Saturday, December 31, 2011

616. Drum Roll, Please (book party details)

Guess what? Tonight’s an exciting night! Okay, it is New Year’s Eve and all, but I am talking about my upcoming book signing party (don’t worry, it’s not tonight—you did not inadvertently miss it). I was going to wait until tomorrow to post the information, but alas I’m an Instant-gratification girl in a Can-this-DMV-line-move-any-slower world. So here goes:

YOU are cordially invited to my very first official book launch and signing party for my newly released instant classic “Mom’s Had A Rough Day,” which debuted at #8 on the NY Times best seller list!  (okay, I kind of made up that last part)

The details:
  • When: Saturday, January 21
  • Time: 7 PM
  • Where: just outside of Washington, D.C. at an amazing book store called
  • One More Page Books, 2200 N. Westmoreland St, Arlington, VA 22213
If you live anywhere in the vicinity, please come to the party! I would love to meet you! Obviously, you can buy the book at the party, but if you cannot wait, it is available right now on Amazon (click the button over on the right side of my blog). You can bring your copy along for me to sign (so it will become a valuable collector’s item, worth probably millions).

Also, it you do not want to buy the book but just want to meet me in person, that’s totally fine, too. I would love to meet you!  And children are welcome to come!

Here is the book store's phone number: 703-300-9746.  Feel free to call them in advance to RSVP yes and let them know you plan to attend the event. (Tell them MOV/ Julie Harrison sent you and that you follow my blog.)

So buy that plane ticket, book the train reservation, ready the helicopter, whatever it takes!  Please join us. 

Thank you to everyone who helped make this book a reality, thank you to my loyal readers, and thank you to One More Page for hosting the event. I haven’t felt this excited since Target started stocking my favorite European chocolate right next to the check-out lane.

(“My Official Vocation”)

615. I like this essay and you will too

Hi, Readers. I am working on a guest post for another blogger (Mrs. Tuna). I am honored that she asked me, and I am super-duper excited to come up with something funny and creative for her in the next few days. It’s a lot of pressure to guest post on someone else’s blog. It’s sort of like going to a party and obsessing about what to bring (is wine still okay? or is wine dumb now?) and what to wear and do you have green things in your teeth and please dear God do not spill the wine on her white couch and what should you say and will people like you and comment how charming you are or will they just keep looking at their watches and wonder when you will go away?

That’s a lot of pressure. I am not losing sleep over it or anything, but still.

In the meantime, while I wait for the Muse of Literary Genius to strike, I will leave you with two links because, well, because I love you.

One: The aforementioned Mrs.Tuna. I bow down to your greatness.

Two: A blog I just started reading called Feeding the Cat by this Australian chick. Check her out.


Friday, December 30, 2011

614. The Recent Interview

I have been on many interviews in my time. Most I have even cared about. Typically, I will receive a phone call from some mystery person whose name I didn’t quite catch because I didn’t recognize the number and therefore was bracing for a telemarketer.

Mystery Voice:  Hello, may I please speak with MOV?

Me (as a question):  This is she?

Mystery Voice:  Hi, MOV! My name is Kara/ Karen/ Caroline Something-or-other Johanson/ Cranson/ Shmansonson. I work for Perfect Job Company and I am calling about your résumé?

Me:  Hi! Yes! Great! Oh, hi! Uh, what is your name again, I’m sorry?

Perfect Job HR Guru (ignoring what I just said):  I see here that you used to work in the airline industry?

Me: Yes!

Perfect Job HR Guru:  Great! Can you tell me a little bit about that experience?

Me (choking, now realizing that this is in fact, going to be an impromptu phone interview):  I loved flying! I loved people! I loved flying people! I flew with flying people for 10 years! Best. Job. Ever.

Do I need to mention that Perfect Job Company had absolutely nothing to do with flying/ travel and that I possessed no discernible transferable skills? You just eavesdropped on the “best” part of the interview.

Fast forward to today. The eight-year-old walks into the study where I am pretending to “work” (read: blog) but am actually surfing the J.Crew website and their spectacular after-Christmas sale. He taps me on the shoulder and says, “Are you ready for your interview?”

My mind catapults to the aforementioned hideous phone interview and I suppress an involuntary shudder. Next, I panic. Does my older son know something I don’t? Is there an interviewer currently at the front door and as usual I am still in my pajamas (the flannel ones with the snow globes)?

“Is something wrong, Mom?” he inquires, as if we were not just bound by DNA but bound by impressive ESP skills as well. “Because you said I could interview you.”

“Of course, Tall, you can interview me. Fire away!” (I make a quick mental note to not use phrases with the words “fire,” “firing,” “got fired,” or “should have been fired” for real job interviews in the near future.)

He sits down, opens his notebook, and clicks his pen.

“What is your name?”

Easy enough. I should be able to get this one right. I give my answer.

“Have you ever had a nickname and why?”

I smile to think of the sweet but boring nickname my doting grandmother gave me: Blondie. Because I was blond. I confide this interesting tidbit about myself, to which my son laughs.

“That’s a dumb nickname. Besides, you’re not really even that blond. Are you sure she didn’t mean to call you Gray-Gray or Klutzy or something more apropos?”

This is the way Tall speaks. Like a second year law student instead of a second-grader. He uses words like “discerning” and “blasphemous” and “irrelevant.”

I struggle to come up with something better, something that will make him happy. Was there a different nickname that I am perhaps blocking out? A funny nickname, a sporty nickname, a silly nickname that reveals important information about me?

“That Super Smart Girl Who Knows Everything.”

He scribbles something down, then crosses it out.

“We’ll stick with ‘Blondie.’ Okay, next question: What is your hidden talent?”

I pause. I am very, very good at handicapping horses at the track. I have been known to win several hundred dollars in a day.

“I can pick winning race horses.” I smile, proud of my answer.

“Huh.” He scrunches his little face. “Anything else you can think of?”

“I’m good at drawing?”

More scribbling. Some flipping of pages.

“What present do you want for your next birthday?”

Queen Good Mommy arrives on cue. “Absolutely nothing. I have everything I need. You and your brother are—”

“What about that trip to Hawaii you are always talking about with Pop?”

“Oh, yeah, put that.”

Scribble, scribble. 

“Last question: Which movie star are you most like?”

“Gwyneth Paltrow,” I answer without hesitation. “We could be twins.”

“Excuse me, Mom, Gwyneth Paltrow?” He shakes his head. “How do you spell that name?”

I spell it out for him. He has no idea who she is.

“This concludes our interview for today. Thank you for your participation.”

I would like to tell you he is reading from a script at this point. He is very much not.

I wonder when I’ll find out if I got the job?


Thursday, December 29, 2011

613. Radical New Year's Resolution

I’ve done the lose ten pounds thing. Drink more water? Please. Exercise every day? Boring. Get more sleep? Yawn. Quit smoking (I don’t smoke). Quit drinking (I don’t drink … really all that much). It was time for a radical change.

You know where this is going. I sat down to draft up my preliminary “New Year’s Resolutions” list (version 2.0) when it dawned on me. I had an idea so new, so revolutionary, that I realized I needed to share it with you on my blog.    

MOV’s New Year’s Resolution 2012:  Avoid Annoying People.

Think about it. What annoys you? Is it really that the subway is running 10 minutes late, or is it the scrawny teenager waiting next to you who keeps blowing bubbles with her gum? Is it that your spaghetti came out cold from the restaurant kitchen, or that the waiter had a bad attitude?

Nine times out of 10, the deep-seated and underlying issue is: annoying people.

Think how easy and carefree your life would be without annoying people! That guy who begs for money outside Starbucks but then you see him using his expensive iPhone minutes later? Annoying. (Solution: go to the other Starbucks, the one by the dry cleaners, instead.) That lady at church who always corners you to volunteer for things you have no interest in? Skip the 10 AM service and go at 12 noon. That telemarketer trying to sell you a time-share in Jamaica? Don’t pick up the phone for numbers you don’t recognize.  The neighbor who never gives back the snow shovel or when she does, it's broken? (Oh, wait, that last one might have been me.) 

Repeat after me: Avoid Annoying People. It really is the one resolution that will make a difference on a daily basis. You might put the ten pounds back on or forget to save $20 extra a week in your savings account, but avoiding annoying people is easy to remember. You already know these people are annoying, you complain about them later to your spouse or co-workers.

Why would you waste valuable seconds of your important life being around annoying people? Just. Avoid.

When scientists do experiments with lab rats, they almost always employ some sort of pain technique to get the rats to do what they want. The rats are well aware of the potential torture, so they avoid it at all costs. We could learn a thing or two from our buck-toothed vermin friends: avoid, avoid, avoid.

(As an aside, what does the word "resolution" even mean?  It means "re-solution," as in REAL solution, which is exactly what avoidance is:  an effective and REAL technique to have a happier life.) 

I started my resolution early. Tonight, in fact. I was driving home from having dinner with a friend when I spotted those annoying blue neon blinking lights in my rearview mirror accompanied by a loud wailing sound, almost siren-like if you will. I followed my new resolution to a T: I stepped on the accelerator, commenced a high-speed chase (I guess technically I was the “chasee”) and zoomed off the nearest exit ramp, then quickly ducked into a gas station and turned off the car.

Avoid, avoid, avoid. I avoided yet another speeding ticket from yet another annoying police officer. My resolution is paying off in spades.


612. Drop In

One of The Husband’s best friends stopped by yesterday. No phone call, no email, just the random drop-by. I am not a random drop-by kind of girl.

If I know you are coming over, I want the house to be so clean that you are tricked into thinking our kitchen always smells like Clorox and we never have stray hairbrush hair or drips of toothpaste languishing in the bathroom sink. Oh, no, our house is magazine-cover perfect 100% of the time.

