Ellyn Oaksmith's Blog, page 13
September 11, 2014
First Chapter - Fifty Acts of Kindness
okay, so I promised on Facebook that I would post the first chapter for my Fifty Acts of Kindness social media campiagn. LIKE Ellyn Oaksmith Books on Facebook to watch me embarrass myself for 50 days trying to promote my book and annoy other people by trying to help them. I am sure at some point a shotgun will be involved as I try to help elderly people. In the book they are very violent people. The women.
Chapter One
“Revenge is sweet and not fattening.”
-Alfred Hitchcock
It happened on a fair June morning, as most horrible things do. Manhattan was misted with morning fog promising to burn off into silvery blue. Rectangles of Central Park grass were draped in picnic blankets anticipating office workers who would mysteriously break out in hives, sick kids, barfing pets or broken water pipes. Of course, I didn’t notice any of it. Glued to my desk since 5:00 a.m., I was slaving away on a presentation that my account assistant, Betsy, had failed to ready. My under-slept brain was the consistency of sticky tarpaper mixed with grit. Since college, I’d rocketed upwards so fast I’d sharpened to a very fine point, perfectly suited to the world of high tech marketing.
By mid-morning my admin Stella delivered on tiptoe, my usual piping hot half-caff Americano with soy. My biological clock knew that at 10:15, I moved my hand and coffee materialized.
Normally Stella drifted away like fog but today, as I was about to connect a call, she whispered, “Kylie, B-b-b-Bob wants to s-s-see you.”
Startled, I jumped, spilling my Americano, tangling myself in the phone headset.
Stella flew to the Kleenex box on my desk, extracting a handful, frantically blotting at the stain, getting her hands far too close to my crotch. “Hey!” I batted her away, my hands tangled in black cord.
Stella quivered. “S-s-sorry.”
Mopping at the stain, I stunk of soggy linen and curdled soy instead of my misted Dior Hypnotic Poison. Fabric clung to my thighs in unflattering detail. Angrily blotting with fresh Kleenex, I looked up.
Stella remained at the open door, studying me, with what – pity?
“What? It doesn’t show. I’ll live.” It was annoying that she hadn’t buzzed me before entering but then again maybe she had. Sometimes I was oblivious.
When I’d hired Stella three months ago, she was a fresh faced college grad with a degree in communication, perfect diction and a ramrod spine. Taking her on, I thought maybe I could mentor her as Dorie did me; scare out the idealism and beat in the competitive edge. Unfortunately she’d wilted like lettuce in the hot sun, acquiring the nervous stutter.
Standing, I slipped into my cream linen Zac Posen jacket. “Did he say what it was about?”
“N-n-n-n-no,” said Stella. Why on earth didn’t she just shake her head?
Since I was an account director and Bob, my boss, was two flights up, we communicated through e-mail, weekly staff meetings and occasionally by phone. It wasn’t like Bob to summon me to the 17th floor unless it was something unusual.
Like a promotion.
It all made perfect sense. After a mere five years, I’d reeled in Maxxilate Software. Although they aren’t a whale, they are a nimble Tiger Shark. They could, with my help, become a thrashing Great White. The timing is ideal.
My mind whirled with possibilities. As vice president I’d move from coach to first class on business trips. I’d quit haggling with pinched accountants about my third world expense account, switching to sleek town cars instead of eau-de-armpit taxis. I’d have a view office and, hopefully, acquire a less verbally challenged assistant. As I find a mirror, pinch my corpse-white cheeks, I’m pretty sure I’m driving Stella into an early grave. Firing her would be my gift. “Go teach preschool,” I’d advise.
I looked up from my reverie. Stella was slumped in the doorway, the same worried look plastered to her face. Despite the fact that she’s five years younger than I, she reminds me of my hippie mother, always puzzling over our vastly different natures.
“Anything else?” Why is a girl whose paycheck barely keeps her in heavily rotated Ann Taylor Express separates, inhabiting one-fifth of an ant-farm walk up, worried about me? I have a fabulous job, a shiny new condo on the Upper West Side. I’m about to get promoted.
