A Look Inside HERE I GO AGAIN!

I'm officially done living/writing about my year of living Martha Stewart-style, which means I can get back to blogging without worrying that I'm accidentally spoiling book contents.  That being said, I'll miss having Martha in my head all day, every day.  She's an excellent influence, even if she is kind of bossy and forces me to make my own salad dressing and pie crust.

Anyway, I'm putting The Tao of Martha out of my mind for a while.

Instead, I thought you guys would get a kick out of previewing the prologue/first chapter of Here I Go Again, a novel in which heroine (sort of) Lissy Ryder doesn't cook, clean, organize, entertain, or cover household items in a shit-ton of glitter. 

First, I want to show you something cool.  Here's the cover again:

You notice the mirror?  The green book jacket has a cut-out and the actual book behind it looks like this:

So the pink in the mirror is that of the prom dress.  I really love that my publisher wanted to make the physical copies more collectible.  And the endpapers in the book are green daisy-printed, which causes me an illogical amount of joy.

Anyway, here's the beginning of the book - I hope you like it!

Prologue

Every high school has a Lissy
Ryder—you know, the girl who’s absolutely untouchable. She goes by many names,
but you might have known her as the Prom Queen.    

The Head Cheerleader.

The Mean Girl.

The Bitch.

She was the richest and the
prettiest, with the blondest hair, the thinnest thighs, and the hottest car,
and she never let you forget it. Nothing made her happier than stealing your boyfriend, just to see if she
could.

And she could.

Of course she could.

She was Lissy Ryder.

Lissy Ryder spent her teen years
making yours miserable. She’s the one who “accidentally” tripped you on the
bus, mocked the sweater your sweet old Nana knitted, and told the boys you
stuffed socks in your bra, despite being the one who taught you how to do it.
(Ankle socks. The trick is using ankle socks.)

Every time she looked at you,
sighed, and rolled her eyes, a little piece of you died inside.

You hated her.

You wanted to destroy her.

But you were satisfied just to
graduate and get away from her.

So you went to college, grew up,
and now live a successful, fulfilling life, vaguely wondering if that thing
called “karma” ever comes for the Lissy Ryders of the world.

Hmm . . . let’s find
out.

Chapter One

Perfection Is
Overrated

Oh, honey, no.

I scan the woman’s outfit up and
down. A thong-bottom leotard worn over neon tights? With high-top Reeboks?
Seriously? I’m sorry, were you possessed by the ghost of 1983?

I sigh into my Bluetooth. “What are
people thinking when they come here dressed as extras in an Olivia Newton-John
video? This is the West
End Club, not some
nineteen-dollar-a-month Boys Town storefront, full of old StairMasters and HPV
germs. So shameful. So inappropriate.”

I glance at my properly clad self in
the mirror across from where I’m paused on the elliptical machine. Lululemon
Wunder Groove cropped capris paired with a Back on Track tank in Heathered Pig
Pink?

Check.

Long blond layers of honey and ash
(never platinum—I mean, who am I? Holly Madison?) pulled into a messy, yet
attractive high pony?

Check.

Smashbox O-Glow blush and a swipe
of MAC Lipglass in Early Bloomer?

Check.

I continue. “The West End Club is a
sophisticated place and you’re pretty much nobody in Chicago if you don’t belong. I mean, Oprah’s
a member, for God’s sake. I wish the Big O were here right now, because she’d
be all, ‘My friend Jane Fonda called and she wants her leg warmers back.’”

Nicole is my go-to person for
phoning when I’m working out, because she’s always home. I’d urge her to get a
life, but frankly it’s kind of nice being able to chat with her whenever I
want. She hesitates on the other end of the line, finally saying,
“Um . . . Lissy, I thought you weren’t allowed to come within
five hundred feet of Oprah.”

I slowly begin to pedal. “That was
a suggestion, Nicole, not a law. Like
it’s my fault she thought I was too
aggressive for sneaking into her massage room. I mean, the world of PR is all
about differentiating yourself. You’d think she’d want to work with the publicist who tried something different to
catch her attention.” I begin to pedal harder. “Whatevs. Doesn’t matter anyway,
because she’s totally passé now that her show’s over. Enjoy your obscurity!”

