iThink iNeed an iPad

We're just going to pretend that I've posted semi-regularly since April, so let's start with what's plagued me the past two days (other than how in the hell J and I are going to retire comfortably by 40, which has also kept me up the last couple nights).

Should I buy an iPad?

First-world problems, for sure, but last Sunday J decided he needed an iPad "for work" (how convenient!) and so he somehow managed to steer me into the nearest Apple store after cheerfully baby clothes shopping with me at the adjacent Gap Kids. (I should have known something was up the way he picked out pink rompers and baby tights with such gusto.)

I've never liked Apple stores since they are as packed as the tight streets of Mumbai and usually smell like a mixture of sweaty palms, bad breath, and an un-showered Frenchman or two. But I reluctantly followed J in and tried to be all supportive and whatnot since he works hard and deserves a new toy every now and then, I suppose.

The problem was that as much as I didn't want to try out one of the display iPads, I did. Just like in those scientific temptation experiments when the children are left alone in a room full of marshmallows and told not to eat them. With my mouth full of marshmallows my fingers wandered across the greasy screen of the nearest display model and I began to believe I actually needed one. At first I fought the feeling with an air of superiority, smirking at the apps all these schmucks around me filled their little overpriced iPads with, but then the resonance of the apps began to sink in.

Though I'd tried out the iPads of friends and family, I always felt like they were wholly unnecessary if you already owned an iPhone (which I do) and a MacBook (which I do). The iPad, to me, was just another business tactic by Apple to have their fanbase by the cajones in a vice grip. How many conduits did one person need to send an email, watch cat videos on YouTube, or read about Lamar Odom's not so secret drug problem?

But all of that logic, all of that sense began to dissipate once I fiddled with the Living Earth app as J purchased his iPad from a sales associate. Once I tried it, I rationalized that I absolutely needed a satellite view of the globe in real time so I could check the weather reports and time in Buenos Aires and Dubai because, well, because I just did, okay?! And I needed this one fashion app so I could get blasted with the top 10 most popular shoes at any given time (because obviously I really need to find more streamlined ways to blow wads and wads of money). And on top of all else, I definitely needed this list-making app, you know, to keep track of all the shoes and clothes and extraneous things in my apps that I was about to spend our money on.

I left empty-handed, feeling bereft and lost. Only 15 minutes prior I'd been thoroughly convinced that iPads were for iDiots. And now here I was, pining after one like a fat kid looking for his last marshmallow. Who was the idiot now?

J reassured me that we'd get me one too if I really wanted one, and I did really want one. Especially once we got home and J pulled out his shiny new iPad and loaded it up with apps and pictures and basically everything cool that's ever been created and . . . well, here I was at the other end of the couch bitterly flipping through the news on my tired old iPhone 4, glaring at him out of the corner of my eye with a look of jealousy, resentment and disgust.

But then he passed the iPad over for me to try, and for some reason it wasn't as cool as it was in the store. Perhaps it was the grease of a thousand fingertips that had swiped that display model before mine, or perhaps it was that in-store aroma of sweat and unwashed computer programmers that clouded my mind like a hypnotic memory, but all of a sudden this iPad I was ready to drop 5 hunskies on didn't seem like the best financial decision. Yes, it's a pretty neat tool (I'll give you that), but is it 500 dollars worth of neat? Now I'm not so sure.

So I here I am, debating whether or not we should splurge and buy me one too. J reasons that it would be perfect to use on long plane flights when we jet to Europe and other distant lands, but I reminded him that the last time we flew to Europe was six years ago. Then he said it'd be perfect to throw in my handbag and use to write at coffeeshops. Which it would . . . if I was childless and back in my Carrie Bradshaw days when I could just prance on over to the nearest Starbucks, spend all day writing whatever I wanted, and my biggest concern was refilling my cafe au lait.

Let's be honest here. The iPad will mainly serve one of two functions. 1.) To entertain Ava with baby-friendly apps when she's on the precipice of a temper tantrum at Target, the grocery store, or any dining establishment that we are crazy enough to bring her to right now. And, 2.) Make it easier for me to read my celebrity gossip on the couch and/or toilet. Because, you know, holding the iPad versus balancing my MacBook on my lap (or God forbid, squinting at my iPhone screen) will allow for more optimum Brangelina reading.

I would attempt to use it for writing (with a mobile keyboard I'd also have to ante up the cash for), but my days of penning the next Great American Novel at Starbucks have fallen by the wayside these days. The precious hours I get to write (now edit, since I finished my book this summer), fall during whenever Ava decides to nap, and for those few hours where I get to be creative I would gladly write with quill and ink if I had to. An iPad would not increase my productivity.

The more I think about it, the more I don't need an iPad. I just want one. Because now J has one, so I must have one too, along with the better part of the Western world. Maybe it's a pack mentality thing. All the cool kids are doing it so why can't I?

Because I'm not cool anymore? I was once, but that was back when Freebird's wasn't yet a chain, everyone owned a clamshell cell phone and platform flip-flips were still in. Do I need an iPad to prove that I am still relevant? Probably. But for now I think I'll save that 500 dollars and read my Real Housewives news the old fashioned way: on my laptop.

Finding my balance

Well, the dust has finally settled on this whole baby thing. And I mean that in the best possible way. I think.

Ava's going to be seven months old this week, and I think I've finally gotten a grasp on how to be a mom. Or at least pretend to be one (because in all honesty, I look in the mirror and wonder who that 30-year-old is looking back at me. It's not me, I reason, since I'll forever feel 23). And I have to say I "think" I've gotten a grasp because I'm still not sure, seven months later, if I'm doing everything right. Perhaps there is no "right" in this parenting chapter of anyone's life. After all, what's right when your baby has poop blowouts out the backs of her diapers? Or you speak baby gibberish in public, sometimes even accidentally to other adults, or find yourself picking your baby's nose and not thinking twice about it. In the worlds of Bob Dylan, "It ain't me babe." Or is it?

I might not be doing everything right, but I've learned as I go, and I think I've edged into a rhythm with Ava that is not only manageable now, but fun. I'm not sure when the erratic chaos of being abruptly thrust into a new phase of life morphed into a gentle and manageable hum, but it happened. Kind of like going to sleep one night after weeks of stress and suffering, and waking up one morning as not only wholly embracing of that which you fought against, but actually loving it. That happened to me, and since then everything's gotten easier. Like I said, the dust has settled and now I feel like this baby thing has become an easy, steady whir. 

Of course it's not easy 24 hours a day, seven days a week, but compared to how it was in the beginning, I would say Ava's become a walk in the park. Her sleeping patterns still aren't perfect, and she still has her little crying temper tantrums every time she's put down for a nap (I've decided she looks like a cartoon baby turtle when she cries), but with every hardship she throws at me, I dig deep for patience I never knew I had, and I deal with it. Through this last seven months I've learned that I actually have more patience than I ever thought I was capable of -- a fact that not only impresses me, but frightens me as well.

Now that things have died down to a whir, I find myself getting more time to write and my book is slowly and steadily coming along. I plan to have it finished by this summer, and hopefully edited and out to literary agents by the end of the year. I'm having a lot of fun writing it, so I relish in the moments I do get to work on it. J's read pieces of it and suggested I post excerpts of it on this blog, which I may just do. I have faith in it, more than the other two books I wrote, so I'm hoping readers will like it as well.

Anyway, in this process of caring for Ava, I've chosen to also care for myself. I don't want to let myself go, or lose myself in her. She may be my full-time job now, but that doesn't mean that I don't count or that I come second. I love Ava more than anything, but I love myself just as much. I'm sure some moms would shoot me cold, hard looks for saying such a blasphemous thing, but that's how I feel and I don't understand why I should feel guilty for feeling that way. After all, I existed for 30 years before she was born. I'm just as important, even if I can't wear cute little ballerina slippers the way she does.

