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July 31, 2006
August Guest and Giveaway!!!
Well, hellllooooooo all, Lani here. I am, at this moment, neither hungover nor jet-lagged so I say Atlanta was a great success! I still haven't come down from the high of watching our lovely Alesia snag that Rita, but I just had to step in today to announce our August guest and giveaway because it's sofreakingcoolyouwon'tbelieveit!!!
And our guest for the month is the lovely, the talented, the Queen of Oh-my-god-if-you-haven't-read-her-books-go-get-them-NOW-land...
Joshilyn and I go back aways. We first met through a fabulous group called Momwriters, and since we were both new authors for Warner, we bonded over the whole "What is this all about?" gestalt of being a new writer.
Joshilyn since, of course, has gone on to major bestsellerdom and is a critical darling. Her first book, gods in Alabama, is one of my favorite books to this day and I'm so looking forward to getting into her newest release, Between, Georgia which promises to be almost as good - or maybe even better. Although I can't imagine that, if anyone can top Joshilyn, it would have to be Joshilyn!
All right, you say? Enough gushing? Get to the giveaway? Well, fine, here we go...
Joss is graciously giving us two signed hardcovers of Between and two signed copies of the brand-spanking-new paperback version of gods, so be sure to get your e-mails in with "Joshilyn's a God(dess)" in the subject and your name and mailing address (any entries without them will be instantly disqualified) in the body by August 21st, because Joss herself will be announcing the winner in her farewell blog on the 22nd!
Okay, Chicklets - start commenting and help me welcome Joshilyn to the blog!
Posted by Lani at 12:19 PM | Comments (15)
AND HERE IT IS!!!!
I still can't believe it!!!! Thank you so much for all the congratulations and LC love!! I am just so unbelievably honored and it is such a privilege.
Here I am with my brilliant editor and my amazing agent.
Posted by Alesia at 8:54 AM | Comments (7)
July 29, 2006
Hear ye, hear ye!!!
Our very own Alesia has just WON the RITA for best novella!!!
!!!
Can you tell we are excited!!!
This is a huge accomplishment and we are so proud.
Champagne and truffles for everyone!
Posted by Beth at 10:46 PM | Comments (13)
More pics!!
From the party last night! Go here and see how much fun we had!
Posted by Alesia at 1:00 PM | Comments (3)
July 28, 2006
More pics and booksignings and RITA receptions, oh my
Here's the crazy Coke museum
And the Lovely Eileen
The horny flatulent polar bear
and the lovely Cindy Holby having a Vanna moment:
Lani and I just attended the RITA finalists reception and had a lovely champagne and chocolate strawberry moment!
Posted by Alesia at 3:43 PM | Comments (1)
How is it FRIDAY already???
18 glasses of wine . . . !
It's just never a good idea to drink 18 glasses of wine. Life lesson for the day. Off to get large coffee soon.
Yesterday was terrific good fun - involved the worst conference chicken in the history of the world (we were at the back and I think we got the dregs!), tuna fish sandwiches, the Coke museum - yes, there is a giant horny, flatulent polar bear you can sit on - who knew? Then the PASIC reception where we could announce the finalists for the Book of Your Heart contest (yaa!!!) and then the National Reader's Choice Awards where we cheered for our friend Marianne Mancusi among many others. Then, somehow, it all went downhill (or upstairs) and there were many hours in the bar with some rocking great Cherries (hi Margie and Holly!) and a dozen or so other people wandering in and out.
Off to learn about the life cycle of a book from Sue Grimshaw at the Border Group - pictures to follow, promise!!
Posted by Alesia at 7:24 AM | Comments (1)
Atlanta Day... who knows?
You know you're having a good time when you don't know what time it is.
Hello, Chicklets! I'm blogging live from Atlanta Day Whatever, and I have to say, it's been wonderful! Although I have yet to catch anyone having sex on the roof next door, I have been having an absolutely fabulous time hanging out with the RWA crowd here in sunny, lovely Georgia! Today promises to be a busy day, and I really have to run, but I wanted to share some pics real quick.
Me and Michelle at the Cherry party... cute, huh?
(And, yes, for those of you who are wondering... I am drunk. I mean, not now, but when the picture was taken... the answer is yes. Or perhaps, more accurately, yesh.)
Me and one of my very good friends, the lovely Jill Purinton. She's a biker babe, a classy lady and a fun chick. I only see her at National and, as you can probably tell, I just can't hug her enough.
Before I started my first ever national workshop (it went great by the way, and at that time, I wasn't drunk - which probably helped.) I started the show by taking a picture. If they look surprised, it's probably because most workshop presenters don't do that. Because most workshop presenters aren't crazy. These guys, however, hit the crazy jackpot with me yesterday, and they were the best workshop audience ever. I love them all!
Okay. Gotta run. Shower calls...
Posted by Lani at 6:42 AM | Comments (2)
July 27, 2006
Getting Connected
It's good to talk!
And we have certainly done a lot of talking since we arrived here at RWA!
And for the first time ever at a conference, I am connecting in other ways, too...
Remember the problems Oh Patient One and I had getting an international cell phone?
Well, although I have borrowed Teenager No #1's American cell phone for the duration of my trip over here (it's blue, it's cute, and the ring tone is all tinkly and nice) I have also brought along the new, improved international cell phone. Just to, you know, test it to see if it would really allow me to call home from America, or if the assistant in the cell phone store had lied shamelessly to me. I decided to call Oh Patient One. I had an audience...
Me: "I'm just going to see if this phone actually works from here."
Lani and Eileen (who know from past experience how Things Happen to electronic devices when I have anything to do with them): "Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha."
Me: "No, really, it should work from here."
Lani and Eileen: (lolling on the bed): "Hahahahahahahahahahahah."
So I called Oh Patient One, and he picked up, and it WORKED!!!!
Lani and Eileen: "We can't believe your international cell phone actually WORKED!!!"
Neither could I. But I am happy to report that RWA is fun, fun, fun, and I am having such a blast with the Literary Chicks (Whitney, we miss you). And I can call anyone. Anywhere. In the World. Talk about connected!
Michelle (on Lani's laptop)
Posted by Michelle at 2:18 PM | Comments (0)
All by myself . . .
Don’t want to be all by myself . . . any more.
So you may have noticed that one of the Literary Chicks has not been abuzz with news of Nationals and the happenings in Atlanta and getting massages and drinking beaucoup glasses of wine with a bunch of hip writer chicks.
That’s right – me. I didn’t get to go, and I’m bitter, so I’m throwing myself a pity party.
Instead of partying with the rest of my L.C. friends, I’m baking here in the 100 degree Florida heat, trying to find things to eat that don’t involve turning the oven on and wondering how many episodes of Thomas the Train Sam can watch in one day before I officially slide into Bad Mommy territory.
I considered taking Sam to the zoo today, but it’s already too freaking hot to be outside. And then I thought about the beach, but schlepping my way on with toddler and gear in hand just takes too much energy. There’s always gymnastics class, but . . . no. Just no.
So now I’m thinking about just taking Sam to the mall, so I can buy sheets and Sam can ride the mini train. Which may be just about as much excitement as we two can take today.
So, tell me, my fellow lit chicks . . . is it this hot in Atlanta? Sigh. No, never mind, don’t tell me. You’re just going to say that you haven’t even noticed the heat, what with the iced daiquiris by the pool and all, and besides, you don’t have time to chat anyway, what with having to rush off to don your sequin dresses and tiaras for tonight’s do. And then I’ll be forced to pity eat my way through an enormous king sized chocolate bar.
So take lots of pictures, and drink lots of wine, and win lots of awards to cover us all in glory! I want to hear all about it when you get back.
Posted by Whitney at 8:12 AM | Comments (7)
July 26, 2006
The booksigning
And wow it was CRAZY!!! The plan was to get around and take pics of all the LC signing books, but it was a total madhouse! But I DID get pics of Barb/Caridad's VERY FIRST BOOKSIGNING EVER!!!!!!
And I had a very funny dinner with my brilliant and talented agent at Benihana's, where a Japanese mime flipped shrimp tails into his hat for our entertainment. Then I saw my amazing and fabulous editor, who said she has ART FOR ATLANTIS RISING!!! In her actual room!!! I can't wait to see it!!
And - of course - THE CHERRY PARTY!!!!! It was so fabulous to put names to faces - and Lani had her camera so pics to follow. Soon!!
Posted by Alesia at 10:06 PM | Comments (2)
Atlanta - Day one of RWA - also ish
We're having fun now!!!
This is the view outside of our room, all modern art-ish:
I just returned from having a lovely massage to combat the neck and shoulder and back knots from the first four days. We all had a fab evening, as Lani said, and today is going to be the crazy RWA literacy signing. I'll be sure to get pics of all the LC and post them! (We miss you, Lani!)
Posted by Alesia at 11:02 AM | Comments (5)
Atlanta: Day One. Ish.
I try to keep track. I fail.
Okay. So technically it's Day Two of RWA '06. But because so much of yesterday was travel - although a fair amount was Alesia, Michelle, Eileen, Barb (Caridad Ferrer) and me drinking and chatting and being obnoxious - it doesn't feel like we've completed a full day yet. So this morning, it's still day one.
Ish.
Anyway, after the debauchery in the bar, Eileen, Michelle and I came back to our room, where Eileen and I giggled well into the night like a couple of pre-teens while poor Michelle tried to get some sleep after traveling for 24 hours, poor thing.