Okay, the truth is that unpleasantness
with Oprah still stings even though it was years ago. I know I’d have done an
outstanding job for Harpo, Inc., but she wouldn’t even hear me out, which is
rude, considering I forked over ten thousand dollars I didn’t have back then
(thanks, Daddy!) to join this place to get close to her.

To be fair, she didn’t have my club
membership revoked. I grudgingly give her credit for that.

I blot my face with a thick Turkish
towel and pat the area around my Bluetooth so I don’t, like, accidentally
electrocute myself. Theoretically I’m not supposed to use a cell phone in here,
but I think that’s because the management wants patrons to keep both hands on
the machines. Liability and all. A couple of the regulars are shooting me dirty
looks, but if they can’t multitask while getting their cardio on, that’s not my
prob.

“Who else is there today?” Nicole
asks gamely.

“Um . . .” I scan
the room. “There’s the Chris Colfer doppelgänger who lip-synchs to the Glee sound track and is always talking
about his ‘girlfriend.’ You’re not fooling anyone, sweetie! The closet’s
wiiiiiide open! Come out already!” I take a swig of filtered water from my
skull-print SIGG bottle. “Let’s see . . . Hey, there’s Cougar Town
who takes Pilates with me. She told me she can wrap both her ankles around her
neck. I’m all, ‘Really? Did you do porno back in the sixties or something?’ And
there are the two fake-titted twenty-somethings who date Bulls players. They’re
totally fat.”

This, of course, means they’re
totally thin.

I don’t tell Nicole that, though.
Don’t want to shatter her illusions about me. But how could they not be in perfect shape? These bitches
have no responsibilities save for workouts and waxing. I mean, SOME of us
aren’t a size two anymore because SOME of us have day jobs.

“Uh-huh . . .”
Nicole sounds distracted. She’s got three rug rats under the age of six and
they’re always screaming in the background when we’re on the phone. Not cool.
Plus her husband brought a stepdaughter into the marriage, and I swear I want
to slap the smug right out of that brat. Last time I was over, Charlotte was all, “Wait,
you guys were alive before the Internet?
How old are you?!” I told Nicole to
go all Snow White’s wicked stepmother on her, yet for some reason she’s got a
soft spot for the kid. I don’t understand it.

Actually, I’m less than thrilled
with a lot of Nicole’s decisions. For example, she traded her adorable Audi
coupe for some hideous, multirowed family truckster with automatic sliding
doors and built-in video monitors. I was like, “What’s next, mom jeans?” I
won’t ride in it on principle. I wait for her to say something else, but she’s
quiet, possibly because of all the banging and shuffling in the background.

“Nicole! Are you even listening?”

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry! Bobby Junior
just poured his own milk for the first time. He’s so independent lately!” Her
voice goes up a couple of octaves. “My little man, I’m so proud of you; yes, I
am! Lissy, you won’t believe it—he pulled up a chair and got the fridge open
all by himself, and almost every drop made it into his sippy cup! Every time he
accomplishes something on his own, I feel this incredible surge of—”

I’ve found that if you give a
mother an opening, she’ll yammer on about her boring offspring all damn day.
Like I care that little Madison
or Isabella can wipe her own ass. I feel it’s my job as a friend to keep Nicole
from spiraling into the Mom Zone, where it’s nothing but sensible haircuts,
soapbox derbies, and organic carrot sticks. “That’s just super, Nic. But let’s talk about tonight instead.”

That shut her down right quick.

Nicole exhales a little loudly on
the other end of the line. “Okay, Liss, so what are you doing later?”

“Tonight’s our anniversary dinner!”
I gasp. It’s not that I’m all pumped about the evening. Rather, I’m slightly winded
from having ratcheted up the resistance on my machine after watching the
stunning red-haired Bulls consort sprint on the elliptical like a goddamned
gazelle.

“Where’s he taking you?”

“We’re going to MK on Franklin
Street. I made Duke book us in the private room. I don’t really want the Great
Unwashed in the regular dining area honing in on my joy.”

