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November 30, 2005
The Carpets Are Alive With The Sound of Vacuuming
From Lani, weeping at her cruel, cruel fate...
Oh, man. I hate cleaning. Hate it. With a passion. And yet, I won't hire anyone to clean my house for me because I'd have to get it marginally clean in order to allow another human being in here, and if I'm going to do that, hell, I might as well just clean it myself.
You see my dilemma.
So, today, after wallowing in my own filth and the filth of those I love most for the last week or so, I have decided.
I will clean.
By the end of this day, my entire house will sparkle. Everything will have a place and be in its place. It will smell like a fresh field of daisies and it will look like a responsible adult lives here. To this end, I even went out and bought Method cleaning products. Not because they work particularly well (although, as I haven't used them yet, jury's still out) but because they come in funky ergonomic shapes and they smell like pink grapefruit. I like that. It makes me happy.
Whereas the actual cleaning? Rends ragged gashes through my soul.
BUT, I think once noon hits, I'll allow myself a little glass of wine for soul-healing. That's the plan, anyway.
So, if anyone would like to wish me luck, provide words of encouragement, or tell me to just get over myself and clean the damn place already, please feel free to hit the comment board!
I really, really, really hate cleaning.
Posted by Lani at 9:54 AM | Comments (10)
November 29, 2005
The Queen of Procrastination
From Alesia
I have a three-page-long list of things to do, and yet so far? I’ve crossed off five items. “Do nails” being one of them.
I’m either pathetic, or I’m the Queen of Procrastination. So, borrowing a tiara from my daughter, I’m here to give my Top Ten Royal Ways to Avoid Doing Anything Productive:
1. Watch the morning news, and try not to yark up your oatmeal when you get a full-color view of Katie Couric’s esophagus. Fascinating technology, but, you know, yuck.
2. The internet – ah, the lovely internet. E-mail. Blog sites. Need I say more?
3. It’s mid-morning and the oatmeal has worn off. Snack?
4. Phone calls to and from friends and family. Amazing how many people I’m desperate to reach out and touch when I have work to do.
5. Read OPB. (Other People’s Books)
6. Personal grooming. My nails, hair, and eyebrows never look better than when I’m on several deadlines concurrently.
7. Check e-mail again. Something earth-shattering may have happened in the hour since I was last online.
8. Napping. All the sleep deprivation of the past several years catches up with me and I suddenly think my pillow is calling me.
9. See #2 and #7.
10. Oops!! Time for the bus! Kids are home, so I can’t possibly do any more work until tomorrow . . .
Alesia, glad to be queen of something
Posted by Alesia at 1:36 PM | Comments (1)
November 28, 2005
The Winners!
From Whitney Gaskell, November's Guest Literary Chick!
Thank you to everyone who participated in the Literary Chicks She, Myself & I book give away.
The winners are . . . *drumroll* . . .
Courtney Davila
Karen Barnett
Summer Tarr
Congratulations! A signed copy of She, Myself & I is on its way to you.
And a big thanks to Lani, Alesia and Michelle for letting me hang out at their website all month! I've had a blast being an honorary Literary Chick.
If you get a chance, swing by my website -- www.whitneygaskell.com -- where I keep a daily blog (well . . . daily-ish) and post updates on future releases.
Happy Holidays, everyone!
Posted by Whitney at 9:53 PM | Comments (1)
‘Tis The Season
From Whitney Gaskell, November's Guest Literary Chick!
It’s the most wonderful time of the year, time for family dysfunction to bloom and for shoppers to trample one another on their way into the Big Box retail stores in the hopes of scooping up discounted electronics.
Although, honestly, I love the holidays. I love turkey dinners and Christmas cookies and eggnog. And lest that seem food-centered, I also love Christmas carols and twinkle lights and trimming the tree. I even like picking out presents for people.
My two-year old son is not, yet, in the holiday spirit. At Thanksgiving dinner, as soon as we sat down and the turkey was brought out, Sam burst into hysterical tears. Which meant that I was stuck with the job of walking him up and down the hallway while my food got cold, so that the others could eat in peace. Such is the burden of motherhood.
Sam did calm down in time for the most important part of the meal: dessert. In fact, he happily put away a gargantuan-sized piece of pumpkin pie.
“Po-po pie,” he called it. And then proceeded to spend the next three days talking about the pie.
“Po-po pie?” he asked after lunch and dinner.
“No, we’re all out of pie,” I said. “But look, yummy apple slices!”
He looked at me disdainfully. “Po-po pie!”
Which is why I spent yesterday afternoon baking a pumpkin pie. It’s not like I didn’t already have five thousand other things to do, including – in no particular order – going to the grocery store, making dinner, mailing out holiday cards, wrapping the presents that need to be shipped ahead of time, vacuuming the living room and, oh yeah, rewriting a book.
But, hell, the cutest child in the world was gazing at me with enormous blue eyes, and asking in a piping voice, “po-po pie?” What choice did I have?
So I made the pie, and proudly served him a big piece topped with a dollop of Cool-Whip for dessert.
And Sam proceeded to lick the Cool-Whip off the pie, careful not to let a single bite of pumpkin cross his lips.
“Po-po pie,” he chirped.
“Yes. Pumpkin pie. That I made just for you. So, eat up,” I said pointedly.
Sam inspected the rejected piece of pie to see if he’d missed any Cool-Whip, and then looked up at me.
“Apple pie?” he asked sweetly.
“Do you really think I’m that big of a sucker?” I asked.
Actually, I’m not sure I want to know the answer to that.
Posted by Whitney at 5:12 PM | Comments (0)
November 27, 2005
Three Sisters
From Michelle, Reminiscing in Rotterdam...
No, not the Checkhov kind of 3 sisters where all they seem to do is hang around trying to fill their empty days with meaning until they can finally return to Moscow, I'm talking about...
Me and my two sisters.
We were born 4 years apart and I am the eldest (and no, I am not telling you my age because then you will be able to work out their ages and they will hunt me down and torture me, LOL).
When Middle Sister was born, my parents were anxious that I didn't feel left out so they bought me a scooter. When visiting the New Arrival, all our relatives and all my parents' friends brought me a gift, too. "This is great," thought 4-year-old me, avariciously praying that many more siblings, therefore gifts, would follow this one.
Years went by, not a new sibling in sight...
