's really been like. House in disarray, toddler throwing tantrums, mad dashes to incredibly crowded grocery stores. Husband is sick, I'm still recovering from the Cold That Will Not Leave, and you know I don't even have an apron, much less a gingham checked one. What am I. June Cleaver? Not quite. Still, though, I have to say, even with all the madness I love this time of year. I like Christmas Eve even more than Christmas. I guess it's that sense of expectation. Plus everyone who's been out and grumpy is finally done with their stuff, leaving only the cheerful procrastinators, and I LOVE those folks. How can you not?
AND they are calling for some snow here on Christmas. A white Christmas? In North Carolina? Whoa. Personally I'm just happy because so many family and friends are coming home, and I'll get to see my high school girlfriends and their kids. On the flip side, I also need to be vigilant because this is the time of year that everyone ELSE I went to school with returns, and I seem to always see the guy I was crazy hot for in eighth grade at the gas station or grocery store. But I think as long as I am not wearing a gingham apron, I'll be okay.
Maybe, INSTEAD of that, I'll sport one of these:
Although I think that's a BIT self promotional. Still, they are cute, right? Yay for local business Bread and Butter Screenprinting, which yet again came up with a great design for me. I think I am going to have to do some kind of fun giveaway of these in the new year, maybe with a galley of the new book or something. Hmmmm.....
Okay, but that's LATER. Now is...well, pouring a glass of wine, frosting some (box-mix) cupcakes, and watching Love, Actually again. I wish you all the happiest of holidays, safe travels if you are going somewhere, stress-free home time if you're not, and peace and joy regardless.
Have a good night, everyone!
December 16, 2010
The Five!
1. I am writing this in the midst of a Snow Day. Actually, it's more like a Some Snow Some Freezing Rain Some Ice Mostly Nasty Day, but the upshot is that I haven't been out since last night and all I want to do is eat. What's up with that? Yeah, I know the roads probably aren't that bad. But I've never been one of those people who has to need to go out and test my bad weather driving skills. I'm happy to stay at home and, well, eat. And watch TV. Used to be I'd be curled up with chocolate chip cookie dough and Bravo marathons, now it's more goldfish crackers and the Fresh Beat Band, but the idea is the same. I can't remember, though, a year when we had TWO snow episodes before Christmas even got here. Bizarre. Oh, and I'm hungry.
2. Speaking of the holidays, tis the season for holiday entertaining, and this weekend is our annual get-together. This is a party that started WAAAAY back in 1989 or so, when my husband was living in a rental house with a bunch of buddies and our friend Anna decided to make everyone lasagna. Fast forward and here we are all these years later, those that were there and many more that have come, gone and stayed in the years between. It used to start late and go even later: now we start early and end early. Used to a big throw-down: now it's kids running wild, crackers ground into the carpet, and mac and cheese on the table next to the fancy appetizers. Ah, life. You gotta love it. I tend to get really stressed about this party, if I let myself, but this year I have completely let it go. Or tried to. I bought pre-prepared entrees, ordered in chicken wings. The sum of my personal input is going to be putting brie and crackers on a platter, and I might even hand that off to someone else as well. It's taken me this long to realize that none of my friends really care at ALL about how the food looks, or where we got it. They are too busy laughing, catching up, and chasing their kids around. So we'll clean the house, pop open some wine, and just have at it. Less time obsessing, more time sitting down. That's my mantra this year. We'll see how I do.
3. In other holiday news, I can't stop listening to Glee's Christmas Album. It's ALMOST as bad as my addiction to their cover of "Teenage Dream," which I can thank personally for the fact that my kitchen is not a total wreck: when faced with a sinkful of dishes and cluttered counters, I put it on and suddenly have the energy to tackle everything. Also really good is Mariah Carey's new holiday album, which comes with an "extra festive" version of "All I Want for Christmas is You." (It sounds pretty much the same to me, but whatever.) My favorite, FAVORITE Christmas song of all time though is by Chapel Hill's own Squirrel Nut Zippers. It's called "Carolina Christmas," and you can listen to it here:
Oh, that just makes me so happy. Seriously. And now I want a candy cane.