So I do my makeup every morning, pick out our cute outfits for the day, and always try to leave the house looking polished and put together. Not only do I do this for my happiness and emotional well-being, I also do it to serve as an example to Ava. She might be too young to understand these things now, but as she grows up I want her to see that there is an importance in taking care of yourself and your appearance. I don't want to be one of those moms that is "so devoted" to their babies they use it as an excuse to schlep around in pajamas and let themselves fall apart. There are so many articles online talking about a woman's looks versus her intellect, but why do we have to choose to nurture one or the other? Why can't we nurture both? I want Ava to see that her mother can be smart and beautiful, and I want her to understand that she can be both. It's not an either/or.

Oh and the weight thing I complained about earlier? I think I've gotten a pretty good handle on it (no thanks to that hula hoop, which has sadly joined the ranks of the ankle weights, dumbbells and myriad other home gym equipment currently collecting dust in our guest room/room of good fitness intentions). Just after New Year's I began religiously counting calories -- 1,200 a day -- and the pounds started to drop away. Not an easy feat when all I want is to eat three gallons of ice cream every weekend, but lately I've started dropping down to familiar sizes and even managed to fit into my pre-pregnancy jeans the other night! Though they were still a bit tight, I did get them buttoned and zipped up, so I count this as "fitting me." This small victory will surely be a high of my year. So far I've lost 10 pounds, and I have about five more left to lose. These last five are being extra stubborn and don't seem to care that I imagine I'm eating cheesecake every time I drink my sparkling water, but hopefully they'll be gone by summer.

Ava and I in Napa.

Always late but worth the wait

Wow. Has it really been three months since I last blogged? This is both highly unacceptable and highly unbelievable. Where has the time gone? The last three months have gone by so fast, and so much has happened since my last post. . .

First off, I turned 30 in April (insert giddy exclamation marks here). Overall the experience was a little underwhelming. I guess I assumed that turning 30 meant undergoing some giant epiphany about life and the future and all those "adult" things you see in movies. But let's be honest, I pretty much have life figured out so there were no new lessons learned. All I found out is that Swiss fondue really is my favorite dinner food (nom nom) and I can't get enough of fresh fruit tarts (another double nom). My parents surprised me with a nice Canon Rebel camera as a birthday present since I've been wanting one to take more professional-quality pics once the bébé arrives, and J bought me a little gold feather "freebird" necklace from Nordstroms that I've wanted. I was a little worried (read: ready to punch him in the face) that J wouldn't be spending my birthday with me since he had a trial set that week and had been staying up late every night leading up to April preparing his case, but luckily the case settled the week before my 30th so all was copacetic in our household. Thirtieth birthdays, after all, only come once in a lifetime.

Know what else comes once in a lifetime? (Well, once if you're lucky?) Five-year wedding anniversaries. . . which is what J and I will be celebrating on July 20th!! I can't believe it's already been five years since we tied the knot, but I guess you know you're in love when five years feels like five days. We don't have anything planned at the moment (although let's face it, a trip to Italy would be divine -- and also completely unrealistic), but we'll probably spend it picnicking in Napa for the day, maybe eat at a nice restaurant that night. I really have no clue and for the first time that I can remember, it doesn't bother me. Who am I? It's funny: The older I get, all I care about is just spending quality time with him. We don't need to do anything extravagant for me to be happy. Some of my favorite times with J are holding hands in the car on our way somewhere, or lying on a blanket together in a park. Sometimes it all feels too perfect, like I'll wake up one day without him and find out it never happened. But then I wonder why can't some love stories be nearly perfect? For right now it is and it has been and I hope it stays that way till we're into our 90s. For now just looking over at him reading before we fall asleep is all it takes to make me smile:

Aside from home remodeling, the past few months I've been busy writing and am happy to report that I've just hit about 100 pages into my newest book idea. I don't know whether it's all these extra hormones flying off me or maybe bébé is my new muse, but I feel a rush of creativity and I suddenly have the daily motivation to do something about it. Strange, right? When I'm not writing I want to be drawing or painting or doing something creative. It's a wonderful feeling, and I'm so appreciative that I have the freedom to do as much or as little as I want of all of this on an everyday basis. No excuses.

In other news, bébé is set to arrive in five and a half weeks! My hunt for Peter Rabbit-themed decor has petered out like a deflated fart over the last few months, so I decided to go with a French Garden theme for the nursery and it's coming along well. We put her crib together a couple weeks ago and bought her a little bassinet to sleep in by our bed after she's born. J also hung a crystal chandelier for me in the center of the nursery, giving the room a very French feel, and he was hard at work yesterday stripping a cute little French cabinet I found at a consignment store recently. The cabinet is an ugly walnut color now (think Grandma furniture on steroids), but we plan to antique it and give it a very Restoration Hardware feel. It'll go perfectly next to her crib. :D Once I'm done with the nursery I'll post pics.

And finally, (in case you're wondering what I look now) here's my burgeoning bump: 

So far this pregnancy has been beyond smooth in the sailing department. I've had no sickness, I'm not that exhausted, I have yet to waddle and so far I've gained just under 20 pounds. Pregnancy, it seems, really agrees with me.

Book review: "How To Be An American Housewife"

When I was first asked to review How To Be An American Housewife, I was immediately intrigued by the title. I knew it was fiction and not some how-to guide (because really, that would be kind of awkward if they'd actually made a how-to book for acclimating to American domesticity), but the title piqued my interest, especially when juxtaposed against the photo of the Japanese woman set behind it.

It turns out the title was based on a book by the same name that actually did exist back in the 1940s when Japanese women were marrying American GIs in droves during WWII. The novel's author, Margaret Dilloway, noticed an old copy her Japanese mother owned, given by her GI husband (and later Dilloway's father) in an effort to help her acclimate when he first brought her to America. It was this book, which later turned out to be a manual of sorts for Japanese maids and therefore was never read, that was the inspiration behind Dilloway's debut novel of the same name.

How To Be An American Housewife is not only a book about mother/daughter relationships, it's commentary on cultural assimilation. Of yearning to fit into a new culture and land while missing family and letting go of traditions left behind on native soil.

The first half of the novel is narrated by Shoko, a Japanese woman determined to come to America. She marries an American GI she falls in love with much later in life, but her struggles going from Japan to setting up a home near a military base in San Diego, California, are at the same time both humbling and heartbreaking. Dilloway cleverly crafts Shoko's narrative so that everything Shoko thinks is written in perfect English, while everything she communicates to her husband, children's teachers, or fellow parents comes out clunky, broken and distorted (since English is her second language). Through Shoko readers have a window into what it's like as a foreigner in America, of the language barriers and sometimes physical traits that shouldn't but often cast one as "an outsider."

The story continues through Shoko's narrative, gliding along memories she has of experiences in both Japan and America and the transition between, when about half-way through the narrative baton is passed to her American-born daughter, Sue.

Sue is a single mother and working professional with one divorce under her belt. She hates her job, has no love life and feels misunderstood by everyone, including her parents (and especially Shoko). Even though she's in her 30s, Sue still feels like she has no identity since she was raised in a multi-cultural household and loathes the fact that she could never fully fit in growing up; Shoko with her broken English seemed always an embarrassment for Sue at school functions or when she wanted to invite friends over. Even at 30-something, Sue's still not sure where she belongs and because of this has remained quiet, withdrawn and passive -- a wallflower, through and through.

It's only when Shoko asks Sue to travel back to Japan for her to mend a decades-old family argument that Sue (with her daughter in tow) comes into her own as a woman and begins to see the beauty of growing up multi-culturally. The acceptance of her upbringing and heritage (which were both solid but much different than her peers) starts to quickly transform Sue into a new woman, and brings about a level of understanding for her mother and mother's life before America that is fascinating to read.

I recommend this book to anyone who's ever felt like their mothers (or daughters) misunderstand them, or to anyone who's questioned their roots and what it means to be a part of a certain ethnic group. Dilloway's excels at showing the uncomfortable situations Shoko finds herself in once she arrives in America, the loneliness Shoko experiences as she lets go of her past to build her future, and the wallflower Sue who eventually blooms by reconnecting with her origins as a favor to her ailing mother. For a debut novel, I was thoroughly impressed.

The perfect day job for a writer

Lately I've been thinking about what the perfect day job for a writer could be.

