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Most Excellent News

Target has selected She, Myself & I to be featured in their Breakout Books program.

Just one more reason to love Tar-jay!

Link | 27 October 2005 at 04:21 PM |

Gulp!

I've never made a public appearance as a writer. This was partly a matter of choice (I have a not-so-small terror of public speaking), and partly a matter of circumstances (Pushing 30 came out just a scant few weeks after I gave birth to Sam, and True Love (and Other Lies) was released just days before we evacuated from Hurricane Frances).

But next weekend, that's all going to change. I'm going to be appearing at the Vero Beach Book Festival (details on date, time and location are here). I'll be reading from my new book, She, Myself & I, answering questions, signing books and showing off the headless carcass of the poisonous snake George killed.

So if you're in the area, please stop by. It should be a fun event.

(And I'm just kidding about the snake. Really. You have my word that it will be a snakeless event.)

Update: Oops! Make that the weekend after next.

Link | 27 October 2005 at 03:50 PM |

Deadly Hurricanes and Poisonous Snakes

Hurrah! Only 48 hours without power! Just long enough to make a girl really appreciate her hot showers and freshly brewed coffee.

The hurricane hit Monday, as expected, but was a tad stronger than the forecasters had predicted. We lost some roof tiles and a few palm trees, but everyone's healthy and happy, if a bit wind blown.

Monday afternoon, after the storm passed, I caught George heading outside with my good Henckels chef's knife.

Me: What are you doing?

George: There's a coral snake in the backyard.

Me: Oh. And why exactly do you have my knife?

George: I'm going to use it to kill the snake.

Me: Not with my good chef's knife, you're not. Put it down.

George: Hon, I have to kill it. It's the most poisonous snake in North America.

Me: [dubiously] How do you know?

George: They taught it to us in Cub Scouts. There's even a rhyme: If red touches yellow, it can kill a fellow. And I figured that was all I really needed to know, so I didn't bother to memorize the rest.

I eventually talked George out of using my good knife, and he rearmed himself with an alternate knife and a paint roller extension handle and headed outside to vanquish the evil serpent.

To be honest, I didn't really expect him to find the snake. And I also wasn't buying the whole "this is the most poisonous snake in North America" argument either. I mean, come on. It's ridiculous. Highly poisonous snakes do not live in suburban backyards.

Turns out I was wrong on both counts.

According to Encyclopdia.com:

The venom of coral snakes, like that of cobras, acts on the nervous system and causes paralysis; the mortality rate among humans who are bitten is high.


coral snake.jpg


In. Our. Freaking. Backyard.

Ten minutes later, George came back in and announced that he'd successfully killed the snake. He stunned it with the paint roller extension handle, and then beheaded it.

Yes, that's right: he chopped the snake's head right off.

It was actually sort of gross and sexy at the same time.

I had no idea I was married to the Snake Hunter. Next thing you know, George will be hosting a show on Animal Planet.

Link | 27 October 2005 at 01:13 PM |

Hurricane Wilma

If the forecasters are correct, Hurricane Wilma should be passing right over my house sometime tomorrow.

Gah.

We went out this morning and stocked up on all of our hurricane essentials (water, flashlights, batteries, Oreos, wine), and then took Sam and Lulu to the playground for one last hurrah.

We're expecting to lose power and cable sometime tomorrow, so I won't be able to watch tv, take a hot shower or make coffee, much less blog. Stupid hurricane.

See you on the flip side . . .

Link | 23 October 2005 at 02:21 PM |

The Pug Is In The House

This has not been a good year for us dog-wise. After two losses and an unsuccessful adoption, we were thinking that perhaps we should remain a dog-free home for the time being.

Then I found out there was a pug up for adoption at the local humane society. Since we loves the pugs, I went to meet her on Wednesday.

Long story short: we brought her home yesterday.

So allow me to Introduce the newest member of the family . . . Miss Tallulah Bankhead Gaskell!


Lulu.jpg


It’s an awfully long name for such a little girl, so we nicknamed her Lulu.

