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Channel: The Sassy Curmudgeon

Off the Rails

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A silent film starring a mother, a toddler, a Northeast Regional Direct, and crappy, low-light iPhone photos. (Note to potential investors: I'm still finessing the tag line.)


















































FIN.

(But seriously, WTF is up with my face? It looks like my Scooby Doo mask is coming off. I hope Santa knows a good dermatologist.)

10 Fail-Proof New Year's Resolutions

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1. Wake up hungover on January 1st and immediately ruin your planned juice cleanse with a Denny’s Grand Slam.

2. Continue to write previous year on checks through October.

3. Unsuccessfully attempt to save a gif file.

But if you do manage to save one, make it this one.

4. Once a month, make online reservation for a yoga class. Then cancel at 2 am the night before, 3/4 of the way into a bottle of Chardonnay.

5. Curse more extensively upon opening phone bill.

6. Take more accidental iPhone videos of people standing still, posing for a photo, while shouting “Why isn’t it taking it???”

7. Watch four episodes of Law & Order: SUV in a row while drunkenly Tweeting.

8. Mispronounce John Boehner’s last name on purpose.

9. Make ill-advised impulse purchase in the checkout line at Best Buy.

10. Wash something dry clean only.

May your 2014 be marked by health, wealth, happiness, and Beyonce manifesting in your living room to personally deliver your stuffed-crust pizza from behind her left ear.

The Most Important Frosted Mini Donut Taste-Test Of All Time (Also Possibly The Only Frosted Mini Donut Taste Test Of All Time)

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Well, hellooooo, friends who succumbed to my insane social media pressure to click on this link. Since I've been AWOL since late December, I don't expect that many people are refreshing the ol' SaCu (which is a nickname I just made up, pronounced sack-uh) on the regular anymore.

But that all changes now. Because I just ate 30 mini frosted donettes and I'm here to tell the tale.

Why, you ask?

I guess I could say it's for the good of humanity, and that I just want my fellow wo/man's each and every frosted mini donut experience to reach the pinnacle of its incredible potential. But really, I finished my first draft of Unabrow and I'm waiting for notes and I have nothing better to do. Incidentally this may also be why I've been conducting late-night searches for "Reality Bites outfit" and "crop tops for middle age" on Etsy.

I have long had a love affair with frosted mini donuts. I think it's because they combine chocolate and smallness. I find smallness to be key in my ideal binge-eating experience, because the smaller a foodstuff is, the more of it you can eat without coming off as totally disgusting. It's a special mind trick, both for yourself and for others. Like, if I eat two King-size Twix bars, I feel like Jabba the Hut, but I can eat eighteen miniature Twix bars and maintain the illusion that I am a delicate flower.

The same principle applies to donuts. Normal-sized donuts aren't bad--not by a long shot--but mini donuts are fucking cute. Just look at them; how could a sweet little nibble like that cause heart disease or obesity? They're like kittens, except even more adorable:

My inspirational poster, forthcoming on Etsy.
Now, yes, I know I could have just stuffed my face in private and shut up about it, but in my planning I realized that my pointless gluttony might just be legitimized if it were presented as a "blog post" rather than a "cry for help." (Also, I can write off the $14.94 I spent on materials. Stickin' it to the man!!)

Oh, and you know what else legitimizes it? Lab report format. BOOM.

QUESTION I'M TRYING TO ANSWER:
1) Which brand of rich frosted (i.e. chocolate-drenched) mini cake donut is best; 2) Can 150 grams of sugar and 45 grams of saturated fat consumed over a ten minute period cure my Seasonal Affective Disorder?

HYPOTHESIS:
1) They probably all taste pretty much the same, meaning unbearably delicious; 2) Maybe? At the very least I should get sleepy.

MATERIALS:
  • 1 sleeve Hostess Frosted Donettes
  • 1 bag Little Debbie Mini Frosted Donuts
  • 1 bag Tastykake Rich Frosted Mini Donuts
  • 1 box Entenmann's Rich Frosted Mini Donuts
  • 1 sleeve Entenmann's frosted donuts (different! smaller!)
  • 1 bag Nice! Frosted Mini Donuts
  • Milk (palate cleanser)
  • Posterboard
  • Knife
  • Jeff (optional)
  • Ruler
  • Pen
  • Ennui
  • Shame
Wait, scratch that last item. I forgot to bring shame.

PROCEDURE:
I stored the donuts in the fridge until all brands were present and accounted for. (Full disclosure, there are other brands of frosted mini donut--notably Freihofer's, Mrs. Freshley's, and a few obscure smaller companies with names like Bunny and Dolly and Lady Linda--but I stopped short of ordering them online; I only used brands I could find locally, because apparently my particular brand of food fetishism has city limits.) I allowed them to come to room temperature, and then had Jeff place the donuts on an arena I had pre-prepared so that I wouldn't be bringing any of my preconceived notions or prejudices about our nation's larger baked goods chains into my super scientific analysis.

As may be obvious from the title, I took it super seriously.
But after consuming five donuts I realized there was a sixth brand I'd forgotten in the fridge, so I had to re-do the whole thing. Because, science.


(This one has more of a noir feel because I had to wait until nightfall, after Sam had gone to sleep, because if he saw me eating "assert" without him, he would have lost his damn mind.)

Anyway, first, I took physical measurements and notes on external appearance. For this segment of the experiment I pretended I was Mariska Hargitay on Law & Order: SVU, examining a body.

Next, I cut each donut in half and observed the inner cake. Using milk in between bites, I used one half of each donut to conduct independent taste tests of frosting and cake and recorded my notes. I then ate the other halves of the donuts in order to judge the taste as a whole. Then I ate all of the remaining donuts while watching Parks & Recreation on Hulu and drinking wine.

[Imagine Barry White playing]
In giving each donut a score, I took into account size (smaller being better for reasons stated above), beauty, the flavor/quality of the frosting, and the flavor/quality of the cake, and the crucial, final, mouthfeel and taste of everything together. I also did some serious reflection on my priorities, but chose not to write those notes down.

RESULTS:

Here is a purely mathematical presentation of my findings on a scale of 1 to 6, with 1 being the best and 6 being the worst:


But the true Mathletes among you may realize that the averages don't add up; in other words, I based my final, overall rankings not on the numbers, but on a certain je ne sais quoi otherwise known as my mouthbrain.

I will now defend my choices, in reverse order.