So when I finally learned that I was to have another baby sibling, I knew that this was good news. I was 8 by now, so it was about time for some more gifts. And Middle Sister wasn't the least bit anxious about the Imminent New Arrival because, of course, I primed her all about the abundance of prezzies which would also arrive.
So when Baby Sister was born, my parents bought us dolls with miraculously growing hair.
Middle Sister and I absolutely loved these dolls and we spent hours playing with them. Miraculously, there was a winding mechanism in the doll that let you change the length of the doll's hair by the, um, winding of a mechanism.
This was fine until Middle Sister and I (and remember that we were 4 and 8) decided that we were such marvelous hairdressers that we could easily create fabulous hair styles not by winding, but by the application of a pair of scissors.
We were so delighted with the results that we decided to treat ourselves to new hair styles, too. Unfortunately, Baby Sister didn't have any hair at this point in her young life, so we couldn't include her in the fun (but don't worry - we did it all again years later).
(Needless to say our sainted mother wasn't too delighted with our new hair styles and I've often wondered if, in some small way, it was at that point she decided that enough was enough...)
Michelle
This blog was brought to you by She, Myself & I, Whitney Gaskell's newest release about three sisters who prove that blood is thicker than gay ex husbands, raging hormones, and racy secrets.
Posted by Michelle at 10:29 AM | Comments (2)
November 25, 2005
I’m going to pound you into the ground
From Alesia, on sisters and brothers
I don’t have any sisters (I have two brothers), but I’ve been a sister for a long, long time, so I’m approaching this topic fresh from the perspective of a woman who studied two different sisters as they interacted with their brothers yesterday.
It was scary.
My Princess is two and a half years younger than Science Boy, and the other subject (let’s call her Dancer) is a couple of years older than her brother. But the interaction was the same. I can sum it up in three words:
Bossy, bossy, bossy.
Princess spends a lot of time telling her brother what to do. If he doesn’t listen, she grabs him by the back of the shirt and drags him around the house. Since she’s low to the ground, and he’s tall and skinny, she can get away with it. Lower center of gravity and all that. There are also the not uncommon threats of physical force. “Don’t make me pound you into the ground.”
Luckily, she rarely follows up on this, since we kind of have a firm “no pounding people into the ground” policy in our home. But I was interested to observe another sister/brother interaction in our house for several hours yesterday. Sure enough, Dancer, although a darling and lovely child, much like Princess, wasn’t above a little head smacking or elbow throwing, where her brother was concerned. Especially when he didn’t hop to do exactly what she said.
(My own brothers are sure to call and remind me of certain alleged incidents from our own childhood, but of course they’re WRONG, and I NEVER would have wrestled them to the floor, put a couch cushion on top of them, and then sat on them.)
But, in the midst of all the threatened and actual brother-pounding, here’s the fascinating thing about sisters, younger or older: let anybody ELSE threaten their brothers, and they’re fiercer than a mama lion. Princess was about three when she smacked a boy twice her size over the head with a plastic truck at the park because he made her brother cry. Yesterday, I noticed Dancer made sure to let her brother share the stage at the impromptu talent show and get his fair share of the attention. There’s a rumor about a five-year-old me beating up a ten-year old bully who took my brother’s car away and knocked him down.
We’re SISTERS. If anybody’s going to do any pounding on our brothers, you better believe it’s only going to be us.
Happy Thanksgiving to all the sisters and brothers in the world!
Alesia
This blog was brought to you by She, Myself & I, Whitney Gaskell's newest release about three sisters who prove that blood is thicker than gay ex husbands, raging hormones, and racy secrets.
Posted by Alesia at 3:05 PM | Comments (0)
November 23, 2005
I hate you. Can I have that?
From Lani, watching her daughters from a safe distance...
I've always regretted never having a sister. When I was young, I used to bug my mother to give me a sister, thinking it was really no big deal for her to just shoot one out. Now, I look back and admire my mother's restraint in not throwing out a resounding and horrified, "Hell, no!" as opposed to her gentle but resolved, "I don't think so, honey." When I was in college, I met my best friend, Tracy. Neither of us had a sister, so we sort of adopted each other. We'd refer to each other as sisters, and treat each other as sisters. Or, rather, we'd treat each other the way we thought sisters treated each other in our idealized and uninformed fashion.
Now, as the mother of two daughters, I have a special front row seat to the sister relationship, and now I know: Tracy and me? Not sisters.
For example, we've never fought over something completely stupid only to end the argument by borrowing each other's clothes. Tracy and I have never fought at all, really. We've had moments of tension - we were roommates for a long time and I defy anyone to live with me for any period of time without feeling some tension - but we've never out-and-out fought.
Hence, not sisters.
Even though I've only had four years to observe the sister relationship, and this one I'm observing is in its infancy, I've learned one thing. Sisters? Fight. Over everything. Over anything. Especially boys.
Yes. My daughters are 6 and 4 and they are already fighting over boys. Hence I'm already learning to discern single-malt whiskey from the crap.
There was a little boy who lived down the road for a while this year. Very cute little guy, had a Robert Redford, Jr. thing going on for him, so for the purposes of the article, I'll call him Red.
Before they moved (Red is the son of my CWK who moved, sniff sniff) Red was in Sweetness's class this year, so we saw him twice a day at the bus stop. Sweetness was instantly smitten and, after the first day of class, asked if she and Red would get married someday. I said, "Hey, maybe, who knows?" and let it drop. Hell, I'm not gonna be the one to tell her how many frogs she's gonna have to kiss before she finds the one she's gonna marry. Reality has its time and place and Kindergarten? Ain't it.
But, see, here's the thing. Light, because she is four and will burn the house down if I turn my back on her for a minute, went with us to the bus stop every day. So, Light got to see Red every day. And Light is friendly. She likes to play. Mostly she likes to boss other children around and tell them what they're going to play. At this age, no one's knocked her out yet, so I let it slide. Anyway, Red and Light ended up kind of pairing together at the bus stop, and one day, I saw Sarah writing a letter to Red. Here it is, transcribed in its entirety, with names changed to protect the young, and spelling corrected to protect the people who really don't have that kind of time:
"Dear Red,
Light is trying to steal you. Don't let her. I don't like her. She's bad.
Love,
Sweetness."
Okay. Fine. So they fight. All siblings fight, you're thinking. What makes sisters special?