Stella opens her mouth, as if she’s going to spit out something but loses her courage, sprinting back to her warren.
Dislodging my make-up bag from a drawer, I ready myself. This is really happening, despite my account assistant Betsy, a pregnant thorn in my side. An average day for Betsy consists of surfing mommy-to-be websites and wearing a triangular path between her desk, the break room and the bathroom. Despite Betsy the albatross, I could, almost certainly would, be joining the executive ranks where no woman had ever gone before, except Helen, who hates me.
In the elevator, I practice acting surprised, checking my expression in the brass panels. I can’t look too shocked, like I’m secretly terrified, wondering if some random monkey could do better. But I can’t look like someone coasting to the top between power naps. Sucking in my gut, I throw back my shoulders and march across the sea of open-concept desks. The perimeter is where senior executives are wedged, the nerve-riddled epicenter decked out in exotic woods, buttery leather, cool granite and thick, icy glass. Something is definitely up. People are staring.
OMG.
Bob ushers me in with a wave, finishing up a call while I mentally paint his office Benjamin Moore bright linen, laying down wainscoting. Accent color: hyacinth blue. One year, two max. I’ll have his job.
While I wait for Bob, I itch with excitement. Dorie will be so proud. Where should we go to celebrate? Daniel? Le Bernadin? Per Se? I’ll insist on treating her for all the help over the past six years. We’ll order champagne. Good champagne. I won’t even look at the prices.
Bob hangs up, turning his spaniel eyes on me with surprising anger. He doesn’t look very pleased for a man about to share happy news. “Kylie, to be honest, I don’t understand this. You are one of our rising stars. You are driven, focused and relentless when it comes to our clients.” He sighs heavily. “Given all that, I have to ask, do you have something to say?” He waves vaguely at his desk, clear but for his laptop and Iphone.
I am baffled. He is a grade school principal confronting a toilet stuffing miscreant. Does he assume I already know about the promotion? Is he distracted by another issue?
I cock my head, smooth my skirt primly. Far from any toilet stuffing, I get straight A’s.
“Thank you?” I wonder when the rest of the executive team is going to file in, balancing a look that says “super busy” with “great for you.” Maybe they will bring in a cake. Or at least Starbucks.
“Thank you?” Bob is puzzled. He runs a tan hand across his balding pate.
Why didn’t I wear a nicer dress? My new Lauren black label; I’d been starving for months, hoping to wedge into it. “Um, maybe you’d better clue me in…” I smiled graciously, offering an opening.
“Seriously? Come on Kylie. You have no idea?”
What? What is going on? Am I completely misreading his signals?
“Kylie, come on. You have no clue why you are here?”
I get the ball rolling with the first item on my agenda: albatross removal. “Not really but while we’re here, I’d like to discuss transitioning Betsy to another department. Her pregnancy is proving to be challenging.” His eyes narrow, so I elucidate, “For me.”
I am about to explain why someone else’s pregnancy could have a deleterious effect on me personally when Bob groans, rubs his eyes. “Stop! Stop right there.” He shakes his head. “How could you not know that your little performance with Betsy Rollins has gone viral?”
He types something into his computer, turning the screen to my vantage.
A cold wave of fear creeps up my spine. My little performance? What little performance? Why does he know Betsy’s last name?
For the last two days Betsy has called in sick. I am about to find out why.
Bob conveniently has YouTube on full screen. There I am, sternly towering over Betsy, who did, as I now recall, have her cell phone propped on her protuberant belly while I was talking, okay, yelling. At the time I thought she was monitoring her heart rate.
Stupid me.
It is hard not to wince as she catches me mid-vent. “And the bathroom breaks. My God, during the Cellex meeting you left the conference room nine times. I counted. Nine times after one bottle of water!” I screeched. “The last time you came back with your skirt hiked into your underwear! The only thing they’re going to remember about that presentation is granny panties! Who does that?” My voice is not my best feature and when I am exhausted and overwhelmed. Shrewish comes to mind. An icy chill grips my spine.