If you want to be all nitpicky,
Duke and I have been together off and on since our junior year of high school,
but we’ve been married for only three. Yes, before you say it, we’re that
“breakup” couple. We know. We’ve had more splits than Real Housewives’ Taylor
has had lip injections, but we always find our way back to each other. I mean,
yes, I dated all kinds of people when we were on a break—and even when we
weren’t, like when I hooked up with my neighbor Brian for a few weeks—but
ultimately we were fated to be a couple. Our not being together is like a
manicure without a pedicure—sick and wrong and not of the Lord.

Also, his real name is Martin
Connor, but everyone started calling him the Duke of Hurl back when we were
seniors at Lyons Township High School in La Grange, Illinois. His clueless
family still believes it’s because he was a quarterback with a golden arm, and
not due to the night he mixed Jack Daniel’s, Jolt cola, and Jägermeister.
Seriously, do you know long it took my dad to get the smell of vomit out of my
car? I had to drive with the top down for a solid month!

While I mentally cycle through my
wardrobe for the perfect dress, the timer dings on my machine. “Woo, one point
five hours! Yay, me! I just burned one thousand and eighty-three calories!”

Which should make up for the three
lattes I had this morning.

(I hope.)

“Listen, I want to catch a little
peak tanning time, so I’ve gotta bounce.”

“Shouldn’t you get back to the
office soon?”  Nicole sounds
characteristically worried. If fretting were a sport, she’d be a gold medalist.

“Um, thanks for your concern, Mom, but it’s fine. I told my boss I was
going to a meeting, and that’s not really a lie. This place is filled with
potential clients.” I glance over at the Bulls girls. “I mean, escort services
need publicists, too, right?”

“Still, maybe you should make an
appearance.”

I blot the thin sheen of sweat from
my unlined brow . . . TGFB! (Thank God for Botox.) “Please, I
can do whatever I want in that place. They love me there. I’m kind of a
legend.” After all, I brought in so much new business during the dot-com era
that they hired me an assistant.

Of course, that assistant
eventually became my boss, but that’s only because I refuse to be an ass
kisser. “Later!”

I hang up and step down from the
elliptical, staggering for a second before I get my legs back. One of the Bulls
sluts smirks and I may or may not make an obscene gesture back at her. I head
to the locker room to change into my bathing suit (a tasteful tankini, natch)
covered with the sheer floral sarong I bought in Bora Bora
on my honeymoon, and I run up the stairs to the rooftop pool.

This is my favorite spot in all of
Chicago. I love being here during the workday because it’s practically
deserted. The deck’s all done up in just-bloomed hibiscus bushes and prairie
grass and there’s nothing but empty loungers as far as the eye can see. The
pool is placid, with wisps of steam rising from it, making it warm enough to
use even though it’s still early summer. The sky’s an impossible shade of blue
today, and because the club’s next to the river, none of those pesky office buildings
casts shadows and blocks my sun. It’s heaven . . . if heaven
served cocktails. (Of course there’s
a bar in this gym. You think Oprah would join a place that didn’t boast every
amenity?)

I arrive at the check-in area and
present my club ID to the buff teenager working the desk. “Hey, James, I’ll be
in my regular seat. Bring me extra towels, a piña colada, and an order of
fries.” He taps in my information and an odd look crosses his face. “Oh,
please, I’m not going to eat them all. I just want a few.” (“Moderation” is so
the new “binge and purge.”)

James gets all flushed and
flustered, and he keeps a king fu grip on my card when I try to grab it back.
“Um, Mrs. Ryder—”

“Ms.,” I correct him. “It’s Ms. Ryder.” I’ve always been hesitant to
let go of the name I had in high school. Otherwise how would anyone even know
who I was? Were I to call myself “Melissa Connor” on Facebook, everyone would
be all, “Who?” But Lissy Ryder? Queen
of the Belles, the best clique in school? No one forgets her.

James clenches his jaw. “Ohhhh-kay,
Ms. Ryder. There seems to be a problem with your membership.”

I nod. “Um, yeah, the problem is I’m standing here without a cocktail.” He
continues to tap in information for so long that I attempt—and fail—to wrestle
my card back. Listen, we’re burning daylight, and if I don’t get color on my
shoulders I can’t wear my new Akris goddess-sleeve dress tonight. So I may or
may not lunge at him to speed the process.