This morning, I woke up to this:
Is pretty, no? I mean, kinda hazy, but maybe that's a Georgia thing. You know, fuzzy peach, fuzzy skyline. It's a whole gestalt.
Oh, and I just noticed. The gestalt is really kinda phallic. Wowza.
Moving on. Also, from the window, is this view:
I'll let you know if I see any people going up there to have sex.
Posted by Lani at 6:58 AM | Comments (6)
July 24, 2006
What are we, twelve?
So I was just in the salon, getting my pedicure all spiffed up for conference, when who should call but my good friend (and bad influence) Kresley Cole. She was getting a pedi, too (psychic link in full effect!) and we decided to get our toes done the same shad of red: "SoHo Nice to Meet You." Now we will be pedi twins in Atlanta.
I know--we are SoHo dorky.
Posted by Beth at 4:19 PM | Comments (4)
July 23, 2006
Can you say Hotlanta??
yippee!!!
I'm here and it's hot and humid and FANTASTIC!! Can't wait for the rest of the LC to arrive but for now I'm having an amazing time at Suz Brockmann's wild and crazy reader weekend!! I laughed so hard I nearly cried this morning - then I told a couple of stories that really did make me cry!! For some pics (because I can't figure out how to load pics right now) go here!
Tonight is the camouflage-and-sequins party, so you can just IMAGINE the pics I'm going to have to share after that!!
Posted by Alesia at 3:18 PM | Comments (1)
Let the games begin!
Gosh, that would have sounded so much better if I could afford a bullhorn...
All right, Chicklets and Chicklads, it's official. Although most of us won't be arriving in Atlanta until Tuesday, the week of free-for-all blogging from Atlanta begins. We'll all hop on whenever we can score a computer with internet access and give you updates from the party zone. So be prepared; things are going to get interesting! Right around Tuesday. Because between now and then, it's all about finding a way to fit fourteen pairs of shoes into one tiny suitcase.
But don't worry about us. We're professionals.
Anyway, to keep things interesting, I'm going to select the winner of a signed copy of Alesia's Seven Ways to Lose Your Lover from all the comments on my "It's Not You" blog. Are you ready? Drum roll, please.
:::crickets::::
Drum roll... please.
:::crickets::::
Oh, hell. No drum roll. No bullhorn. We really need to up the props budget. Okay... I'll do it myself...
:::rat a tat tat tat tat:::::
... and it's Tara, for sharing this story... which had me at "hello":
I got the, "I met someone else" line. Which isn't bad, glad the guy could be honest. But then he proceded to explain that she was more ideal, and how is she more ideal you might ask? Because she quotes lines from movies. What?!? (my response was trying not to let him hear me laughing through the phone) A few weeks later he realized movie quoter wasn't as quite ideal as he thought and wanted to see me again to which i replied "Nobody puts baby in the corner" Oh how I laugh about this there are such foolish men in this difficult dating world.
Love the comeback! Tara, while I'm in Atlanta I'm going to buy a copy of Seven Ways for you, have Alesia sign it, and I'll send it your way! All you have to do is e-mail me with your mailing address, and we're all set!
All right... we're off!
Posted by Lani at 5:42 AM | Comments (1)
July 22, 2006
Winners!
I love this part.
You know, this is one of my favorite things to do. Announce the winners. It makes me feel all tingly inside.
What's that you say, Chicklets? You don't care how it makes me feel? Just get to the announcing, already? Am I understanding you right?
Oh. Okay. Well, fine then. Just click on the link, antsy pants.
Prize: The Whitney Gaskell Prize Pack: Signed copies of She, Myself & I and True Love (And Other LIes).
Winner: Beverly Rampe of Tamarac, Florida!!!!
Congratulations, Beverly!!! Did you know that Buffy is a derivative of Beverly? Are you a fan? If not, you should be.
Sorry. Sometimes I get a little carried away with the Joss-love. Moving on...
Prize: The Alesia Holliday Prize Pack: Signed copies of American Idle, Nice Girls Finish First, Blondes Have More Felons, Shop Till Yule Drop and The Naked Truth.
Winner: Christina Triantafillou of Stoddard, New Hampshire!!!!
Wow. I'm so tempted to break out in, "Go Christina! It's your birthday! We're gonna party like it's your birthday!" but after thinking it over, I decided that would be lame.
(Look, it's six o'clock in the freakin' morning. These are the jokes you get. Deal.)
The Beth Kendrick/Killian Prize Pack: Signed copies of My Favorite Mistake, Fashionably Late, and the first book from her young adult 310 series (writing as Beth Killian), Life As a Poser.
Winner: Zaz La Marr of Sonoma, California!!!!
Yay for Zaz! Wow. "Yay for Zaz" almost sounds Dr. Seuss-ish, doesn't it? I wonder if she's related? Well, If Zaz's pizazz is full of razzmatazz and just a hint of jazz, we'll know for sure.
The Eileen Rendahl Prize Pack: Signed copies of Do Me, Do My Roots, Balancing in High Heels, and Un-Bridaled.
Winner: Jennifer Jacula of Elk Point, Alberta!!!
(Elk Point is in Canada, folks. Where we'll all be moving when Armageddon hits. Which, according to my chart... was yesterday.) Yay, Jennifer!!! Can we stay with you?
The Michelle Cunnah Prize Pack: Signed copies of 32AA, Call Waiting and Confessions of a Serial Dater.
Winner: Jennifer Connor of Morton, Pennsylvania!!!
Wahoo!!! Now, I want you to find a way to seamlessly work in "razzmatazz" into everyday conversation. There's no prize for that, but it'll entertain you while you wait for the package to arrive.
The Lani Diane Rich Prize Pack: Signed copies of Time Off for Good Behavior, Ex and the Single Girl, Maybe Baby and The Comeback Kiss.
Winner: Kristie Cholewa of Warren, Michigan!
Yay, Kristie!! You can dance if you want to. You can leave your friends behind. 'Cuz your friends don't dance and if they don't dance, well... they're no friends of mine.
Okay! Congratulations winners!!!! It was so much fun, and thanks to everyone who wrote in supporting my usage of the word "ginormous." Also, thanks to everyone who gushed endlessly about how great we are in your entries. It doesn't help your chances - the selection of winners is totally random and supervised by accountants from the firm of Crowley, Haagen Dazs, and Cheeto. (Sorry. That's obviously a joke. I got all those names from my kitchen. By the way, how cool is the spelling of Haagen Dazs? Very cool.) But, yeah, it is totally random. The gushing, however, is still deeply appreciated. Keep it up. We're writers. We are shamelessly insecure and dependent on others for our self-worth. It ain't pretty, but it's the truth.
And don't forget to check back tomorrow to find out who the winner is of the mini-contest I'm holding on the side. There's still time to enter that one. Gushing is allowed there, too.
Gushing is always allowed. :)
Posted by Lani at 5:35 AM | Comments (5)
July 20, 2006
Twenty-ten
I'll have a big slice o' cake with a side of fabulosity, please
Life is a journey, blah blah blah. We know. We get it. But I’ve always been kind of a neurotic traveler (my guiding credo in life: “I hate change”) and today, as usual, I’m skulking around the boarding gate, mainlining Dramamine and wondering why I didn’t cough up the extra $50 for refundable tickets.
Yeah, yeah. It’s a (bad) metaphor, you guys. Just humor me.
Here’s the deal: I’m turning thirty this month (or, as we here in the Historic Township of Denial like to call it, “twenty-ten”) and, well, honestly? I just thought I’d be a little more...together at this point in my life. When I was a teenager, I thought thirty = one foot in the grave.
Of course, when I was a teenager, I also thought that shellacked, feathered bangs were the last word in sophistication and that there was a decent chance I would end up marrying Christian Slater.
Christian never called, but despite that (or perhaps because of that), I managed to get through school, weasel my way into the wild world of publishing, and surround myself with the superficial trappings of adulthood: mortgage, insurance, pool maintenance problems (Lani, that one was for you!), etc. So why do I still feel like the whole house of cards is going to come tumbling down at any moment and it’s going to be anarchy, baby, anarchy!!! I was supposed to be wise and accomplished and confident by now! I was supposed to be somebody!
(Update: Mr. Tall just read the part about Christian Slater and would like me to point out that he is WAY taller than Christian, plus his arrest record is much better. Plus, he is better looking. Also, more virile. He just wants you to know.)
Okay. But back to me. I hear from many reliable sources that the thirties rock. I’ll finally come into my own and stop worrying so much about what other people think. I’ll become a little bit more like Dr. Cristina Yang, a little less like Charlotte York. Sounds pretty promising.
Here’s what some of my friends have had to say about the upcoming decade:
“Your thirties rock. You finally get past all the pointless drama from your twenties and really start to appreciate your blessings in life.”
“Totally. You stop suffering fools and realize that no matter how hot a guy is, it’s just not worth it if he’s an emotional train wreck. Although, I gotta tell you, the years of miniskirts and bikinis are over.”
“Don’t listen to her. I wear my bikini all the time and I look hot.”
“Shut up, you’re a damn yoga instructor. Of course you look good in a bikini. But why are we wasting a perfectly good buzz discussing mortality? There’s a Mike’s Hard Lemonade in the fridge with my name on it.”