“Pregnant women,” Betsy said. There were tears in her voice. I don’t remember that. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t listening. “The baby is pressing on my bladder.”
“And your brain.” The YouTube version of me sighs heavily. Inwardly, I curdle. “Does it say in What to Expect When Your Expecting that your brains will be sucked out for the duration of the pregnancy? Because when I put the flash drive in at the Digitech meeting do you know what I found? Your ultrasound. Yep. Those dudes had a great time. They decided that you are giving birth to a ghost/alien/zombie baby and used the rest of the meeting to play foosball. I had nothing! I suck at foosball! You weren’t even there because you had a doctor’s note. What is this, high school?”
“My doctor did say that.”
“We are a technology marketing company. People don’t want to see our underwear or ultrasounds or try to run a meeting while you jump out to pee.”
“I’m due in two weeks.”
Her whine still grates on my nerves but my recorded words slice. “I cannot do your job and mine. It’s killing me. I need you on the ground and running. Oh no wait, you can’t run. Which is why you missed the flight to Miami where you got dehydrated.” I used quotation marks around dehydrated. My spine was now a solid icicle. This was bad. How could I have not known she was recording me?
“I was dehydrated.”
We’re both so very tired. “Right. Which is why you ended up lounging in Miami while I ran yet another meeting solo. I stayed up until three a.m. doing the Power Point you’d forgotten.”
“I ended up in the hospital.”
“And missed the flight back to New York and yet another day of work. If you are dehydrated you drink water. It’s not rocket science!”
I remember this day clearly. Sleep deprived from a red eye, I’d left Betsy in New York, begging her to prep for a meeting the following day. When I got back, the slides weren’t ready. She’d gone home. I’d miss another night’s sleep to finish them.
It was the perfect storm and she’d caught it.
Leaning forward to downsize the screen, I saw the views. “It got 2.7 million views?” She titled it: “Worst Boss Ever?!” There were lots of comments, many expletives and a passionate nine exclamation points in a row.
Bob dug a crust from his eye. “It’s not something to be proud of.”
My mind raced. How to spin this before he threw something out? I managed a casual shrug. “I’m in marketing. I can’t help it.”
Bob ruefully shook his head. “This makes us look soooo bad.”
Crunch time: no complaints or excuses. “Does it though? Does it? What I see is that we expect a certain professionalism and energy from our employees, a requirement that, pregnant or not, they perform to the best of their abilities. My delivery was very rough but it was a message she needed to hear.” He wasn’t buying. I grabbed for a straw. “Isn’t posting this on YouTube a violation of my privacy?”
“I don’t know,” Bob said wearily. “That’s 2.7 million negative hits with MLJK’s name attached.”
My heart clutched. I needed a cigarette. Now. “Whatever happened to any publicity is good publicity?”
He ignored my lame joke. “She’s threatening to file suit. I checked with legal. We can tie her up in court but the claim is legit.”
I inhaled sharply, forgetting, in my growing panic, to exhale.
“Breathe Kylie.”
“S-s-suing us?” Great, now I was stuttering.
“You called her fat. She says you created an unhealthy work environment.”
My jaw dropped. This was not the time to point out that, as a former chubette, I never, ever use the F word. “The operative word here is work. I was running on vapors.”
Bob got up, looked out the window at his fabulous view. “Stella, by the way, corroborates everything you’ve said.” My eyebrows shot up in alarm. “Yes, I’ve talked to her. I’ve talked to a few people but the point is that sooner or later we all have to deal with this. Pregnant women deserve-” He stared off into the silver buildings, the cloudless sky. When I entered, the view felt empowering. Now it was an invitation to jump. “Latitude. We are a family friendly company.”
I snickered bitterly. MLJK years were dog years. Most of the senior partners were divorced. “And what about women who aren’t ever going to have children? We just put up and shut up?”