Obviously it can't be a black hole for creative energy. Trudging home after a tedious day at a soul-sucking job leaves you no chutzpah (along with no time to rock out "witch yo bad self," but that's another post entirely). The last thing I want after getting home from a crap commute is to shovel lukewarm Mac & Cheese down my gaping maw (because though we love cooking, cooking takes time and time is not something we have a lot of with a day job) and spend the handful of remaining hours at home sitting at a desk, trying to be CREATIVE Goddamnit because this bestseller isn't writing itself as it teases us with its blinking cursor and why am I still on page 57 and oh hell it's already way past bedtime and I've got exactly 5.5 hours to sleep before morning hits and I have to fling myself out of bed from a deep slumber wherein I'm dreaming about having cocktails with Cary Grant and one of my novel's main characters just so I can sit at a desk again that following morning to waste another day, ghostwriting for a CEO who takes all the public credit for my words and research while I get none. Nothing. No credit. No byline. Just free espresso, the occasional $500 Amazon giftcard and the perk of having my office chair be a Herman Miller original.

Ladies and gentleman, that was a short snippet of my life as an editor/writer with a certain, unnamed company. Nope, didn't really enjoy it.

I was lucky that aforementioned job I ended up leaving last year still fell in the "journalism" (financial journalism) category, and in the beginning it was fantastic. I got to edit the hell out of all the bad writing we'd receive and work with our reporters and freelancers to make them better journalists and I'd occasionally get to write a short column and it was great. Then everyone started getting laid off except for me (ironic, isn't it? the one person who wouldn't have really minded getting laid off was one of the Last Men Standing), until finally my job description morphed from me enjoying my job to me doing more marketing/PR than journalism while ghostwriting most of our investment articles and mutual fund reports for our CEO. Like 24/7.

It doesn't matter how soft and luxurious that damned $1,300 Herman Miller chair was or how much I got paid (it was more than I expected in such a position, says the girl who wanted to be laid off), I knew it was over when I began seeing my articles show up on national websites with my 29-year-old CEO's name in the byline as though HE'D written them. That was really the last straw. Especially when he was in talks to appear on Fox Business News (for what? funding a company who made him sound smart?) and was also "writing" an investment book (which, for the record, was written by some for-hire ghostwriter -- thank God I didn't have to work on that behemoth with no credit). But I digress: this isn't meant to be a rant on my last employer (again, my first year there was amazing) or a tirade against my loved to take credit for everyone's work while he's out wine tasting on the west coast and taking month long vacations in Europe CEO. No, this isn't that.

When I realized in that job, after about 5 years of being a journalist/writer/editor, that I had actual standards for my life and career (suddenly -- poof -- I was an adult), that was it. I had reached a point of what I wasn't willing to accept in my life. I quit shortly after seeing his smiling mug next to the titles of my articles made me want to take off one of my heels and smash it through my computer monitor. Life is just too short to not have creative ownership. If you don't have that, you've got nothing. (And yes, I get that ghostwriting might not sound that bad. Many people do it professionally, but it made me feel like a sellout and a whore, plain and simple.)

Now that J and I are back on the west coast and I'm outlining my third novel, I've decided that it's time I venture out into this whole day job thing again. With J studying for the Bar and about to start a short-term clerkship with a judge in SF this August, I want to contribute to our Buick Fund (what we've decided to call our "Hopes and Dreams" fund; don't worry, we're not really buying a Buick...but then again, that would be hilarious).

So what would be the perfect day job for someone like myself? I've decided it would have to include the following:

• Journalism and/or somehow publishing-related. It doesn't have to center around writing full-time -- in fact, I would actually prefer it didn't. In an ideal world I would preserve my writing juice for other, more personal projects -- like books. The occasional article/column/blog post (with byline) at work would make me happy.

• No full-time marketing or PR. I haven't yet had to convert to the Dark Side and I hope I never will.

• Something that's intellectually stimulating. I like a challenge. Part of the problem in my last job was that aside from my convert of a PR/ghostwriting-fueled position, it wasn't fast-paced enough. In those last, tedious months it lacked the je ne sais quoi that made me want to get into news in the first place. I wanted to be Ben Bradlee in All the President's Men; instead I was Kate Hudson from How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, daydreaming about other options.

• Something that utilizes my degrees. This goes without saying. I worked hard for them and chose those fields (English Lit and Journalism) because I loved them, not because I wanted to play beer pong for four years of my life then figure out what I wanted to do in my 20s and beyond. I know the stereotype: Artists do things like wait tables to make ends meet, which is fine. But I don't want to wait tables with my resume.

• Editing. If there's one thing I love more than writing (ok, and dancing, but the latter isn't a viable career path at this point) it's editing. One of my goals was to become a managing editor before 30, which I did and loved being so in control of the content/content flow/publishing decisions/etc. It was never a dictatorship (hello? I don't run my newsrooms like Cuba), but I enjoyed improving the writing that came across my desk. To see what didn't work with news and feature stories made me a better writer, just like how reading hundreds of good books in a lifetime makes you a better scribe than one who reads nothing. As a writer I feel you learn by example and by tinkering with malleable pieces of content. I like it, find it challenging, and fit seamlessly into a newsroom environment.

Which brings me to an interview I had last week.

I got an email from a legit news outfit in SF that had been recommended my name from that one bay area publication I had to turn down last month due to the low salary offered. I was shocked at getting the email (seriously, how often does this happen??) and told them that of course I'd love to come in for an interview. Two days later I was in the office meeting with the Editor in Chief and Managing Editor -- both very polite, professional, experienced journalists (real journalists...yes, they still exist!).

The interview went well and I left wanting the job. Badly. Not only would I play a part in leading a prominent newsroom as a higher-up editor, but I'd be able to work one-on-one with budding reporters and -- get this -- work in the news niche I'd originally wanted to go into after grad school: Political and legal journalism. Is it the age of Aquarius? Have the stars aligned in their own, twisted way? I don't know, but after my horrible experience with El Company de Indecision and their three drawn-out interviews (the first of which I flew cross-country ON MY OWN DIME for) (clearly I am still very bitter about this), I figured maybe I should wait a while. See what opens up. Then this unbelievably amazing opportunity falls out of nowhere without me even having to fight to get my resume noticed out of hundreds of hopeful applicants. How do these things happen?

Anyway I got home from the interview feeling all rainbows and unicorns and found an email waiting in my inbox, thanking me for coming in and asking for references (two of which they called before Saturday). If I actually prayed, I would pray that this is a good sign. Not only is the job perfectly suited to what I'm looking for, but for a journalism position it (surprisingly!) pays bank ($60s, starting) and has lots of room for growth and creative input and chances to actually make a difference in this cray cray world we live in. I mean, they made a point to emphasize they look for quality over quantity in their news stories (what a novel idea!).

Read: This is not the kind of boring, unchallenging desk job that would lead to tired commutes home punctuated with lukewarm Mac and Cheese and sad reruns of The City that serve as (much-needed) escape from the daily grind. No, this job would be a breath of fresh air in a field most are being laid off in or leaving entirely for more lucrative options (*cough* marketing *cough*). It would engage me, it would inspire me, and best of all, it would even pay me. To quote Gollum, "We wants it, we needs it. Must have the precious."

A big fat "no"

So I wasn't going to say anything about it publicly but since I've just been passed over for the "other top candidate" I guess now it really doesn't matter: I just came thisclose to an editorial job at a well-known national website based in SF that would have paid more money than I could have ever dreamed of making as an editor, and would have allowed me to blog full-time for their website, which caters to women ages 18-34 years old. Blog posts would have included recaps of Bravo reality shows, travel tips, personal finance posts, career articles, what-to-wear-to-your-interview gems...all geared toward women in my age demographic. In short, if I had to go back to a desk job (which, believe me, I really don't want but need to do while J studies for the Bar and we figure out the next phase of our life; writing books only pays for so many bills), this would have been the dream desk job. The dream desk job that would have paid more than handsomely while still allowing me to remain a journalist (read: The Reason I Went to School And Majored in What I Did).