#6: Entenmann's, small version
I had high hopes for these, first of all because I just assume Entenmann's is fancy--Why, though? Why is this? You can find them in every echelon of grocery store, from Stop & Shop to my local bodega, the one which is filled 10 am to midnight with middle-aged men smoking cigarettes indoors while playing the scratch-off lotto. How did Entenmann's fool me into hero worship?--and also because they were hands down the most attractive donuts of the bunch, perfectly round with a cute, sphincter-y hole and evenly coated with thick, dark frosting. Unfortunately, the individual taste tests revealed that said frosting was sweet but had almost no discernible chocolate. The cake was also bland city. And for some reason, when combined the donut had a weird, off-putting flavor that I couldn't pinpoint.

(BTW, just in case I have tricked you so far into thinking this post has any valuable takeaway, or you are an Entenmann's exec weeping into your pecan danish ring, this was Jeff's #1 donut. So apparently I know nothing.)

#5: Little Debbie
The good news for Little Debbie is that her inner donut is aces; I thought this was the best-tasting cake of the bunch. The bad news is that otherwise she is a pockmarked outcast who reeks inexplicably of cinnamon. This donut looked like a regurgitated turd compared to the eye-blinding beauty of Entenmann's, with a topography like one of Edward James Olmos' cheeks covered only in a thin, watery frosting that tasted more like cinnamon than chocolate.

#4: Nice!
You can tell Nice! isn't going to be good based on the name alone. First of all, there's the exclamation point--amateur overkill--and then the word choice. "Nice." How was the sex with your date last night? It was... nice. No, it wasn't. It was terrible and you're just being polite. You can't tell whether the word "nice" is a compliment or a sarcastic put-down unless you know the tone. And I have the feeling the people behind Nice! were being sincere, but also maybe that English is not their first language? Anyway, Nice! is pretty Meh! Thick, plastic-tasting frosting, stale donut, bigger than all but one of the other competitors, thereby robbing me of my ability to feel dainty while eating them by the wagonful.

#3: Entenmann's, big n' tall version
These are the Andre the Giant of mini donuts, twice the size of any of their miniature brethren, so I had to remove points right away, despite their enticingly polished presentation and the sensual crunch upon tooth-frosting contact that sets off my most secret, mostly Cheetos-triggered pleasure center. What relegated this to the #3 spot was a cloying sweetness in the frosting and a citrus-y aftertaste in the cake, which was a tad too light for my liking, dissolving almost immediately in my mouth. I like my donuts like I like my men--stocky and hard to bite through.

#2: Tastykake
OK, so the sixth brand I forgot about in the original study? This one. So in the interest of full disclosure I should admit that I really half-assed the second set of data. I didn't section the Tastykake and pick it apart, because--deep breath--I'm not actually a scientist, I'm just a girl, standing in front of six bags of donuts, asking them what I'm doing with my life. So I just took bites of all of the other samples and then ate a Tastykake and tried to rank it that way. And it stood up well. The frosting is really rich and strong, almost a dark chocolate flavor, which sets it apart right away, and the cake is dense but not stale. Philadelphia, you can't spell, but you're onto something here.

#1: Hostess (with the mostess)
In the individual tests, I gave Hostess the worst cake flavor rating, because it had a sort of stale, licorice-y aftertaste. But then I gave it the best frosting rating, since its coating was the only one that actually tasted like real chocolate frosting you might buy from the naked Pillsbury Doughboy. And wouldn't you know, it turns out you can have your assy cake and eat it, too, as long as the frosting's yummy, because hot damn, this one was the BEST. I should have known the company who trademarked the word "donette" knew what they were doing. Also, the donette is the smallest mini donut of all, so a sleeve of six is basically like a bunch of organic kale, calorically-speaking.

CONCLUSIONS:

  1. I need to start working again soon. Really soon.
  2. Contrary to my long-held and totally disgusting prejudice, all mini frosted donuts are NOT "basically the same." In fact they were totally distinctive, and some of them when compared to the others aren't very good at all.
  3. I will still buy the not good ones, though, as long as they're there.
  4. Jeff and I may have to reevaluate our relationship based on The Entenmann's Parallax. Incidentally that will be the name of the movie based on the book I write about our contentious, snack food-fueled divorce.
  5. You know what? I AM pretty sleepy.

Brief But Important Lessons From the 2014 Oscars

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1. Formal Khaki is the New Black


I am admittedly biased, because "white person flesh" is my least favorite Crayola shade, but here's a new party game: See if you can distinguish Angelina Jolie from a jaundiced polar bear, or Cate Blanchett from a pair of honey beige control top pantyhose! Winner gets all the flan they can eat in one sitting.

2.  This Was the Year of the TuxedNO


Before you say anything, yes, there is a time and place for a white tux--it is 1977 on Fantasy Island. There is also a time and place for a red tux, and it is on the decaying body of Beetlejuice at his wedding to Lydia Deetz (which incidentally ends with him being eaten by a Sandworm). There is no time nor place for formal jams, Pharrell, I don't care how much "Happy" makes me dance.

3. Liza Don't Give a Fuh


As someone might say in the mid-nineties, or as my mom would still say to this day, "You go, girl."

4. BREAKING NEWS: John Travolta is not gay!!!!


Because what self-respecting homosexual man can't pronounce Idina Menzel? Case--and closet--closed.

How to Wish Someone a Happy Birthday on Facebook and (Maybe) Not Sound Like a Douchebag

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Disclaimer: I wrote this a few years ago, but since my birthday is coming up next week, and I've been riddled with guilt from not wishing OTHERS a happy birthday on Facebook, it's been on my mind.


Once upon a time, when a family member, close friend, or loved one celebrated a birthday, you were expected to send them a card. In the MAIL. That you wrote a personal message in. And bought a stamp for. Okay, seriously, stop laughing.

Then, e-cards absolved us of the oh-shit-grandma’s-birthday-is-TODAY guilt. Plus, phone calls were still valuable emotional currency. And maybe I’m just unspeakably rude, but it’s gotten to the point where I only call blood relatives on their birthdays. Close friends might get texts if I remember, but EVERYONE gets a Facebook message.

Why? Well, partially because without Facebook’s upper righthand corner, I would never know when anyone’s birthday actually was. And also because the Facebook Happy Birthday has become the lowest common denominator of affection. It’s so easy (now you don’t even have to go to the person’s wall–the message box appears right on your homepage!) and you’re already there–so, really, unless you have a legitimate reason to hate the person whose birthday it is, you’re basically obligated to throw your uninspired well-wishes onto the pile.