The fact that they fight... and then ask for stuff. And give it. And then play nicely for a while. And then the fight starts up again. Not two seconds after Sweetness wrote this letter, gave it to me, and made me promise to deliver it to Red the following morning at the bus stop, she walked over to Light and convinced her to share her Dora Princess Castle. Which Light did willingly, until Sweetness started bogarting Boots the Monkey. Then Light hit Sweetness over the head, Sweetness screamed and cried and punched her in the arm, and then Light asked Sweetness if she could play with her stuffed cat, and Sweetness - without a hint of residual anger - gave it to her and they played nicely for a few minutes until the next conflict arose.
Now, see, I grew up with an older brother. My interaction with him was limited to mostly trying not to get hit. This sister thing doesn't make any sense to me, but it seems to be just that - a sister thing, the core concept of which seems to be, "I really don't like you, but we wear the same size, and you've got those cute jeans..."
Thank God for single-malt, that's all I'm saying.
This blog was brought to you by She, Myself & I, Whitney Gaskell's newest release about three sisters who prove that blood is thicker than gay ex husbands, raging hormones, and racy secrets.
Posted by Lani at 6:44 AM | Comments (3)
November 21, 2005
My Hairy Little Sister
From Whitney Gaskell, November's Guest Literary Chick!
“You’re not going to believe what your sister has done now,” my mom said, when I called her one night. “While we were out, she chewed through the screen and ran off down the street."
I was fairly sure that she wasn’t talking about my real sister. My sister may be many things -- have I ever mentioned the time when I was three and she shoved me into the back porch stairs, cutting my forehead so badly it required stitches? -- but I’m sure she’s never chewed through a screen.
Well. Mostly sure.
“We had to chase after Lucy for two hours before we caught her,” my mom continued.
Ah, Lucy. Lucy is not actually my sister . . . she is, in fact, my mother’s dog, a black shar pei who has a tendency to act naughty when left on her own for any length of time. My mother even has a license plate holder on her car that reads: LUCY’S MOM.
When I pointed out that she could have selected a license plate holder that said, oh, I don’t know, WHITNEY’S MOM, my mom looked surprised.
“I never even thought about that,” she said.
And while I’m certainly a dog lover, I’m just not sure that I’m ready to recognize a puppy as a full-fledged sibling.
We have a new dog in residence at our house. We recently adopted a pug from the local humane society. Tallulah Bankead, a.k.a. Lulu, has settled in happily here at Casa Gaskell. And if she has a tendency to nap on our bed, even after being told four thousand times not too, it’s understandable.
“She was living on the street before the dog catcher found her,” I pointed out to my husband, George. “She needs a little TLC.”
“She was probably on the street for all of twenty minutes,” George said.
And he does have a point. Pugs have an uncanny ability to adapt quickly to any situation, putting a premium on landing an overflowing food dish and a soft place to sleep.
Margo Kaufman documented this phenomenon in her book, Clara: The Story of the Pug Who Ruled my Life. Kaufman noted that pugs seem to possess a comfort gene. For example, if they’re put in an empty room with three socks, they’ll quickly push the socks together to form a comfy bed.
Our late pug, Madeline, was particularly gifted in this area. We once left her for a few days with a dog sitter. When I called to check up on how our little girl was doing, the pet sitter said, “She’s wonderful! She slept with me last night.”
“You don’t have to let her do that,” I said. “I did drop off her dog bed.”
“Oh . . . she doesn’t normally sleep with you?” the dog sitter asked.
“No.” Maddy shed more than a sheep dog. Letting her under the covers would have been like wearing a hair shirt.
“I just assumed she did. I came out of the bathroom last night, and she was already up in the bed, looking like she was settled in for the night. I just assumed that’s what she used to.”
See? Comfort gene.
This blog was brought to you by She, Myself & I, Whitney Gaskell's newest release about three sisters who prove that blood is thicker than gay ex husbands, raging hormones, and racy secrets.
Posted by Whitney at 1:22 PM | Comments (5)
November 20, 2005
Confessions of a Serial Nondater
From Michelle, Gnashing Teeth in Rotterdam...
Yes, gnashing teeth because yet again, I have been technologically challenged! Who knows why computers suddenly start being all prima donnaish not doing the stuff they are supposed to do...
And yay, the other reason I've been so quiet recently is because before my computer decided to have a nervous breakdown, I was in America! Yes, again after only a month. See, the good folks at Kenneth Cole and Vogue invited me along for an event, and there would be pink drinks, and hot guys, and delicious food. So I said yes. Anyway, more about that on Thursday with pics (if my computer doesn't melt down again).
In the meantime, Lani's fab new Ex and the Single Girl had me thinking about my ex's...
So, I was a serial nondater. I did date, kind of. But much to the disappointment of my parents I spent more time NOT actually dating.
This caused some concern to my family because (a) they all tended to hook up and marry young and have babies immediately, and (b) Sheffield in the north of England was a traditional kind of city where you were expected to hook up and marry young and have babies immediately...
Well, I wanted to travel and you can't do that so easily if (a) you have hooked up young and married young and (b) are busy producing babies...
But when I did date, I usually had one or two or three dates with the guy in question and then I'd finish with him, to the complete despair of my mother. These are the conversations I used to have with my mother...
On the occasion I finished with Boy A
Mum: "Boy A seems lovely. I can't believe you finished with him so quickly. You only went out with him once. Why didn't you give him a bit more of a chance? Love doesn't grow overnight, you know.
Me (aged 11): But he wanted to kiss me. You know, um, with tongues, Mum. Euck!"
A while later, when I finished with Boy D
Mum: "But Boy D seemed so lovely. And he's doing well in school, and he's already one of your best friends."
Me: "Yes, Mum, the best friend thing is a bit of a problem. You know, kissing him felt a bit, well, like incest. Sorry Mum - it's too icky to even think about, you know, sparks."
A while later, when I finished with Boy R
Mum: "But Boy R seemed so perfect for you. He's intellingent - he must be if he's trying to get into Oxford University, and he's very, you know, moral."
Me (sighing): "He wants to be a vicar, Mother. I mean, vicaring is all well and good, and serving God is great if that's what you want to do, but...I just can't see me being a vicar's wife and doing the church flowers every Sunday and arranging the church coffee mornings and stuff. Really, Mum, it's just not me. Besides, there were no sparks."