I'll admit, I got much closer than I expected. After applying on an absolute whim back in March, thinking they would be flooded with resumes and I'd probably hear nothing back, I not only got a call back but also got sent an editing/writing test. For the test I had to create a mock blog and write a handful of blog posts focused on topics they provided. I knew I kicked butt in creating the faux blog, but was still surprised when I got an email asking me to come in for an interview. Remember that weekend in late March when I flew out to California last-minute? Yeah, that was the reason. The interview was one of the best in interview history (I can say this with utmost assurance), and after that I heard...nothing. Nada. That whole month of April was like listening to a million crickets chirping in a symphonic hall with first-class acoustics.

Finally, though, they got back with me in early May and told me I made it to their top three. Cloud 9, people, Cloud 9. I had to speak with their managing editor in a phone interview, which I ended up conducting in the parking garage of a mall. But that, too, went well. I was told I would hear back within a week then...nothing. Again. Which I was fine with since that meant I wouldn't have to move early and would get to partake in the cross-country roadtrip J and I were excited to embark on.

Back in California I emailed them and asked what the hell was going on (okay, I didn't exactly ask that way, but had my life been a comic strip and not an actual life, herein is where they would have been illustrated as a wall-eyed, gangly chicken that I would ring the neck of and shake violently back and forth whilst demanding some sort of answer). I'm the most impatient person you will ever meet and thus have no tolerance for indecisiveness (other than when ordering off a Chinese food menu, but that's beside the point). I just wanted to know: Did I get the Godforsaken job or not? All this waiting was only building the whole thing up into a dramatic production that I was tired of having to explain to friends and family. To be honest, four weeks ago I began growing disinterested in the position since I'd already waited over two months for an answer and all that waiting had put a bad taste in my mouth. Think acrid sushi that's been left out for three days. Not good.

A week later, while I'd pretty much given up hope of ever hearing from them again, I got an another email. I was hoping it was either a "yes" or "no"; this was all getting ridiculous and what I actually wanted most was closure. But no, they were asking me to come in for a third interview. (Insert long eye rolls here.)

***BTDubs, I should probably mention that during this same week I interviewed for another editorial position for a publication in the Bay Area -- one that seemed JUST as amazing. I would have been pretty high up on the masthead leading a newsroom of designers/reporters/etc. and deciding how and when stories would be published. That interview went well and a day after I was offered the job. Squee. Though it would have been magnificent I turned it down since the pay was a little lower than what I was looking for. (I know...if the job is perfect who cares if pay isn't up to par, right? Confession: If I was single, or even in a dual-income relationship right now, I would have taken it. But right now with J not bringing in...well...any income, I can't have two people living on that kind of salary.) So I declined the offer and waited for my third interview with El Company of Indecision.***

On Monday I walked into their SF office for my third interview and it went well. Again. In fact I began to wonder why they even called me in for a third interview since I met the exact same people and they asked me the exact same questions. At this point I knew it was down to me and one other top candidate. Out of hundreds of resumes sent in it had climaxed to this. After the interview I was told I'd hear back this week. And I did. They sent a very polite, very professional email explaining that though they really liked me, they decided to go with the other candidate because she had a deeper finance background (I'm almost 100% sure she had her MBA, based on how they spoke about her.)

When I read the email, I instantly got all Regina George and this was the first thing I thought:


Then my second thought was: "Thank God. Finally. I have closure." A euphoric wave of relief crashed over me and I was okay again. No more anticipation or uncertainty. It was done; the job was off the table. Nothing about it was looming over my head like a little indecisive raincloud, following me everywhere I went for the last three months.

J actually took it harder than me. When I told him they said "no" his face immediately went white and it looked like his heart was going to fall out his butt. But I reassured him that it was all going to be fine. After all, I'd already gotten one job offer in the first two weeks of being back in the state. Plus after J's rejection from an amazing firm in Newport Beach (we found out recently they opted to go with someone who'd already passed the Bar and was out of school), I'm bulletproof when it comes to missed job offers. There was so much more on the table with that Newport job and J had gotten so far in the interview process that when we received the letter in our mailbox I felt like I'd been hit in the chest with a wrecking ball. In matters of job searches, nothing could ever top that feeling. Ever.

But you know what the worst part is about my latest job news? It isn't me not landing the job or how long they took to get back to me or the fact that in all honesty going back to a desk job -- even if it was the dream desk job -- made me a little sad since it would take time away from my writing. None of that. The worst part is having to listen to the pity I'm hearing from those close to me, telling me (repeatedly) that it's "[that employer's] loss," "they missed out on an excellent employee," etc. etc. (insert long list of cliche "well-at-least-you-got-as-far-as-you-did" phrases here.) It sickens me. I don't want to hear ANY OF IT.

I especially don't want certain people (read: my grandmother), handing me self-help books titled "Who Moved My Cheese?: An Amazing Way to Deal With Change in Your Work and Life" the next morning. (Yes, this actually happened and it further made me feel like Paul Giamatti in Sideways.) All these reaffirmations of support and sympathy make me want to vomit. Seriously. Why? Because I was over it when I got the rejection (I get over things very easily), so listening to people constantly bring it up as though I'd banked my hopes and dreams on a stupid desk job makes me feel completely misunderstood. There is nothing worse than not only feeling misunderstood, but also receiving pity for said misunderstanding.

Basically right now I feel like this:



I'm all stocked up here.

Book review: "Let the Great World Spin"

Lately I've become jaded with the whole NYC-as-the-stillpoint-of-the-turning-universe thing. I've heard just about every story that could be told about Manhattan and its outer boroughs, from Annie Hall to Taxi Driver and everything before, between, and after. I'm tired of reading about life in New York. That is, until I read Colum McCann's fantastic new novel, “Let the Great World Spin”.

Before receiving my copy to participate in an online book tour, I researched critical acclaim for the text and tried not to roll my eyes. Another novel about what it means to be a New Yorker? Just what the world needs, I thought. And that was the mentality I went into reading the book with, which was foolish since after finishing my copy I can honestly say that “Let the Great World Spin” is one of the best novels I've read in a long time and deserves all the acclaim and accolades it has received (it won the 2009 National Book Award and was Amazon's “Best of the Month” pick in June of last year).

It's August of 1974, when the Vietnam War is still simmering and tensions in the city are high. Real-life tightrope walker Philippe Petit decides to walk thousands of feet above Manhattan across a tightrope between the World Trade Center towers, and so he does after practicing for months at his country cabin and illegally rigging up a rope with friends. But McCann's novel doesn't focus on the factual Petit or his tightrope walking feat – it's about the native New Yorkers watching the spectacle above while their own lives tread more or less in chaos.

The story begins far below the tight rope, on street corners in the crime-riddled Bronx and swanky apartments on the Upper East Side. McCann deftly weaves together a dozen or so different narratives – each chapter is from a different character's point of view – from New Yorkers of different ethnicities, religions and socioeconomic statuses. Each character is tethered to the next through tenuous, claustrophobic and often purely coincidental relationships based on occupation and social standing.

The first chapter begins with two brothers, Corrigan and Cairan, raised by a single mother in Ireland. As fate would have it both brothers end up in New York as adults, first Corrigan and then Cairan, who travels across the Atlantic in search of his brother only to find him living in Bronx squalor—with heroin needles lining the street gutters and hookers hanging on every corner. Corrigan has come to New York in search of “a fully believable God, one you could find in the grime of everyday” and he finds it in the hookers he befriends and tries to help, buying them coffee and allowing them to use the bathroom in his dingy apartment. Only Cairan, as a newcomer, can see that his brother's attempts are futile, that Corrigan can not save any of these people, least not himself because he provides until he has nothing left to give emotionally, financially, or spiritually.

From there McCann transports us to a tony apartment on Park Avenue, where the wife of a Manhattan judge sits nervously awaiting a group of ladies – a support group of sorts – who all share a common bond: Sons killed in the Vietnam War. Then the next chapter glides like a panning camera lens to two young artist newlyweds, children of privilege with simmering marital problems, smoking a joint as they race down the FDR and cause a horrific crash that changes the trajectory of a handful of characters in the book, including Cairan, the newcomer to New York City. Pages after there is another narrative, of the Park Avenue housewife's husband who became a judge to try and make the world, or at least New York, a better place only to realize during his first day in court faced with pimps and prostitutes that none of his rulings could ever clean up New York's streets.