BUT WHAT TO WRITE? You’ve got some options:

1. THE CLASSIC

Happy Birthday!

(Of course, you can lowercase the B if you want. Get crazy. A single exclamation point is standard. If you don’t use any punctuation, you look like a serial killer, just FYI.)

2. THE INTIMATE CLASSIC

Happy Birthday, Mike!

(This proves you took the time to glance at the person’s name and retype it. This obviously makes you and Mike BFFS, and straight-up schools the impersonal Classic writers.)

3. THE OVEREAGER INTIMATE CLASSIC

Happy Birthday, Mike!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Hope it’s a GREAT ONE, BUDDY!!!!!!!!!

(I pity these fools, but at the same time, I get it. Say you really ARE besties with Mike? How are you supposed to distinguish yourself from the other people who so thoughtfully included his correctly-spelled first name, other than have the most exclamation points, plus a generic message of goodwill? Oh! Maybe…)

4. THE INTIMATE CLASSIC, NICKNAME EDITION

Happy Birthday, Mikey Skidmarks!

(Yeah, in your face, sycophants. Nobody knows Mike like I do.)

5. THE RSVP 

[Insert any of the previous greetings here]. Can’t wait to douse you in Jager bombs on Friday!

(Nothing says love like a passive-aggressive intimation that you are invited to someone’s party and the rest of these poseurs aren’t.)

6. THE MINIMALIST

hbd

(This is the James-Spader-in-Pretty-in-Pink of FB birthday messages: cool, pretentious, with a cigarette hanging from its lips and a sneer of superiority. What has two thumbs and only had to use one of them to type Mike’s birthday message? This guy.)

7. THE ARTIST

H
A
P
P
Y

:-D

B
I
R
T
H
D
A
Y
!
!
!

(Someone always has to get fancy. Yeah, thanks for making me scroll down for this vertical version of what everyone else already wrote, asshat.)

8. THE NO-SHOW

[...]

(I take it all back. Who says you have to write on Mike’s wall for his birthday? Maybe you didn’t check Facebook today, because you were too busy waiting on line at the post office to send him a card. Retro is so hot right now, just look at Instagram! And hey, when he gets it sometime next month, he’ll know you care the most. Definitely more than that d-bag with the Jager bombs.)

NEXT TIME: How to Memorialize a Dead Celebrity on Facebook and (Maybe) Not Sound Like A Douchebag. Hint: Do not express shock and awe that the person in question wasn't already dead. 

Patty Chang Anker on Her Nervy Creative Process #MyWritingProcess Blog Tour

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I'm so excited to be a part of this month's #MyWritingProcess Blog Tour, where writers from across genres and continents talk about how they write. Today I'm featuring the incredible Patty Chang Anker, one of my costars in Listen To Your Mother, whose debut book, Some Nerve: Lessons Learned While Becoming Brave, was called "downright inspiring" by Oprah.com (OPRAH! DOT COM!), and was chosen as a Book of the Day by Elizabeth "Eat Pray Love" Gilbert.


As a fellow non-genetically-predisposed-to-bravery (let's not say coward, shall we?) woman, I so identified with Patty's struggle, and it didn't hurt that she wrote with incredible warmth and humor. I cannot wait to see what she tackles next!

OK, enough fangirling out; now I'll let Patty take over in her own words (she has a way with them...)

What am I working on? 

Right now I’m working on blog pieces for PsychologyToday.com (about overcoming anxiety during the learning process), BikingtheBigApple.com (about Team #SomeNerve training for the TD Five Boro Bike Tour), and Facing Forty Upside Down (about finding community as a way to fight fear). I’m also preparing a talk, and drafting content for the paperback of Some Nerve. The long term thinking, working, revising a book length project have turned into quick turnarounds for shorter pieces, mostly about how to apply the “lessons learned while becoming brave” in our lives. It’s fun to take the stories from the book out into the world.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

My work is part immersion memoir, part journalism, part self-help. It’s different from most memoir because it’s set in the present and is as much focusd on other people as me. It’s different from most journalism in that while I do often observe classes, therapy sessions, and other interactions without interfering and I do interview experts in traditional settings, I also actively participate at times. I will introduce someone with a fear of driving to a driving instructor, or take friends with a fear of heights to a ropes course. I set story lines in motion without knowing what’s going to happen and then write about what does. And it’s different from most self-help in that the information, whether it’s techniques from Toastmasters or psychological approaches used by therapists, is related by what it’s like for me or others to experience these things and not through case studies or tip sheets.

Why do I write what I do? 

I write what I need to read. I need to acknowledge all the crazy talk in my head, poke a little fun at myself, figure out how to find strength to push forward when I’m scared, have enjoyable--even peak--experiences more often, find out how other people tick, imagine being different tomorrow from today, and then commit all of this in writing so that my girls will remember me as more than “Mom sure was tired.” I’ve been through many periods of feeling alone--and I write to reach anyone else who feels that way, to tell them it’s ok, come out into the sunshine, come laugh with us and we’ll become brave together.

How does my writing process work?

For quick short pieces I write well during the day while the kids are at school but for the book, the old “butt in chair” and “writing is a job show up for your job” or “every day set a timer produce X number of words” advice didn’t work at all. I found the enormity of writing 100K coherent words on deadline overwhelming, and when things needed to be done for the house or the kids once interrupted I couldn’t pick up again. I was so consumed by what I call my Greek Chorus of Perpetual Doubt--“You can’t do this, you don’t know how, another day is gone, tick, tick TICK”--showing up for my job left me exhausted and actually steps behind from where I was the day before. I realized I needed to forge my own way, which was to focus on research until I felt ready to write. This took 8 months out of the 14 I had before my deadline and was nerve wracking. I’ve always performed best close to deadline but it’s one thing to do that for a term paper, it’s another for an entire book! But I’m glad I allowed myself to just be in the field because once you’ve fully absorbed the experiences the stories take root and the brain makes connections to other stories from your past and before you know it elaborate plots with fully developed characters are alive and begging to come out. Once I was ready I wrote when I felt most free to write – at night when I was least likely to be interrupted, when everyone else’s needs were met and I wasn’t expected to be productive. I wrote until 4 in the morning, alone and in the dark but laughing and weeping with all these people I’d grown to care so much about, remembering incredible stories of them at their most courageous, feeling less alone than I’ve ever felt.