If I know you are coming over, I spend a solid hour (okay, three) racing around, putting things away, vacuuming, dusting, organizing, sweeping, rearranging, and Windexing. I know it is just a social visit, but with my alter-ego having a name like Queen Virgo, the house is ready for a Realtor caravan or open house.

I want to take pictures. I want to take lots of pictures of my house looking pretty (Say cheese!) so I can plaster them all over the front entrance and say, No need to come in, here is photographic proof that the house looks good. Okay, bye now!  Next time I won't have to clean, I can just point out the photos instead. 

I realize this is not good hostessing.

The Husband (thankfully) does not share my quirky freak-out qualities. He most likely would not even describe them as “qualities.” He would say “traits” or better yet “idiosyncrasies.” He might have even known in advance that Graham was planning to stop by and chosen not to tell me, but he denies it.

Graham gave me a hug and I invited him in. (Is this a good time to tell you I had no make-up on, my hair was still wet from the shower, and I was wearing sweats? I was not expecting guests. I looked sloppy.)

I wonder what the conversation between The Husband and Graham will go like later.

The Husband:  Hey, it was great to see you the other day! So glad you stopped by!

Graham:  Likewise. But, dude, what’s the deal with MOV? She looked, uh … tired.

The Husband (defensive):  What do you mean?

Graham:  Does she always look like that? I mean she looked 43. (says the number “43” like one might say “110”)

The Husband:  She is 43.

Graham:  Oh. Well, good.  She looks it.

The Husband:  Dude, do you think you could stop talking about my wife?

Graham:  Sure! Sorry! How ‘bout those Steelers? And, uh, you might want to know there were an inordinate amount of dust bunnies in your hallway. Just sayin’.

I mention this imaginary conversation to The Husband later. He laughs. Then he puts his arm around me and says, “MOV, Sweetie, you are the only one who cares about these things. Seriously. Let. It. Go.”

And I do, I let it go. For about 10 minutes, I let it go. It doesn’t matter that there are dirty dishes in the sink, I tell myself. Or a pile of Tall’s dirty clothes in the hall, waiting to go to the basement laundry room. It’s not realistic that the house will look like a Museum of Clean every day.

It looks like a Museum of Chaos and Love. For right now, that’s good enough.

(“Mystery Of Visitors”)

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

611. MOV Makes Amends With TOTGA

It seems that I have been called out for doing the very thing that I was complaining about yesterday:  dropping my name as a follower on people’s blogs. I was completely taken aback that someone might say that to me, but as it turns out, it’s true.

I flash back to that day a few months ago when I was looking over my blog list and thought, “Do I really follow 379 other blogs?!?” In a moment of what can only be called quiet desperation, I decided then and there to simplify my life by deleting all but my favorite five blogs. Okay, six. Well, 15 are actually super-funny. But 30 is such a nice round number.

I ended up with less blogs, but I felt guilty. I felt like I was abandoning my cyber-friends. I knew I shouldn’t feel this way, but I did.

Then I told myself, MOV! They won’t even notice! They aren’t hyper obsessive ultra-Virgos like you who anxiously check their stats and follower counts every hour on the hour!

I found out tonight that people do notice after all. I received the following comment from a loyal follower:  

"Dear MOV,

You followed my blog for a day or two, and then left. Not a word of explanation. Just ... left. And I only have 9 followers, so I know it was you. I'm still hurt.

I thought of retaliatory leave-taking, but it seemed petty, and I figured you wouldn't notice anyway. Besides, you're kind of funny.

So don't be too hard on TOTGA. I'm sure he had his reasons. Just like you did.


Ouch. Ouch, ouch, ouch. 

So right now is time to say I am sorry. Sorry if I hurt anyone’s feelings by unfollowing them.  Sorry if I was The One That Got Away for someone else's blog.  Please accept my sincere apology. And, I am going to go a step further. I went over to my cyber-pal’s blog to check it out, and I realized she is definitely a blog you should read.  For one thing, she is clearly in good with Santa.  See for yourself. Maybe you might get on Santa’s good list too (it's never too early for next year).  Click here. 


610. Drop Out

Apparently, I now have entirely too much time on my hands with Christmas vacation, as I am noticing things I have never noticed before. Things like my Follower count dropping from 182 to 181. Maybe it was completely unintentional and when the former follower realizes the error of his/ her ways, the former follower will follow again immediately if not sooner. In the meantime (and I do mean mean), when that reader hit that “delete selected” button, he deleted a little bit of my soul.

I scavenge around in the recesses of my brain looking for a clue as to why my disgruntled follower (henceforth to be referred to as The One That Got Away, or TOTGA) would leave, and why now? Was it the fact that I recently labeled my followers with a new heading called “MOV’s BFF” and maybe TOTGA thought it was a bit presumptuous on my part that I considered him (it had to be a him, right?) a Best Friend Forever seeing as how we most likely never met? Or was he offended by my recent spate of Christmas blogs, essentially making fun of Santa, Jesus, The Husband’s abs, Christmas cookies, money, plastic surgery, and Amazon? I like to make fun of sacred things.

Maybe it was the new subtitle, something about begging for wine under the guise of “critiquing” it? Perhaps TOTGA didn’t like the fact that I put a link to my new book on the sidebar? (Don’t be scared: the woman in curlers is not me.) Possibly he was put off by my mention of me staying at his new beach house in Hawaii for an undisclosed amount of time, like a big ol’ mooch. It strikes me that it could have been the near-constant referencing of alcohol in the blog (Chardonnay, vodka, vino, Pinot Grigio, Absolut, Bailey’s, Kahlua, Riesling, Sambuca, Godiva liquor, etc.) and the implication that life is no fun without a lovely glass of wine or three. I was not implying that at all; I was outright declaring it.

When I only had a half a dozen followers, it was easy to figure out exactly who it was that dropped me. Whenever that happened, I would merely send my mom a quick email saying “Please follow me, I know you were the one who dropped the blog (again).” Now that my numbers are up in the triple digits, it’s not so easy to discern exactly who dropped me and why. 

I’m sorry, TOTGA. I didn’t mean to drive you away. I won’t really come visit you in Hawaii. And I don’t drink nearly as much as people probably think from reading the blog. Please come back, I miss you terribly (even though I don’t know your name).

(And my real name is Julie. See! We are practically soul mates!)

609. Soft Spot

The Husband is a sexy guy. At 6’4” tall, he towers over my 5’8” frame, making me feel like a petite doll. He works out constantly and his physique looks eerily similar to photos from his college days.

Last year, we installed a home gym in our basement, complete with a high-tech stationary bike, multiple free weights, and an adjustable bench. The Husband spends an inordinate amount of time down there, rocking out to Nirvana and Cold Play while doing his 1000th push-up of the day.

So it should come as somewhat of a surprise when Short gave him a big hug the other day and said sweetly as he poked at his belly, “Pop, this is your soft spot!”

The Husband was mortified. Soft spot?!?  I could see his brain doing back flips trying to make sense of what the five-year-old had just said. Maybe he meant “strong spot”? The Husband was made of bones and muscle and yogurt fruit smoothies and memorized NFL stats. He was not made of soft.

“What did you say?” he asked Short for clarification. “Did you say ‘soft spot’?”

“Yep,” confirmed Short, “right here.” He took a miniature finger and pointed at The Husband’s stomach.

“But …” The Husband began to rally, eager to defend his abs.

“Oh, wait, that's not the only one! You have another soft spot here.” Short grinned wide as he squeezed The Husband’s biceps.

I stifled a laugh.

“What?” demanded The Husband. “You aren’t saying you agree with him, are you?” Suddenly a look of mild panic washed over his face.

“No, not at all. I was just thinking about something Tall said to me when he was about three.”

“What did he say?”

I was reluctant to share this little tidbit, but I had no choice now. “I love hugging you, Mommy, because your tummy is just like a pillow.”

Looks like we all have our soft spots.


Monday, December 26, 2011

608. Amazon Is The New Santa

Looking back on my childhood, Christmas was a special time. My siblings and I knew that the entire month of December was a celebration of Jesus Christ’s birth. This we knew, we knew on an intrinsic level, deep in our DNA. We might have known this, we might have said this if asked (“Why do we celebrate Christmas?” “Because that’s the day Jesus was born,”), but that is not what we actually thought. Oh, no.

What we thought was, “Let’s build a shrine to Santa, he’s the one we really need to impress.”

Obviously, the tree was such a shrine. My mother would carefully unwrap painted clay snowmen and crystal pine cones, and then she would hunt around until she found the delicate glass ornament of the Virgin Mary holding the sleeping baby Jesus.

“MOV, honey, here. You're old enough that you can have the honor of putting up the special Jesus ornament!” She handed it to me with a careful reverance, as if she was entrusting me with a piece of her very soul. 

I shoved it on the bottom of the tree where the cat or my younger brother might break it, then dove back in the box searching for the carved wooden Santa Claus ornament.

“I found it!” I’d squeal, and Oakley would zip over, eager to touch the emblem of celebrity and All Things Good.

That ornament was hung front and center.

Of course, our letters to Santa started almost the day after Thanksgiving.  

“Dear Santa,” I’d begin with my first draft, “Please send me a Snoopy Snow-Cone Machine and a Pet Rock like the one Wendy Papadopolous has and an Easy-Bake Oven and the Barbie Dream House and also a new bike (in red or purple). I have been very good. And, I want to let you know I admire your work. Love your biggest fan, MOV.” Even as a fourth grader, I used flattery to get what I wanted.