A while later, when I finish with Boy T
Mum: "I just don't understand you, Michelle. Boy T is lovely. He's got a good steady job at the toilet roll factory, and great managerial prospects.
Me: "Okay, it's the no sparks issue. I just can't see it GOING anywhere."
Mum: "But you never give them the chance. You know, love doesn't just spring up overnight. You have to work on a relationship."
A while later, when I finish with Boy V
Mum: "I really liked Boy V."
Me (sighing): "Me, too."
Mum: "But why couldn't you have given him a chance. You really seemed to like this one."
Me (sighing some more): "Yes, I really like Boy V, but he wants to be a farmer. Mum, do you really see me as a farmer's wife?"
Actually Boy V was really lovely. But you see, after just one or two dates I knew I could be in trouble because I liked him so much. But I was also scared that if it went any further, I'd end up (a) married young, (b) having babies, and (c) getting up at some ungodly hour of the morning to do whatever the hell it is farmer's wives do. I mean, I'm a CITY girl...
After Boy V, my mother decided that it was time to take the bull by the horns.
Mum: "Michelle, um, I need to ask you something."
Me (puzzled): "Okay. Bring it on."
Mum: "Well, it's just that we think that you might be either (a) frigid,...
Me: "Nope, definitely not frigid. What's my other option?"
Mum (looking very embarrassed): "Michelle, um..."
Me (encouragingly):" Yes?"
Mum: "Um, are you one of those, you know, lesbians?"
Me (blushing): "No, Mum. I mean, being a lesbian is all fine and good for those who are, you know, lesbians. Mum, I just don't want to get tied down. I just want to travel."
Mum: "Well, if you're sure..."
Me: "If I become a lesbian I promise you, you'll be the first to know."
Mum: "But. You're nineteen. That's practically an old maid."
Gah.
My family was distraught when I moved to London (I wasn't married - how could I leave home without a man to protect me? Especially as I was, gulp, moving to the Big Bad City.) But they threw a huge party when I met and moved in with Oh Patient One...
Michelle
This blog was brought to you by Ex and The Single Girl, Lani's newest
release about what family that won't mind their own business, exes that
won't go away, and the true love that gets caught in-between.
Posted by Michelle at 12:38 PM | Comments (2)
November 19, 2005
This Entry Brought To You By: Sudafed
From Lani, sniffling and hacking and sneezing, oh my...
Before I get into my "I've got a cold, wah me," whine, I want to say thanks to Alesia and Whitney for chiming in on Exes week! And for those of you wondering where Michelle is, she's got some computer issues in Rotterdam which will hopefully be resolved soon because we all miss her!
Well, today's blog is probably going to be short. For one, I spent last weekend in the hospital with Sweetness, who is fine now, but at the hospital, I picked up a nasty little bug which is still at this moment very soundly kicking my ass. I also have an essay to revise, a book to write, two kids to raise and... I know there's something else. I know it, I know it. I just can't remember it.
See? My brain? Is dead.
Trying to blog while brain dead is not recommended by the Surgeon General, but I'm doing it anyway. It'll be lame, trite, short, awkward, and probably not at all funny, but I owe it to you people to blog, and damnit, I'm blogging.
Cover me, I'm going in...
As I stare down the barrelhead of Thanksgiving, for which this year I am to cook, which means quite possibly another trip to the hospital, I thought I would talk briefly about all the things for which I am grateful.
1. Loyal readers who will trudge through awkwardly-phrased sentences like the one above until they actually understand it. You know who you are. And I love you.
2. Sudafed. I am heartily grateful for Sudafed.
3. Whoever invented digital video recorders. I have about 12 movies just waiting for me to watch. I love that.
4. Joss Whedon. Me heart Joss Whedon big time.
5. My husband and my children, who are all well and home now.
6. My fellow Literary Chicks, who get me through when life gets crazy.
Okay. Now I'm off to run a few errands (my own fault, what kind of idiot lives in Central New York and waits until the first snow to discover that her kids have outgrown their winter boots?) and then it's back to bed for the rest of the day where I will rest, pop Sudafed, and allow awkwardly-phrased sentences to run through my head without worrying that no one will understand them.
Now that I read this blog, I realize that some days... eh, it's probably better not to blog. But my kid is healthy and my Sudafed cabinet is stocked so... chances are, I'll come up with something better on Wednesday, God willing and the creek don't rise...
Posted by Lani at 9:54 AM | Comments (3)
November 18, 2005
Ex and the Married Girl
From Alesia, who LOVES Lani’s new book!!
Wow! The holiday season and first grade talent shows and blown-up computers in Rotterdam all equal a slow week at The Literary Chicks! And I feel especially guilty because this is the week to celebrate Lani’s new release, EX AND THE SINGLE GIRL, which is fanfreakingtastic!! I mean, hello? A book with Penis Teflon as a theme???
How could it miss?
Lani is too humble to go all braggy about her own cute self, but she has been gathering up a veritable cornucopia (yes, vocab words test today for Science Boy!) for EX. Check them out at her website! And, you know, buy the book!!
I’ve been thinking about the Ex topic a lot, to figure out what to write in this blog, and then I saw an episode of MEDIUM, during which the husband (and don’t you LOVE him??) runs into an old girlfriend and poor Allison gets a flash of Joe and old girlfriend doing the nasty.
Live and in color. Can we all collectively pause for a gross-out moment?
Anyway, in the inevitable blow-up that follows (he neglected to mention he’d been naked with said chick; Allison didn’t appreciate it), it turns out that they’ve told each other about all of their exes. And, well, details, I guess.
Now, I’m all for honesty, but I gotta admit I’m against this. Completely. Navy Guy and I are coming up on ten years together, and I’m happily ignorant of most of the details about the women he dated before me. Other than one he actually met and one that was rather mandatory disclosure, since he had the unpleasant habit of popping up, he’s in the same state of bliss about the details of my past romances.
Why? I know there are diametrically opposing views on this one. One view (that I’m rabidly against!) is the “we’re in LURVE, we should tell all.” Well, okay. We’re very much in love, but why does that mean I need to hear about the girl he dated in college? Or why should he hear gory details about me and the drunken toga party? (If anyone who knows me in any way is reading this, make that the hypothetically drunken alleged toga party. Hey, it was college. There was pure grain alcohol with fruit. I’m SO not to blame.)