So much of writing is getting out from under the guilt that we should be doing something else, or we should be doing this a whole lot better. I say wherever and whenever you can push through that secret bookcase that leads you to a hidden room where you feel most free, that’s where and when to write.

***

Patty tagged me (obviously), and Ava Chin, a native New Yorker who is the author of Eating Wildly: Foraging for Life, Love, and the Perfect Meal (coming in May), which Kirkus Reviews called “A delectable feast of the heart.” The Urban Forager blogger for the New York Times, her work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, Saveur, the Village Voice, and Martha Stewart online. She blogs about foraging, green living, and DIY-food at www.AvaChin.com.

I'll be posting my own answers (and tagging more kick-ass writers) next Monday, so come on back, y'all, ya hear?

My Writing Process--Not That You Asked!

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Last week I featured Patty Chang Anker on the #MyWritingProcess blog tour, and now it's my turn! Gird your loins and grab some Tootsie Rolls. This will be only semi-educational, I promise.

What am I working on? 

The following sentence would make the teenage Una experience a debilitating euphoria not felt since Allison Parker kissed Billy Campbell at the end of episode 29 of season one of Melrose Place: I’m in various stages of writing three different books. My second young adult novel, Like No Other (which you can pre-order here!), comes out July 24 from Razorbill (Penguin’s YA imprint), and right now I’m doing early publicity, like speaking at schools and libraries, as well as awaiting the final manuscript to approve before it goes to print. My book of comic essays, Unabrow, is with a copy editor at Plume (coincidentally, another Penguin imprint) as I type this, and I’ll be getting a galley to look at in the next month. It won’t come out until late March 2015, but publishing houses generally start working on promotion and publicity at least 6-8 months ahead of time… which explains why so often, I hear friends and family members say, “Wait, that didn’t come out yet? You’ve been posting about it for what feels like my entire adult life.” (I choose to hear this as a compliment rather than a complaint.) Finally, I’m very excited about a third YA novel, also with Razorbill, that I’ll be starting to write in May, for publication in the fall of 2015, but since I haven’t signed the contract yet I can’t share more details right now.

How does my work differ from others of its genre? 

It’s my firm belief that the primary (and sometimes the only) thing that distinguishes one creative work from the next is the author’s voice and point of view. Back in college, I remember my film professor telling our class that there are really only about 10 different plots in movies when you break them down to their bones, and that the important thing isn’t about coming up with an idea that no one else has ever had before (a feat which, in today’s over-saturated market, is close to impossible), but to tell the story in a way that no one else could. And that was a HUGE relief to me, because we all have an authentic, original voice and point of view, which means that we are all capable of writing--or painting, or photographing, or dancing, or whatever--in a way that hasn’t been done.

That said, I’d like to think that what distinguishes my young adult writing is that I balance out the angst and drama (which, let’s face it, are the two most important ingredients in most stories set amidst the emotional minefield of post-adolescence) with wit and humor. I think that we don’t give teenagers credit for being able to appreciate the humor inherent in the fumbling path to adulthood. As far as my humor writing goes, again, I hope what distinguishes me is simply my voice and my way of interpreting and reflecting on life experiences in a way that other people can relate to and laugh at. I haven’t had a particularly exceptional life on paper. I haven’t had crazy experiences or terrible tragedies. I am awed and humbled by people who do have extraordinary circumstances and incredible stories to tell, but I’m happy to just write about universal stuff like unrequited crushes, althletic humiliations, and wondering if the people behind you in line at the drug store are judging you for buying wart removal pads and a double-feature DVD of My Girl and My Girl 2 that was on sale for $4.99.

Why do I write what I do? 

This photo should, much like Clarissa Darling,  explain it all.
I write humor because it's the lens through which I can best understand and process my own life. This is not to say that I don’t take things seriously, or that all I do in real life is crack jokes. In fact, I yell a lot at inanimate objects and cry probably more than is normal. No, what I mean is that seeing the humor in awkward or painful moments helps me to cope with them. To be honest, I never imagined I would write fiction, but now that I’m doing it I want to keep doing it for as long as people will let me. I love writing YA, even though it sometimes makes me feel old. It lets me exercise a different creative muscle, get my head out of my own ass (writing exclusively about your own life can make you into an insufferable narcissist if you’re not careful), and it gives me the chance to reach someone who, like me, might have more books/pimples than friends. I know I’ll never be Judy Blume, but if I can make a kid laugh during a shitty week, or make someone connect to a character in one of my books in a way that makes them feel normal and understood, or see a window to a future in which high school won’t define them anymore, that’s good enough for me.

How does my writing process work? 

It’s chaos, I won’t lie. I wrote my first book (Five Summers--out in paperback soon!) when my son was 6 months old, and basically I would write during his naps and after he went to sleep. I was stressed and exhausted all the time, and I freaked out on a daily basis. By the time I wrote my second novel I had a slightly better grip on how to manage my time, but as a full time stay-at-home, work-when-I-can-hide-in-the-bathroom-during-Blue’s-Clues parent, I still make it up as I go. Generally, I will create an outline or loose structure for a book first, either a series of paragraph-long chapter summaries or, in the case of Unabrow, a grid I taped to the wall and covered with Post-Its like a cray-cray Carrie Mathison.

The only difference is that my office isn't nearly this clean and Mandy Patinkin almost never visits.

Then I’ll make a schedule for a first draft over the course of about 12-16 weeks, and then I crack open some wine and place myself at my editors' mercy. I now have babysitters in the mornings for three to four hours, so I do the bulk of my writing then. I still work during naps and at night, but I’ve discovered that my creative brain isn’t very functional post-8 pm, so whenever I can I take nights off. I do work on weekends whenever my husband takes our son on an outing, but I don't write at the same time every day and--get ready to have a heart attack--I don't even write every day. Almost all writers will tell you that you HAVE to write, EVERY DAY, to WORK ON YOUR CRAFT, or else you are NOT A REAL WRITER. But riddle me this, Jonathan Safran-Foer: does a brain surgeon operate on brains every day? Does a rocket scientist science rockets every day? Does a plumber plumb every day? And is he not still a plumber, nay, the best plumber of his generation? OK, fine maybe not the best, but he's still a plumber. Which is my point.