He gazed at me, his eyes weary. “Come on. You’re what, not even thirty? You don’t know that.” Bob was still in his marriage of origin.
“Look at me Bob. My relationships have the longevity of a fruit fly. I have nothing left at the end of the day.”
“Maybe it’s time to branch out.”
Clearly he pitied Betsy. It was time to grab the controls. “I don’t want to branch out. This is who I am. I can fix this. I can smooth things out. Get my assistant her own assistant. At least until she’s had it.”
“Her baby is not an it,” he snapped.
“Did I say ‘it’?” I’d been talking so quickly. Had I just made a tactical error?
“Yes,” Bob said quietly, losing his starch. Crossing his arms he glanced at a framed photo: a gap-toothed pig-tailed toddler on a swing, pushed by his beaming, very pregnant wife. “You’re going to have to leave until this dies down.”
For a second I felt nothing but a weight pressing on the top of my head, a dull ringing in my ears. This could not be happening. “This isn’t Survivor. You can’t let random strangers on YouTube vote me off because I lost my temper.”
“They’re not. Lance is.”
The CEO? I was in a tippy canoe and by golly, there went my paddle.
I made a tiny bubble of an objection as I sank. “She wasn’t doing her job.”
“Effective immediately,” he said. I knew what preceded those two words: terminated.
This wasn’t a break.
This was permanent.
September 8, 2014
No Filter -- Sleepless Nights with the Big M
Mother Nature, in all her wisdom, sends a Hallmark card to women of a certain age. It reads:
Dear Mother/Sister/Wife/Partner:
You have done a fabulous job of raising your children, dog and cats. You have showed up at work and taken a lot of crap from your boss. You have paid your bills, with minimal overdue notices (for the most part), you’ve only had that one car repossessed and you handed over your car keys with a smile and joke to the repo man. You’ve drunk more than your fair share of red wine and eaten enough chocolate to form a melting bridge between continents. You have removed 17 pounds of lint from your drier.
Now I am going to reward you, dear woman, with Menopause. When you open the card there is an ominous noise that you recognize from Jaws. Although the card says Congratulations this isn’t congratulation music, this is shark attack music.
You burst into a cold sweat. Then a hot sweat. Then a cold sweat. You crave sugar, any kind of sugar, like a drug addict after a fix. You narrow your eyes at your husband thinking that he needs a complete make-over. Your darling children are nothing more than junk food eating, TV watching vampires who never pick up a dish.
You suddenly have tons of time at night to form lists of everyone who has ever wronged you. You make lists, including that professor who looked down his nose at you when you said the movie Tess was as good as the book. Also, your first boss out of college who said to “get passionate” about your job, which was literally shuffling paper at an insurance company. Also, the Hollywood boss who ended up stealing a computer from the film production company and didn’t believe you’d missed work to have a mole removed, subsequently grabbing your shirt to “check it out,” because he’d had melanoma.
When your sleepless self functions or rather, malfunctions in society, you are like a newly released prisoner. The world looks strange and newfangled. You lose your filter, making jokes with total strangers who look at you as if you are speaking Swahili. Your kids laugh at you when you launch into a complete Wikipedia entry when asked a simple question.
Your dog shoots you murderous glances because you are a worthless blob and it’s three hours past walk time. You make comments on Facebook that you think are hilarious because sleep deprivation unravels your already paper thin filter.
You take a sleeping pill and your husband wakes you up thinking that you’re already awake because he knows you’re now nocturnal and thanks to your tossing and turning, he is too.
You get four hours of sleep and think, “What the hell. I’m going to write blog. Who cares if people hate it?”
Get some sleep people. You have so much to look forward to.
Ellyn Oaksmith is the author of funny, twisty contemporary novels such as Adventures with Max and Louise and Divine Moves. Please visit Ellyn at Ellyn Oaksmith.com, Facebook, Twitter or Pinterest for more.
September 4, 2014
Why Every Writer Should Have A (Shelter) Dog
MY SPORTY DOG
1) They are great vacuums. You won’t have to take a break from writing when your sandwich falls on the ground. Although you will lose your lunch.