And things just devolved from there. So I turn to you, my trusty LC posse. Hit me with some sage advice on how to strut into my thirties with sass and panache. If you aren’t in the mood for sage advice, I will also accept delicious chocolate cake recipes. Operators are standing by.
Posted by Beth at 11:56 PM | Comments (11)
Ominous Chicken
Or perhaps just proof that I'm losing my mind.
Whenever I get anxious, I start buying chicken.
Yes, you read that correctly: Whitney anxious = chicken. And not just any chicken, but those bags of frozen chicken breasts.
Why, I don’t know. I’d much rather I had a tendency to buy shoes or bags or pretty, pretty lipsticks to soothe my troubled soul. But I don’t. I buy chicken.
George was the first one who noticed that I did this, back when I was pregnant with Sam. It was an emotionally tough pregnancy, coming right after the late-term loss of our first son. One night George was rummaging through the freezer looking for an ice cream sandwich, and emerged with a confused expression on his face.
“What’s with all the chicken?” he asked.
“What chicken?”
“There are, like, five bags of frozen chicken in here. Expecting trouble? The sort that requires that we be well stocked up on chicken?”
“No. But that’s weird. Because I was just writing up the shopping list, and I put chicken on it,” I said, perplexed.
“Well, I think we’re set on chicken for the time being,” George said, extracting his ice cream sandwich and closing the freezer. “But put ice cream sandwiches on the list. This is the last one.”
“Hand it over.”
“Hey! You didn’t even want one until I mentioned I was getting one!”
“And now I want it. Come on. Give the pregnant lady her ice cream before she gets grouchy,” I said, snapping my fingers at him.
Wise man that he is, he immediately handed it over.
But frozen chicken has now become something of an omen for me. When I start overbuying it, it usually means that something’s bothering me . . . even if I’m not sure what that is. So you can only imagine my concern when I got home from the grocery store on Tuesday, went to put the newly purchased frozen chicken in the freezer . . . and discovered that there were already three bags of chicken chilling there.
“Oh uh,” I said to myself.
Because the thing is, I don’t think I am anxious about anything at the moment. My family is all safe and healthy. George and I are going to London in the fall, so I’ve been mooning about the upcoming trip and trying to decide whether it’s really worth spending 30 pounds per person on High Tea at Brown’s (probably not). Workwise, I’m way ahead of schedule on my fifth book, THE MOMMY WARS, and about to start writing my first YA chick lit novel, GEEK HIGH. All good.
So maybe this time the chicken is a sign of future trouble to come . . . like a plague or pestilence or hurricane or spate of horrible reviews. Maybe I should be extra careful to keep my cell phone charged and the emergency water supply stocked. Then again, maybe I’m reading too much into a couple of bags of frozen chicken . . . I hope so.
Does anyone have a good chicken recipe they’d care to share?
Posted by Whitney at 5:00 AM | Comments (17)
July 19, 2006
Home Alone
Spank my fanny and call me Macauly
I am home alone. I am home alone for the whole week. It's just me and the cats.
I can't even tell you how it happened. The stars aligned. Thing Two got a spot on one of the coveted city-sponsored week-long camping trips. Then Cowboy got an opportunity to scuba dive in the Channel Islands. Then Thing One was invited along on his best friend's family vacation. They're all gone.
Clearly, by Friday afternoon when Things One and Two come shambling back, I will have written 150 pages, cleaned all the closets and lost five pounds.
Of course, it's Wednesday and I've only written twelve pages, cleaned no closets and maybe I lost one pound if I stand just right on the scale with my weight shifted back. I still have three more days. In the meantime, I have accomplished a few things.
I had a bunch of my girlfriends over Monday night to celebrate my solitude by drinking wine and eating desserts. I'm guessing that probably didn't help my weight loss efforts, but all the desserts were low fat. That should count for something, right?
I spoke at our local public library on Tuesday night. Getting ready for the talk probably cut into my writing efforts a little, but I met a bunch of new people and my mother and sister took me out for sushi afterwards which I suppose might not have helped the weight loss thing either.
That's it for scheduled things though. I've got until Friday afternoon with only my own schedule to worry about. To be honest, I'm a little freaked. As irritating as all the interruptions can be, they also structure my day. By Friday, will I be eating dinner at midnight? Playing autoharp at eight in the morning? Vacuuming naked in the middle of the day? By the time everyone comes home, will I have adopted fifteen more cats?
If you could structure your day any way you could, how would you do it?
Posted by Eileen at 11:57 PM | Comments (8)
July 18, 2006
About dentists
Am I just a big baby?
So I went to a new dentist today, which you do a lot when you’re married to a Navy Guy and move across the country every other week. It was a very high-tech, brightly decorated, enormous compound sort of place, with something like 15 or 20 different patient rooms.
Each with its own TV.
Now, this may be a great idea. TV may be a distraction from the nerve-wracking experience of having TOTAL STRANGERS stick their hands and various metal instruments of torture in your mouth. (Since I have personal space issues, and it took me at least two years before I let my husband even hold my hand in public, you might say I have teensy PROBLEMS with this concept.)
But, back to the TV. So my new dentist walks in, and he’s a fairly young guy. Seems nice. He starts to work on my teeth, all gets quiet in the room, and – you know how commercials are always so much louder than the program??
Yeah. A commercial for a FEMININE ITCHING AND BURNING product came on.
Did I mention it was LOUD?
My face, thank you so much to my lovely Irish ancestors, immediately turned a bright shade of fire-engine red. I closed my eyes and pretended not to hear the TV.
TV: And NOW, in a convenient TRAVEL-SIZED container, in CASE YOU EXPERIENCE THAT PAINFUL ITCHING AND BURNING ON THE ROAD
Me:
And did I mention that I’d be much better with the whole dentist thing if they handed you a Valium as you walked in the door?
Finally, finally, the torture was over (the commercial AND the dentist part), and then I had to walk a mile or two to the opposite side of the building for the cleaning and exam part of the day. I sat down, waited a few minutes, tried to relax and prepare for yet another person’s hands in my mouth. The hygienist (who was very nice) arrives, prepares for the Spanish Inquisition, er, my teeth cleaning, and asks if I’d like a different channel on the TV.
Just as I open my soon-to-be-sparklingly-clean mouth to say it doesn’t matter, we both hear it.
TV: For those PERSISTENT YEAST INFECTIONS . . .
AARGHHHH. A girl can’t freaking win. So all I want to know is this: when I next go to the OB-GYN, am I going to be bombarded with commercials for . . . toothpaste and floss??
Hugs,
Alesia, off Saturday to bring her fab new smile to be a guest author at Suzanne Brockmann’s wild reader weekend in Atlanta and then to RWA National - hope to see a lot of you there!!
Posted by Alesia at 3:48 AM | Comments (7)
July 17, 2006
Summertime!
And this year, I am happy to say, we have "real" summer in Rotterdam
People say that the British are obsessed with the weather and talk about it all of the time. Even the British say this. And it's true - it's our national pastime (also handy for those awkward social moments when one cannot think of anything else to chitchat about). So, I thought to myself, Why disappoint gazillions of LC readers?
No, not really, LOL. See earlier comment regarding awkward social moments...
So here are a few random comments about summertime.
When I say that we have "real" weather in Rotterdam, I mean that it is hot. By Wednesday we are expecting 100 degrees. And I know this because Oh Patient One and I usually begin our day by checking the five-day forecast, and then we usually chat about it over breakfast.
It is unusually hot weather for this part of Europe. Years of memories of living in England, and summer equalled lots of rain with bits of sun. Last year in Rotterdam equalled lots of rain with bits of sun, and I do not remember wearing less than three layers of clothing at any one time, apart from a week we spent in the Ardennes. So imagine our excitement this morning. We must have spent at least an hour oohing and aahing about it!
Summertime here means that all of the bars, cafes and restaurants suddenly spring into full bloom on the sidewalks, and give the city an air of cosmopolitan camaraderie. I love that.
One thing I miss about summertime in America: air conditioning. The European answer to air conditioning: doors and windows. Of course, we dare not open our windows. But luckily, when I open my front and back balcony doors, and wedge open every single door in between, it produces a cooling wind-tunnel effect. Unfortunately, the open doors also encourage five million insects to commit suicide against my lightbulbs on a nightly basis (we don't have screen doors over here, either).
Summertime also means high factor sun screen, because apart from the fact that I have pale, freckled skin, I do not want to resemble a prune any time soon. Instead, I cheat and use washoffable leg makeup so that the lily-whiteness of my legs doesn't temporarily blind the entire population. I would use fake tan, but I always seem to end up with orange feet and splotchy legs whichever brand I use. Which leads me to a question, and a possibly fortune-making idea (and any would-be fake tan makers, I give you this idea for free). Why can't fake tans be tinted to the exact color of the fake tan? Then when you apply it, you can see what you are going to get in advance (in my case, orange feet). I mean, doesn't that make sense?
So, what do you love or hate about summertime?
Michelle, off to patronize one of those sidewalk cafes...
Posted by Michelle at 8:41 AM | Comments (10)
July 16, 2006
The Goods Is Odd
Just... trust me.
There was a recent discussion on an online loop (hi, Cherries!) in which someone brought up the fact that I met my husband (hi, Fish!) in Alaska (hi, Alaskans!) This inevitably led to the "Is Alaska a good place to find men?" discussion, because for years, thanks to magazine articles and Oprah (hi, Op-- okay, I'll stop), people have been told that a single girl in want of a husband should strap on her mukluks and head north.