We memorized the words to the songs with Santa in the title (“Santa Claus is Coming to Town,” “Santa Baby,” “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,”). We sang them all day, every day.  When the religious songs would come on the radio, we’d just turn it off.

We knew Santa was way more important than Jesus because we saw Santa everywhere: at the mall, at the other mall, outside the grocery store ringing a bell, in parades, on TV shows, on commercials, riding around on fire trucks in our neighborhood. It was Santa Saturation.  In all my years of Sunday school, I had never seen Jesus in person even once. Oh, sure, there were pictures of Jesus, but not an actual Jesus wandering around and chatting with people and passing out candy canes. And yes, there was talk of God and Jesus being everywhere and all around you, but let’s face it: I was nine and I needed tangible proof.

Presents were tangible.

Christmas morning would finally arrive and we would tear into our neatly hung stockings and Martha Stewart-perfect gifts like starved wolves at a bunny buffet. Shredded confetti strips of torn red and green wrapping paper and slivered wisps of shimmery ribbon would be all that remained, strewn everywhere as a reminder of Santa’s promises kept.

We would play with our toys for hours, congratulating ourselves on how good we’d been and how effective our letters were and how we wanted to marry Santa when we grew up so we could have direct access to all those toys.

A few weeks ago, Tall and Short wrote out their wish lists for Santa. There were a few items I’d never heard of (involving sophisticated versions of Legos), so I asked Tall to show me on the computer precisely what he was talking about.

He sat down and clicked on Amazon’s website. Within seconds, not only were we able to look at the exact Lego Ninjago set he wanted, but über-helpful Amazon had a few suggestions of “Things You Might Also Like.” Of course Amazon was right: Tall did like those things. He promptly clicked “Add to Shopping Basket.”

What are you doing?” I asked, my voice rising. “I’m not buying those! We’re just looking at them so that—”

“I know, Mom, sorry,” he cut me off, “I didn’t mean to put them in my Shopping Basket, I meant to put them on my Wish List.”

“Your Amazon Wish List?” I was amazed. How did Tall know about these things?

“Sure, Mom, that’s what Santa uses to compile his database.”


Sunday, December 25, 2011

607. The Naughty List

Growing up, we were constantly threatened with empty stockings on Christmas morning if we didn’t behave. I was a certifiable Type-A/ Teacher’s Pet/ Über-Virgo, so the whole “Just be nice” thing came easy to me. I was eager to please my parents, so I flossed regularly, made my bed, fed the cat, played with my sister, and cleared the plates from the kitchen table.

When I went away to college, I was still That Girl. I would call my parents weekly, help my classmates on group projects, turn my homework in early, bake banana muffins from scratch, and go to the gym five days a week.

While dating, I continued in earnest to be That Girl. I would paint handmade ceramic Christmas ornaments for my boyfriend’s mother, be the designated driver, and work extra shifts for my co-workers when they called in sick or hung-over.

I was not just on Santa’s Nice List, I was the Valedictorian of Nice.

I woke up one day and realized the Naughty List is a helluva lot more fun. I was studying for a semester in Italy. Some friends and I scored tickets to a sold-out Violent Femmes concert. About halfway through, I had the brilliant idea that we should try to figure out a way to get backstage so we could meet the band after the show. I schmoozed the bouncer with my minimal grasp of the Italian language and somehow convinced him that I was the lead singer’s sister. Next thing you know, we were partying like a rock star with, ahem, some actual rock stars.

Naughty List.

Back when I worked in the hotel industry, I went to Hawaii on vacation for a week. The day I was due to fly back (I was scheduled to work the next day), my flight out of Honolulu was cancelled. The helpful airline rep offered to book me on the next flight which was leaving in just three hours. I started to nod yes, but then suddenly thought to have her to book me for the next day instead. I called work and told them I was stuck in Hawaii for 24 hours.  It felt sneaky, illicit, and delicious.

Naughty List.

When I was a Denver-based flight attendant for Continental (briefly before United hired me), the airline closed my base. My supervisor informed me that I could either transfer to New Jersey or be laid off. For several weeks, I commuted back and forth and slept on the crew lounge floor in between assignments, and then one day I had had enough. I heard my name being paged in the Newark Airport (“Flight Attendant MOV please report to Gate 88 for your flight to Detroit!”) but I kept on walking, wrote myself an employee flight pass, and hopped on a flight to Los Angeles as a passenger. I changed out of my polyester uniform in the lavatory, sipped on my glass of Champagne as I settled into seat 1A, then phoned my dad and told him I quit and could he please pick me up at the airport?

Naughty List.

I recently celebrated my four year anniversary of working for the high-end kitchen store.  Last week, a crazy customer was complaining and then started yelling at me about some defective product or other and ended her tirade with Why don't you know more about the items you sell?  To which I replied with a straight face Today is my first day here.

Naughty List. 

A PTA member of my children’s school called me the other day and asked if I could help out with an upcoming fundraiser which I had initially considered being involved with.  I thought about it for all of two seconds and then heard myself reply, No—I am just way too busy right now.

Naughty List.

So, Merry Christmas and may you find your Inner Naughty. It’s wildly liberating.

P.S.  And thanks to HW for her fun comment on my last essay, which gave me the inspiration for this post

Friday, December 23, 2011

606. The Great Cookie Debacle of 2011

So The Husband brings home this giant tin of homemade specialty cookies from his co-worker, Pamela. She had a health scare earlier this year and had surgery, so she is on a temporary leave. The Husband was very instrumental in helping her get her disability pay started while she was in the hospital and in covering her job while she was gone for months. These cookies were not so much “Merry Christmas” as a gesture of goodwill and thanks.

Within a half day of the cookies being brought home, a small child who lives in our house ate them all. Every. Last. One.

How does a person even begin to punish this blatant disregard for others? How greedy to eat all the cookies.

Of course, The Husband was quite upset (more on this later), as deathbed Pamela had gone to great effort to make these stunning cookies, complete with “Santas” iced in red and white, “reindeers” with silver sparkly bell and red frosted noses, multi-colored presents with delicately swirled icing, and sleigh bells that looked much too good to eat. The central ingredients were not flour, vanilla, and sugar, but instead love and kindness.  The cookies were exquisitely beautiful and it was flat out rude, selfish, and thoughtless for one individual to inhale them all without even so much as offering to share one with The Husband, who they were originally meant for.

Now, substitute the name “MOV” for the words “small child who lives in our house” and you can see the dilemma. I was actually the one who ate the cookies, like a naughty first-grader with zero impulse control.

They were SO good. They were like the potato chips of the cookie world, impossible to eat just one. And I was so hungry. I had skipped breakfast and run out of time for lunch.  Did I mention how good they were?

I looked down in horror at the empty tin, much like a murderer must survey the scene right after he just killed five people. What was I possibly going to say when The Husband found out the tin was empty? “I’m sorry”? Was I really sorry, or would I do it again given the chance? I was mostly sorry that I had not at least saved one for The Husband, but ohmygod they were so delicious.

I had the brilliant idea to rush out to my local bakery and replace them all. The professional bakery cookies looked perfect, painfully perfect. At this point, I was not trying to fool The Husband into thinking they were the same cookies (it was beyond obvious that they weren’t), I just wanted to make amends and not appear quite so gluttonous.

I set the new box of cookies on the counter. Don’t worry, I did not eat these too if that’s what you’re thinking.

But then the phone rang and it was one of my girlfriends calling to set up an impromptu happy hour/ playdate for Tall and Short. I am not usually as spontaneous as I should be, so I embraced the chance to just show up at her house in 20 minutes and not have to spend two weeks planning it and emailing back and forth.

Her parting words were “Don’t bring wine, Mike just bought a case last time he was in France.”

France?!? When did Mike go to France?

I scanned the cupboard for something, anything, to bring. Ha, I would ignore her and bring wine even though she told me not to.  The Trader Joe’s discount wine winced at me. It said, “Don’t even think about bringing me unless you want to appear cheap. And stupid.” That Trader Joe’s wine, even though reasonably priced and actually quite yummy, seemed to have an attitude.

I had a half bag of pretzels that I decided against. There was one yogurt in the fridge, expired. A lone unopened jar of peanut butter blinked up at me.

That’s when I remembered the bakery box of cookies, humming holidays tunes on the counter top: “We wish you a Merry Christmas, and take us with you!”

What else could I do?

My friend was delighted. The happy hour/ playdate was a success and I didn’t look like a cheapskate to her.

I did, however, look like a piggy to The Husband that evening.

“All?” he asked in utter disbelief. “You actually ate all of them? You didn’t even save me any crumbs? What are you, a human vacuum?”

I have this incredibly annoying habit of giggling when I'm nervous. I started to giggle.

“Yes,” giggle-giggle-giggle, “I guess I ate all of them.”

“You guess? You guess? Did someone force you to?”

Geesh, he was acting as if I’d spent the mortgage money on new shoes. Again. Were a few cookies really such a big deal?

Apparently yes.

“Pamela made those for me! Her husband is out of a job and she is totally stressed that she’s going to lose her job from these medical absences. I assured her that everything is okay and that HR wants to help her. She made these cookies out of the goodness of her heart, and I know it took her all weekend and then you have the audacity to gobble them all up in one fell swoop?”

Giggle giggle giggle. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.” Giggle.

“You’re not a bit sorry. Why would you be laughing if you’re sorry?”

He stormed out of the room.

I followed him. “Sweetie, I bought you new cookies! From the bakery! To replace the other ones.” I smiled. The giggling finally stopped.

“Fine. Where are they?”

“Uh …”

“You ate those, too? Unbelievable.”

It is utterly unbelievable, as I told the bakery lady my sad, sad story today when I bought the second batch of replacement cookies for The Husband. She shook her head, as if to say, I totally get it, or maybe to say, You are a complete piggy.