For me the most heartbreaking chapter was “This is the House that Horse Built,” where one of the hookers introduced earlier in the book gives a tragic first-hand account of how she fell into a life of prostitution and heroin, and how her daughter eventually followed suit. It was a painful reminder of how poverty and addiction can be gaping, cyclical holes that swallow people whole—people who are past the point of being saved.

The tightrope walker high above all these characters is a metaphor for the lives of not only all New Yorkers, but people in general. Each of us, at least once if not constantly, “walk a tightrope just one inch off the ground.” Though the Twin Towers are now gone, with nothing more than open space where the pinnacles of the modern world used to stand, Petit walking his rope high above Manhattan in the late summer of '74 was and is a reminder of humanity and compassion, courage and awe, then and now. I have to agree with Dave Eggers when he called the book “one of the greatest-ever novels about New York.”

A bold fresh piece of humanity

Well, we made it this far. Today yours truly is 28 years young.

I never thought I'd actually be 28, as it sounded so old and mature back when I was spry, but I have to say I don't feel that much different. Not older. Not wiser (even a genius like me has limits). Definitely not more mature. When people ask "How old are you" I still blurt out, "24..." followed with a quick "Oops, er, I mean, 28." Guess this automatic response means I'll always be 24 at heart?

Anyway, I've resolved to make 28 the best year of my life. How so, you ask? I have no clue. But I will.

I'll try more things I've never done; say "yes" more than "no"; dance more; sing more; send out more of my short stories, keep chugging away at novel after novel; listen to music louder; learn to cook as well as Tony Bourdain; possibly even meet? Bourdain (I would die, that would be ah-mazing); pay homage to my youth by getting into the best physical shape of my life and finally take those professional pin-up pics I've been wanting forever; invest in an apartment complex (or five) as part of my retirement plan; force persuade J to learn the dance at the end of Dirty Dancing with me; be completely fluent in Farsi; listen to more Journey (if that's even humanely possible); be Gilda:

I want to live. Really live. I've done an excellent job of living to this point, but now I want to ramp it up a notch. I'm 28, after all. I want to go to the big annual New Orleans Jazz Festival; I want to bicycle down the length of California (and then possibly tackle bicycling cross country); I want to eat what's been called "the best sushi on the planet" at the hole-in-the-wall sushi joint Sukiyabashi Jiro in Tokyo; I want to get seriously involved in making puppy mills illegal (I hope it helps that after this summer I'll be married to a law student lawyer); I want to go salsa dancing on a regular basis; I want to join a book club; I want to dance in a fountain and publicly blame it on the wine (only J and I would know that all I had to drink was water); I want to see a tornado in the flesh; I want to be an expat for at least a year of my life; I want to live near my brother and sister so I can stop by at a moment's notice and vice versa; I want to break bad in some way or another.

I want to go wine tasting in Santa Barbara and pretend to know what I'm talking about as I swish Zin across my palette; I want to get my books published and see my name on the spine of a copy (or three) at a bookstore; I want to go camping cross-country; I want to laugh so hard I puke (J beat me to this one); I want to read everything F. Scott Fitzgerald's ever written; I want to try going blonde for a spell just to see what I'd look like; I want to rent a sparse flat in Florence and write near an open window with a view of the Ponte Vecchio; I want to sit down with my two grandmothers (who are 98 and 85, respectively) and let them each recount their life stories into my voice-recorder, then I want to do the same with my parents; I want to drive a black Porsche 911 Carrera and feel the leather steering wheel gripped in my hands (even if it's just for a test-drive down a few miles of 101 on a slow Saturday afternoon. Hey, the sales guy doesn't need to know I'm not actually serious about buying).

Foolish? We'll see. I can't possibly accomplish all of these things and more in a year, but I can start by accomplishing some. The point is I've laid down the gauntlet. This will be the year that's going to kick me into a higher gear. Life is short; I want to experience as much as I can.

Theme song to kick-start 28: "Foolish Heart" by Journey Steve Perry, on loud.

James Franco, literary prodigy

Laughing all the way to the bank.

So I'm not sure how I feel about James Franco's short story, "Just Before the Black", in Esquire. Annoyed is probably the right word. Why? Because I'm sure J-Dog queried it hundreds of times like every other writer has to do, before Esquire decided aloud one day:

"James Franco? Never heard of him, but let's give this kid a shot. He's got no real literary credits to his name besides an MFA from Columbia, just like countless others that we reject on a daily basis, but his story has spit-shined promise. I especially like this line: 'I poke the knife at him, at his fat stomach, lightly poking it with the tip, but he's wearing a puffy North Face jacket, so it doesn't stab him.' It's artsy and hip. Readers will love the prose of this relative unknown."

Now I don't want to be one of those angry faceless people behind this pitchfork-wielding Internet mob that's out for Franco's blood, but the whole thing kills me. Kills me. And here's why: Just because you're a well-known actor doesn't make you a writer worthy of being published in Esquire. Or being published, period. Based on that magazine's track record of rejections not even many good writers are worthy of being in Esquire (present company included -- we admit, we still have a lot to learn).

Perhaps my standards for Esquire are too high, but they reject tens of thousands of incredible short stories every year from gifted people that deserve an honest shot, and then Jamsie-poo, with his famous last name and movie about Pineapples, can waltz up to the front of the line and cut in front of Those More Talented just because he's got name cred and once played some dude in a Spider-Man movie. It reeks of self-importance and entitlement and I can't stand it when that sort of thing happens with line-cutters at the DMV, much less with a well-known publication. I know, I know: This is the way the world works, I should just suck it up and get used to it, which would be easier for me to do if his story was actually...well...good. I love being pleasantly surprised when someone can wear more than one hat well. But I would call this story a Fail, and I'm disappointed in Esquire for perpetuating Jamsie-poo's narcissism.

Sure, J-Loco is worth his weight as an actor (it can be argued that his portrayal of James Dean was incredible), but a writer he is not. Granted I'm no literary critic, but I've read a lot in my life and feel I'm entitled to an opinion. Reading over "Just Before the Black" and wanting to give it an honest shot wasn't enough to make me ever want to pick up anything Franco-penned again.

I think Sady Doyle over at Salon.com summed it up perfectly:

"... Although James Franco is Salon's Sexiest Man Living of 2009 for good reason, and one of our most valuable Bizarro Celebrities, no one should excuse Just Before the Black. ... The word "gap" is used so many times in this story – in relation to teeth, road barriers, windows. I don't know if it's an intentional motif, or if I just figured out where James Franco shops.

"It's true that, as these things go, James Franco is both interesting and crush-worthy. Unfortunately for him, he is also famous – which is the adult equivalent of being very handsome at a small liberal arts college, in that people will continually tell you that you are great whether or not it's true, and let you get away with far too much. They will, for example, publish your terrifying short story in Esquire. (Or in a book! James Franco will soon publish a book.)"

Yes, Jamestastic has a book deal.

It'd be one thing to accept it as kitschy gimmick -- Lauren Conrad's ghostwritten novel "LA Candy" is the first thing to come to mind. She wrote it "all by herself" within a "two-month span" and a month or so later it was already going to press. Most of us familiar with the publishing process can see through this and take "LA Candy" for what it is: Yet another piece of memorabilia to complement LC's burgeoning celebrity empire. As hard it is for me to admit there is a place for the "LA Candys" in our celebrity-obsessed world.

But the opposite is true with Jamsie-poo. Unlike other celebrity works, "Just Before the Black" is meant to be looked at with a critical eye, in a magazine that has historically produced quality prose and writers. J-Loco does deserve some credit -- he wrote it all on his own without employing the ubiquitous ghostwriter that lurks behind so many celebrity works -- but it still sucked and we as readers aren't supposed to think that. It's not meant to be laughed at as a joke, or cast-off with an eye-roll as a publicity stunt to add to his growing brand. It's supposed be taken seriously. The beginnings of a literary career. And how far it got, laid as ink on Esquire's precious real estate no less, is what is laughable. I think there's a line for just how much crap we can be spoon-fed. What's next? Lauren Conrad writing a piece for The New Yorker?