To which I say... no. God, no.
There's a saying about Alaskan men - the odds are good, but the goods are odd. Truer words have not been spoken since "Girls just wanna have fu-un." Seriously. Yes, I met my husband there, but that was different. We were college drifters who just happened to be in Alaska at the same time. And we were in our early twenties. By the time the single Alaskan man gets to the age of 30-plus, well...
The goods is odd, girls.
Now, before I share my single Alaskan men stories, a few disclaimers.
One, please note that I'm completely generalizing, I'm sure there are some single Alaskan men who are worth traveling 5,000 miles into the frozen tundra to snag.
Two, I think it has to be said that me writing about this is very much the pot calling the kettle odd.
Thirdly, I must say, the people who are born and raised in Alaska are much more normal than the people who come in from elsewhere. I think, possibly, this might be because the people who come in from Elsewhere are leaving Elsewhere because they prefer the isolation of a place like Alaska. Which I think might be indicative of... something. I'm not saying what, I'm just saying... something:
The Goods Is Odd #1: He really seemed normal...
When I was the Creative Services Director (i.e., local commercial producer, i.e., welcome to the fifth rung of hell) in Anchorage, I had the opportunity to hire a videographer for my team. I interviewed a handful of people, but there was one guy who just impressed the hell out of me. He had a nice presence, great resume reel, and seemed like the kind of guy who would represent us well when out with clients. So, I hired him. Everything was fine, until about six weeks after I hired him, when our station got bought out by another company, and suddenly his checks were coming from a bank Outside (that's how Alaskans refer to anyplace not in Alaska, hand to God) and the local banks wouldn't cash them for him if he didn't have a checking account with them. He came to my office to complain.
I said, "Well, hey. Why don't you just get a checking account?"
"I don't believe in checking accounts."
Long silence. I blinked a few times, and without trying to give away that I thought it was weird, I said, "You don't believe they exist? Or you don't believe--?"
And... we were off. He started talking, and after about twenty minutes of Big Brother conspiracy talk, and how the banks take all your money and use it to invest and in reality, your money isn't even really there because they're spending it and what if the investments go bad, then you have no money, and don't even get him started on the service charges, service charges for what, exactly? they charge you to take your money and then invest it and then lose it and then you have no money, etcetera, etcetera, I made a few calls and found a way for him to get his checks cashed. Now, I have to say, I really liked this guy as a person and I respected the hell out of his work.
I just wouldn't have married him, is all.
The Goods is Odd #2: Shut up, Chuck.
There was a guy I had to work with when making commercials. He was the head of his own advertising firm, very successful by anyone's yardstick, let alone Anchorage's. He had a huge client, a car dealer, for which he was the public face - aka, the guy who stands in the parking lot in a yellow/orange/money print suit in every kind of weather and shouts "What a deal!!!!" at the camera. One year, we were doing an internal sales promotion where we gave away a luxury cruise to Turkey (this was pre-9/11 days) to our biggest clients. As the promotions girl, it was my job to prepare the brochure and make it all pretty, so I knew what was involved in this cruise - it was tres swank. So this guy - let's call him Chuck because that's his name - comes in for a meeting with his sales rep and me, and the sales rep starts out with this pitch. Chuck picks up the brochure, snarls, tosses it across the table, and says, "I've been thrown out of better places than that." Talk about class.
Chuck was single. Still is, to the best of my knowledge. Quite the catch, huh?
The Goods is Odd #3: Outside of Nome.
This, I think, is my favorite story. My in-laws live in a small town on the Kenai Peninsula, a wonderful, lovely place. They're very involved in the community, and if there's a party going on, usually it's at their house. One night, Fish and I were there visiting with Sweetness, I was about six months along with Light, they were having one of said parties and I met a guy. We'll call him Norm because I can't remember his name.
Anyway, Norm lived in a cabin outside of Nome. And just for clarity, Nome has a population of, like, thirteen, so to live outside of Nome... well, that's one spicy a-meatball. Anyway, at the party where I met Norm for the first and only time, he saw fit to tell me the story of how he came down to Anchorage for a night some years past, went to the Bush Club (use your imagination, it'll serve you well) and managed in one night to knock up a stripper (subtext of conversation: "I've got swimmers!" My text: "Ew!") So, being the stand-up guy he is, Norm brought the stripper to his cabin outside of Nome to have the baby. Predictably, although Norm still seemed a little shocked when he recounted the story for me, she took off and left him.
Or, possibly, she's still somewhere... outside of Nome.
I hate to burst the Alaskan Man bubble, and again I say I'm sure there are some great, normal, available guys kicking around in the Great North. I'm just saying that God forbid I should ever become single again... I'm heading south.
Posted by Lani at 6:04 AM | Comments (6)
July 14, 2006
Unfaithful
I didn’t want to cheat, but he drove me to it!
The relationship between a woman and her hair stylist is sacred but tenuous. Both parties have to trust and communicate. You have to think long-term, you can’t be afraid to commit, and when he says, “Just let me try the auburn lowlights, I promise you’ll love them”…well, sometimes you just have to put your hand in his and take a flying leap of faith.
Sometimes, you have to forgive. And try to forget. Although forgetting is difficult when co-workers are squinting at your bangs, coughing spasmodically, and going, “Wow. You certainly made some brave choices.”
But there comes a point when enough is enough. “Supportive” does not mean “doormat”, “adventurous” does not mean “fuschia PePe LePew streaks”, and if he thinks you were put on this earth for him to experiment with new straight razor techniques, he’s got another think coming. You’re bleached as hell and you’re not going to take it anymore!
I hit that point last month. I believed in my new stylist—I did my part to make this work, damnit—but he abused that trust with his latest cut. I do not throw the term “mullet” around lightly, but what he calls layers, I call a little too reminiscent of Billy Ray Cyrus. Every relationship has deal breakers, and mullets are mine. I stormed out and I’m never calling him again.
So I’m on my own again. Bereft, bitter, and in desperate need of damage control before the RWA conference in two weeks. I have a hot lead on a new guy, though, from a makeup artist I know. She says he’s a visionary. She promises he’ll understand me like no one else. And his skill with blonde highlights is enough to make any girl swoon.
I’ve heard it all before, but I guess I’ll give it a try. Maybe he’s The One, right? Someday my prince will come…bearing golden scissors and the perfect botanical conditioner. And we’ll live happily ever after.
Okay, you guys, tell me I’m not to only one to have a good stylist go bad. Please. Even if you’re lying.
Posted by Beth at 12:42 AM | Comments (5)
July 13, 2006
Hell Has A Ball Pit In It
And other adventures in the Terrible Twos.
I found a new way to torture myself on Thursdays. The message finally sunk in – music class was not working – so I very wisely didn’t sign Sam up for the summer semester.
Instead, I got the bright idea to try out a toddler gymnastics class.
This will be perfect, I thought. He’ll run around and tire himself out, and best of all . . . NO MORE CIRCLE TIME!
And then we had our first gymnastics class . . . and the very first thing the teacher did was have us all sit in a circle, and start singing songs.
Shit.
And not only is there the dreaded circle time, but the gymnastics class takes place in an enormous gymnasium, where there are at least four other classes of older kids (doing vastly more interesting things than whatever the toddler teacher is doing), and . . . wait for it . . . an enormous ball pit right in the middle of the gym.
That’s right. A fucking ball pit. Do you know what a ball pit is? It’s, like, the coolest thing ever. Imagine a giant pit, completely filled with balls. (Only in this case, it's foam squares, but whatever. You get the idea.) And then imagine little tykes taking a running jump into the ball pit. Big fun, right? Sam would agree with you. In fact, if Sam were so moved to express his feelings on the matter, he might say:
“There is nothing – NOTHING – in the world I want more than to jump in the ball pit.”
Yeah, except for one problem . . . the toddlers aren’t allowed in the ball pit. The toddler class is expected to stay in its corner of the gym, sitting in a circle and singing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Freaking Star” . . . and then later, walk along the ground-level balance beam.
And all along, there’s a ball pit just over there.
So, I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this. If Sam isn’t going to sit in a circle in a small room with no other distractions during music class, he sure as hell isn’t going to sit quietly when there are ball pits to be jumped in. Or high balance beams to walk on. Or tons of other fun things to climb on.
So I spent the entire hour of our first gymnastics class last week chasing Sam down all over the gym, and dragging him back to the baby circle time. Sam was good humored about this for awhile, but then as it started to dawn on him that he wasn’t ever going to be allowed near the ball pit, unless he did so on his own steam, he started to get indignant. And sneaky. Every time I turned around, he was sidling over to one of the bigger kids’ classes, and lining up with them. And I had to keep racing after him. When we finally left, he was in tears, I was muttering under my breath, and my hair had reached new levels in frizz.
In a word: exhausting. And now I have to go do it all over again in less than an hour.
Wish me luck . . .
Posted by Whitney at 8:21 AM | Comments (8)
July 12, 2006
I am so not a morning person
So why am I getting up at five-freaking-thirty?
Okay. This blog is going to be a total letdown after yesterday. The Hot Topic thing was too much fun. Let's all take a second to applaud Alesia for having such a great idea and putting it together. Yay!! Alesia!!!
Now, on to the whining.
I am not a morning person. I am not up with the sun, all happy to start my day. I love to sleep. I particularly love to doze as a light breeze wafts through the windows and I'm all snuggly and sleepy and Cowboy is all cuddly and warm next to me.