We love each other NOW. We have for ten years. We may not have been each other’s first love, but we’ll definitely be each other’s last (and only!). I’m all for some memories remaining just that – for exes to stay in the memory box, or as pictures in an old scrapbook. Something to look back on when we’re old and gray and want to organize a drunken toga party at the nursing home.
TOGA, TOGA, TOGA!!!
Alesia, older and (hopefully!) wiser
This blog was brought to you by Ex and The Single Girl, Lani's newest
release about what family that won't mind their own business, exes that
won't go away, and the true love that gets caught in-between.
Posted by Alesia at 4:08 PM | Comments (2)
November 14, 2005
Ex Marks the Spot
From Whitney Gaskell, November's Guest Literary Chick!
Confession time: when I was in college, I was a sorority chick. I was, it’s true. Not only that, I was a Tri-Delt at a time when Saturday Night Live kept running an inane sorority skit in which one of the comedians answered her sorority house phone by chirping, “Delta, Delta, Delta, can I help ya, help ya, help ya!”
Approximately 40,000 people felt the need to repeat this joke to me.
“Hey, did you ever see that Saturday Night Live skit?” they’d ask.
“Yes, I have! Please don’t . . .,” I’d beg.
Too late.
“Delta, Delta, Delta, can I help ya, help ya, help ya! Ha!”
Sigh.
Twice a year, my sorority held a formal dinner dance, which forced me to scour the bottom of the scum-crusted barrel of eligible undergraduate men for a date. This never went well. In fact, the one trait that all of my dates had in common was that they were all pukers.
They puked at the dance. They puked on the bus on the way back from the dance. They puked on my sorority sisters. And, worst of all, they puked on me.
By the time my senior year rolled around, I’d had enough.
“Who are you bringing to the spring dance?” my friends would ask.
“I’m not,” I’d say.
“But you have to! You can’t go alone!”
“I can and I will,” I said. “I have a nice dress. I don’t want to be puked on again.”
My friend, Heather, took the situation in hand, and decided to set me up with a friend of her boyfriend.
“That way they can hang out together, and we can hang out together,” she explained.
“I want to meet him first,” I said.
And so I did. I met – let’s call him Loser – for lunch, and he seemed relatively harmless. I subtly tried to question him about his drinking habits.
“Are you a puker?” I asked suspiciously.
Loser swore he could hold his liquor. I sighed. I’d heard it before.
The formal that year was being held out of town, at a hotel near Lake George. This meant we all had to stay over . . . and I found myself in the unfortunate position of having to share a hotel room with Loser.
“You’ll have two beds,” Heather assured me. “So you won’t have to sleep with him. Just near him. Across the room.”
But then we arrived at the hotel, and discovered that our room only had one bed. I called the front desk, and was told that there weren’t any doubles available. I was stuck sharing a bed with Loser.
Still, the dance was fun. Loser disappeared into the bar early on, leaving me to dance with my friends and play a catty game of “Who’s Wearing the Ugliest Dress." I didn’t see him again until the band was playing the last song, and my friends with boyfriends were clinging to them in a swaying slow dance, while I snitched cigarettes out of their purses.
And then Loser suddenly appeared, glassy-eyed and swaying.
“Do you want to dance?” he asked, slurring his words.
“I think not,” I said, standing up. “I’m going to bed.”
I don’t know how he made it back to our hotel room. I certainly wasn’t about to help him. In fact, I was secretly hoping that he’d pass out in the ball room so that I could have the room to myself. But after I’d showered and changed into my pajamas, there was a knock at the door. And there Loser was.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” he announced.
I shoved him into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, and then got back into bed. I pointedly turned on my side, with my back facing his half of the bed, and switched the light off. Loser staggered from the bathroom, and fell into bed, fully dressed.
Maybe he drank so much, he’ll just pass out, I thought hopefully.
And then I felt a hand on my bottom.
“Don’t. Even. Think. About. It,” I hissed, shoving his hand away.
He sighed, and rolled over. And, somehow, I fell asleep . . . only to wake up a little while later, from the curious feeling of the bed jiggling. I rolled over to look at Loser.
“What are you . . .?” I didn’t finish the sentence. Because I saw what he was doing.
Since I’m guessing this is a PG-13 website, let’s just say that he was taking care of business. On his own.
“Ack!” I shrieked. “Stop!”
“What else do you expect me to do?” Loser huffed.
“Not that! Put your pants back on!”
The next morning, we ignored one another on the trip back home. When we got back to campus, I gave him his souvenir t-shirt and fully expected never to see him again.
But then I did see him. Constantly. We were on the same class schedule, and twice a week, I’d pass him on campus when he was leaving his class and I was going into mine. He’d give me a tight-lipped smile, and I did my damndest not to snicker.
“I thought you didn’t like Loser,” Heather asked me one day.
“I don’t,” I said. I hadn’t told her – or anyone else – about the, erm, incident. I figured he’d been embarrassed enough as it was, so I’d simply told her the half-truth that we just hadn’t hit it off.
“Loser called my boyfriend last night,” Heather announced one day. “He said that he thinks that you’re stalking him, because he keeps running into you.”
“He said what?” I bellowed. I mean, really. It was too much. First, he was a horrible date. And then there was the puking. And then there was the . . . you know. And after all of that, he had the unmitigated gall to tell people I was stalking him?
“Let me tell you a little story about Loser,” I said.
When I finished, Heather’s jaw dropped open.
" What a freak!” she exclaimed.
“Feel free to spread it around. Especially if he keeps telling people that I’m stalking him. God, what an idiot,” I said.
So, for all you men out there, here’s the moral of the story: if you think the fury of a scorned woman is bad, just try puking on one. And if you’re going to make a fool of yourself in front of a woman, don’t turn around and accuse her of stalking you. Because, really, then you’re just asking for your comeuppance.
This blog was brought to you by Ex and The Single Girl, Lani's newest release about a family that won't mind their own business, exes that won't go away, and the true love that gets caught in-between.
Posted by Whitney at 1:55 PM | Comments (7)
November 12, 2005
All My Exes Live In The Internet
From Lani, who just knows she's going to be hearing about this blog for a while...
Good Saturday morning, and welcome to the launch of Exes Week here on Literary Chicks, in honor of the release of Ex and the Single Girl, which hits stores on Monday! Yes, Monday! And, no, I can't say that without an exclamation mark! I'm just that excited! (Learn how you can win one of 10 signed copies here!)