I got home, put the new cookies in the tin. And walked away.

Good impulse control? Nah. The bakery lady gave me a free piece of cake.


Thursday, December 22, 2011

605. I Found A Job I Like

If you have read this blog for any length of time, you know my trials and tribulations on the career front. I was a flight attendant for a decade and then quit to be a stay-at-home mommy. That lasted all of four years (the stay-at-home part, I am still very much a mommy) because I grew very antsy and needed adult stimulation. I ended up getting a job at a high-end kitchen store as a “Holiday Helper” meaning that I would work there for a month over Christmas.

That month morphed into 48 months. I’ve loved every second of it, but I finally need a change. I’ve been floating around since September, trying to figure out what color my parachute is (remember that career planning book?) or if I even have it strapped on right. I have determined it is sparkly-color, but I am still not sure which job this corresponds to.

As you probably remember, I started a Top Secret Job. I ended up being bored out of my mind there. Next, I got a New Better-Paying Top Secret Job. But it’s an “on-call” position so I never know if I will work or not.

Obviously, I want to focus on promoting my new book. I decided to take the entire month of January off for this purpose (“Marketing”/ catching up on TiVo’d episodes of House Hunters and Top Chef). Yesterday, on a whim, I asked one of my favorite bloggers of the universe (come back and click here when you are done with my story, and you should totally follow her I mean it she is hilarious) for her address so I could send her a gratis copy of my book. I laugh a lot when I read her stuff, so I thought I would try and return the favor. Good karma and all that.

She sent me a chatty little email with her mailing address. I kept reading the email, marveling at how she can instantaneously think of witty things to say when I got to this line in her email:

“I just had a bottle of wine dropped off by FED EX for a review.”

That sentence was not meant to be bragging (although of course now I might possibly interpret it as a teensy bit bragging), she just was mentioning it because in the context it was necessary.

But I really didn’t need to read anymore. I had an epiphany: I need to be a Wine Reviewer Blogger! Of course! This is what I was born to do!

I am going to email her right away and ask her how she got that fabulous job.

Once I secure my new job (I think I will revise my title to “Chief Wine Reviewer Blogger Extraordinaire”), these are some of the types of reviews you can expect from me:
  • Campa Rialta Bella Chardonnay from Central California: Very dry. Very fruity. Light, but complex. Giving, but forgiving. Pleasant after taste of, uh, grapes. Highly recommend, but might need one more test bottle to make sure.
  • Red Jumping Grasshopper Riesling from Germany: Fresh. Abundant. Abundantly fresh. Happily grape-y with undercurrents of honey and almond, but not soapy. Would drink again. Please send extra bottle for this purpose.
  • Mossy Neptune Pinot Grigio from New Zealand: Produces a great buzz after just two glasses. Makes you feel happy. Would feel happier if someone sent me another bottle.
I just know this is the job I was meant to have! Thank you, Mrs. Tuna!  I can’t wait to start!

(“Mixing Our Vinos”)

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

604. Alice in Plastic Surgery Land

As you know, I am employed at the high-end kitchen store. The particular mall I work in is full of fabulously hedonistic stores with most products costing more than my first car. Cartier is in my mall. Gucci. Ralph Lauren. Chanel. You get the idea.

So it should come as no surprise that many of my affluent customers have spent some of that extra money not earmarked for the latest Tory Burch bag on plastic surgery.

Every day I wait on women in their fifties and sixties who have decided they are too rich for wrinkles and prefer the wind-tunnel/ scared look. Their skin is pulled so tight it resembles not so much an attractive college cheerleader, but more a Halloween mask or possibly an avant-garde European sculpture.

They are not fooling anyone. My co-workers and I do not wonder, “Did she or didn’t she?” but instead we whisper to each other after she leaves, “How much for that face lift?”

I try not to stare at these blinking mannequins too much. I do my job and I ramble on and on about some cookware promotion, reminding myself not to gawk at their unnaturally smooth skin. They do not look good or perky or youthful:  they look like unfortunate victims of a car crash who ultimately went to a plastic surgeon to be rebuilt.

Or they look like strange waxy dolls.

These plasticized women are averse to aging. They think, I will go under the knife and look ten years younger! But they don’t.

Now, if you personally have had plastic surgery (or considered having it) for whatever reason, including to boost your self-esteem, then who am I to sit in judgment and tell you it’s wrong? After all, this is only my opinion.


Today, a woman came in, she was most likely in her early sixties and her face was an infinite map of fine lines, roads to laughter and wisdom and family drama. I wanted to leap across the counter and hug her and say, Don’t ever get plastic surgery! You’re beautiful! She was so real, her face resembling not so much society’s ideal vision of youth and health, but more MY vision of aging with intent.

Her intent was: This is what I look like.

And I had a little bit more respect for her because of it.

("Mannequin Or Visionary?")

Sunday, December 18, 2011

603. Sexy Money

Christmas is all about Sexy Money. Sexy Money is money spent on diamonds and smiles. Sexy Money likes to show off by making children giddy and best friends say “You shouldn’t have,” when they don’t really mean it. Sexy Money never has regrets.

Sexy Money shops at art galleries, Italian shoe boutiques, Pottery Barn, and over-priced electronics stores. Sexy Money loves museum gift shops, leather, suede, handblown glass, and anything considered “impractical.”  Sexy Money sleeps with the latest Neiman Marcus catalog under the pillow. 

Sexy Money despises words like replace furnace, new roof, or needs braces for three years.  Additionally, mold in the basement and broken septic pipe are against Sexy Money's religion and any mention of them make Sexy Money instantly envision lunging for the phone to call that sleek Art Deco hotel in Miami, the one right on the beach near that trendy coffee house, to book a weekend getaway.               

Sexy Money does not waltz into Home Depot to look at refrigerators. No. That makes Sexy Money cringe. Refrigerators are part of contract negotiations inside a marriage, they are never even in the same zip code as Sexy Money.

Once, a husband might (ruefully) utter a phrase like, “So this Kenmore fridge can be our Christmas gift to each other,” but a wife will immediately (if not sooner) wilt him with a look, a look that says Tiffany’s is down the street and that is where we are headed next, you fool.

A husband might (sadly) still not get it and continue on with “In that case, let’s just get the $700 one, I think a fridge that costs any more than that is just a waste,” to which a wife will rub her ears and wish at that moment that she was partially deaf, like her dad. Instead, she will ignore the comment, march over to the sales manager and declare, “We want the floor model. Knock 25% off the price.”

The sales manager will flinch, just a little, and then follow up with some mumbo jumbo about how they never sell floor models, blah blah blah.

A wife will look the sales manager right in the eye, not just the eye but the deep center of the pupil, the only person who ever looked in his eyes that deeply was his fifth grade teacher when he was reprimanded for cheating off his friend’s homework, and a wife will say, “Sir, I refuse to spend a penny more. I know it’s December and all, but this is not Sexy Money.”

The sales manager will laugh, of course he will laugh. He is not familiar with this new term, but he is already figuring out how to work the phrase into his next conversation. He will be in the back stockroom about five minutes after this couple leaves, regaling his co-workers with the story of The Refrigerator Purchase Not Being Sexy Money.

A wife and a husband leave, without a resolution and without any new kitchen appliance. They return home to their lovely Colonial and its rebellious refrigerator that refuses to keep things cold anymore and instead actually warms things. The couple has been eating a lot of protein bars lately.

After a few more days and a few high-pitched conversations and some late-night Internet trolling for appliance deals, there is a phone call confirming the delivery of a new refrigerator, one that keeps things cold as it was designed to do.

There is also a distinctive robin’s egg blue box with a white satin ribbon under the tree. Sexy Money, indeed.   


*with infinite thanks to Stephanie S. for sharing her story and also to Peggy for my new favorite term!!!

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Friday, December 16, 2011

601. What Should I Say?

So there I was, making The Boss buy five copies of my book (don’t tell her this, but I was prepared to just give them to her) when she had to go and say this thing that totally freaked me out. Completely out of nowhere, she says,

“And go ahead and sign them.”

Sign them???? You mean, like, autograph? Like I am super-duper famous or something?

I did what I always do when woefully unprepared for something: I giggled.

“Uh, ha ha ha, uh, you mean, write my name?”

“Yep. That’d be great!”

I opened the first book. “Sign it to whom?”

“That one is for my sister-in-law, Nikki.”

I immediately thought back to that time I met former First Lady Barbara Bush on a flight and struck up a conversation.  Yes, her side of the dialogue ended in “I'll have the chicken, please,” but when I asked her for her autograph, she signed a cocktail napkin with a semi-generic Best Wishes.  Hey, if it's good enough for the former President's wife, it's good enough for me: 

I opened up my book and flipped to the title page.  I wrote, “For Nikki. Best Wishes. MOV”

The Boss took one look at it and her smile turned to a frown.

“Did I spell Nikki wrong? I have an extra book in my car …”

“No, no, no—it’s spelled right. It’s just, I thought since you are a writer and all,” (here she said writer like one might say magical princess movie star genius) “that you might sign something kind of clever. 'Best wishes' is boring.”

The Boss was the boss for one reason and one reason only: she said exactly what was on her mind at all times. You never for a second stopped and thought, Huh, I wonder what The Boss is mad about. No. You knew that she was mad that you forgot to charge that last customer the extra $30 for overnight shipping because she told you right to your face, “You forgot to charge that customer for overnight and now the company has to eat the difference. Do it again and you’re fired.”

She couldn’t fire me for writing a dumb inscription, could she?

“Boss, what do you want me to say on the next book?”

Right then, Daphne walked up. “I know! You could say, ‘Keep laughing.’ That sounds cute!”