Thanks for taking the time to read this, whether you are a writer, an aspiring writer, not a writer at all, or (fingers crossed) Inigo Montoya clicking a Google alert on his own name.

To continue the #MyWritingProcess tour, I am tagging:

SUSAN GLOSS

Susan's debut novel, Vintage, was published in March! Booklist said that she should have "a built-in fan base for this book-club-worthy story of redemption, healing, and love." She also writes every Wednesday at The Debutante Ball, a blog for debut authors. Find out more at susangloss.com.

LEILA HOWLAND

Leila is the author of Nantucket Blue and the forthcoming Nantucket Red, which are set on the titular Massachusetts island but are so, so much more than beach reads. Her debut not only garnered a starred review in Publisher's Weekly, but also praise from The New York Times. THE NEW YORK TIMES. Follow all of her awesomeness at leilahowland.tumblr.com.

(Sorry for the delay tagging a second author; apparently I can't get my shit together. Which is really the overriding theme of my writing process, so we've come full circle.)

Celebrity Autobiographies That Need to Exist for the Good of Humanity

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Bacon Bits, by Kevin Bacon
I mean, duh. This is a no-brainer, like Geiss Cubes from 30 Rock.

Woah is Me: Blossom-ing Out of My Shell, by Joey Lawrence
Am I the only one waiting for this? You know what, don’t answer that.

I Once Got Busy in a Burger King Bathroom, by Humpty Hump
Sells itself, plus bonus fast-food advertising tie-in.

Barack The Boat: Paddleboating With POTUS
I’m envisioning a coffee table book with lots of glossy photos of Barry in cut-off shorts.

You Can’t Spell Tyranny Without TYRA, by Tyra Banks.
Optional subtitle: … or Tranny!

Duckie Tales--OR!--Cryer me a River, by Jon Cryer
He worked with Charlie Sheen for eight years. Let the man tell his stories.

Ione Have Skyes For You, by Ione Skye
I may be taking this a little far.

Any of the following by Tori Spelling:

PurgaTORI 
Public lavaTORI 
Rectal supposiTORI 
NoninflammaTORI Gastroenteritis 
Finding the cliTORIs

LIKE NO OTHER news: McNally Jackson event and signing July 24!

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Hi guys,

My latest YA novel (which just got a starred review in Publisher's Weekly, something I'm pretty sure would have been impossible for my mom to plant) comes out July 24, and to celebrate, I'll be appearing at McNally Jackson Books in SoHo to read, make awkward chit-chat, sign copies, etc.

If you live in or near New York City and can make the trek, I would LOVE to see you. And if you can't make it for geographical-, schedule-, or longstanding grudge-related reasons, you can pre-order a signed, personalized* copy from McNally Jackson using this link.

Thanks! You may now return to your regularly scheduled Friday afternoon time-wasting.

*All personalization requests will be granted, no matter how uncouth. 90s pop culture references accepted and ENCOURAGED.

Pub Day!

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They say the Facebook posts explode on pub day...
They say there's desperation in the air...
But when you refresh Amazon
And your book's not at number one*
Frustration sets right in and you're nowhere....

*pronounced "Juan" for rhyming purposes

 They say that Twitter treats you fine on pub day....
But looking at it just gives me the blueeeeeees
'Cause how you gonna make the Times
When all you got are subpar rhymes**
And supbar rhymes won't even buy your booze

**I'm just being mean, these are par

For those whoa are not fans of smooth jazz soul ballads about becoming a Broadway star, that was a parody of "On Broadway," which I first fell in love with when it was used in the soundtrack of 1988's Big Business, when Roone is riding a Greyhound bus from Jupiter Hollow to New York, wearing very tight jeans.

But I digress.

It's PUB DAY! Which means my new book, LIKE NO OTHER, is finally out in the world. You can find links to buy it from the online retailer of your choice at the top right of the sidebar, or you can walk into a regular bookstore like you've got legs and you know how to use 'em. Or you can be lazy and wait for me to put the links right here in the post because I know that's what I'd want:







Thank you so much for all of your support and tolerance of this self-promotion. Even though I rarely blog these days, I'll never forget this is where it started, and that without you guys I'd just be some pantsless troll searching the internet each day for Andrew Shue memorabilia.

Oh... wait.

My Writing Process, Expressed in 37 Gifs

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On good days, I'm all,




So then I take a few hoursdays months off to rest.



But on bad days, I'm like,




And I resort to desperate measures.




One day,


The next day,


One day,


The next day,


One day,


The next day,


Most days end like,




Because...


My husband is all,


When I leave the house, strangers look at me like,


And I'm all,


Some days my husband finds me like,


And he's all,


Finishing the first draft feels like,


My inner voice is all,


I get drunk and hit send like,


And I picture my editor all,


Until I do some more reflecting...


And realize she could also be like,



I update Facebook all,


But then my self-deprecating sub-Tweets are like,


And then instead of torturing myself waiting for judgment,


I'm just,


In related news, I have a manuscript due at the end of the week. Pray for me.

A Letter From My Hair, Re: Live Readings and Other Public Appearances

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Because I now occasionally appear in public for reasons other than to purchase toilet paper and expired generic fig bars from the Korean grocery store near my house, my hair and I decided it was time she made a statement. My apologies in advance. 
To Whom It May Concern, i.e. Everyone With Eyes:  
I want to officially state that I regret my appearance at this function. To clarify, I don’t mean that I wish I wasn’t here today--Una cannot pull off bald, no matter what she may envision during her annual, self-pitying, and might I add horrifyingly inappropriate cancer fantasy. I mean that I regret the state I’m in.  
This morning, I was styled by an extremely chatty gentleman named Arturo, who had as much talent with a blow-dryer and he had valuable insights into the state of Gwyneth Paltrow’s "conscious uncoupling." Based on my appearance now, you might think that Una spent the rest of the day taking joyrides through car washes on the back of a Vespa that made a pit-stop at a magical fountain where she wished on an enchanted penny and accidentally exchanged scalps with 1970s-era Frank Zappa.  
I only wish this were true.  
The fact is, her afternoon involved nothing but a box of mini donuts, three back-to-back episodes of a Food Network show about how taffy is made, and a slow but unstoppable follicular downfall that I unwittingly perpetrated. I’d love nothing more than to explain exactly what happened, but honestly I blacked out for most of it. All I know is that one minute I was lying languidly against Una’s neck, curling ever so slightly so as to avoid the donut shrapnel shooting from her lips, and the next thing I knew I was frizzier than Phil Spector dry humping a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon.  
Flawless (I Woke Up Like This)
If Una could pull off a kicky fedora or a hijab, I wouldn’t even be writing this, but seeing as she is genetically hat-challenged, I felt it was important to come out, in public, and accept the blame for what would under kinder circumstances be one of the most Facebook-tagged days of her life. The truth is that I put the “sham” in shampoo, and am a disgrace to my brethren lower down on this surprisingly hirsute body. 
In closing, I am deeply sorry for my betrayal, and I hope that you can look past me, maybe to the fetching neon EXIT sign behind Una’s head, for the remainder of this truly unforgettable evening.