Okay, that out of the way (!) I'm here today to talk about exes, and to make a small confession. I know where most of my exes are.
I mean, not at this moment. I don't have any of them under surveillance or anything. But, every now and again, I'll admit it. I Google a few of them.
I don't know why I do it, really. Morbid curiosity, I guess. I'm only in contact with one or two, and those are only by the very occasional friendly e-mail, and those guys are more friends than exes anyway. The guys that are just exes - the ladies reading this know the difference - I don't make any contact with.
The thing about exes is that, once you're married, they kinda have to cease to exist. Fish isn't a terribly jealous man in general, but something about knowing I'm in contact with a guy I used to... mambo with (Mom reads the blog; use your imagination)... makes Fish start in on his comedy material about how great he is in the sack, how sexy his butt is, etc. He doesn't get angry, he doesn't get overtly jealous or insecure, he just starts in on this comedy routine that is funny but totally unnecessary. I'm not the kind of girl who is quiet about being unhappy. If I was unhappy, Fish would know. That's what marriage is - I promise to love, honor, cherish, and make sure you're the first to know if anything's wrong.
So it's not like I miss any of these guys, or want them back. If we broke up, we broke up for a reason. And yet... every now and again... I do a search. Sometimes the guy will have his own website, other times it's just a mention in a newspaper for participating in a marathon or working on some TV show. (I went to school for television; there are one or two of those out there.) There's one guy that seems not to exist on the internet at all (is that even possible in this day and age?) and I'm a little concerned that there might be some unabomber stuff going on there.
But. Yeah. I look them up. On occasion. And, on occasion, one of them will look me up and send me an e-mail. They heard about the book, saw my name somewhere, or did a Google of their own. I publish under my maiden name, and that's how those guys knew me, so I'm a pretty easy find. And I've been married long enough that any ex I have is pretty much a vague memory, and vice versa.
And yet... for the unabombers I haven't been able to locate... the morbid curiosity rears it's head every so often. It's not that I want them back in my life, old times are old times, but I just wanna know they're well. Successful. Married. Happy. Mostly just happy. And, truthfully, it's the same with old friends, men and women alike. It's just nice to know they're doing well, even if our particular ships have passed so far away from each other that we'll never be really connected again.
But it's the exes that make Fish start in with the sexual prowess jokes. I guarantee, as you read this, he's using the word "girth." But that's okay. I caught the Fish I want; I'm just glad to know the rest are out there, still in the sea, swimming happily in their own directions.
Wow. That might just be my most sincere Literary Chicks post ever. Kinda freaky, huh?
This blog was brought to you by Ex and The Single Girl, Lani's newest release about a family that won't mind their own business, exes that won't go away, and the true love that gets caught in-between.
Posted by Lani at 6:32 AM | Comments (7)
November 11, 2005
Birthdays
From Alesia, older than dirt
So my birthday was Wednesday, which always brings on the kind of contemplative navel-gazing that I generally try to avoid at all cost (well, since the short-lived belly-button piercing experiment – I got pregnant shortly afterward and the idea of huge belly + ring ='d grossed-out Alesia, so that was the end of THAT; but of course that’s an entirely different kind of navel gazing . . .).
I came to a few very ordinary and common-sensical conclusions:
1. Life is too short for drama. Every time I get caught up in short-term stress, I usually wonder afterward what the HECK all the excitement was even about. New plan: if it doesn’t affect world peace or my family, I’m going for the Zen approach.
2. I need Patience. I’ve spent most of my life tapping my foot, wondering why things aren’t moving more quickly. Hey! Guess what? I wasted a lot of time that I could have been enjoying what WAS happening while I was worrying about what was coming up next.
3. Chocolate cake should be eaten far, FAR more often than once a year.
Navy Guy flew in for the weekend, before he has to leave for the third week of school, so I’m going to go spend some time with him and get away from the computer! And, you know, eat cake.
Hugs,
Alesia, older and (hopefully!) wiser
Posted by Alesia at 2:57 PM | Comments (4)
November 9, 2005
Whitney Gaskell Giveaway!
Welcome, Whitney!!! For those of you who haven't been reading Whitney Gaskell, get thee to a bookstore ASAP. I read Pushing 30 last year, instantly fell in love, and sent Whitney what I'm sure was a very professional and reserved fan letter, without an excess of exclamation points. (Whitney's memory of this might vary, and might involve the words "restraining order" but she's mis-remembering.) A few months later, I ran out to get True Love (And Other Lies) the day it came out, and it was another winner. This year, I begged Whitney to let me quote her so I could get a preview of She, Myself and I and I have to say, she's hit another one out of the park. Aside from being a fabulous and funny, funny writer, Whitney is a wife, mother and recovering lawyer. You can check her out at WhitneyGaskell.com, and when you send her that raving fan letter... go easy on the exclamation points. I'm just saying.
As part of her Literary Chick Guest Agreement, a long legal document including phrases like "party of the first part" and "whereforehitherto," Whitney has agreed to give away three signed copies of She, Myself & I! And, now, for the contest details...
How To Enter: Send an email to giveaway@literarychicks.com with "Whitney Gaskell Giveaway" as the subject line. Make sure it's a reliable e-mail, because this is how we're going to contact you if you win.*
One entry per person. In legal terms, that means, one entry per person. I love having all these reformed lawyers around. They make me seem so much more professional.**
Relatives of any Literary Chick, guest or otherwise, are not eligible. The legal reason for this is that someone might accuse my random method of not being random enough. To which I say, "Duel at ten paces!"***
If you're under 18, get a parent's permission. We here at Literary Chicks firmly believe that young'uns oughta be getting their education in bad language, sexual positions, alcoholic binges, cigarette smoking and all other forms of unseemly behavior on the school bus, the way God intended.****
All entries received between today and Saturday, November 26th at midnight the sender's time will be eligible. Once again, for those in the back, that means that if it's 12:01 your time, it's too late. So sorry. A strong belt of whiskey usually helps.*****
Winners will be chosen at random. Each entry will be given its own line in an Excel spreadsheet. Then I will call Fish in and force him to randomly choose three numbers between 1 and however many entries we've received. He will ask me who's where, because he knows some of you and wants you guys to receive preference, and I will refuse. He will try to cajole me, and I will refuse. He will try to peek over my shoulder, and I will poke him in the eye. On the way to the emergency room, he will concede, and pick three random numbers. When we return, I will handle the rest.