Lulu’s likes: cuddling, soft pillows, bagels.

Lulu’s dislikes: not cuddling, an absence of soft pillows, dog food.

Link | 22 October 2005 at 12:08 PM |

Life With A Toddler, Part 18

Sam is currently watching Blue's Clues (yes, while I'm on the computer . . . don't judge me). For anyone not familiar with the show, it's about an odd guy named Steve who has a cartoon dog name Blue. Blue teaches him stuff by leaving around clues that Steve has to first find and then figure out.

Sam seems to think the show is interactive. He keeps yelling out "BLUUUUUUUE," and, occasionally, "CLUUUUUUUUE" at the television.

Honestly, I'm not sure if Sam's actually enjoying it, or if it's just stressing him out that Steve is so oblivious.

Link | 21 October 2005 at 04:06 PM |

This Is News To Me

Contrary to popular opinon, Puff the Magic Dragon really isn't about pot. Or, as Greg referred to it on last night's episode of CSI, "sweet Mary Jane."

Huh. You learn something new every day.

Link | 21 October 2005 at 03:49 PM |

Weather Watch

That's a big ass storm headed this way.

Know how I plan on dealing with it? Denial.

That was how my late pug, Maddy, handled anything she found unpleasant. If she didn't like something -- or someone -- she just pretended it wasn't there. It's really an excellent way to avoid unwanted stress.

When in doubt, look to the pug.

Link | 19 October 2005 at 01:51 PM |

Amazing Race: Cable Access Edition

Last night's episode was so lame -- the tasks included getting a clue from a guy named Les at a British Petroleum station in rural Alabama and spending the night in a manufactured home show lot in Mississippi -- I turned to George and said, "Is this the real show, or is it supposed to be a parody?"

And they still haven't left the U.S., although the promo for next week promises they eventually will. Heck, they might go all the way to . . . Canada.

Link | 19 October 2005 at 01:23 PM |

Bookreporter ♥'s She, Myself & I

The review.

Link | 16 October 2005 at 06:42 PM |

Heard Around the House, Part 18

Me: I've never understood why the Heaven's Gate cult all cut their bangs in that weird way.

George: So you're fine with the whole mass suicide pact and their belief that by killing themselves they'd be able to hitch a ride on a space craft?

Me: No. That's weird, too.

George: But not as weird as their hair styles?

Me: I just don't understand why they had to cut their bangs like that in order to ascend to the Mother Ship. It's just odd. What, they couldn't commit mass suicide with normal haircuts?

George: Which brings me back to my original point.

Me:

George:

Me: Yeah, okay, I see what you're saying. But, still, I don't get the hair thing.

Link | 14 October 2005 at 05:50 PM |

Bleg

You know what would make me really, really happy?

If everyone who enjoyed She, Myself & I would go to amazon.com and/or bn.com, and leave a gushing review of the book.

Well, you don't have to gush. But gushing would be nice.

Link | 14 October 2005 at 11:39 AM |

Life With A Toddler, Part 17

I've been to playgroup before, I know what goes on there -- the sticky toddlers, the finger paints, etc.

So why exactly did I decide to wear white pants this morning? Was it denial? Short-term amnesia?

And, more importantly, are washable Crayola markers truly washable, or is that a load of crap? You know, like the whole "M&M’s melt in your mouth, not in your hands" campaign, which, as everyone with sweaty palms knows, was just a big fat lie.

Link | 14 October 2005 at 11:11 AM |

She, Myself & I . . . Better Than Average!

Who doesn't want to be better-than-average? It's certainly beats the alternative.

Link | 13 October 2005 at 02:00 PM |

Heard Around the House, Part 17

George: Listen, Sam. This is how you count to five -- one, two, three, four, five.

Sam: Two, three, two, three . . . SIXTEEN!

Link | 12 October 2005 at 08:02 PM |

Amazing Race: Family Boring Edition

So, yeah, the newest season of the Amazing Race started a few weeks ago. This time, rather than having eleven teams of two racing around the world, they have eleven teams of four person families racing around the, er, United States eastern seaboard.