Yours limply,
Una’s hair

A-holes on a Train

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Amtrak is many things. It is expensive. It is usually late. It is pretty much the only option if you wish to travel in the Northeast by rail and also not be accosted by drunk people on their way back from the beach. But first and foremost, it is a hotbed for assholes.

FOR EXAMPLE.

On a relatively recent summer Sunday evening I was on my way back from a book reading in the Hudson Valley. My train was scheduled to depart at 6:29, but shortly before it was due, the station manager came on the intercom to announce that it had "pulled over to let another train pass" and would be 25 minutes late. The train originated in Montreal, so I tweeted something jokingly detrimental about Canadians. Then I took a series of failed selfies with some meaningful graffiti:


But the train came eventually. It was fine; it was a Sunday night. I mean, we were all just going home to drink the dregs of some past-its-prime rosé and then binge-watch Inside Amy Schumer, right?

Apparently not.

A little before 9 pm, almost to Penn Station, our train stopped north of the George Washington Bridge. due to "police activity." It took about three minutes before the man sitting next to me began intermittently groaning. I wondered at first if he was in labor; the contractions seemed evenly spaced at about two-minute intervals:

Fine, fine, fine--
"UGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."
Nothing, nothing, nothing--
"GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

He didn't look more than about four months along, but I didn't want to make any assumptions.

Soon, someone started saying that there was a jumper. As in, a human being who had leapt to their death from a great height.

The immediate reaction was annoyance.

"I don't see anything on Twitter!" the woman sitting in front of me, who I could not see but who I quickly judged to look like some hybrid of Cruella DeVille and Judge Judy, said defensively. "Plus, isn't this like the third one this month?" She was clearly taking points off for creativity.

"Why can't we move?" someone else chimed in. "I mean, the dead body's in the water, right?"

"How long does it even take to move a body?" Cruella DeJudy demanded.

The man seated next to me advanced to transition and began cradling his scalp in his hands.

Within about ten minutes, when the Amtrak conductors could not offer details on the police activity, a man sitting across the aisle took it upon himself to call the police.

"Yeah, I'm sitting on a stalled Amtrak train," he began, in a tone that suggested the train was also located on the Gaza Strip. "They say it's because of police activity, but I want to know exactly what's going on that the train can't move."

Somewhere, I imagined gunshot victims and elderly neighbors collapsing from the July heat waiting on hold, keeping the faith that their call would be answered in order of priority.

"Yeah... yeah... OK. OH. OK, that makes sense," the man across from me said. He hung up and reported to the car, "The body is on the train tracks."

"How is that even possible?" Cruella demanded. "I don't see how that's physically possible."

"That's what they said," the man shrugged.

"ARGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" my companion cried.

"Give me the number," Cruella demanded in her raspy voice. "I'm going to put on my bitchface." Something told me it was already firmly secured.

"Yeah, HI," she said brusquely when she reached the police headquarters. "I'M ON A STOPPED AMTRAK TRAIN." The officer, it seemed, was not grasping the urgency of the situation. "Someone told us there was a body on the tracks.... yeah. Right. So what I need to know is, why can't they just move the body?"

Why can't they just move the body? I know that's the first question I jump to when someone has the gall to expire directly in my path.

"Yeah, but how long does it take?" she asked impatiently. She laughed bitterly and hung up. "One to two hours," she reported. "I mean, seriously."

Just then, the conductor walked into the car. "We're going ahead to Penn Station," she said. "No one was hurt."

One might think this news would bring jubilation, or, at the very least, reluctant optimism. But my fellow passengers only grew more disgruntled.

"No one was hurt?" Cruella laughed. "I think jumping off a bridge onto a train track would hurt."

"Yeah, I think you'd probably be dead," the man across the aisle chuckled.

"Nice conversation," the conductor snapped. After she left, the two began loudly conspiring along with my suddenly-recovered seat mate about how to get her fired through a letter-writing campaign.

As I deboarded moments later, expelled into the steamy bowels of Penn Station, I had a few moments, trapped on the escalator behind a herd of enormous wheeled suitcases and their handlers, to reflect on the questionable progress of humanity.

On the one hand, it's possible to ascertain the cause of a transportation delay within minutes through the use of social media and the shameless harassment of law enforcement officials. On the other hand, people are jaded and horrible and we're doomed as a species.

Except for Canadians. They remain, as ever, fucking polite.

Hall to the Ween

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I'm not a big Halloween person. Even though it's a holiday that celebrates candy, my favorite food group, I don't particularly like going out of the house in costume. Yes, I live in New York, where you're likely to run into pantsless people wearing fright wigs even when it's not October 31, but I've always liked to walk the streets anonymously; despite what my social media accounts might suggest I really don't like drawing attention to myself, in the flesh, in public. Hence some recent "costumes" that could be normal clothes, like my Around the Way Girl of 2009, or even my pregnant hillbilly of 2006 (in retrospect, it could also have been Kate Gosselin):

When I was wearing a coat, I just looked like a hugely pregnant person with bad hair.

It wasn't always this way. I used to go whole hog. When I was five, I was the only girl in my kindergarten class to cross hetero-normative lines when I cross-dressed as Peter Pan:


In 1992, I was a kind of Medusa-lite witch, only to be upstaged by my sister, in what now seems like offensive brownface, as a Hershey's Kiss:


Even when I was fifteen, and arguably far too old to be trick-or-treating, my BFF Adri and I went as undead Ernie and Bert (note the homage to my former unibrow):


Looking through some old photos to find these memories of Halloweens past, I also discovered that I often found myself in accidental costume throughout my youth.