4. This morning I was tweeting about printing out some stuff from the Nick Jr. website to keep my toddler happy and I made a joke about doing a few extra of the Fresh Beat Band posters to keep and deface later. And then I felt, well, like the WORST PERSON EVER. Because being mean to the Fresh Beats is like being mean to Ned Flanders. Or Mother Theresa. Or anyone else who only wants good and special things for the world, unlike me and my wretched self. Oh, man. What is it about their eternally positive, friends-helping-friends, primary color sporting ways that makes me so EVIL? No idea. But for penance, I made myself print out extra copies, as planned, but hung them up right by my computer instead. Maybe their cheerful, happy vibes will turn me into a better person?
Or, maybe not.
5. Blogging may be spotty the next couple of weeks, as I'll be, like everyone else, caught up in holiday stuff. I'm actually thinking about stepping back from ALL internet related things for awhile, as I've been feeling sort of burned out on the whole Facebook, Twitter, blogging thing. I know, I know. I say this every few months because I feel this way every few months. My publicist would say that the lead-up time to the new book is probably NOT the time to cut back on my internet presence, and I know she's right. But does anyone else get, I don't know, tired of all the connectedness? I think it might just be winter, which always sucks the life out of me anyway. I need more Vitamin D, maybe. But a blog break might do the trick as well. So if I'm not here when you expect, don't worry! I will be back. Eventually.
Have a good weekend, everyone!
2. Speaking of the holidays, tis the season for holiday entertaining, and this weekend is our annual get-together. This is a party that started WAAAAY back in 1989 or so, when my husband was living in a rental house with a bunch of buddies and our friend Anna decided to make everyone lasagna. Fast forward and here we are all these years later, those that were there and many more that have come, gone and stayed in the years between. It used to start late and go even later: now we start early and end early. Used to a big throw-down: now it's kids running wild, crackers ground into the carpet, and mac and cheese on the table next to the fancy appetizers. Ah, life. You gotta love it. I tend to get really stressed about this party, if I let myself, but this year I have completely let it go. Or tried to. I bought pre-prepared entrees, ordered in chicken wings. The sum of my personal input is going to be putting brie and crackers on a platter, and I might even hand that off to someone else as well. It's taken me this long to realize that none of my friends really care at ALL about how the food looks, or where we got it. They are too busy laughing, catching up, and chasing their kids around. So we'll clean the house, pop open some wine, and just have at it. Less time obsessing, more time sitting down. That's my mantra this year. We'll see how I do.
3. In other holiday news, I can't stop listening to Glee's Christmas Album. It's ALMOST as bad as my addiction to their cover of "Teenage Dream," which I can thank personally for the fact that my kitchen is not a total wreck: when faced with a sinkful of dishes and cluttered counters, I put it on and suddenly have the energy to tackle everything. Also really good is Mariah Carey's new holiday album, which comes with an "extra festive" version of "All I Want for Christmas is You." (It sounds pretty much the same to me, but whatever.) My favorite, FAVORITE Christmas song of all time though is by Chapel Hill's own Squirrel Nut Zippers. It's called "Carolina Christmas," and you can listen to it here:
Oh, that just makes me so happy. Seriously. And now I want a candy cane.
4. This morning I was tweeting about printing out some stuff from the Nick Jr. website to keep my toddler happy and I made a joke about doing a few extra of the Fresh Beat Band posters to keep and deface later. And then I felt, well, like the WORST PERSON EVER. Because being mean to the Fresh Beats is like being mean to Ned Flanders. Or Mother Theresa. Or anyone else who only wants good and special things for the world, unlike me and my wretched self. Oh, man. What is it about their eternally positive, friends-helping-friends, primary color sporting ways that makes me so EVIL? No idea. But for penance, I made myself print out extra copies, as planned, but hung them up right by my computer instead. Maybe their cheerful, happy vibes will turn me into a better person?
Or, maybe not.
5. Blogging may be spotty the next couple of weeks, as I'll be, like everyone else, caught up in holiday stuff. I'm actually thinking about stepping back from ALL internet related things for awhile, as I've been feeling sort of burned out on the whole Facebook, Twitter, blogging thing. I know, I know. I say this every few months because I feel this way every few months. My publicist would say that the lead-up time to the new book is probably NOT the time to cut back on my internet presence, and I know she's right. But does anyone else get, I don't know, tired of all the connectedness? I think it might just be winter, which always sucks the life out of me anyway. I need more Vitamin D, maybe. But a blog break might do the trick as well. So if I'm not here when you expect, don't worry! I will be back. Eventually.
Have a good weekend, everyone!