“I like that, Daphne. That’s what I’ll write.”  Daphne always came up with good stuff.  If you forgot to tell a customer to buy chocolate to go with the fondue pot, there was Daphne holding a box of bittersweet or white chocolate, ready to help. 

I wrote Daphne's suggestion neatly on the next book.

The Boss smiled one of those fake smiles she does when someone is returning an entire set of used copper pans without the receipt.

“What else you got?” she asked in her best no-nonsense tone.

“How about ‘See the funny’?” I offered lamely.

“Noooooooooo …”

Geesh, how hard could it be? She was right, I’m a writer. I should have some catchy little catch phrase to, uh, catch people’s attention when I sign their book. Some little saying that people would read and say, “That MOV! She is so profound!”

Okay, readers. I need your help here. My book signing party is in January. Besides my name, what should I write on the inscriptions? Here are a few choices I came up with:
  • Recognize the funny
  • See the funny
  • Find the funny
  • Live the laughter
  • Keep laughing
  • Laugh more
  • Be happy
  • May your days be filled with laughs
  • Smile always 
  • Live, laugh, love
  • Embrace the quirky
I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know!!!!! It needs to be short, clever, and hopefully somewhat original.  Help! Please give me your ideas and suggestions!


Wednesday, December 14, 2011

600. Santa Shops At The High-End Kitchen Store!

There I was, training the new girl Chantal on the registers, practicing how to input UPS charges for send sales and how to print out gift receipts.  We were interrupted by an older gentleman waiting to pay for a lemon juicer.

“Do you want to try to ring it up?” I asked Chantal.

“Umm, sure, okay,” she hesitated.

“Just scan the bar code here, and then ask him if he needs anything else.”

“Sir, do you need anything else?”

Chantal and I looked at the man for the first time. He was average height, older, overweight, and he had long white hair in ringlets, and a thick snowy beard. He was wearing a blue flannel shirt, jeans, wire-frame glasses, and a NASA baseball hat (I never knew they had baseball in outer space, but NASA is making new advancements all the time that are not always reported in the media).

Chantal pinched my elbow.

“Look who it is!” she whispered, as if the customer was waaaaaaaay across the store and couldn’t hear us instead of one foot away and looking right at us.

“Santa!” we both squealed in unison, as if he was Bruce Springsteen and we were Courtney Cox and he was pulling us onstage to rock “Dancing In The Dark” with him.

“Santa!” I cried, “You shop!”

All this time, I thought he made everything, you know—like God—but it turns out he has to squeeze lemons just like the rest of us, and maybe that was the secret ingredient in Rudolph’s pre-flight energy drink that helped him get around the globe in one night.

Chantal and I smiled at each other. We smiled at Santa. Santa smiled back at us. We were like a Christmas toothpaste commercial.  The other sales associates and a few random customers began to gather ‘round. We all wanted to be in the glow that was Santa, but away from his red suit and cameras and lines of children wanting to sit on his lap. This was the real deal.

“I’ll give Santa a discount!” I declared eagerly, as if Santa needed a discount and as if I couldn’t be fired on the spot for arbitrarily giving out discounts to whomever I wanted. “How about military discount, Santa? You are wearing a NASA hat.”

Santa beamed. “That is very nice of you.”

I totaled out the transaction, all but shoving Chantal out of the way. I kept thinking, Wait ‘til I tell Tall and Short! They will be so excited!

Chantal bagged up the lemon juicer, she somehow had edged herself back in when I was gawking at Santa. We both waited for him to sign the electronic signature pad. He signed “Santa Claus” with a big flourish and we both swooned.

“This is the greatest thing ever,” I said to no one in particular.

Chantal and I handed Santa his bag with the lemon juicer all wrapped in tissue paper as if it was fragile. I thought Chantal might tie a ribbon on the bag, what with her being French and all. Those French people like to show off how stylish they are, and what better opportunity then in front of Santa.

“Bye, Santa, bye!” I waved. Then I added hastily, “We love you!”

I wanted to go around the counter and follow Santa, to see exactly how he got in here (he couldn’t possibly have just walked, could he?) but right then another customer came up and started asking about holiday chocolates. Her timing could not have been worse.

“Do you have any idea who that just was?” I said to the woman.

“No?” she said like a question.

“It. Was. Santa.”

My customer, Meryl Streep, and I walked over to the door, hoping to get one last glimpse of him.

(“Merrily On Vacation”)

Monday, December 12, 2011

599. Ocean at Night

I want to tell you about California, where I more or less grew up. I was born there, then my parents divorced and I moved with my mom and step-dad to Pennsylvania and later Alabama. But California was in my veins, like radioactive sugar—sweet and warm and pulsing. California beckoned to me, and it’s where I eventually ended up for high school and college.

From kindergarten through 8th grade though, I went back to visit every summer because that’s where my dad lived. My grandparents lived in another part of the state, and I would stay with them alternately. Disneyland played a starring role in my summers, as did Sea World and the zoo, where the theme song of It’s A Small World or the Sparkletts-Sponsored Fountain Light Show would temporarily erase the fact that I was away from my father more than I was with him. We all pretended this was normal, living thousands of miles from half of your identity, and I suppose this was normal for many children of the 1970’s. It’s something I regret: divorce.

I always swore I myself would never divorce. I keep my promise.

Several of my friends have divorced. I feel my heart breaking into shards at the pain they must feel, shattered vows. Sometimes one person in the relationship makes the decision about which restaurant or which movie or which house; sometimes one person in a marriage decides that it is over without ever really consulting the other person.

I waited until I was 31 to get married, to avoid the pitfalls of “marrying too young.” Mostly I avoided the pitfall of not knowing who I was in my 20’s.

The Husband and I hold hands. That will never be us, we whisper. We keep our promise.

I look back at my childhood, at the girl on the spinning teacups at Disneyland. My life felt like that sometimes: dizzy.

The Husband and I try hard every day to give our sons a happy and stable life. We made vows once for an hour over a decade ago in front of God and friends and family, but we keep the vows every minute of every day: 'til death do us part.

I miss California. We got married there, in a beautiful chapel in a historic L.A. hotel. I see it in my mind, clear as this morning. We honeymooned in Hawaii. A stereotype.

I miss the ocean. I miss the calm I felt, listening to the waves pounding down, inhaling the salty mist like a necessity, and feeling the dampness of the air as it clung to my hungry skin. I loved the way the ocean looked at different times of day: clear, bumpy, dark, luminescent. But mostly I loved the way the ocean looked at night. Ethereal.

The Husband and I lived across the street from the beach, and we could hear it as our background soundtrack, woosh-woosh-woosh. Listening to it, I could feel the clutter of my mind dissipating.  At night, not every night but often enough, we would walk down there to see the blackness, it was like walking into the solar system, suspended by stars and air. So black.

You knew it was there, but you couldn’t see it, yet it went on forever. You could imagine the cold of it, how icy it would feel on your skin. We never swam at night.

I miss the silent energy of the Pacific Ocean. But mostly I miss the me I was in California. She’s still in there, deep inside me. I catch glimpses of her every once in a while under the icy black night.


Sunday, December 11, 2011

598. Radiating Guilt

So I’m out to dinner with my Mommy Friends Group (code for Drinking Club) and a new acquaintance Amanda up and says something about “My Christmas cards are sitting on the dining room table, still in the packaging, radiating guilt.” I did what I always do when someone says something super-clever that I totally plan on plagiarizing for my blog later: I got out my tiny notebook and scribbled it down.

When I went to read it later, it didn’t look so much like “radiating guilt” as “rating gut.” That’s okay—I can read my own writing.

I thought about Amanda’s Christmas cards, already purchased. She is, like, five steps ahead of me. If her cards (that she already owns) are calling out to her, then mine (still at Target) are broadcasting: “MOV! If you don’t buy your cards this week, then:  A.) There won’t be a decent selection left, and you might in fact have to buy an assortment (gasp) and then all the cards being sent to friends on opposite coasts who don’t even know each other and will most likely never meet unless it is at your funeral will receive completely different cards! And B.) You are totally running out of time to write them in the first place, what is your problem, are you not really a Virgo anymore? I am totally calling the Administration of Horoscopers to get you fined or at least a warning.”

My (future) Christmas cards are not so much radiating guilt as broadcasting shame and screaming obscenities.

Last year was easy. I stuck the photo chip from the camera into some sort of magical photo card slot on the computer adapter, clicked a few keys starting with “Shutterfly,” and Voilà! beautiful cards with Tall and Short were mailed to me mere days later (in retrospect, I should’ve just paid the extra to have them mailed directly to the recipients).

This year is a different story. When I bought my new computer (you can come back and read that whole saga here), it did not have the special adapter thingamajig to upload photos and order from Shutterfly. I was forced to walk a block down the street (okay, I drove) to my favorite drug store and have them print up the photos. So that part is done, at least. (And this Christmas, it is not just the kids. For once, I am in the photo—as is The Husband—because I was having the rare occurrence, a “Good Hair Moment” and those types of events need to be celebrated and recorded. And oh, yeah, Tall lost about five baby teeth and the new ones sprouted in. And Short grew four inches in two days and is almost taller than Tall, I might have to switch their names.)

I show The Husband the wonderful photo we are using, and he says (typical male), “Why is the photo just loose and not part of a card? The ones we sent last year had the photo as part of the card. I think you bought them on Shutterplace or something like that? And as long as we’re talking about it, the one your cousin Jessica just sent is super-cool because on the back of the photo card it has her ‘Top Ten Highlights for 2011’—we should do that. And did you know one of her top tens was that she ran a marathon?”