For instance, I was amazingly ahead of the trends when I went as Lily from Modern Family just months after my birth:

Kidding, I don't have two dads--the one on the left is my uncle.

Or how about my risque take on Teen Mom at age six?


Or my political statement when I recruited some friends to go as the Symbionese Liberation Army that same year? (I will also accept: young Sarah Palin.)


At my friend Betsy's wedding in 2008, she and our third Butlerette Ellaree helped me achieve my look as a cast member of Little People, Big World.


And one night after a few too many glasses of wine while watching ANTM, my friend Beth and I raided Jeff's and my wig collection to create an imaginary Simon and Garfunkle-esque duo composed of Aileen Wuornos and Clara Bow.


Even right now, typing this, I'm basically dressed as Randy Quaid in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, unwashed and grizzly, wearing a robe and knee socks. (All I need to complete my costume is to yell, "Shitter was full!")

Hmmm. Maybe I don't need Halloween, after all. Maybe I am one of those people I inch away from on the subway. The More You Know.

P.S. At Sam's request, we are going as Yo Gabba Gabba characters this year. Pray for me. Photos to come!

My Fupa, Myself

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Whenever possible, I like to post my holiday roundups at least a week later when no one cares.

Or, maybe I just didn't want anyone to see my Fupa.

You see, "Fupa"--in addition to being the acronym for Fat Upper Pubic/Penile/Orange is the New Black's Poussey Area--is what my son calls the pink, beflowered, butt plug-shaped member of the Yo Gabba Gabba Gang:

She also has a FUPA, if we're being honest.

Months and months ago, Sam decided that he wanted to be Muno, the character I often describe to friends as "the big red dildo cyclops." It's possible that I have a psychological problem in which I can only see children's television characters as they relate to sex toys, but seriously, you tell me:

Let us not speak of the bumps.

It was fine. After all, I grew up in a family that said "partner" instead of "husband," lest I be poisoned by heteronormative sexuality as a toddler. If my kid wanted to dress like one of the extras from the Disney ride version of the Caligula orgy scene, he was free to be you and me.

But then I made the mistake of asking, "What should mommy be?" I guess I was hoping he'd cock an eyebrow, think for a minute, and then answer, "a young Karen Allen." But instead... well, you know how this ends.

This costume doubles as the adult-sized onesie I'll be wearing for the next six months.
I have to hand it to Sam, this was actually the most comfortable costume I've ever worn, hands down, and the pockets were deep enough for the nips of whiskey I needed to consume on our trick-or-treating trail in order to maintain some semblance of dignity.

Happy Halloween, from my Fupa to yours.

We Need To Talk About DJ Lance... And Other Petty But Very Specific Complaints About Children's Television

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Watch enough TV with a young child and a few troubling lifestyle changes will occur.

First, you will learn all of the words to all of the songs, indelibly and against your will. You’ll find yourself humming them during idle moments and then rush to the bathroom, staring intently at your bedraggled reflection in the mirror as The Map's voice from Dora the Explorer rings in your ears and you begin to really identify, on a deep level, with pretty much all of the characters from The Shining.

Danny's not here, Mrs. Torrance. This is Caillou.
Next, you'll develop strong attachments to some shows and passionate antagonistic relationships with others. This may result in a serious throw-down with a friend who thinks Steve from Blue's Clues is "a creepy eunuch," or rolls her eyes when you call out James and Gordon for being "the Assholes of Sodor."

Finally, you will begin to watch with the gimlet eye of the jaded adult you are, and thus will amass enough material for at least three senior college theses about gender roles in Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, or Daniel Tiger's maddening inconsistency with regards to wearing pants.

I realize that no one's hang-ups are the same, just as all snowflakes are unique and all Yo Gabba Gabba! songs are tuneless earsores, and so I can only speak for myself. With that said, here is a list of personal grievances, based on Sam's most beloved shows:

Yo Gabba Gabba!

Yo! So can we just all agree, from the outset, that DJ Lance Rock is in some kind of home for the mentally ill? I mean, he walks out into a blank white--possibly wall-padded--abyss with his “magical boombox” and then proceeds to anthropomorphize a tribe of tiny, plastic neo-Teletubbies for his own amusement day after day. He probably could have been a subplot on American Horror Story: Asylum if he wore more muted colors (and if you ask me, that big white crying dildo Gooble is way scarier than Chloe Sevigny with no legs).


I won't go into my issues with the characters' random genetic mutations, because I have discussedvented about that at length. Nor will I attempt to decipher the reasons why my child is terrified of the drawing segments in which Devo's Mark Mothersbaugh pretends to be Bob Ross, or why all of Biz Markie's Beats of the Day mostly sound like him straining to climb a flight of stairs. I'll just count myself lucky that Sam has recently jettisoned the Gabba gang in favor of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, who are much more violent but not prone to speaking in falsetto.

Thomas and Friends

On the Island of Sodor, ruled by the aristocratic, conspicuously earless blowhard Sir Topham Hatt, if you are a train and you are not "useful," then you might as well blow your own boiler out and end your, and everyone else's, misery.

OK, fine, I get it, they are trains. They're machines and they're supposed to work tirelessly without emotion. But in the world of the show they also have feeble, human-like brains that yearn to be chosen for a "special special," which they then invariably fuck up by not following the rules to the letter. This drives home the takeaway lesson from Thomas and Friends, which is: You are only special if you are useful, and you are only useful if you do not question authority.

Nope.
Dora The Explorer

Hola, Dora! Hola, Boots! Time for another treacherous jungle adventure while your absent parents bake culturally relevant desserts?

No, kidding, actually I kind of love this show, even with its flaws. Like, the fact that the Map song is literally just him braying "I'M THE MAP I'M THE MAP I'M THE MAP I'M THE MAP" over and over. Or that Dora's adversary, Swiper the Fox, essentially teaches children that their primary concern in life should be that someone will try to steal your shit. But good news: You can just be all, "NO SWIPING" in a loud and authoritative voice and then they'll slink off, vanquished, so that you can continue on your way with the aid of any number of tools from your backpack, which--given the fact that at any moment it may be carrying four sets of snowshoes, rollerskates, bongo drums, or a trumpet--likely weighs twice as much as you do.

We made it out alive again! Excelente!