I hope I haven't spoken too soon...

Speaking of rejections

While we're on the topic of gatekeepers lacking vision, here's a rather famous rejection letter written in the 1950s to a then little-known artist named Andy Warhol ...

(click to enlarge)

I refuse to be flabby, and in other news: Lauren Bacall is on Twitter

So the other night I was wasting precious hours of my life sifting through reams of "interesting links" recommended by those I follow on the Twitter-sphere when I came across one called The Waistline Test, which assesses whether your writing is ‘flabby’ or ‘fit’:

The test works by counting percentages of words in five categories commonly associated with stodgy sentences: weak verbs, abstract nouns, prepositions, adjectives/adverbs and 'waste words' (it, this, that, there). For every writing sample you submit, you will receive an overall fitness rating ranging from lean to heart attack territory:

Lean	Fat-free
Fit and trim	In excellent condition
Needs toning	Would benefit from a light workout
Flabby	Judicious editing required
Heart attack territory	May call for editorial liposuction!

My initial thought? Brills!

But then fear set in.

What if I took the test and it spat back horrific results to me? Like that my writing was morbidly obese and destined for a life lived on treadmills and jogging trails in the backwoods of scary places, where scary people hang out cooking meth and living out of trash bag tents? If that was the truth, did I really want to know? Or was I better off blissfully oblivious and semi-delusional about my writing abilities?

Then again, now that I'd seen this Waistline Test how could I not take it? It would be like not pushing the button on that Mr. Bubbles contraption filled with bleach in my friend's shower back when it was a new product and I figured it was filled with body wash, thus giving the whole shower experience as we know it a contemporary, car wash-esque feel. "How modern!" I thought in glee, after pushing the button and allowing "body wash" to whir past me, till I screamed out in realization that it wasn't actually a Jetsons shower machine but rather a cleaning device that was shooting bleach into my face and mouth. Yeah, seeing the Waistline Test was kind of like that, except now I tread with minor trepidation when I'm about to push any buttons.

Was my ego writing checks my body couldn't cash? I needed to know, so I took the test, shielded my face with my hands and peered through my fingers at the results and ... I passed!!! Quite nicely, I should add. I pasted in the first couple paragraphs from my book and got back:

fit and trim.

For whatever this particular writing test is worth, all I have to say is PHEW. At this point in the month I don't think I have the emotional stamina to endure a reading of "flabby", much less anything that would call for editorial liposuction.

Now for all I know this test could be a crock of monkey poop, and I know there are other things that matter in good writing (i.e., expression, fluidity, clarity, etc.) but I do think it's an interesting way to assess overuse of adverbs and other evils that tend to weigh writing down like an anchor. See how your writing measures up, if you're curious.

In other news: Lauren Bacall is on Twitter(!), which is basically just as amazing as hearing someone like Grace Kelly or Joan Crawford pontificate on how tacky Hollywood (and the world in general) has become and how much better it was "back then", when everyone beat their kids with wire hangers chain-smoked and men wore suits and women wore heels and tattoos and cleavage weren't the norm but the exception, reserved only for seedy characters in seedy "B" flicks.

Here are my fave LB tweets:

"Yes I saw Twilight my granddaughter made me watch it, she said it was the greatest vampire film ever. After the "film" was over I wanted to smack her across her head with my shoe, but I do not want a book called Grannie Dearest written on me when I die, so instead I gave her a DVD of Murnau's 1922 masterpiece Nosferatu and told her, now that's a vampire film! and that goes for all of you! watch Nosferatu instead!"

------------------------

"Enough of me being a negative Nancy, its just that I am glad I got to see the Oscars of the 40s & 50s. Grace Kelly would have died if she saw what I did at the red carpet (a tattooed gum chewing woman with too much cleavage and a man in sneakers)."

------------------------

"I'm so sorry you guys didn't like my Studio 54 image simply because I was smoking, believe me there was far more worse things going on there then smoking! I was not expecting such negative feedback, ugh all this stress has made me want to light up and relax with a cigarette. The good thing about being 84 is that I can smoke as much as I want."

Lauren Bacall is the woman I want to grow up to be. "Literate and tart" were the words Roger Ebert recently used to describe her. She's a beautiful, no-nonsense woman who's been around long enough to know what timeless chic really is and could care less about what you and I think of her musings because she's right, after all. I can just imagine her lazing in some huge claw-footed bathtub in one of the many master bathrooms of her gigantic estate, tapping away with manicured red fingernails on a laptop picked out for her by some tech-savvy personal assistant. Like a modern-day Norma Desmond with a platform to reach the masses she lazes beneath her blanket of white bubbles, plumes of cigarette smoke curling around her head, as she tweets about the good old days when film meant something. When fashion mean something.

When a good vampire movie meant something...

Overheard last night

2:30 am. Our studio. Pitch black, trying to fall asleep. J sounds like he's beat me to that. Silence. I start drifting off, but then get hit by an amazing idea for a short story. Learned my lesson last time this happened when I didn't write it down and forgot what it was the following morning. Won't ever let that happen again ...

Too lazy to turn on my bedside lamp and grab a pencil and paper, I fumble for my phone on my nightstand. Candles and lip balm and bottles of lotion clatter around in the darkness. J stirs. Finally, my blind hand feels my cell phone, an old-school slider that I refuse to upgrade. I bring it inches from my face, pull up the "notepad" feature and begin tapping furiously at the buttons. The loud beeps of each letter cut the silence in the studio. Ten minutes of beeping later:

J (slurring sarcastically in his sleep): "What are you doing, writing a novel?"

Me: *beep, beep* "Actually yes, I am." *beep, beep, beep*

Instead of drifting off again he laughs out loud, turns the light on and hands me a notebook and pen from his side.

Oh, the merits of being married to a budding author.

Grappling with that erratic creature called Success

Whatever's clever.

I feel like a failure today. Like a Paul Giamatti-style failure in Sideways. Which sucks because I'm usually as effervescent as the other guy in Sideways, his best friend who goes to wine tastings with gum in his mouth and crashes cars to cover up mistakes and has no problem with Merlot or even white zinfandel for that matter.

Now I know I'm not a failure per se, and please don't have a seat at this table telling me I'm amazing because I know I am and I hate pity parties. But sometimes my pensive anxiety brims higher on certain days and today just happens to be one of them. I think the anxiety of an unwritten future is what plants that unsettling seed of self-doubt on my off days. (Do any of you feel like this sometimes??)

Anyway J says to hang in there and that "it comes in waves", this feeling of mine that emerges from being tied to no formal definition of success. And I do hang in there because on other days I feel more successful than I've ever felt before. Like I'm unstoppable, and my potential is endless. On these days, which usually outnumber the bad days, I have no dearth of self-esteem.

It's very much a ying and yang, black and white thing. I guess the real question is what is success (i.e., what is success to me)? And for that matter what is "success" to you reader-friends out there? Perhaps my problem is my definition of success is mercurial -- sometimes it can be enough to have just written a book or two (which I've done); other times it seems success should be more measurable, like in the form of a concrete publishing contract or a big house (neither of which I have).

Nevertheless today has been one of those days and usually a tall, lethally caffeinated cup of coffee can pull me out of said doldrums, but it's not working and now I have to ship out in a few minutes here and deal with annoying little gremlins children. (Can I just say after starting this part-time job that I fear for the future of this country?) Ugh, I'm turning into the Grand High Witch in Roald Dahl's "The Witches."

Literary truths: Carroll

"It would be so nice if something made sense for a change." - Alice

Here's a fun fact for all you fellow bibliophiles out there: Charles Ludwidge Dodgson never publicly acknowledged that he was also Lewis Carroll (of Alice in Wonderland fame). He seldom signed his books, and never gave away his portrait. Dodgson did acknowledge his pen name among his friends (especially in the letters to his child-friends which he signed with that name) but publicly denied any connection with the Alice books.