So why have I been rolling out of bed at five thirty, slugging down a cup of coffee and jumping on to a hard bike seat or strapping on my running shoes? I lay the blame at the feet of my exercise buddies, Spring and Carol. "Come on," they said. "It'll be great. It won't be hot yet and we'll be all done with our exercise before our kids even get up."
They're right, too. Even on the days when it tops one hundred degrees here in the Central Valley, at six o'clock in the morning it's still pretty pleasant. Even on the days that we bike close to thirty miles, we're home before Things One and Two have rolled out of bed and turned on Sports Center. It's great to have the day stretching out in front of me and know that a big agenda item (exercise) has already been crossed off.
I still don't like it though. Plus, it's taking an inordinate amount of espresso to keep me going through the day.
People say that eventually your internal clock resets and you become a morning person. It's been a couple week and I don't see any sign of it happening. I asked Sissy Two who started having to get to work at an ungodly hour when she became a surgical tech how long that took. She said, "The first year is really rough."
The first year? I was sort of hoping for a few weeks or a month even. So what about all of you? Are you a morning person or a night person? Have you ever tried to switch which one you were? How long did it take?
Posted by Eileen at 10:09 AM | Comments (11)
July 11, 2006
HOT TOPICS!!!
Dish with the LC
We’re starting something a little different here at the LC today that we'll do every so often – our own version of dish on the interesting, maybe controversial, sometimes maddening things going on in the world today. For example, the EMMY NOMINATIONS (What? did you think we were going to discuss debt forgiveness in third world countries? Um, maybe next week . . . )
Anyway, we had quite the heated chat about the Emmy nods and we’d love, love, LOVE to have your input – so please chime in!!
HOT TOPICS: THE EMMY NOMINATIONS
Alesia (A): Betcha Ellen Pompeo is seriously pissed. Two years in a row, Sandra Oh gets the nom and she doesn't. It's not Yang's Anatomy. :) I have to agree with the noms, though - Sandra Oh is incredible in that role.
Lani (L): Oh. My. God.
First of all, y’all know I’m a big TV geek, so I take these things rather... well... personally. Basically, all that to say, expect a little spittle.
Just a little.
So. This year. FINALLY, they were changing the way the Academy votes (through panels rather than ballots) so that previously overlooked worthies could finally get the recognition they deserve. Unfortunately, it turned out that previously overlooked people who should have stayed overlooked are now suddenly... looked. I mean, Kevin James of King of Queens is getting a nomination??? Is this the year of the Bizarro Emmy? This is serious WTF territory. Not to mention that LOST - which got a gazillion noms last year and won most of them, deservedly so – wasn’t even on the best drama roster? How, how, how, how is that possible? It’s quite possibly the best-written show on television and how, how, how, how?
Let’s not even talk about . . .
Battlestar Gallactica, right up there with LOST in the quality of writing, and... crickets. I mean, the whole reason why they futzed with the system is because of shows like Battlestar Gallactica which the critics love – deservedly so – and which never get the time of day. Did anyone even see James Callis as Gaius Baltar? Did they accidentally use that DVD as a coaster for the massive quantities of cocktails they must have been swilling during the vote? Because that is the only explanation for how, how, how, how Battlestar and Callis got overlooked.
And while TWO AND A HALF MEN – Two and a Half Men, for chrissakes – gets nominations, where the hell is Veronica Mars? Gilmore girls had a crap season, so I can understand the snub this year (although in previous seasons, it should have gotten noticed) but Lauren Graham deserved a nod over Stockard freaking Channing. Not that I don’t love me my Stockard, but come on.
Happily, there were a few things the panels didn’t totally screw the pooch on. Jean Smart was spanking Emmy’s ass all year on 24; she better win. And all the 24 nominations are totally deserved. Also, The Office was nominated for Best Comedy – which admittedly means less now that shows like Two and a Half Men are in the running – and Steve Carell got a nod for Best Actor in a Comedy Series, so a couple of things went right.
But, gah. Two and a Half Men. Apparently, the new Emmy panels were smoking two and a half crack pipes.
Eileen (E): Lani, I hear your pain.
Where indeed is Veronica Mars? Can no one appreciate the fine line the writers walk to advance the overall arc of the season's mystery each week while giving Veronica a second smaller and often seemingly unrelated mystery to solve each week? I don't even want to talk about Gilmore Girls. Even in a bad GG season, it's better written and better acted than almost anything else out there.
And what about Everybody Hates Chris and My Name is Earl? Two sitcoms where I can't always predict exactly what's going to happen next. That's fabulous. That deserves recognition. I was happy that Jaime Pressly got the supporting actress nod for My Name is Earl. I suppose I should be content with that and the outstanding writing nomination, but there should have been more. Plus, NO ONE FROM WILL AND GRACE SHOULD HAVE GOTTEN ANYTHING. Except maybe the guest actress thing for Blythe Danner, because I've always thought that Blythe Danner was just about the coolest thing ever. Anyway, I can't stand it if Will and Grace is even on in the house. Megan Mullally and Sean Hayes aren't funny. They're irritating. There's a difference, people!
Whitney (W): I just put THE OFFICE in our Netflix Queue . . . I couldn't bring myself to watch it, because the BBC version was simply one of the best television series ever, and nothing that ripped it off could make me happy. But, I've now heard so many good things about the American version of the show, I've decided to give it a try.
And I wouldn't mind if it was Yang's Anatomy . . . Sandra Oh is, by far, the best part of the show. Well, except for Miranda. She's pretty damn good, too. And Preston Burke, gotta love him. And, find, I'll just admit it . . . I'm a McDreamy girl. I think it was his trailer that did it for me. That's one sweet ass trailer. I'm trying to talk George into getting one, and parking it in the driveway, for me to use as an office. Practical? No. But cool as hell.
A: Sorry, but McDreamy is a slut. Never telling her he was married? Screwing Meredith while his wife, with whom he's supposed to be reconciling, is downstairs??? I'm sorry. You are honest with the woman to whom you're married. You end the marriage BEFORE you screw around. I'm a little picky about stuff like that. I can't stand him. Why would she want him when she could have Chris O'Donnell??
E: Sandra Oh is always incredible. I love her. She had a great recurring role on Judging Amy a few years ago, too. She's just brilliant. Oh, and I forgot about Kathy Griffin in My Life on the D List.. I love the mix of her brassiness and her vulnerability.
A: Okay, I have to add that I'm not surprised that neither Desperate Housewives nor any of its cast were nominated - this season was such a disappointment after last season. Did you guys even bother to watch? I admit to dropping out about halfway through and only sporadically catching shows. I ADORE Felicity Huffman, but they gave her a crap role this year.
Beth (B): Well, all I have to say is that Jennifer Garner (Alias) was robbed--AGAIN. Listen, I will grant you that Alias sucked this season--J.J. Abrams jumped ship for Lost, then Mission Impossible: III, and the writing didn't even make sense and the series finale was a DISGRACE--but should the actors be punished for that? No, no they should not. Jennifer Garner did an amazing job with what they gave her, and she is due, people! They OWE her for kicking ass and taking names for the past 5 years. Hmph.
Love Sandra Oh, though, and Chandra Wilson from Grey's.
A: heh. I feel the same way. every time i discover a truly great show (Firefly, anyone?), it either gets axed or goes downhill in a spectacular manner. I have to admit I am also kind of shocked/freaked/envious that you all seem to have way much more time than I do. sheesh. i have never seen a single episode of Lost, Veronica Mars, Gilmore Girls, or several others you mentioned.
I need to quit this writing gig and watch tv more. less stressful, too!!!
E: Honestly, though, very few series can hold my attention for more than a season or two. I used to soldier on out of loyalty. Now I jump ship when they jump shark. The ones that break my heart are the ones that get cancelled before they really get started. Wonderfalls, anyone? Firefly?
L: Yes – WHERE has the Jennifer Garner love been? I mean, Alias post-season three has sucked like a souped-up Hoover, but Jennifer has always been amazing. She can pull out accents and personas like crazy, and I can’t imagine acting with that kind of bad (post-season 3) writing can be easy.
Now, Chandra Wilson and Sandra Oh absolutely deserve the nominations. I adore Chandra; Miranda Bailey is my hero. Whitney – The Office is amazing. The first six episodes – basically, the entire first season – it’s kind of a pale imitation of the British one, but in season two, it really comes into it’s own, and I prefer it to the original. I’m absolutely insane about it and can’t wait for the new season.
A: Lani, I am not surprised you like Bailey. Heh. And on The Office – can you believe that kiss??? She’s nuts if she marries that clod.
W: I watched the whole second season of DH, but I agree, it was truly dreadful. I was mostly watching it out of habit.
I'm also a LOST fan, but I thought this season didn't even come close to last season's greatness.
L: Yes, and HOW did Alfre Woodard get a nomination? Now, I love her and I think she’s fabulous, but they gave her NOTHING this season. Every third episode she gave her son in the basement some ice cream. That was it. And she gets a nomination for THAT?
Oh, yes. EHC and MNIE absolutely should have gotten nominations! And Tichina Arnold – the mother on Everybody Hates Chris – is phenomenal.
B: I LOVE "My Life On the D-List". TiVo it faithfully. Maybe it is funnier if you've lived in Hollywood?
L: I haven’t seen it. Kathy Griffin is a bit cloying to me. If she has a vulnerable side, it sounds interesting. Might give it a try.