That's pretty much how it goes every month.******
Winners will be announced On Monday, November 28th. This will also, coincidentally, be Whitney's goodbye blog. Be sure to come by and tell her how much you've enjoyed her!*******
*My lawyers have informed me that although the language is a tad casual, this is a functional, legal statement. Yay me! I've never even had any training.
**I have been informed that this is not necessarily the case.
***I have been informed that duels are illegal, and as such, should not be condoned in legal documentation, as any number of lawsuits could result. So right here I am saying that the party of the first part? Was kidding.
****My lawyers have just opened a bottle of single-malt whiskey.
*****My lawyers have informed me that even though they are at this very moment drinking whiskey, it's not something I should encourage among the general population. This seems a tad hypocritical to me, but... whatever.
******Are you happy now, guys? Jeez.
*******And you will. Just you wait, Henry Higgins...
Posted by Lani at 6:45 AM | Comments (0)
Ex and The Single Girl Giveaway!
Ex and The Single Girl: Get Your Signed Copy Here!
Hey, Lovely Readers! I'm just hopping in here quickly to let you know how you can win your own signed copy of the book Entertainment Weekly called "sweetly engaging." It's very simple - just sign up for my newsletter! On November 14th, I'll be choosing 10 newsletter subscribers to win a signed copy of their very own. Plus, you'll be in the know whenever I've got anything new on the burner. Sounds like a win/win to me!
Posted by Lani at 6:36 AM | Comments (2)
November 7, 2005
The Naked Truth About Going Barefoot
From Whitney Gaskell, November's Guest Literary Chick!
Hi everyone! I’m thrilled to be guest blogging here at Literary Chicks this month. To celebrate, I’ll be giving away three -- count ‘em, THREE -- signed copies of my new book, She, Myself & I. Lani will post the details later in the week.
And now I’d like to turn your attention to a subject near and dear to my heart: shoes.
There are two kinds of women out there: those who are comfortable wearing high heels and those who are not.
I am not.
Like most women, I adore shoes. I covet them. I read magazine articles entitled 50 Pairs of Shoes You Must Own Buy This Fall! and drool over them in stores, even as I marvel that anyone could spend $600 on a pair of sandals made out of a few scraps of gold leather.
I have a closet full of high heels that I’ve bought for various occasions. There are the shimmery oyster sandals I was married in. The sensible Nine West pumps I wore to job interviews. The black satin evening slippers with the kitten heel and beading over the toe that I bought for a cocktail party my husband’s boss was throwing. And then there are the dozen or so pairs that I’ve picked up over the years, at TJ Maxx or on the clearance rack at Macy’s, that I just had to have, because it let me pretend that I was the sort of woman -- like Carrie Bradshaw -- who actually wears high heels all the time.
When, in truth, I don’t.
It’s not that I can’t walk in heels. I can, at least for short periods of time. But -- and here’s the real key -- they’re really freaking uncomfortable. And while some women are willing to put up with that discomfort, I am not. I have the sort of job where my commute is just across the living room, and I can work in my bare feet. So where am I supposed to wear a pair of four-inch stilettos? To the playground? To the grocery store? To story hour? Please.
When I was pregnant with my son, my feet were so swollen and sore, my mother dragged me to the Birkenstock store. Once there, she forced me to take off my pretty tan leather sandals with a brown wedge heel and try on a pair of what I’ve always sneeringly called, “birth control shoes.”
“I’m not buying a them,” I told her. “There’s no way. I may be swollen and miserable, but I have my pride.”
And then I tried a pair of the fugly things on. It was like a standing on a cloud. No, even better: it was like wearing shoe-shaped clouds. My sore feet sighed with happiness, and twenty-minutes later, the sales clerk was ringing me up. (To this day, my mother claims that I cried as I handed over my credit card; this is a lie.)
In the latest issue of Shop, Etc. magazine, Angie Harmon is quoted as saying, “We’re remodeling our house in L.A. right now, and there’s no place for shoes. So I put them on the ladder that goes up to the attic. I stood back and every pair was Manolo Blahnik, and I thought to myself, ‘Does this mean I’m successful’?”
Um. I don’t know . . . does it? Is this how we now define success? And I know Manolos are pretty and all, but every single pair? What does she wear to the grocery store?
This blog was brought to you by THE NAKED TRUTH, a fiction anthology for which Alesia contributed the story "The Naked Truth about Guys."
Posted by Whitney at 8:02 AM | Comments (2)
November 5, 2005
The Naked Truth about Excessive Modesty
From Lani, blushing already and she hasn't even started writing yet...
It's funny, because when we decided to do a theme week on Naked Truth, I didn't really think much about it. Now that I'm here to write the essay, I realize, I don't have a naked story. With the exception of one incident from my toddlerhood which I don't recall, I've never been naked in public. I've never had a costume malfunction. I've just... never. I could blame it on society's imposing impossible to attain body images, blah blah blah, and that's all true enough, but even if I had an ass as smooth and gravity-defying as a nine-inch helium balloon, I think I'd still be the same way.
It's in the genes. What can I say?
My grandfather was a Baptist preacher. My father was a Quaker minister. My mother has always been excessively appropriate. She's never rude, she never swears, she only has the occasional drink, she's never had a cigarette and she's always the picture of modesty. It seems that while I'm rude, crude, foul-mouthed, and typically tipsy, the only thing that makes my mother think that perhaps there wasn't a switch at the hospital is that I'm very, very modest. As a matter of fact, it wasn't until this year that I was able to wear spaghetti-strap tops. Even so, I only wear them at home, because the other thing I inherited from my mother's side of the family are the Gehman knockers which are, to be modest, prodigious.
So, anyway, all this to say... I don't have a naked story. No streaking through campus. No immodest sexual escapades. The closest thing I've got is the time I had a C-section in a university hospital, in which roughly fourteen interns watched as my OBGYN wrenched Sweetness from my naked, beached whale loins. But since most women are naked to some degree while giving birth - it's a bitch to shoot life out the chute while keeping one's Hanes Her Ways pristine - it doesn't seem as though I really have much to offer.
Except that I'm really excited about Alesia's new book!