2) They are great listeners, although their advice is not the best.
3) They never talk back. Like children.
4) They never ask for money. Like children.
5) They will force you, in the worst weather, to get outside and exercise. Mudding trails or dark paths? No problem. Your dog will remind you several times a day that it is time to get outside.
6) They force you to talk to other people. Even when your mind is consumed with plot points, your dog will run up to other people, pee on their picnic and force you to apologize and explain how exactly he got off his leash.
7) They become the family therapist. No matter how tense the situation, a good dog can always bring levity to the matter at hand, forcing even the most stressed out person to smile.
8) You never have to cook for them although they will ask you for dinner about 75 times a day.
9) You never have to write alone. Your dog will listen to plot points and character development ad nausea, as long as you are holding a hot dog.
10) Friends may come and go; some will disappoint but a dog remains true blue and always happy to share your life.
11) And last but not least, a shelter dog will always know that you picked him or her out of all the other dogs and will remain truly grateful.
Ellyn Oaksmith is the author of funny, twisty contemporary novels such as Adventures with Max and Louise and Divine Moves. Please visit Ellyn at Ellyn Oaksmith.com, Facebook, Twitter or Pinterest for more.
September 2, 2014
Letter to a Blushing Bride - Thoughts on Marriage, Love and Murder Suicide.
Has she really thought this through?
Dear Blushing Bride:
First of all, quit blushing. What should really make you blush is that the cost of your wedding could foot your bill at a world class resort with your own personal butler. Oprah could be your neighbor. Secondly, let’s examine why you want to get married. If you answer yes to any one of these, run like hell:
1) I have 5 bridesmaids dresses wilting in my closet. It’s my turn.
2) I’ve reached my “sell by” date. It’s time.
3) I’m looking for additional income.
4) His health insurance plan and TV is so much better than mine.
5) I just want to nail this sucker down and let myself go. I miss Ben and I miss Jerry.
6) Online dating reminds me of Russian Roulette.
7) I like projects.
Now ask yourself this one simple question:
1) Does your beloved makes you laugh?
From the lofty perspective of nearly twenty years of marriage I can tell you that this is a biggie. In the course of your marriage you will find yourself looking at each other over various body fluids that will make lesser men and women hurl. You will find yourself facing medical professionals who pretend to know what they are talking about but are visibly sweating and quite possibly drunk. You will form alliances against teenaged children and aging parents whose sole desire is to bankrupt you and drive you slowly insane, although not necessarily in that order. You will find dead things under your porch in unreachable spots. In moments like this a sense of humor will be the one thread anchoring you to each other.
Do not, I repeat, do not dive into marriage without the safety ripcord of humor. Without it you are lost.
Big question #2: Is your beloved kind?
Does he treat his co-workers and family with compassion and respect or does he come home saying he “$%^&* killed it” when he laid off a widow, a paraplegic and a sightless man because of a work slowdown?
Thirdly, does your beloved bring you his best or does he reserve that for his friends, treating you much like a beloved dog, throwing you scraps of leftovers, reserving the prime rib for game night with his buddies?
Finally, are you looking at marriage as a marathon where sometimes you will really want to throw in the towel because every time he opens his mouth you want to stab him or possibly yourself and murder suicide is beginning to sound like the perfect date night? Because those weeks and months and possibly even years will occur. More specifically this will happen somewhere between the newborn phase and that golden shining moment when you can leave your kids alone. Kids, if you are going to have them, are the glue and also the kryptonite of wedded bliss.
But if you can imagine your beloved bald, stooped and shuffling in a pair of slippers the dog mauled but he refuses to throw away and still feel your heart expand with love you might very well have the kind of marriage where after twenty years you still ball your eyes out when a certain song comes on the radio. You might, after twenty years, miss your husband before he even steps foot on a plane. You might watch him talk to your teenaged children after dinner and feel that you are the luckiest woman in the world. You might still feel that the day you met him all the stars were aligned and shone just for you.