E: I recommend only teensy tiny doses. Even a full show can get wearisome, but some of the little bits are hysterical.
Michelle (M): [Chiming in late from a bit of a time zone delay) Ah, the Emmys.
In Europe we don't get all the great American series until usually at least a season after they have been aired in America (which makes sense, but I can still sulk about it).
So, I have a suggestion for the bigwigs at the European Union (EU - kind of like the Federal Government of Europe) who spend their time pondering such weighty issues as the percentage of meat a sausage should contain in order for it to be called a sausage (rather than a cylindrical shaped meat-based food item), or how curvy the angle on a banana should be (I am not kidding), and this is it. If the great minds of the EU were to negotiate with the American
networks so that we could get the current season over here at the same time, millions of Europeans would be
very happy, indeed (this one would be, at any rate). Plus the EU's popularity rating would shoot through
the sky.
But I still think that Hugh Laurie should win every category, even though he hasn't been nominated, which
I just don't understand. House is hot! (Even though I haven't seen the second season yet). Except for best supporting actress in a drama: I would choose Sandra Oh, because she's fabulous! (I confess - have actually
seen the first part of season one of Grey's Anatomy, thanks to Teenager #1, who brought her DVD over here with her.)
A: Ah. House!! Insert dreamy sigh here. hee.
So what do YOU think, Chicklets? What are your favorite shows that you think got robbed? Which noms were you thrilled to see?
Posted by Alesia at 7:27 AM | Comments (14)
July 10, 2006
Seven Ways To Lose Your Lover
Well, for Oh Patient One and I over the years, sometimes almost...
And this is all absolutely true. :-)
1. I FORGOT YOU!
My dear mother-in-law (DMIL, whom I love very muchly) has recounted this tale on numerous occasions. Back way back, she went into town for an outing with Oh Patient One age approximately 6 weeks. In those days in Wrexham, Wales, it was the Absolute Done Thing to leave your baby outside the store in their pram to get Fresh Air while you did your shopping. It was considered exceedingly good for the babies' little lungs. But DMIL left the store via a different exit and totally forgot that she actually had a baby...
(Fortunately, when she arrived home and realized that she was missing something, oh, the baby, she went back for him, and there he was. Whew. She didn't do it again, and by the way gave full permission for me to repeat this story.)
And on to...
2. I FORGOT YOU - THE SEQUEL!
A few years ago when Oh Patient One and I were first together and moved into our first joint apartment, we went out in the West End of London with friends. However, on the Victoria Line tube going back home we both fell asleep. We were going to the end of the line. And when we arrived in Walthamstow I woke up and promptly got off the tube, and set off to the new apartment. Shortly along the way I realized that I was missing a something. A someone. Oh Patient One! I backtracked...
We met up on the railway bridge. (It was romantic. Fortunately.)
3. I LOST YOU
Some years ago in London, another Saturday night, Oh Patient One and I were off to meet up with friends in St. John's Wood. We were totally broke, but that could be overcome by cashing a check at the Bureau de Change in Notting Hill Gate (you could cash checks as well as changing foreign currency - the bonus - it would take several days for that check to hit your bank account - I would have my wages in my account the following Monday, so no problemo with bouncing checks and insufficient funds, or anything).
Anyway, even parking in those days was a nightmare, so he dropped me off with a promise to drive around the block until I emerged. With money.
The Bureau de Change was closed...
I assumed (as you do) that Oh Patient One would see that the Bureau was closed, and also assume that I would walk a couple of blocks to the next Bureau on Queensway (as I did - duh - why wouldn't he Read My Mind?). It was open, I got the check cashed: he thought I'd been dragged off into Kensington Gardens and murdered, and that was the end of me. (But we had a happy ending, because I obviously wasn't).
4. YOU'RE GETTING DIVORCED!
Some while ago when I went back to Sheffield to vist my family they assumed that I was getting divorced from Oh Patient One (?). Because I wasn't wearing my wedding ring. I had put on 20 pounds and my wedding ring simply didn't fit... (I have subsequently lost the 20 pounds - it's just easier that that way). Mum. Nan. Other Family Members. We are not getting divorced!
5. ALMOST KILLED!
Okay. Here in the Netherlands this is the rule with pedestrian crossings with no traffic-light control: the pedestrian has the right of way. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Yeah, right.
In reality The Pedestrian (not wanting to die anytime soon) waits until the million-kilometers-per-hour cars stop for them. The other day a million-kilometres-per-hour car DID actually stop for me! I mouthed thanks (dank je wel), I got to the middle of the 2-lane street (you know, 2 lanes going in the same direction), and then SOME BASTARD in the second lane speeded up! He stopped just before the space I would have terminally occupied. I Jumped back just before the space I would have terminally occupied, and gave thanks to the powers that be (imagine all of our favorite curse words) for saving me. And then (whew, I am still alive) SOME BASTARD honked his horn to urge me out of the way. And then he gave me the finger ???
Oh Patient One was already across the road when this happened and had seen the whole thing (I'd stopped to remove a stone from my shoe a bit earlier) and he hugged me tightly. And then he cursed SOME BASTARD loudly. We both hope SOME BASTARD (he knows who he is) develops premature ejaculation. And then is impotent! And then gets crabs!
6. THE MALL ENVIRONMENT
Dear Oh Patient One! And Dear DMIL! They both have a great sense of direction but in relation only to self and compass point. (I.e., don't know where anyone else is/intends to be - I only know where I am/intend to be). When in a social situaition like a mall, Oh Patient One strides off purposely in one direction, DMIL strides off in the other.
I go for coffee.
They find me in the end, LOL.
7. FIGURATIVELY SPEAKING
In town, going for lunch.
Oh Patient One: "Have you decided what you want to eat?"
Me (about 2 days after the near-death-on-ped-Xing crossing incident: "But I could HAVE DIED!"
Oh Patient One: "???"
Well, I take my time with this stuff, don't you? ;-)
Michelle
This blog was brought to you by Seven Ways to Lose Your Lover, Alesia’s hilarious new novel about a woman who learns to be true to her heart – even when her heart feels like a traitor.
Posted by Michelle at 1:35 PM | Comments (0)
July 9, 2006
It's not you...
Okay. It's you.
You know, I haven't done much dumping in my lifetime. Mostly because I'm really, realllllly bad at it. I mean, horrendously bad. Getting dumped by me could viably take years. A typical Lani dumping consisted of weeks of me beating around the bush, and then when the guy finally wised up and asked outright if I was breaking up with him, my answer would invariably be, "No." As a matter of fact, there's a guy from college who might think we're still dating.
(Hi, Billy. Um, we're broken up. It's not you. It's me. Sorry. All my best.)
See, the thing is, like many women, I used to be completely unable to hurt someone's feelings. (I have since gotten over that.) I especially dreaded hurting the feelings of someone who I liked enough to start dating in the first place, but didn't really like enough to actually continue dating. I always wanted to be friends afterward, which is unbelievably stupid, because unless the dumping is mutually synchronized - in which case, you were probably never really more than friends anyway - you can't be friends. It's simply impossible. One of you will invariably get drunk and show up on the other's porch at midnight, and friendships just never really survive that kind of activity.
Of course, at the time, I did not know this. So every time, without fail, the bandaid came off slowly and painfully. It was like trying to kill someone with a soup spoon. You might eventually get the job done, but by the time you do... well.
Yeah.
Despite my lack of skill in the breakup department, I'm going to hold a little mini-contest in honor of Alesia's brilliant new novel (run, don't walk, to your local bookstore - or click here.) First, I'll show you my top five lame break-up excuses (and what they really mean)... then you show me yours. Ready? Here we go!
1. It's not you, it's me. (It's you.)
2. You deserve better. (Is your sister available?)
3. I'm not attracted to you physically. (Just because I'm balding doesn't mean I can't be picky.)
4. I love you, but as a friend. (I may need ot borrow money from you in the future.)
5. I'm not comfortable in a monogamous relationship. (However, if you'd consider a threesome, we might have something to talk about. Is your sister available?)
So... what are your favorite lame breakup excuses (and what they really mean)? Share 'em in the comments here, and I'll pick a winner, who will receive a copy of Seven Ways to Lose Your Lover which I will personally buy and have signed for you at the RWA National Conference in Atlanta! I'll choose a winner and announce in my blog on July 23rd - so what are you waiting for, Chicklets? Go for it!
This blog was brought to you by Seven Ways to Lose Your Lover, Alesia’s hilarious new novel about a woman who learns to be true to her heart – even when her heart feels like a traitor.
Posted by Lani at 7:37 AM | Comments (16)
July 7, 2006
Lani is the court jester!!
But of course we knew that . . . We're THRILLED AS PUNCH to announce that our very own Lani's book, MAYBE BABY, won first place in the best contemporary series category of the RWA Heart and Scroll Chapter's annual MADCAP AWARDS FOR ROMANTIC COMEDY!!!!!
Lani's "trophy" will be her very own jester's hat! (Pics to follow, you betcha!)
hugs and happy Breakup Week!
Jazz, your LC MC
Posted by Alesia at 9:22 AM | Comments (5)
July 6, 2006
Owner of a Lonely Heart
But on the bright side, it makes for good source material.
Back before I met George and had my happily ever after, I had bad luck dating. If there was, to borrow a bit of Bridget Jones terminology, a commitment-phobic fuckwit out there, I found him. I was stood up, cheated on and left broken hearted so many times, I was like a walking, talking country-western song.