I'm a cheater. I know. I know.
This loosely themed blog was brought to you by THE NAKED TRUTH, a fiction anthology for which Alesia contributed the story "The Naked Truth about Guys."
Posted by Lani at 6:06 AM | Comments (2)
November 4, 2005
The Naked Truth about Motherhood
From Alesia, laughing again
Here it is, Friday night, and my hot, glamourous evening consisted of popcorn, Halloween candy, and a showing of Chicken Little in a theater filled with what seemed like KAJILLIONS of very loud children.
Mine were among the loudest.
At least Princess, who is very dramatic and likes to shriek and pretend to cover her eyes at the scary parts, for example when the cartoon pig falls down.
He fell down a LOT.
My eardrums may in fact be BLEEDING.
So we’re having cultural dissonance this week, because my children don’t even know the basic cornerstones of deep philosophical truths such as the danger of only bringing one shirt on a Three-Hour Tour. Or who really is Creepy and Kooky.
On the other hand, I have zero appreciation for the fact that my son could probably stare into the screen of a Gameboy for days on end, without food or water, if we – the horribly mean parents – would only let him.
Sigh. But at least today they were properly penitent about not being more excited on Release Day. Princess said, “I only have one question, Mommy. Why is the truth naked?”
Hmmm. Out of the mouths of babes . . .
Happy weekending!!
Alesia
This blog was brought to you by THE NAKED TRUTH, a fiction
anthology for which Alesia contributed the story "The Naked Truth about
Guys."
Posted by Alesia at 7:23 PM | Comments (1)
November 3, 2005
The Naked Truth About Michelle
From Michelle, Blushing in Rotterdam...
One of the great things about being Alesia's friend and co-Literary Chick is (apart from the fact that I get to hang with her) I get to read her fabulous books before they're published, mwahahahaha.
And thinking of Alesia's wonderfully whacky fun in The Naked Truth (it's hilarious, I promise) made me think about the time I, um, kind of got partially naked by accident.
But how could you get partially naked by accident, Michelle, I hear you all cry? Well...
Picture this...
In the old days, when I worked in a fabulous little pub in west London, I got roped in to be part of the Christmas pantomime, and the pantomime was a fun, silly, musical version of Camelot.
So, I'm Guinevere. But because this is a fun, silly, musical Camelot and not a dramatic, dark Camelot, I am wearing a slinky, long, strapless dress. I am also singing and emoting (actually, I am miming and emoting) and the whole pub is focussed totally on me. Really, they can't take their eyes off me, and I'm thinking that just for this one moment I know what Madonna feels like.
Then all of a sudden Merlin (also known as Oh Patient One, who was also in the pantomime) whispers in my ear... And after I stopped blushing like a tomato and braved the bar after the show (with Oh Patient One to prop me up) quite a few of the regulars bought me a drink. But the boob jokes kept coming for months. Months, I tell you. Ah, those were the days... Michelle, telling The Naked Truth!
Posted by Michelle at 11:10 AM
| Comments (4)
...Michelle, the zip on your dress has come undone and one of your boobs is hanging out.
November 1, 2005
TIME TO GET NAKED!!!!
From Alesia, celebrating Release Day!
The Naked Truth, What do "being Pygmalioned" and evil fortune cookies of death have in common?
Today is that happiest of writer days, Book Release Day. This is the day that you get to relax, stop working, and drag your protesting children to the bookstore to Oooh and Ahhh over your newest release on the shelves. With your name on it. Naturally, having carried your little darlings for TEN MONTHS in your womb, they will be properly appreciative:
[AT HOME]
Me: It’s Release Day.
Them: Not again! Didn’t we just do this?
Me: That was in July. Don’t you want to see Mommy’s book?
Them: Emily’s Mom bakes cookies. Why don’t you bake cookies?
Me: I’ll BUY you a cookie at the bookstore.
[AT BOOKSTORE]
Them: Okay, we saw it. Can we go to the kids’ section now?
Me: You didn’t say Ooooh and Ahhhh.
Them: Oooh, Ahh. Can we go to the kids’ section now?
With adulation like this, is it any wonder writers are neurotic?
So, to celebrate the release of my fun chick lit anthology, THE NAKED TRUTH, with my story, THE NAKED TRUTH ABOUT GUYS, here is one of protagonist C.J. Murphy’s columns:
The Naked Truth About Guys, by columnist C.J. Murphy
Sports as Religion
A Guy may not be able to remember your birthday or your mother’s name, even after you’ve been dating for six or seven years* [*see: Guys as Commitmentphobes], but he remembers every stat of every player currently active in the NFL, NBA, and the European soccer league.
Plus all the stats for players who retired twenty years ago, and even those for players who are, in fact, dead.
This is nothing personal, it’s just how the Guy brain works. In every official medical pie chart of Guy Brains, as designed by actual brain doctors, you will see a breakdown like this:
25% Completely useless trivia, like the fact that Popeye said “Open, Sez Me” instead of “Open Sesame” in a cartoon he once watched twenty years ago;
18% Job-related stuff, like which VP at his office has the best handicap and should be schmoozed up before the annual company golf scramble.
53% Arcane sports stats, like how many times his favorite pitcher scratches his crotch before throwing a curve ball; and, finally:
4% Relationship issues. But, before you get excited, this includes every relationship he’s ever had, including the biggies, like with his dog Sparky back in sixth grade. Therefore, the actual percentage of a Guy brain that is focused on you and your relationship at any given time is approximately .0001.
Until next time, remember: Guys! At least they’re good for the sports questions in Trivial Pursuit.
***********
And also remember, it's Book Release Day!! So, you know, please buy the book! Ooohing and aaahhhing challenged nature aside, I still have to feed the little darlings . . .
Plus, it's a 4 for 1!! With exciting stories by Donna Kauffman, Beverly Brandt, and Erin McCarthy! So have fun and get naked!
In honor of Book Release Day, this week I'll be giving away 5 copies of my holiday anthology, SHOP 'TIL YULE DROP, to five randomly-chosen people who e-mail me at alesia@alesiaholliday.com with BOOK RELEASE DAY in the subject line. Good luck!!
hugs,
Alesia, who still oohs and ahhhs, even on her 9th (counting collections) book. I LOVE this job!!!
Posted by Alesia at 10:48 AM | Comments (1)