The Husband gets a wistful look on his face, possibly thinking about how hot my cousin Jessica is and how she ran a marathon while his lovely wife (me) can only run three miles tops and that is if I am being chased, or possibly he is thinking about the time he ran a marathon (oh, goody, another story!) and wondering if I wrote that in the Christmas card that year.

“Sweetie,” I say through clenched teeth, “Jessica obviously has a lot of free time on her hands to run marathons and write perky Christmas cards …”

“She has five kids. The youngest is a baby.”

“Okay, well, I didn’t mean time so much as craziness. She is a Virgo.”

“You’re a Virgo.”

“You are totally missing the point. The point is, our stupid computer does not have the magical converter thing to do photos.”

I shrug, emphasizing my point. If our computer could read photo information, my life would be completely different and the cards would already be ordered, addressed, sent, received, and displayed.  Like Jessica’s.

“That’s not true, MOV. If you just press on that panel on the front of the hard drive, it opens up and that is where you put in your memory card. I’ll show you.”

We walk upstairs (well, he sprints because he wants to show off that he is right for once, and I lag behind as I hate hate hate being wrong, especially when it comes to anything electronical) and he shows me what he was talking about.

“See, MOV? Right here.” He points. “Our computer is really smart! It can do a lot of things!”

My computer does not radiate guilt. It radiates superiority.

*with thanks to Amanda for the inspirational phrase

Saturday, December 10, 2011

597. Please Do Not Bleed On My New Chair

One of the nice things about working for the high-end kitchen store is our connection with the well-known furniture retailer. Both stores are owned by our parent company, and both stores give all employees a 40% discount.

When I initially got the job four years ago, I had grand plans to replace all our furniture pieces, one by one. First, the stained leather couch would have to go. Next, the pair of living room chairs (a gift from my dad) that had long ago been scratched to shreds by the crazy cat would need to be replaced (to clarify: the chairs would need to be replaced, not the cat. The original owner of the cat told us in no uncertain terms that she would not take her back.). The dining room table, pilfered from a neighbor's trash pile (because it was deemed “not acceptable” by the Goodwill), could stand to be swapped out as well.

You get the idea.

We saved up our American Express points and cashed them in for the dining room table at the well-known furniture retailer’s outlet. The table was priced at $2500 and then marked down as a floor-model sample to $1000 and again to $700, and finally with my discount ended up being $420. I had $500 worth of Amex points, so we had enough left over to buy new sheets for the guest room.

Then our home improvements came to an abrupt halt. My car (this is over two years ago) was diagnosed with a rare disease known us Engine Dead. I had only heard about Engine Dead in horror movies and urban legends (plus my hairdresser told me his cousin’s next-door neighbor was afflicted once), I had never realized it could happen to me and my 10-year-old Highlander.

Turns out, Engine Dead is a very expensive ailment, and they do not accept discounts to the well-known furniture retailer as payment (believe me, I tried). Bottom line: we spent all our extra money that would have been allocated for furniture as well as money that wasn’t even ours (I’m talking to you, Visa!) to replace the car motor, because Engine Dead is of course terminal.

Now every time I turn the keys in the ignition to my car and hear the replacement engine start, I get wistful that I could have had a new sectional sofa. Granted, it wouldn’t take me anywhere, like to work or the grocery store, but at least I could have a quality nap or two on down-stuffed cushions on the weekend.

In a recent act that could best be described as rash, I decided to quit my job at the high-end kitchen store. I told them my last day would be December 24th. All my co-workers and even The Boss said the right things to my face (“Oh, but you are such a valuable employee! Please don’t go!”) even as they were high-fiving each other in the back room. I didn’t think much about any of this, until one of my co-workers had to go and say,

“Won’t you miss your discount?”

I had not thought of that. I mean, I’d thought of it a little, but I have signed over many paychecks over the years right back to the high-end kitchen store, so my own personal kitchen is actually pretty well equipped. Right as I went to open my mouth and inform her that I had enough crystal wine glasses in my possession to host a small nation’s political independence party, it occurred to me that she meant the discount at the well-known furniture retailer.

I did what I always do when I find out unsettling news: I panicked. Then I went home, went online, and tried to order a new living room couch.

Turns out, employees cannot order from their home computer. They must place their order at their own store they work at. Which was a good thing, because there is no way we could afford the couch. I settled on a chair instead.

The very next day, I walked into work armed with my American Express card and a SKU number. I ordered the most beautiful living room chair on the face of the planet.

The chair was available in about 50 different fabrics. Practical Queen Virgo whispered something about navy blue velvet not showing stains. Her noises were quickly muffled by Designer Virgo shrieking with joy at the look of the pure white linen coupled with the fact that it was on sale.

Click, click, done!

My chair was delivered yesterday, along with a small box of buyer’s remorse. I set the box in the closet and told myself I would wait to open it later. The chair was not so much white as Albino Ghost Snowy Blizzard Chalky Milk Cloud at the North Pole.

Removing the protective plastic on the new chair only made things worse. I seared a retina with the chair’s glowing whiteness.

About this time, the boys came home from school, a tornado of mud and grime and sticky granola bar wrappers.

“Oh, yay, Mom, your new chair is here!” cried Short. “Can I sit on it?”

I took one look at his grungy hands stained from some sort of art project at school and said emphatically,

“Sure! When you’re 18!”

Honestly, my kids are used to my eccentricities by now. If anyone is going to ruin my new chair, it’s going to be me. Later that evening after the kids were tucked safely in bed, I sat down for the first time to enjoy my new chair. I made sure my pajamas were clean. I made sure my cup of hot chocolate was far far away on the coffee table. Then I distractedly started picking at a hangnail.

This is one of my favorite things to do, one of those icky closet habits that I don’t normally share with the world: I bite my cuticles. (Not the nails themselves, my nails look great. Just anything within a one inch range of the nails.) Not surprisingly, the edges of my fingers started to bleed profusely. I jumped up from the new chair just in time to not get a drop of blood on the white linen.

The chair is safe.

For now.

(not quite as white in photographs as in real life, yet sure to be a stain magnet nonetheless)


Thursday, December 8, 2011

596. Another Phone Call From Alec Baldwin

“MOV, we need to talk. Call me back.”

How many times had I hoped he’d call me? And yet, there he was, irritating flight attendants across America and getting kicked off planes again… now he calls? A little bit late for that.

I hit the return call button. Then I hung up. What did he want me to say?

I thought back to all the times I had kicked passengers off in my 10-year career at United Airlines. Thousands. Dozens. Well, just twice I guess. I had a woman removed from a flight after she threw her suitcase at me and told me she didn't have to listen to me (about stowing her bag in the overhead bin).  I was not going to be trapped with her for four hours at 35,000 feet with no bodyguard. Nope. Off you go.

The other one was a drunk guy in Phoenix. I felt bad for him, he was returning home from a bachelor party, yet he could barely walk on board let alone speak a coherent sentence. The pilot took one look at him and backed my decision to have him removed until he could sober up for another flight.

So, based on those two isolated incidents, obviously Alec thought I was qualified to give my invaluable opinion of American Airlines kicking him off.

I hit re-dial. I knew exactly what I would say; I rehearsed it in my head over and over:

“Alec, listen up. The FAA has strict rules in place regarding the use of electronic devices such as i-Pads during taxi and take-off. These devices can interfere with cockpit communications.  Furthermore, it is not okay to go hide out in the lavatory and scream obscenities at the flight attendants through the bathroom door while the seatbelt sign is on. Seriously, what did you expect might happen with actions like that? You are gonna get kicked off. Face facts. You cannot pull that Hollywood Diva behavior and think you’ll get away with it. Honestly, you are just lucky no one called the cops on you for disrupting or interfering with an airline employee’s duties. You think flight attendants are so star-stuck that we would just bow down and let you get away with murder?”

His voicemail clicked on right about the time I perfected my little speech.

“Hello, this is Alec. I can’t get to the phone, so please leave a message.” BEEP!

“Hey, uh, Mr. Baldwin! It’s me, MOV, you called me? Uh, I just wanted to let you know that situation never would’ve happened on United. And by the way, can you please send me another autographed glossy 8 x 11 headshot of you? The sun has really faded out the last one you sent.”


595. It's Party Time

So The Husband and I were invited to a party last night, a real party with the words “holiday attire” printed on the invitation. I mentioned the event to The Husband right when we received the invitation (a month ago), again as we got closer to the date (two weeks out), once more for good measure (last week), and then one final time (the night before). All of those times, he nodded and said, “Sounds great!” so I was under the impression he was listening.

He wasn’t.

The morning of the party, I casually said, “Won’t it be fun to go to the party tonight?” to which he replied, “What are you talking about?”

I did what I always do when he says something funny: I laughed. Silly guy! I am talking about the same party I have been talking about for a month! Remember, I lined up a sitter and everything?

The Husband was mad. “You never mentioned it. I don’t want to go to a party. Besides, I might have to work late.”

The MOV of 10 years ago would have been mad. How dare he forget a party I mentioned a dozen times? How dare he threaten not to go?

But having two children changes a person. I am a mellower, softer version of my former self. Things that used to bother me don’t bother me (as much) now. I just shrugged.

“Okay, Sweetie, that’s fine. You can stay home. But I’m going.”

That evening, he came home from work and took off his coat. He took one look at me and said, “Wow! You look fantastic! Why are you all dressed up?”

Seriously? I thought I was the one to forget and block things out, but clearly he was the new winner in the Selective Memory Championships.

He finally agreed to go (“How do we know these people again? Will they have beer or are they your wine friends?”), and it turns out we had a great time.

I can’t wait to remind The Husband about tonight’s party.