But I didn’t just have bad luck. I had freakishly bad luck.
And annoyingly enough, my friends and family began to find these little foibles amusing, which led to conversations like this:
ME: And then he asked if he could call me, and I was, like, ‘is that a wedding band?’ And he said, ‘yeah, but it’s not really that big of a thing with me.' And I said, ‘what, your wife?’ And he said, ‘yeah, if you want to get hung up on labels you could say she was my wife. But really, it’s not a big thing with me.’
FRIEND/FAMILY MEMBER: [snicker]
ME:
F/FM: What? Didn’t you mean that to be a joke?
ME: NO! It wasn’t funny. It was humiliating!
F/FM: I don’t know how you keep getting yourself into these situations.
ME: [sarcastically] I guess it’s just a gift.
F/FM: You know what? You really should write a book.
ME: [doubtfully] Yeah, maybe . . .
But I’ve never gotten around to writing the book of my life, or even the fictionalized-version-of-my-craptastically-bad-pre-
George-love-life. But, if I did, there’s one story that would definitely have to make it in the book. And, actually, this one isn't about one of the many commitment-phobic fuckwits I knew and learned to loathe . . . but instead, about a certain committment-addicted jackass.
It all started my sophomore year of college, when I went out on a “date.” And I use the “” because it wasn’t really supposed to be a date, but a group thing, only no one else showed up other than the guy – who I’ll just call Creepy John – and myself. (Later I found out it was because Creepy John hadn’t invited anyone else, and the whole "group" thing was just a lie to trick me into going on the “date” with him. Weirdo.)
Anyway. Even though no one else showed up for our dinner-and-movie outing, I still went with Creepy John, because at that point, I didn’t know he was creepy. I just knew him as the friend of a friend, or rather, a frat brother of the boyfriend of a friend. But then somewhere around the time the waitress brought over our Cokes, and before she’d taken our order, Creepy John started to talk about fate and how we were Meant To Be. Which is about the same time that I realized he wasn’t just creepy, he was CREEPY. Things didn’t get better when he asked me to pay for his ticket to the movie that he’d tricked me into seeing with him, nor when he called his ex-girlfriend in the middle of the “date” to tell her he’d moved on and fallen in love with someone else.
And, no, I'm not kidding.
He called me a few times after that night. I gave him the brush off, and when that didn’t work, I told him point blank that I wasn’t interested, and when that didn’t work, I made liberal use of the words “retraining order.” And thus began and ended my relationship with Creepy John.
Or, at least, so I thought.
Two years later, I was out at a bar with my roommates, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around . . . and found myself face to face with Creepy John.
CJ: Hey.
ME: Oh, God.
CJ: I think we should talk.
ME: I don’t think we need to talk.
CJ: I think it’s time we had some closure.
ME: I’m sorry . . . what? Did you say closure?
CJ: Yes. About why we broke up.
ME: We didn’t break up. We couldn't have broken up. And do you know why? Because we were never actually going out in the first place.
CJ: Yes, we were.
ME: No, we weren’t.
CJ: Yes, we were.
ME: No, we weren’t. You’re delusional.
CJ: I don’t know why you want to deny our relationship. I don’t think it’s healthy.
ME: [pointing to one of my platonic roommates] You see that big guy over there? He’s my boyfriend, and he doesn’t like it when other guys talk to me.
CJ: Maybe I should go talk to him . . .
ME: No! GO AWAY!
See? This was the sort of guy I attracted before meeting my husband. Truly, I had freakishly weird bad luck when it came to guys. So thank God for George, who swooped in and rescued me from all of the fuckwits out there.
This blog was brought to you by Seven Ways to Lose Your Lover, Alesia’s hilarious new novel about a woman who learns to be true to her heart – even when her heart feels like a traitor.
Posted by Whitney at 6:00 AM | Comments (11)
July 5, 2006
Breaking Up is Hard To Do
But some guys really really stink at it
I have never been dumped. No guy has ever given me the "It's not you, it's me" speech. Nor has anyone ever dumped my clothes on the lawn or told me its over on the phone/in a letter/on a post-it note (yes, I did see that Sex and the City episode).
Nope. I get the amazing disappearing boyfriends. The ones that vanish before your very eyes.
I suppose, in some ways, I wouldn't want to break up with me either. It's super easy to make me cry. I'm like an enormous water-filled sponge. All it takes is one little poke and I'm leaking water everywhere and no, Poise pads won't help with that.
It's possible that Prozac will, but that's another story.
Anyway, I can see not wanting to break someone's heart face to face if she is likely to turn into a human Niagra Falls and drown herself and everyone nearby in a torrential cascade of lachrymose laments.
Still, it's not really fair. I get no closure. It used to take me days to realize that he hadn't called or shown up at my door so by the time I realized I'd been dumped, I'd have to semi-stalk the guy to yell at him and tell him what a rat bastard he was and that always seemed so . . . creepy. And pathetic.
It also conditioned me to always expect that a guy was about to break up with me whether I knew it or not which led me to a dump 'em first policy. If I did it, at least I'd get the satisfaction of there being an actual dumping.
On one memorable occasion, I actually dumped a guy because I was so head-over-heels crazy about him that I knew I'd be completely devastated when he dumped me. No, there weren't any actual signs that he was about to dump me. He was still calling, showing up and occasionally leaving love notes on my car while I was at work. I just knew I couldn't handle it if he did, so I did it for him. Unassailable logic, eh?
Clearly, though, I didn't trust this guy with my heart. I don't know what it was about him that made me wary, but I was. I met the man I married and had children with a few months after that break-up and I never once considered dumping him. I don't know what it was about him either that made me know I could trust him with my heart, but I'm glad I did.
This blog was brought to you by Seven Ways to Lose Your Lover, Alesia’s hilarious new novel about a woman who learns to be true to her heart – even when her heart feels like a traitor.
Posted by Eileen at 10:53 AM | Comments (7)
July 4, 2006
Independence Day
SEVEN WAYS TO LOSE YOUR LOVER
WAHOO!!! Happy 4th, everyone (and sorry about the whole Revolution thing, Michelle
And, please, PLEASE eat some extra potato salad and dessert for me (preferable chocolate cake), since I’m on that lose-the-last-five-pounds-before-the-conference diet. Which is ginormously craptastic.
But since you’re HERE, and I ADORE you for it, we’re going to talk about LOSING YOUR LOVER. Dumping the dude. Kicking the cad to the curb. Because, let’s face it, sometimes you just HAVE TO GET OUT of a relationship before you are forced to stab his (pick one) boring/annoying/cheating/whining/sexually inept ASS with a dessert fork.
Speaking as the official voice of legal reasoning here at the LC, I have to say that there are less felonious ways to get out of relationships.
For example, you can teach your parrot to say: “Oooh, KISS ME. KISS ME HARDER, [INSERT OTHER MAN’S NAME HERE]”
If you had a parrot.
Or you can pull the Three Cs on a man; a sure-fire, guaranteed way to make any healthy, commitment-phobic man run for the hills: Cloying, clingy, and completely crazy.
I personally am an expert at the “it’s not me, it’s you” speech. Trite? Yes. Cliché? Sure. But any guy who was at least initially good enough for you to date is going to have enough ego to believe that there COULDN’T POSSIBLY BE ANYTHING ABOUT HIM that would cause you to dump him.
Heh.
Oh, right. The book? SEVEN WAYS TO LOSE YOUR LOVER is about Shane Madison, who has an interesting little secret side business going. She calls herself the Breakup Artist. For a fair price, she’ll get the guy in your life to believe that the breakup was all HIS idea.
She’s really, REALLY good at it. Except there’s that little problem of KARMA BITING HER ON THE ASS. And that astonishingly hot guy she just met? Has a secret of his own. Because he’s the victim of one of Shane’s Breakup Artist schemes.
And he wants revenge.
It’s fun! It’s fruity!! (Passion fruity, that is!) For an excerpt, go here. For the behind-the-book look, go here.
And please share your best Breakup stories in the coments! I’ll pick two by midnight EST on July 5 to receive an autographed copy of SEVEN WAYS TO LOSE YOUR LOVER.
(Parrot sold separately.)
Happy 4th, everyone!! And to all of our servicemen and women and military families, thank you for everything you do. My thoughts and prayers are with you all.
Hugs,
Alesia
This blog was brought to you by Seven Ways to Lose Your Lover, Alesia’s hilarious new novel about a woman who learns to be true to her heart – even when her heart feels like a traitor.
Posted by Alesia at 12:11 PM | Comments (14)
July 3, 2006
Where The Hell Are We?
And the trials and tribulations of navigating unfamiliar territory
So, when we were on vacation in England nearly two weeks ago (sob, is it that long ago?), we went somewhere we hadn't been to before, as you do. We went to Somerset. And Somerset, oh gorgeously fabulous county, as well as being chock full of history, and tors, and barrows, and ancient ruins, and other kewel stuff, is also full of tiny, very picture-esk-kew villages.
And also full of lots of tiny, windy roads, which mainly seem to go very uphill in a windy kind of way, or downhill in a windy kind of way. And some of them are not wide enough for 2-way traffic, which means quite a bit of reversing up and down windy roads, in first gear (because you really do need maximum power and clutch control in these situations, believe me), to a specially created wider bit, to allow the car heading toward you to get past you.