Bo-ring.

I knew it was going to suck. Although, actually, the first few weeks weren't as bad as I thought they would be. The challenges were mildly entertaining, and the families were -- with one notable exception -- all sort of likable.

But therein lies the problem: what's the fun of the show when there's no one to root against? And, yes, the Paolo family is horrible, but it's not like there's any chance they're going to make it to the final three, so they're not particularly menacing.

Last night's Nickelodeon-esque episode was a yawn-fest. Look, watch the families shuck shrimp. Watch the families ride on the Space Camp ride. Watch the Weavers melt down. Watch the . . . Zzzzzzzzz.

In a weird, masochistic way, I find myself missing -- dare I say it? -- Rob and Amber. They were insufferably smug and annoyingly lucky, but at least the show had some bite last season.

Things had better improve quickly, or I'm going to Philiminate the show from my rapidly dwindling Tivo list.

Link | 12 October 2005 at 07:34 PM |

Still Sick

I spoke too soon.

I went to Urgent Care on Saturday, and the doctor looked up my nose, down my throat, and concluded that not only was I sick (which I'd sort of figured out), but that I should be in bed. She prescribed antibiotics and at least 48 hours of bed rest.

"But I have a two-year old," I said.

"Is your husband at all capable of taking care of him?" the doctor asked, in a tone that made it clear she thought this unlikely.

"Hey!" George said, when I passed on her doubts. "She doesn't even know me!"

So I got home and climbed into bed, and rested for about two minutes, at which point Sam toddled in. He took one look at me lying down, and his face screwed up in indignation. It's the expression I'd expect to see on a duchess who's caught her scullery maid napping when she's supposed to be in the kitchen peeling potatoes.

He grabbed my index finger and pulled hard, apparently planning to drag me out of the bed if necessary. Never mind that Sam takes a luxurious three-hour nap every afternoon . . . he clearly does not find it acceptable for mothers to do the same thing. Or not, at least, his mother.

Link | 10 October 2005 at 03:08 PM |

Sick and Tired

This is the ninth day in a row that I’ve been sick with a sinus infection.

I’m never sick. Really, I’m usually one of those disgustingly healthy people who doesn’t even get a cold while everyone else is knocked on their asses by whatever god-awful bird flu or ebola virus is going around.

And maybe the worst part is that I’m just sick enough not to feel up to doing anything fun, but not so sick I can get away with luxuriating in bed all day with a stack of magazines and a bell to summon George with.

“Would you mind getting me another Coke?” I’d say weakly. “And this time, will you stick one of those bendy straws in it so I don’t have to lift my head up off the pillow to drink?”

You know, fun sick, where you actually get to relax a little. Oh no. I’m still taking care of the baby, and running the vacuum around, and doing umpteen loads of laundry. I’m just feeling shitty while I do it.

I’m so sick of being sick. And I’m also sick of saying, “I’m sick,” and having it sound like “I thick,” because of how stuffy I am.

Link | 07 October 2005 at 04:51 PM |

Life With A Toddler, Part 16

I don’t just like water. I’m addicted to it.

Here are my water rules: (1) It must be ice cold, (2) It must taste good ("good" is defined as what I like, these days satisfied by water filtered through a Brita pitcher), and, lastly, (3) It must be served in a plastic cup.

I know the last rule might sound a little weird, but it’s what I like, and besides, I think part of adulthood is no longer wasting time wondering if your peccadilloes are weird, and just accepting that they are and getting on with life. I even have special, extra-large pink plastic cups that I found at Target. (I picked pink, hoping it would discourage George from using them. It has not.)

Wherever I go in the house, my water goes with me. I carry it from room to room, taking care to frequently freshen the ice. As soon as I’m separated from my cup, I instantly feel like a character in an adventure caper who’s stranded in a desert with a bad-tempered camel and an empty canteen, and who quickly becomes so dehydrated, he starts seeing mirages of waterfalls spilling into cool lakes.