("My Only Vexation")

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

594. Three Lies Before I Get Out of Bed

I believe in honesty and integrity. When I was dating, those were the characteristics that I looked for. I strive every day to instill in my children those same admirable qualities, and to let them know that nothing bad will ever happen to them if they just tell the truth.

But lying inserts itself into my life, like those Dots candy leftover from Halloween that get wedged in between my molars, stuck until I can get to a mirror armed with a toothpick and some patience.  Lying is there, whether I like it or not, reminding me of its cavity-inducing stickiness, yet so utterly irresistible and unavoidable.   

Three Lies Before I Get Out of Bed
  1. I will get up early and go for a five mile run
  2. I will get up early and start a load of laundry
  3. I will get up early and pack my children’s lunches so we don’t have to rush
Three Lies Before Breakfast

  1. Santa is watching you
  2. Yes, Hon, I will remember to take your dry cleaning in today, I promise
  3. You can definitely have a playdate with Billy, I adore him and he is such a good influence, especially when he throws rocks at passing cars
Three Lies Before We Get Out The Door
  1. Those socks look clean to me
  2. Santa is watching you
  3. If you kick your brother one more time, you will never get ice-cream again ever
Three Lies To Get Me Through The Day
  1. I do not look 43
  2. I look 35, maybe 34
  3. Gray is the new blond
Three Lies To The Boss
  1. I am not available to work this week-end because my sister will be in town
  2. Sure, I love mopping the back stock room!
  3. I would be happy to train the new employees for no extra pay
Three Lies At Work
  1. This is the best hot chocolate machine ever, it works great!
  2. You can’t live without the avocado pitter
  3. $900 for a set of knives is actually a really good price
Three Lies At School
  1. I would love to volunteer for the PTA fund-raiser, but I’m busy the next six months
  2. Of course I double-check the kids’ homework every night
  3. We don’t even watch TV
Three Lies To The Neighbors
  1. We can’t see in your windows at all
  2. Your music is not really that loud
  3. I would be happy to pick up your newspaper and mail for a week, I will definitely remember
Three Lies To Myself
  1. I love cleaning up other people’s messes all day
  2. Being a mom is easy
  3. I don’t miss staying in nice hotels with my previous airline job, not one bit
Some people my call it lying, I call it coping.

*with thanks to Marianne at We Band of Mothers for the concept/ idea

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

593. I Lied to The Bakery Lady

Sunday was Tall’s birthday. Besides the fact that The Husband argued with me for ten minutes straight about which day was Tall’s birthday (“I know it’s the 7th not the 4th, you’re wrong”) and I thought I might have to pull out his birth certificate to convince him, the day went smoothly. We had planned an afternoon bowling party for him and his little pals, and he was excited to go. The grandparents sent generous gift certificates for tiny pieces of plastic to embed in my foot in the middle of the night (also known as “Legos”). The problem began, however, when I went to pick up the cake.

If you have followed my blog for more than 60 seconds, you already know about the cake fiasco (come back and read after this story) with Short from last summer. I was determined to not let that happen again. I got there early this time, and I planned to ask to see the cake before I actually paid and took it with me.

The bakery lady came from behind the counter and told me that she was “just finishing up” and how old was my son again?

I wasn’t mad that the cake wasn’t ready. Heck, being a mom I appreciate a 15 minute wait at the gynecologist’s office and consider it my special alone time. I thanked the bakery lady, grabbed the newspaper, and sat down to relax for a few minutes.

About half an hour later, she walked out of the back kitchen with the lovely cake. She set it on the counter in its pink paper bakery box, then slowly lifted the lid. She was clearly very proud of her creation. It was an extravaganza of chocolate and brightly-colored sprinkles. Eight little clowns stared up at me from the frosting.

This woman who I’d been going to since her shop opened four years ago, this woman who made desserts of such high caliber and perfection that they literally made me weep with joy, this woman who had single-handedly gotten my dental insurance deductible tripled, this woman who could go on Top Chef Just Desserts and win every challenge in her sleep, this woman … clearly had no children of her own.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the only people who like clowns are two-year-olds and meth addicts. I knew instantly that Tall would deem the cake “too baby,” but that’s what I get for not being more specific (“Oh, no particular theme. Whatever you think is cute.”). Control-freak Queen Virgo was instantly regretting the idea of being nice for once and letting the bakery lady do her job without me micromanaging her.

My hands were sweating. I really needed to say something, something like, Bakery Lady, you have to take those bizarre clowns off of there or Tall will never speak to me again because he will be the laughing stock of his second-grade cronies who prefer skateboards and soccer balls and Star Wars to toddler-style clowns, but I was too afraid. I didn’t want to insult her by implying that there was some sort of problem with her decorating.

But I also didn’t want Tall to be mad at me and boycott his own party to avoid being mocked by his peers.

I did what I always do in situations like this: I lied. I looked the bakery lady right in the eye, smiled, and said sweetly, “Wow! Pretty! But would you please take the clowns off? Tall has a deep-seated fear of clowns.”


Monday, December 5, 2011

592. Feeling Woozy

I read other people’s blogs. I do this because I like to laugh, and plus I can only talk about myself for about four hours per day (tops). When I am reading these funny blogs and The Husband calls up the stairs looking for me and asks what I am doing, I say, “Important Computer Work.”

He knows this is code for “Not Really Anything.” Or “Avoiding Doing Laundry (Again).”

Imagine my surprise when not one but TWO other blogs I was reading mention me and my new book! Ack! People are talking about me behind my back, to my face, and to cyber-world!

I do what I always do when I feel woozy: go to the kitchen and look for appletini ingredients or chocolate (or both). Sadly, it is 5 AM as I type this, so I worry The Boss might not appreciate me going into work artificially happy (read: sloshed). Makes it hard to sell espresso machines if you can’t pronounce the tricky words like “bars of pressure” and “sale.”

Anyway, see for yourself what others in the blog community are saying. Click here for Haley’s Comic. Then come back and click over here for We Band Of Mothers.

(And thank you, writer blogger friends, for your support. I am humbled and honored that talented people like you would praise my writing!)


Saturday, December 3, 2011

591. A Stranger Buys My Book!

So I worked at the high-end kitchen store today. At the end of my shift, I drove over to The Awesome Book Store to chat with the owner about my book. I had already met the book buyer a few weeks ago, and she had given me a fantastic review of my book (“You have a typo on page 85”) and offered me the chance to have a book signing party (“I guess nothing else is going on the evening of January 21 … tell you what, if you pay for all the wine, we’ll do it.”). I was super-excited to finally meet the owner and to leave a few copies for the staff (with the ulterior motive that they might recommend my book to customers).

That was my plan.

Things don’t always work out the way you planned.

I walked into The Awesome Book Store with five books tucked neatly inside my purple and gold paper bag with the bumble bee logo. I approached the counter, where a cheerful woman who appeared to be in her early 30’s was reading a book.

“May I help you?” she asked, looking up from her book.

“Yes, please. May I speak to the owner?”

“That’s me. I’m Elena. What can I do for you?”

“Uh, hi! I’m MOV, and I spoke to—”

“Oh, sure! She said you’d stop by. So nice to finally meet you!” She shook my hand firmly, but for a moment I thought she might walk around and give me a hug instead.

“Great! Uh, great!” I was not used to people being so happy to see me. Just this morning, The Boss had greeted me with, “Oh—you. I forgot I had you on the schedule.” Then she had mumbled something that sounded like “Dammit.”

I struggled with my bag, then unwittingly dropped all five books on the floor. I hastily scooped them up and set them on the counter.

“I, er, I wanted to leave your staff some copies of the book. My book. Mom’s Had A Crappy Week.”

“You mean Mom’s Had A Rough Day?” she pointed to the cover.

“Yes! That’s what I meant.”

“Did she mention that we can’t technically sell the book here at our store for you until after your event? We promote the event in the weeks leading up to it, then they are available that night. Not before. That’s our policy.”

This was one of those times that Queen Virgo would ask to speak to a manager or the owner. But, Elena had already told me she was the owner, so instead I said,

“Sure! I know, she already told me. That’s totally fine. I don’t want you to sell any of my books! I mean, uh, I want you to sell all of them, but not until the launch party. These are only samples, I mean, preview copies. For the staff.”

“Oh, okay. Well that’s really sweet of you. I cannot reimburse you for them, though. They don’t count toward your sales.”

“Right! They’re gifts!”

“Thank you.” She ran her hand along the cover of the top book in the stack.  “And I like your cover design.” 

My heart was pounding.  This woman could sell all of my books or none of them.  She could talk my book up to every single person who walked through the door, or use my book as a coaster and spill coffee all over it.  I desperately wanted to impress her, to have her know that I was a talented writer, and to feel happy with her decision to carry my book in her store.

I backed up from the counter. “Can I browse around? Is that okay? I know how to read, I mean, I like to read, and maybe I might find something to buy?”

“Of course. Browse around.  You don’t get a discount though …”

“No problem. If I buy something, I can pay full price.” I was regretting saying this as the words tumbled out. I knew my Amex bill was past due, and if I bought a book, it might be declined. Maybe I could pay cash for a greeting card.

Right then, a really handsome guy walked in. He glanced my way, but then headed toward the biography section.

“Sir, can I help you?” asked Elena.

“Yes, actually. Where’s your humor section?”

Elena walked over to the opposite end of the store and showed him a few titles. I could hear them talking, but not the exact words. I stood staring at a wall of cookbooks. I felt like I never left the high-end kitchen store. Suddenly, I heard great peals of laughter.

Elena walked back to the register, wiping away tears of laughter. She was shaking her head. She had a book in her hand, which she set it down. I was too far from the counter to see the title.