All at (felt like) about 100 miles per hour. Give me cities and autobahns and motorways and freeways, anyday!
But that was the easy part...
...the tricky part was establishing where, exactly, at a given point in time, the hell were we?
Actually, that's a bit of a lie. When I was driving the tiny, windy, uppy/downy roads (not at 100 miles per hour), we knew exactly where we were, because Oh Patient One was in charge of the map.
When Oh Patient One was driving (a bit faster than me - he did a lot of windy, narrow, country lanes in his youth) and I was in charge of the map, it was a different story.
Okay. Hands up. I have no sense of direction. None whatsoever. It irritates me, it counfounds me, it bloody well drives me insane, but there is nothing I can do about it, and believe me, I Have Tried. I just don't have the hand-eye coordination, spatial awareness, multidimensional thing, or whatever the hell thing it is, going on.
So here's a conversation between Oh Patient One and I one day on the way back to our rented cottage...
Oh Patient One (who also can do distances, damnit, to the nth degree): "I'm pretty sure we're nearly back at the cottage. About five miles away, give or take an inch. Can you have a look on the map? We've just passed Burrowbridge."
Me (squinting at the map, but trying for efficient navigation): "Yes. Right. Okay."
Oh Patient One: "Hmm. I just saw a sign for Weakbridge."
Me (squinting more furiously at the map, still trying for efficient navigation): "Yes. Right. Okay. I can see Burrowbridge. But I can't see any village called Weakbridge.
Oh Patient One (who would be falling on the floor clutching his stomach, but who isn't, on account of driving): "Wheeze, wheeze, cough, laugh, laugh. More laugh. No, I didn't mean we were IN Weakbridge. I meant there was a sign for A WEAK BRIDGE. Laugh, snort, cough, wheeze."
Me (when I have Stopped Sulking and have Seen The Funny Side): "Okay. But anyone could have made that mistake. I mean, do you know that there is a Highbridge, a Bason Bridge, and lots of other villages with bridge in the name around here? I mean, ANYONE could have made that mistake."
A little while later...
Me: "And they should bloody well FIX the bloody WEAK BRIDGE. I mean, that's just bloody DANGEROUS, isn't it?"
Another little while later...
Oh Patient One (pointing to a ruined castle-type turret atop a tor): "Can you have a look on the map and see what that castle-type turret atop that tor is?"
Me (once again squinting at the map, but trying for efficient navigation): "Yes. Right. Okay. Hmmm. I think it must be Willow Craft. That's what it says on the map."
Oh Patient One (with a Patient Expression): "Are you sure? I'm sure you're right, but castle-type turrets on top of tors usually have, you know, historically mystical names."
Me: "Well, I think so. That's what it says here on the map. I mean, it's in the right kind of place..."
A very little while later we drove through a village (the name eludes me, because the villagers forgot to put up a sign saying 'Welcome to....") Anyway, in the village was a huge sign for 'Willow Crafts Centre ->."
Oh Patient One tried hard not to laugh. He really did. And this is my question. Why was there even an entry on the map for bloody "Willow Crafts Centre ->?" There was no entry for "Supermarket ->." Or for "Gorgeous Boutique ->." Or for "Shoe shop ->." Is it just me, or what?
I just give up. I really do. Maps and me are just not meant to be a marriage made in Heaven. Although there are some other things that I AM good at.
A few days later, back in our Rotterdam apartment...
Oh Patient One: "Have you seen my..."
Me: "It's on the kitchen windowsill, right-hand side, behind the tea caddy, next to the Mickey Mouse tea strainer which Lovely Cathy bought for us in Disneyland, Florida, as a thank you for looking after the lizards. And the dogs. And Patches, the cat."
And shortly later...
Oh Patient One: "And have you seen my..."
Me: "In the storeroom, third shelf down on the right-hand side, behind Possibly Dead June."
Oh Patient One: "Behind Possibly Dead June?????"
Me: "Yes, Possibly Dead June. I didn't throw her away, just in case she isn't really dead."
Oh Patient One (with a very endearing smile): "I love you."
Me: "Yes, I know, dear."
Tomorrow Oh Patient One, Teenager #2, and I are off to Paris for the day. One of Teenager #2's bestest friends from America is there on the French trip, and we are going to hang with him. Yay! (Son of Lovely Cathy, who bought me the treasured Mickey Mouse tea strainer from Disneyland.)
Fortunately, we are going on the train, so no navigating required!
Au voir! Je suis off to torture les pauvres Francaises avec ma terrible command of their langue...No doubt there will be une petite histoire (or is it un petit histore...)
Michelle
Posted by Michelle at 12:35 PM | Comments (7)
July 2, 2006
I Don't Have a Pool
A cautionary tale.
Okay, Chicklets. Before we begin, I have to say that there are going to be a fair amount of f-bombs in attendance here this morning. It's okay. It's all right. I'm still carefully straddling the line between bad taste and no taste, but for those of you with sensitive...
Oh. Right. These are Chicklets I'm talking to. Sorry. Silly me. Forget it.
So. Anyway. I wanted to talk to you about my pool. Except I don't have a pool.
I have a fucking pool.
You know, when we went looking for houses, I specifically didn't want a pool. They're like carefully groomed French Poodles; way too much work for way too little payoff. In Central New York, we have maybe six to eight prime swimming weeks out of the year; it's just not worth it. Plus, I don't want anything - vermin or otherwise - accidentally falling into my pool and meeting its end. I know this is completely unreasonable, pools are fairly safe as long as you keep the gate locked, but I have a mind like a sieve and Fish... well, he's not a details guy. When details require us to remember to take out the garbage and we forget, it's annoying. When details require us to remember to lock up the gate on the pool so our kids don't accidentally drown, it raises my stress from the average, everyday how-am-I-going-to-pay-this-bill? type levels to super-sized lion-chasing-me-in-the-wilds-and-I-need-a-new-loincloth levels.
So, yeah. I had my reservations. But still. The rest of the house was perfect, so I decided, "Hey, we'll do one season with a pool, see how it goes. How bad could it be?" Of course, you never realize when you're saying, "How bad could it be?" that it's like a beacon to Universe saying, "Would you come down here and screw with me, please? Just a little? Because I'm a tad too secure with myself at the moment. Thanks ever so."
It all starts with opening the pool. Which I thought meant...
Sorry, what's that? Oh. Yes, you're right. Silly me. I don't have a pool.
I have a fucking pool.
So, where was I? Yes. I thought opening the fucking pool meant taking the cover off and jumping in. It makes sense, right? I mean, that's what people do with ponds and oceans and stuff. God isn't there saying, "Oh, wait. Let me just add a touch more chlorine." No. You dives in and you takes your chances.
But noooooo. Not with a fucking pool. With a fucking pool, you have to take the cover off (easy enough) and then attach all manner of pumps and filters and defibrillators and nuclear reactors and then you have to go to Pool Haven and talk to Natalie repeatedly for days on end because the pump won't turn on and the skimmer's cracked (fixed it with duct tape, yes duct tape, it's purple and pretty and it's kinda staunched the flow) and endless issues that prevent the actual opening of the pool. Meanwhile, my children are running around the dry yard with their pool toys. Trust me, there's nothing sadder than watching two little girls try to enjoy the swingset with deflating floatie animals around their bellies.
Thank God for Natalie from Pool Haven, though. She's unbelievably patient. And when I say patient, I mean saints have nothing on this woman. As proof, I offer you these snippets of our actual conversations:
Natalie: So, what size is your pool?
Me: It's above-ground.
Natalie: Okay. How many gallons?
Me:
Natalie: Do you know how big the diameter is?
Me:
*********
Natalie: What kind of filter do you have?
Me: I don't know. What kind does everyone else have?
Natalie: Well.... a lot of people have sand.
Me: Sure. Let's go with that.
********
Me: The skimmer's cracked.
Natalie: Okay. Is it a wide-mouth skimmer?
Me:
********
Natalie: Do you know how to shock the pool?
Me: Pull up a chair and tell it the story of how I lost my virginity?
Natalie:
********
Natalie: Now, what this product does is lower your level of (something the fucking pool needs; I was starting to blank out at that point.) But I don't know if you're really going to need--
Me: I don't care if I need it. Just sell it to me. I've been running errands in service to this pool for three days now. Just sell it to me.
(Yeah. I know. I don't have a pool. But I didn't want to offend poor Natalie. I think she's been through enough, don't you?)
Okay. So, now you should have some sense of what poor Natalie has been through in the last few days, as well as what I've been through. Suffice it to say that the pump had diva issues, the filter was not a sand filter, and the vacuum kept flipping me off while running around the fucking pool just out of reach and taunting me with, "Suction? What is zeees suction of wheeech you speeeek? I have no suction for you, you panywaisted troglodyte."
(Yes. My fucking pool vacuum is French. I have no idea why.)
So. Here we are. The morning of Day Four of Lani vs. The Fucking Pool. Today will consist of me continuing to trade senseless insults with the fucking pool vacuum, testing the water for all manner of chemical sassiness, and probably two phone calls and at least one visit to Natalie, who works seven days a week and will probably spend every spare moment today - should she have one - looking up "medical transcription courses" on the internet.
Because anything has to be better than dealing with me and my fucking pool, right?
Right.
***note*** Some names have been changed to protect the innocent. But the vacuum really is French.
Posted by Lani at 6:33 AM | Comments (13)