Hence, he regularly returned strangers' mail addressed to him as Lewis Carroll with a printed leaflet that asserted,

"Mr. Dodgson is so frequently addressed by strangers on the quite unauthorized assumption that he claims or at any rate acknowledges the authorship of books not published under his name, that he has found it necessary to print this, once and for all, as an answer to all such applications. He neither claims or acknowledges any connection with any pseudonym, or with any book that is not published under his own name." [Source]

Along with an interest in writing and religion, Carroll also enjoyed photography, but after 24 years of picture snapping gave up the hobby in 1880 allegedly because of gossip about and resistance to his photographing pre-pubescent girls in the nude. (Many historians and biographers speculate that Carroll was a pedophile, albeit a repressed and celibate one.) After 1880, Carroll continued drawing young girls in the nude. [Source]

"I always call him Lewis Carroll Carroll, because he was the first Humbert Humbert," novelist Vladimir Nabokov told Vogue magazine in 1966. (Humbert Humbert was the main character in Lolita, Nabokov's famous novel about an older man pursuing a relationship with a young girl.)

"Have you seen those photographs of him with little girls?" Nabokov said in the article. "He would make arrangements with aunts and mothers to take the children out. He was never caught, except by one girl who wrote about him when she was much older."

These...are the days of our lives

Breaking the news that we have to move.

Tomorrow is moving day. And as I sit here surrounded by boxes, using the last of my Internet before the Comcast Nazis shut it off at midnight tonight, I can't help but feel a little sad.

I'm used to moving. In the last five years I've lived at six -- yes, six -- different addresses including this one. Packing up and leaving is modus operandi for me though always a little bittersweet. But this time that sucrose savoriness lingers a bit more than usual and I have a sneaking suspicion that it's because this is where J and I started out as a married version of "us."

When we left the west coast with 16 boxes and the rings on our fingers we didn't know what would be in store over the next three years of our lives here. Would he survive law school? Would I survive law school? Would we get to take weekend jaunts over to Europe now that we lived on a closer coast and plane tickets had to be cheaper? (The answers to these questions, consecutively, are yes, yes, and no.) We still have four months left in the DC area, and I suppose this post would be better suited for when we leave for good, but we've lived at this address for two years and I think it deserves some accolades.

This apartment has been the setting for some pretty fabulous memories, including intimate fondue dinners and epic tickling wars, dinner parties, Friday movie nights (thanks, Netflix) and dancing with J to the Bee Gees after he'd get home late and exhausted from class and still make an effort to make me laugh, a testament to what a good man he is. Oh and it was also here where monumental arguments between us would take place, making Lola -- who's very sensitive to volume and tone -- cower under the dinner table in fear. (Don't worry, pup: You know as well as we do that these arguments always end in laughter over how ridiculous we're being.)

It was in this apartment where we first brought Moneypenny home after adopting her, where my sister (who stayed with us summer of 2008 for her internship) ended up sleeping on the floor of our bedroom for a month after barricading the doorway because she was terrified of cats. (Suffice to say, as obese as Moneypenny was she still cleared our tall cardboard box hurdle. Hilarity ensued.) This is where I was first introduced to the Wii (grr), the best Bordeaux I've ever tasted, and everything jurisprudence-related (whether I wanted to know it or not) as told to me by J. This is where I woke up on the morning of Obama's inauguration, when we walked from our front door down to and across the Memorial Bridge, so we could stand on the National Mall with thousands of others in freezing conditions to hear the man give his speech.

It was in this apartment where I first discovered what would become my overarching obsession: Mad Men. It was here where, when I'd finally had enough, I made a career decision that two years ago I never would have dreamed of taking. This is where I started my life over because I realized it was never too late to push the "reset" button. This is where I competed in (and won!) my first Nanowrimo. And this is where I finished my first novel:


Did I think we were going to stay here forever? Of course not. It's an Archstone for Christ's sake; the clientele is as variable as Madonna's next musical persona. And I know that everyone has sentimental, sappy memories woven within rental walls, but these are mine and they're worth noting before Comcast clips the end of an era.

Anyway, at this point in our marriage we are without a home, complete unknowns, like rolling stones -- which is all fine with me. J brought up a good point the other night: We've built our life to be completely mobile, to pack up and leave whenever we need to wherever our next destination is. I'm glad that I could happily agree.

I think I've mastered the art of never getting too comfortable in one place. You just never know when you'll have to leave. Some might find this sad or scary; others may find it exhilarating. I think of it more as the latter. Every time you move you're embarking on another adventure. Even though I'm married I'm still young, malleable and open to change, which is the way I've been for the last 27 years. I hope I stay open to forms of change for the rest of my life, because I think that's what rounds you out as a person. If I dug my heels in at every opportunity to remain status quo I wouldn't be as happy, and I'd miss out on things I never tried.

Take moving to DC. It was definitely not on my to-do list (I'd lived here before for a congressional internship and had had my fill then), but I came back because of J and though it isn't my favorite place in the world it also hasn't been altogether terrible. If I hadn't come back, for instance, I never would have realized that this is truly the land of the personalized license plate. If I didn't live here I would never get to be cut off by the pretentious Mister "MasGolf" in his navy blue BMW almost every morning on Constitution Ave. while taking J to school. Or, after getting cut off, inevitably find myself behind Mister "JoeBama" in the brand new yellow Beetle. Again, DC has not been horrible. It's just another place that's been filled with new experiences and new friends that have shaped who I am. Contrary to what J might think, I have no regrets.

(Well, okay, one teensy regret: I have yet to live in a foreign country. I mean really live, not study abroad or visit or anything like that. I hope this'll change later this year when, money and careers permitting, we take up living in Buenos Aires for August. Oh, how I want to be an ex-pat, even for short-term. *Crosses fingers.*)

Anyway, as I mentioned in an earlier post, to save money our last four months here we decided to discontinue cable at our new apartment (funny social commentary that we own a 42'' plasma television but no cable). Luckily I've found a few places online that stream the shows (probably illegally) I watch but it's not my fault that laws in Malaysia and India aren't as strict as ours. We'll have Internet, but only God knows when since J just contacted Comcast today about scheduling an appointment, meaning we'll probably be connected in, oh, about three weeks.

So, until we meet again -- quite possibly sooner than later using free WiFi at a coffeeshop -- I'm off to Silver Spring, Maryland in a Uhaul truck tomorrow in the region's second-biggest snowstorm this winter. Let the good times roll.

My first Work in Progress: COMPLETED!

Let it be known that at 10:10 pm, January 30th, Crystal completed her first first manuscript, entitled "In the Hall of the Mountain King," a literary fiction novel about an ex-Nazi doctor who flees to Buenos Aires after WWII to start a new life as a cab driver under an assumed identity.

She can't come to the computer right now because she's overwhelmed with excitement and yes, she realizes it's annoying to talk about herself in the third person, but feels she's earned it now that's she's finished an entire. bloody. manuscript. (!!!) (Finishing said manuscript also entitles her to use such British dialect as "bloody" in lieu of something more crass and unrefined. She is a lady, after all.)

It's true that the clouds didn't part and God didn't speak to her in the psychedelic trip she expected upon typing that final word. But she's still frolicking about in the snow right now, basically pulling these moves in a parka on the sidewalk to share her elation with passing traffic:



J has no comment.

Of course, she realizes that the easy part is behind her. Now the REAL work begins. John Irving once said that half of his life was an act of revision. She says let the revisions begin!

Keeping the Feast: Book review and giveaway

Although set in the lush countryside and antiquated cityscapes of Italy, where happily-ever-afters are are as common as cappuccinos, Paula Butturini's memoir Keeping the Feast is not a love story.

Instead it's a story about what happens after the honeymoon phase of a marriage, when tragedy strikes and wedding vows – to love and to cherish, till death do us part -- are put to the test. It's a story about how a wife copes with the metaphorical “death” of her husband after he falls into a maelstrom of clinical depression, and how instead of giving up and leaving him to flounder alone, she finds strength and sanity through food and the preparation of meals. It's a story about survival through the darkest moments in a marriage and, in the end, it's a story about emerging from the darkness into light, hand in hand with your loved one.