But, hey, I figure that as far as obsessive-compulsive habits go, this one is pretty harmless. Certainly better than being addicted to crack or vodka or having Botox injected in my forehead.

So it’s driving me absolutely insane that Sam will not leave my water cup alone.

At first he just wanted to drink from my cup. I wasn’t thrilled about this – sharing cups with anyone grosses me out, and besides, Sam has a nasty habit of backwashing. But I gamely let him take the odd sip here and there, even though nearly every time Sam rewards me by tipping the entire cup of freezing cold water down him or me or both of us.

But now his new thing is to stick his hands in my cup, and splash the water around. And since I know exactly how much time Sam devotes each day to playing with the toilet – lifting the lid up, putting it down, wiping his hands on the rim – this hand-to-water contact instantly makes the water undrinkable and the cup unusable. I have to stop whatever I’m doing and start the decontamination protocol (or else risk forgetting that his potty hands were in my cup, and end up drinking it after all).

As a parent, I’m willing to put up with a lot. I really don’t mind changing diapers, or getting up in the middle of the night, or that two years after Sam’s birth I still can’t fit into my pre-pregnancy jeans. It’s all part of the gig. I’ve been peed on, and pooped on, and the other day Sam actually picked a booger out of his nose and stuffed it in my mouth. Gross, yes, but I pulled myself together and moved on.

But this water interference is just intolerable. It’s one tiny part of my life that I am just not willing to compromise on, ground I will not cede to him. Some principles are just worth fighting for.

Link | 06 October 2005 at 08:31 PM |

The Mean Reds

I have a case of the Mean Reds.

I've been cooped up in a sick house for two weeks and counting. We've missed five playdates, a music class, and had to cancel two date nights (Even though we had a babysitter lined up each time . . . *sob* . . . a babysitter). I haven't run in a week, thanks to the sinus infection/cold/crud that refuses to go away. I can't remember the last time I left the house to go somewhere fun (indeed, I seem to be spending far too much time at that teeming cesspool of bacteria known as the pediatrician's office). I haven't even been to the bookstore to admire my new book out on the shelves.

The result: I'm now incredibly grouchy. I’m snappy, and prickly, and in such a rotten mood, I’m surprised that flowers don't wilt when I walk by.

Eh, at least there’s a new episode of Lost on tonight. That’s something, right?

Update: When Sam got up from his nap, I gave him a granola bar and read Goodnight, Gorilla to him. Sam was so excited by my rendition of this literary gem, that he spit up the granola bar all over me.

And the sad part? Being barfed upon wasn't even the worst part of my day.

Link | 05 October 2005 at 01:37 PM |

Read All About It!

There are some great reviews of She, Myself & I out today, here and here.

Link | 04 October 2005 at 10:57 AM |

Laughing Alone

It always annoyed me how men treated me when I was pregnant. They'd see my enormous bump coming toward them, and they'd get all panicky and wild-eyed, as though they were worried that if they acknowledged my presence in any way, even by doing something nice like holding open a door or giving up a seat in a crowded waiting room, I'd slap them with a paternity suit.

George, however, was treated as though he'd done something truly extraordinary in knocking me up. Whenever we were out together, the men would stare at me like I was some sort of freak show exhibit ("What is wrong with you people?" I wanted to shout. "Have you never before seen a pregnant woman? And, no, I am not having twins, do don't you dare ask me that!"). But then they'd nod approvingly or wink slyly at George.

See? Annoying.

So, after awhile, whenever someone asked George if he was getting excited about the upcoming birth, I'd chirp in, "Yes, he is! Especially since there's an 81% chance he's the father."

And then I'd laugh like hell. No matter how many times I told the joke, it never failed to crack me up.

"Please stop saying that to people," my ever-patient husband would say.

"Why? Don't you think it's funny?" I'd ask.

"No, not really."

"Don't you get the joke?"

"I get it. I just don't think it's funny. And I don't think my parents thought it was funny, either. Or my boss," George said. "And, really, honey, I don't think the waitress even knew that you were joking."

Link | 03 October 2005 at 02:45 PM |