I’m here to tell you it’s possible. And it’s the best thing in the entire world. So fluff up that veil, float down that aisle and know that you are undertaking the greatest adventure of your life. May it bring you a world of happiness.
Love,
— A know-it-all middle-aged lady who, after 20 years is still 100% deliriously in love with her husband.
Ellyn Oaksmith is the author of funny, twisty contemporary novels such as Adventures with Max and Louise and Divine Moves. Please visit Ellyn at Ellyn Oaksmith.com, Facebook, Twitter or Pinterest for more.
August 20, 2014
Seven Rules for Writers (plus a bonus)
1) Don’t listen to other writers. They are vain, self obsessed and interested in furthering their own careers. Lillian Hellman said this, not me. She was right.
2) Write. Every day. Make office hours even if you have a full time job. Don’t vary. I myself don’t write in terms of sitting at a desk in the summer because my children are home but my brain is going and by the end of summer I have two books outlined which I write during the year.
3) Outline everything you write. Very few writers can successfully skip this step.
4) Find readers. Writing doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Don’t send work out unless at least 3 people have given you feedback.
5) Re-write. No one gets it right the first time.
6) That being said, write fast. Get it all out. Quickly. You’ll trick your brain into overriding your inner critic. Then, see step #5. Fix it. Hone it down.
7) Kill your darlings. Again, from Lillian Hellman. Even if a paragraph sings with beauty, if it doesn’t forward the plot or character development, kill it. All of it. Wipe it out. Your book/article/blog post will be better off for it.
I’m going to add this bonus point although I really do feel it’s the most imporant one: write what you want. Don’t worry about what is selling or what’s hot. If you write something that you are passionate about, that will shine through and readers will feel it.
Link to my most recent funny, smart book, on sale now for 99 cents:
Ellyn Oaksmith is an award-winning screenwriter and novelist. Her books include Adventures with Max...
Ellyn Oaksmith is an award-winning screenwriter and novelist. Her books include Adventures with Max and Louise, Divine Moves and the upcoming Fifty Acts of Kindness. Ellyn is at work on her first YA novel, Finding Nirvana. She is a member of the GirlFriendsBookClub.org
Link to Advice to my Teenaged Self
Ten years after high school seniors graduate they look at videos they made for themselves senior year.
http://online.wsj.com/articles/advice-to-my-teenage-self-1408490144
August 14, 2014
A link to the no-commitment, super fun inspiring book club
Here is what you do: Read a book a month. Or pick and choose. Then follow along with what other readers are saying. I love this.
http://myprettypennies.com/2013/01/04/introducing-the-no-committment-blogger-book-club/
Here’s a link to my pretty awesome book. On sale for 99 cents:
entertainmentweekly:
Robin Williams: sober and battling...
Robin Williams: sober and battling Parkinson’s, according to wife
Robin Williams’ wife Susan Schneider issued a statement Thursday morning, revealing that the Oscar-winning actor and comedian had been battling the early stages of Parkinson’s disease, in addition to depression and anxiety. According to the statement, Schneider says Williams was sober at the time of his suicide on Monday, Aug. 11.
The coroner’s office has yet to release its toxicology report.
The full statement:
“Robin spent so much of his life helping others. Whether he was entertaining millions on stage, film or television, our troops on the front lines, or comforting a sick child—Robin wanted us to laugh and to feel less afraid.
Since his passing, all of us who loved Robin have found some solace in the tremendous outpouring of affection and admiration for him from the millions of people whose lives he touched. His greatest legacy, besides his three children, is the joy and happiness he offered to others, particularly to those fighting personal battles.
Robin’s sobriety was intact and he was brave as he struggled with his own battles of depression, anxiety, as well as early stages of Parkinson’s Disease, which he was not yet ready to share publicly.
It is our hope in the wake of Robin’s tragic passing, that others will find the strength to seek the care and support they need to treat whatever battles they are facing so they may feel less afraid.”
Schneider, a graphic designer, married Williams in October 2011.