Handsome Guy called out to Elena, “Excuse me, do you have that new book by Mindy Kaling? You know, the girl from that show? The Office?” 

“Yes, it’s on that display right there.” She pointed toward it.

“My wife said it got good reviews,” Handsome Guy remarked.

“Shall I add it to your collection?”

Wow, Elena was good. Those were pretty much the same words I said a dozen times a day at the high-end kitchen store if someone so much as checked the price of an espresso machine—shall I add it to your collection?

He shrugged. “Sure, why not?” And then … “What else do you have that’s really funny?”

I turned to Handsome Guy for the first time. I smiled wide, and then I took a deep breath.

“Sir, if you like funny, you should read this!” I was holding up my book, which I'd picked up off the counter.

He walked closer, and then took the book out of my hands. I could feel my face flushing a deeper shade of crimson. Was he going to throw down my book in disgust, and then call me out for being an impostor writer?

“What’s it about?”

Elena and Handsome Guy both stared at me, wondering what I would say next. I was wondering myself. Finally, I spoke.

“It’s this book of short, funny essays, about life and about parenthood. Very funny. It’s supposed to be funny. I think it’s funny. Do you have kids? I have two sons, and they are really funny. They inspired me to write—”

“Wait—you wrote this book? You’re the author?”

He said the word author with a reverence normally reserved for Pope or President.

“Yes.” My face caught fire and the smoke detectors went off and the sprinkler system clicked on and doused us all with water and we stood there in a flood until the fire department came. That is what I thought might happen.  This is what happened instead:

“I’ll buy a copy. For my wife.”

I felt woozy. I was wishing I had eaten lunch, a sandwich or something, instead of just a chocolate milkshake. I could feel my brain flipping around inside my skull. This guy had just wandered in off the street, and I had spoken to him for all of 15 seconds, and he was already buying my book! For his wife. Who was most likely my exact target demographic.

The words tumbled out before I could stop them. “Only one copy? Don’t you have, maybe, a sister or someone to buy a gift for?”  I had not realized that I'd brought my other alter-ego, Queen Pushy Salesgirl. 

Elena started furiously keying something into her computer. She leaned over to me and whispered, “I don’t have your ISBN number entered in the system yet. Let me do that real quick. Then you can sell your book right now.” She winked at me.

Handsome Guy paused for a minute.  “You know, I do have a sister. I will buy more than one. And there are a lot of women who work at my office, and I need to buy a few gifts for them. I’ll take 20 books.”

Elena and I looked at each other.

“Twenty?!” I gasped. “Are you joking?”

“We only have five, sir, that’s all she brought,” offered Elena.

“Only five?”

I suddenly remembered that I'd brought two boxes full of books in my car in case Elena had wanted to sell the book sooner than January.

“I have a box of books in my car?” I said like a question. “Let me go get them.”

I walked calmly out the front door and then sprinted to my car. As I rushed back in, Handsome Guy held the door for me.

“Are you really buying 20?” I queried.

“That’s all I need for now. If the book is as good as you say it is, I can always buy more.” He smiled, his teeth like a thousand light bulbs.

As Elena started to ring him up, I turned to leave.

“Aren’t you going to sign them?” Handsome Guy asked me.

Sign them! He wanted me to sign them!

It was my turn to smile. Was this guy flirting with me?

“Can I borrow your pen?” I asked Elena, as I subconsciously reached for her pen jar.

“No problem.” She handed me a thin, black Sharpie.

“Who should I sign to? Do you have a list of names?” Queen Virgo would’ve brought a list.

“Just write ‘Best Wishes’ and then your autograph. That way I don’t have to keep track of who I give which one to.”

I got right to work. I was signing something fun for a change, instead of the check to the electric company or Verizon. My hand started to cramp up at about book number 17.

“Okay, there you go, sir! And thank you!”

“No, thank YOU. Well, I guess I’ll see you on Oprah then. I can tell everyone I met you and knew you before you were famous.”

He looked so genuinely kind, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Oprah didn’t have a talk show or a book club anymore. Why embarrass him when he was buying 20 of my books?

“Yep, Oprah. Me.” I stared at him too long. “Bye then!”

I walked out the front door, the bell hanging on the door handle clanking loudly. I walked down the street toward my car. I got in and started laughing. Twenty books! Ha! I wonder what Elena was thinking right now.

Handsome Guy appeared out of nowhere with his box of books. He tapped insistently on the passenger window.  I reached over and opened the door for him. 

“MOV? Should I set these in the back seat?”

“Geesh, Sweetie! Don’t let the owner see you! Get in!” I said curtly to The Husband. “All 20 books? Oprah? That was laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think?”

He set the books down and climbed in the car. He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

Sometimes things work out exactly the way you planned.


Friday, December 2, 2011

590. Special Holiday Recipe--Easy!

I know I don’t usually do this here in my blog, give recipes, but I will make an exception. But first, a story.

Every holiday season at the high-end kitchen store we bake cookies for samples. Lots of cookies. We might do a batch from a mix, but often we will do a recipe borrowed from some famous celebrity’s cookbook so we can sell more of the books. I walked into work at 9 AM last Sunday, and The Boss stood there grinning at me.

I had known her for almost four years. She was a great boss, organized, dedicated, motivated … but she was not a grinner. This could only mean one thing: her beloved dog had just had eight puppies and she needed me to take one, or she wanted me to make sugar cookies.

Her dog is a male.

I got right to work with the simple recipe, mixing the ingredients which were all stored in clear airtight containers, then rolling out the dough and stamping out different designs: stars, trees, sleds, snowmen. Next, I baked the cookies. When they were done and cooled, I decorated them with a tiny bit of icing or sprinkles so you could still taste the cookie itself.

Being 9:45 in the morning, I myself was not in a cookie mood just yet, so I did not try any. But judging by the look on people’s faces as they bit into them, no one was in a cookie mood. We did not sell a single book, and later I found half-eaten remnants of my cookies throughout the store, as if customers had spit them out.

I kept meaning to try one, but then I had a steady stream of customers and couldn’t. Finally, my co-worker Deidre put more of my cookie samples out when I was stuck at the register ringing up customers.

I looked at the clock: 2:30. There was one cookie left, so I popped it in my mouth. I gagged at the taste.

It is a very basic recipe. Just mix the ingredients together to make the cookie dough and then roll it out. Here are the ingredients in case you want to replicate it:
  • 2 ¾ cups all-purpose flour
  • 1 teaspoon baking soda
  • ½ teaspoon baking powder
  • 1 cup butter, softened
  • 1 egg
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
  • 1 ½ cups white sugar (or feel free to substitute salt, like I did)
(“Master Of Vanilla”)

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

589. Famous Author Writes To Me

So, not sure if I mentioned it or anything, but I wrote a book. The other day, I was thinking about all the people that had inspired me to write in the first place, and I kept circling back to this one really famous humor author. She has written about a dozen books, all on the NY Times best seller list. She uses ten dollar bills as coasters.

Anyhow, I was thinking (okay, I was drinking) and I thought, I should maybe email her! Yeah! Great idea! She has never met me, but I will offer to send her my book and maybe it will make her laugh!  And then we can be famous author friends!  And we can drink lattes together and laugh about how successful we are and how famous!  

Then Smart Part of my brain spoke up (this doesn’t happen often, so I did try to listen): “MOV, you have never even met Famous Author You Idolize, she might view it as cyber-stalking so I think it would be best to—”

This was right when that third (okay, fourth) glass of Chardonnay kicked in, so I clicked SEND.

I was really feeling woozy (what with it being Thanksgiving and all, did I mention I harassed Famous Author on Thanksgiving? No? I left that part out, oh well), so I went to bed and took a quick little cat-nap and promptly forgot all about Famous Author and my “Hi I want to be your new best friend you are so great I love you and do you wanna read my new book? I hope I am as funny as you, or maybe as funny as your shoe.” That is not exactly word-for-word verbatim precisely what I wrote, but you get the gist.

She. Wrote. Back. Immediately.

It was totally not the restraining-order-type of email I am used to. It was friendly. See for yourself:

Dear MOV—
Happy Thanksgiving to you, too! Congrats on the book, it feels wonderful to accomplish something of that magnitude, doesn't it! Thank you for being so kind, and I am delighted if I had anything at all to do with your inspiration. If you'd like to send me the book, I'd be happy to get it, but I should tell you one thing right away, and that is that I don't offer any sort of critiques or anything like that. There is only one person who has to be happy with the book, and that's you--your name is on it. I learned a long time ago that if you're going to get rejected or fall flat or out and out fail, it had better be your failure and no one else's. I've had editors change punchlines and no one catches the shit for a bad joke with my name on it but me. If you're really looking to workshop it, although I'm not really a big believer in that, either, there are plenty of online groups and probably a writer's group in your area. But the last thing I will do is give advice. Ever. Because I could be wrong. Humor is very subjective. And you shouldn't lose out on something because I'm a dipshit. But if you like, you can send me the file over email to this address. I'm swamped with my own deadlines right now, and will be for some time, but hopefully I will have some down time soon. So if you want to send your book to someone who won't give you any feedback because it's against her religion, I'm your girl.
Have a great holiday,
Signed, Very Famous Author that you could figure out who it is by looking on my Acknowledgement Page

Ohmygod-ohmygod-ohmygod. I ran to the kitchen to find a paper bag to breathe into before I passed out. Tall walked in.

“What are you doing, Mommy?” His little face looked aghast.

“I can’t breathe. A really famous author wrote me back!”

His eyes lit up like Christmas lights when you first plug them in to test to make sure none are broken.

“Mom! Was it Mark Twain?!”

Mark Twain! Why would he say that?

I shook my head at him and replied, “Yes.”