In this Mediterranean country, where food is seen as a birthright and hearty meals are a defining staple in daily life, Butturini falls in love with fellow journalist John Tagliabue while both are working as foreign correspondents in Rome. After a whirlwind marriage John soon gets wounded by gunfire while on a separate assignment in Romania and the ensuing surgeries and treatments send him into a spiral of depression so deep he becomes a living ghost, a shadow of his former self. In Keeping the Feast, Butturini chronicles the loneliness she feels when she thinks she's lost John permanently to the depression, her memories rooted in family and food from her childhood in New Jersey, and her process of overcoming adversity and finally healing through cooking and (as cheesy as it sounds) love.

Italy has always held a special place in my heart. The country was a favorite destination of my family's during our European trips; when I was older and in college I studied abroad in Florence. And when J and I planned our wedding I wanted to make the day extra memorable so we booked tickets for our closest family members, rented a villa and had a Tuscan wedding that I still smile about nearly three years later. I can see, firsthand, how Italy would be the perfect backdrop for healing an individual and a marriage. Though I felt the ending of the book fell a little flat, it's worth a read if you're a foodie who enjoys salivating over vivid descriptions of Italian settings and gourmet cuisine. And even if food isn't your thing, we've all come to that crossroads in a relationship when we ask ourselves whether sticking it out through the bad times is worth it.

In Keeping the Feast it was. All you need is hope and a little bruschetta.

I'm giving away one free copy of Keeping the Feast for anyone who's interested!

How to Enter:

1.) Only US and Canadian residents can enter. Sorry international amigos, maybe next time.

2.) This giveaway is only open to readers of Brunette on a Budget, so you must be a follower of my random musings in some capacity or another (feed subscriber, a follower in the right-hand column of my blog through Google FriendConnect, etc.)

3.) Leave a comment below.

4.) Contest ends in one week, Thursday, January 28 at 12pm EST.

Once I get all the entries I'll choose the winner at random using a number generator. Good luck!

Weekly highlights

The last week and a half has flown by out here in California, but so far the highlights have included:

Witnessing WWIII between my mother and sister over some comment that was taken out of context. The conflict lasted 3 days (yes, 3 days). And it's still resonating into today, though now they are at least acknowledging each others' presence. Usually I'm the one who's at the heart of these kind of spats so to instead be a spectator is fabulous. And so insightful.

Transcribing my family's exchanges when they don't know I'm around. Since the living room/kitchen/front door/etc. are all on the upper level of our house (our home is built on a hill), all drama occurs on this upstairs stage -- which makes the staircase leading up to it the perfect vantage point for any and all overhearing. The last few nights I've settled in on the bottom step with my laptop, typing furiously to keep up with the comedy that ensues upstairs. It's almost Royal Tenenbaums-esque and would be great fodder for a future book. The thing is practically writing itself so far. Creepy, or brilliant? Not quite sure yet.

My sister's puppy Moxie pooped on her lap in the car as we ate frozen yogurt in a shopping parking lot. Her subsequent freak-out was priceless! And it happened to come right at the end of a tiff we had so it was the ultimate retribution and I got the last laugh. Well, at least Moxie did. Good times.

Okay, maybe that wasn't my last laugh of the day. That same night my sister checked her bank statement online and saw that the frozen yogurt shop had accidentally charged her $90 for her $3 yogurt. Moral of the story: Check your account often.

I got a callback interview this week for a part-time college English teacher position I applied to in Virginia. Pros: The gig pays $35-$45 per hour and wouldn't have taken much of my time since writing is my priority. Cons: They wanted to interview me on Friday (as in the day after tomorrow). I asked if we could reschedule for after January 14th when I'd be back in town but they have to fill all positions for the semester by January 4th. Sigh. They said they'd keep my application on file, though, in case someone drops out. *hoping someone drops out*

My dad is turning 60 this weekend and what better way to celebrate than with a new scientific finding? He (along with his team of scientists) were in the news yesterday for discovering two "super-Earths" orbiting two nearby Sun-like stars. My dad has been a planet hunter for decades and designed the HiRes Spectrometer for the Keck Telescopes in Hawaii in the late '90s, so I'm very proud of him and hope this makes his birthday extra special. (Lord knows the flannel pajamas I bought him as a bday present pale in comparison.)

I'm almost done with my nanowrimo book. I'm currently on page 270 and I think I've got about three more chapters left. Chugging along to the finish line, kiddies. I absolutely have to finish this thing by New Year's Eve or else I will punch myself in the face and dub myself a failure.

Literary truths: Hemingway

"Call me Pappy."

“I write one page of masterpiece to ninety one pages of shit,” Hemingway confided to F. Scott Fitzgerald in 1934. “I try to put the shit in the wastebasket.”

'Stache stigma

This looks like a job for the Schick Quattro. Or Cinco.

As I was doing research for one of my books a few days ago, J and I got into a discussion about the stigma specifically associated with Adolf Hitler over other sinister leaders in history (Joseph Stalin, anyone?).

Most of my research right now is centered around Germany and Poland during WWII, a handful of high-ranking commanders in the Third Reich and details of concentration camps in that region. And I'd been happy with my description of a certain real-life commander in my story until I came across an obscure, grainy picture of him last week that looked nothing like my description. Since it's fiction I'm keeping my description regardless (the actual picture looks more like my childhood orthodontist Dr. Fehrman, who, with his neon-green-framed reading glasses -- this was 1992, people -- and southern drawl, was not scary-looking in the slightest). But it got us to thinking ...

J: "Would Hitler look evil if he wasn't so well known?"
Me: "If he wasn't Hitler? No, he'd just be another German guy with a bad '30s haircut."
J: "Maybe it would even be acceptable to have that mustache today. But not anymore. It's funny that the 'Hitler mustache' has such a stigma, but other mustaches do not. Like with Stalin -- no one picks on guys with thick 'staches, calling them 'Stalin 'staches.' Stalin's 'stache is like the 'stache to end all 'staches. So thick and luxurious. Puts Burt Reynolds to shame. But that little square patch? It's totally unacceptable."

(After a long pause)

J: "I wonder what it is about Hitler that anything remotely connected to him is now taboo while other just as reprehensible people in history have not had that effect?"
Me: "Because people recognize his face more? If you showed a picture of Stalin to someone our age today they most likely won't even know who he is. Everyone knows what Hitler looks like, but I doubt people would recognize a Stalin or Lenin."
J: "What about Saddam though?"
Me: "Saddam is recent, within our time. He's not historical yet."
J: "Right but he was also pretty horrible and no one harps on 'Saddam 'staches.' It is weird . . . Hitler is so untouchable. Most would argue that Stalin was actually worse then Hitler. Stalin systematically killed millions of his own people."
Me: "True. I mean, wasn't he doing just as horrible things if not worse like making lampshades out of people's skin? And those were his OWN people."
J: "They estimate that his regime killed 3-60 million Russians. Some were social minorities who lived in Russia."
Me: "Ah, gypsies. I read that Hitler gassed gypsies too. Why all the gypsy hate?"
J: "All that damn belly dancing. Gives rise to extremist hatred."
Me: "Like that that 'woman fight' in From Russia With Love?"
J: "Effing finger cymbals make my blood boil."
Me: "HAHAHAHHAHA. (Pause.) I think more than anything though you're right about Hitler's 'stache. If someone even accidentally cut theirs in the reminiscent shape of it all of a sudden "You look like Hitler." And if you don't shave it stat, then you must be a Hitler lover."
J: "Exactly. What if I just happen to look good with a square patch on my upper lip? I would be shafted. Or what if you have a deformity on your philtrum and only a square patch can cover it?"
Me: "Point taken."

J's mustachioed tangents aside, the overarching question here still stands: Why is that with Hitler/anything remotely resembling him there is this crushing taboo (aside from the obvious reasons), but with others just as evil if not more so (like Stalin, Lenin, Saddam) the same stigma isn't as intense?