“Ms. Ryder! Please! Stop that!” he
exclaims, launching into bitch panic mode.

A steroid-addled trainer waddles
over to us. His legs are so muscular he moves in tiny, mincing steps. “What is
going on over here?”

“What’s going on is that I’m losing
my tan by the minute! And he won’t let me have my French fries!” James turns
the computer monitor toward the side of beef in gym shorts standing next to
him. I bet this guy hasn’t seen a carb since the Clinton administration. Or his nut sac.

Then, in a manner far less gentle
than merited, Captain ’Roid Rage takes me by the arm and escorts me to the
membership service desk three floors down. I suspect the manhandling might be
due to my inquiry on exactly how small his marble bag is. (Hey, I watched the
MTV True Life: I’m a Juicehead Gorilla special, and I’m well versed in
exactly what anabolic steroids do to your junk. I can’t be blamed for merely
stating what everyone’s thinking.)

When we get to the membership
office, some minimum-wage desk monkey tells me my membership hasn’t been paid
in three months.

Oh, I know someone’s accountant who’s about to be fired.

(Do I have an accountant? I should
check with Duke.)

I slap my well-worn Visa on the
desk. “Put whatever I owe on here. But make sure my fries are ready when we’re
done with this nonsense.”

The desk girl runs my card. “It’s
been declined.”

Um, that’s an awful lot of smug
coming from someone who makes six dollars an hour. “Run it again,” I demand.

“I already did,” she replies.

Is a shit-eating grin appropriate
at this time, really?

In the next ten minutes, I’m a lot
less haughty as each of my cards is systematically rejected. And when she takes
out an enormous pair of scissors and snips my prize gold AmEx, I get a sinking
feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Um, what’s happening? Duke makes
plenty of money, despite the current economy, and we’re always on top of our
finances.

I mean, aren’t we?

I kind of can’t be bothered with
all that stuff. Numbers. Ick. My mom always said I was too pretty for math. But
this has to be a mistake. I keep dialing Duke’s office number, but each time
the phone goes straight to voice mail.

I’m summarily escorted out of the
club without even being allowed to change from my bathing suit. When I get down
to the parking garage, my Infiniti is missing. The parking attendant blathers
something in Mexican about a tow truck.

What
the hell?

I immediately dial Nicole and tell
her to come get me. I give her explicit instructions not to drive the van, but
when she arrives twenty minutes later the family truckster is full of little
bastards watching a show about a big gay dinosaur.

The side door swings open and I’m
suddenly overwhelmed by the stench of Cheerios. I point at her demon spawn.
“Why are they here?”

“Because I’ll end up on Dateline if I leave them home alone,”
Nicole cheerily replies. “Hop in!”

I attempt to climb in the front,
but Charlotte’s already stationed herself in the shotgun position and makes no
indication that she plans to move. She pretends I’m not standing there while
she busies herself sending texts about important shit like Justin Bieber’s most
recent haircut. When I try to nudge her out of my seat, she plants herself and rolls her eyes while Nicole grins at me like there’s
nothing wrong with this scenario.

Really? We’re letting the fourteen-year-old
stepchild run the show now?

Fine.
I’ll just get in the backseat like some snot-nosed little asshole on her way to
T-ball practice.

I attempt to launch myself into the
back of the hateful van, which is almost impossible with this slim-cut sarong.
I hike it up and try again. Ugh. This place smells like juice box and
desperation. As I attempt to clamber into the far back row in order to avoid
the sticky hands coming at me from car seats on all sides, I catch a glimpse of
an enormous blob in the side-view mirror.

Upon closer inspection, I realize
the big, fleshy moon eclipsing the mirror is actually how my ass looks while
I’m bent over.

Perfect.

* * *

If you like what you've read... yay!  You can preorder at any of the following places:

Barnes & Noble

Amazon

Books-A-Million

IndieBound

Target

Walmart

And, if you don't like it, well, then I don't know what to tell you... except that I'll be back in the next few days with the winter reading list.

Cool?