Blue’s Clues

I have complicated sexual feelings about Steve*, and I also legitimately think this show does a good job at simple, nonpatronizing toddler education, so I will admit to a bias. However I have trouble with the fact that a bedside table and bar of soap can talk, and yet the titular character, who is a mammal, and therefore at least possessed of vocal chords, cannot. You know, I could even deal with the soap thing except for the fact that the NEIGHBOR CAT CAN TALK, TOO. That is some Goofy/Pluto shit that I cannot and will not abide.

*The main complication is that I am married and he exists in 1996. 

Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood

Since I'm already on the subject, let's talk about inconsistencies, Daniel Tiger. Let's talk about the fact that while you joyride that trolley around the Land of Make-Believe, doling out helpful and developmentally-appropriate behavioral tips, you wear no pants.

Shoes, check. Pants, meh.
Now, I am not a pearl-clutcher when it comes to nudity. One of my mother's favorite stories revolves around me, at age three, streaking past my Catholic grandmother and pretending to take a dump on the hardwood floor, just to freak her out.

Also, it should be noted, Daniel's pantslessness seems to be an inherited genetic trait:

Apparently it only affects the Y chromosome.
No. My issue with Daniel's drafty fashion choice has to do with what he wears to sleep at night. And yes, I realize I'm giving this way too much thought, but how--HOW--can you look at this:


...and not go blind from irrational rage?

He's wearing PAJAMA PANTS.

....but why?

.......WHY?

The only time my mom told me to not wear underwear was when I slept. She told me my vagina "needed to breathe." (This nugget of wisdom, as you may imagine, was confusing for a nine year-old. Did that mean my tie-dyed long johns were suffocating my nether regions? And was that somehow worse than potentially being bare-assed in front of fire marshals in the unlikely but still totally possible event that my poster of Jonathan Knight from New Kids on the Block posing with a shetland pony combusted from sheer sexual energy and caught our house on fire? But I digress.)

Daniel, I think Mr. Rogers would agree that we need to teach children that--if there must be a choice--pants should be worn during daylight hours.

Also, please tell Katerina Kittycat to stop saying "meow meow" after every third word out of her mouth. We get it, she's a fucking cat.

To be continued... probably.

Stop Trying to Make New Year's Happen! It's Not Going to Happen!

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Ah, New Year's. So full of hype designed to make us ring in midnight feeling strangely empty despite the gallon of cheap champagne we have literally just consumed through a spangled funnel.

I've always felt that in using New Year's Eve as an excuse to stay up late binge-drinking, we as a species are setting ourselves up for feeling bloated and cranky on every single January first, which is kind of like spelling your name wrong on the first page of the SATs. It just... doesn't bode well.

I tried to get Decembuary 0 to happen for awhile, but now I think I'm just going to start the new year on January 2nd, after I've digested the fifteen brunch bagels I used as my inaugural 2015 meal. And I urge all of you to do the same.

New year starts tomorrow. Fuck this noise.

Love,
Una


An Ode to Funny Women (or, My Fey-kspearean Sonnet)

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Shall I compare thee to a Tina Fey?
Thou art quite funny, though not as talented.
Or perhaps you’d rather I say Mindy K.?
Whose one-liners reflect your lowbrow taste...
Miss Dunham’s brilliance seems unfair,
And makes you hit the wine a little hard;
Amy P.'s the queen of guts and flair
That Emmy voters cannot disregard!
But thy eternal Tina shall not Fey-d,
(That pun’s a stretch, but cut a girl some slack.)
Nor shall your tweets make people throw you shade,
Even when of your book deals thou dost yak.
So long as peeps can read, or T can V,
So long live women who write great comedy.

National Lampoon's Puerto Rican Vacation

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So I'm going on vacation tomorrow. We all are, but it's really Jeff's vacation--because fall is his busiest season, by the time Christmas rolls around he's like 68% dead inside and at least 89% dead outside, so for the past two years he's combatted Seasonal Affective Disorder by throwing his Amex at the tropics--but he's been kind enough to invite me and Sam along. What a sucker.

See, it's a proven fact (by Jeff) that I ruin all vacations by picking fights on the first night. This was true when we went to Paris in 2005, for reasons that I have since repressed, as well as on our honeymoon in 2007, when I became so irrationally angry at not being able to speak any sort of semi-coherent Italian to our waiter that Jeff had an actual panic attack.

I also attempted to make tomato sauce from scratch, which ended so horribly Jeff continues to mock me about it to this day, but he has yet to seek an annulment so you tell me.

It is also a proven fact that our child, while undisputedly the light of our lives and mostly sweet and charming (note: mostly could mean anywhere from 10% to 90%, as he is currently three years old, which as it turns out is way more terrible than two, but I guess whatever genius came up with that phrase [sub-note: genius in this context means "asshole"] must have been too ashamed to modify it once she realized her mistake), ruins vacations by preventing us from relaxing during every moment that he remains conscious.

I swear I'm not trying to complain about going to the beach in January (except for the obvious re-shuffling of Bikini Season to follow directly after the Eggnog Equinox, which seems patently unfair), but it must be said that a vacation with a child or children no longer conforms to the definition of the word as you previously understood it. Kind of like "sleep" or "abdominals."

So.

While I'm going into this next week with expectations and low as my tolerance for rum-based cocktails and direct sun exposure, I'm eternally grateful to the brave man who is taking his Terrible Three and Temperamental Thirty-Four--a.k.a his permanent carry-on baggage--on a holiday.

THANK YOU, HONEY. I promise not to attempt any Spanish or so much as *touch* a vegetable. Maybe ever.

9am-5pm, Stuck at Home With Your Sick Child

Continuing Ed For the Post-College Decades

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17th Grade (Ages 22-23) 

Electives:
  • 4 Tax Exemptions: Trying Not To Screw Yourself
  • Dividing Utilities Between Seven Roommates, One of Whom Is Unemployed And Runs The A/C All Day: Math For The Post-College Years
  • I Don’t Care What You Say Anymore, This Is My Life: Billy Joel Lyrics For Everyday Use
  • Philosophical Rationalizations For Living With Your Parents
  • Chutes & Ladders, Hold The Ladders: Navigating The Entry-Level Job 
Supplies needed:
  1. Unchecked narcissism and feeling of entitlement
  2. Crate of Cup O’ Noodles and the cheapest hooch you can find
  3. Empty savings account
  4. At least two forms of government-issued ID 
22nd Grade (ages 27-28) 

Electives:
  • Student Loans And Credit Cards: How To Pay Them Off Without Selling Drugs, Or Your Eggs
  • But Where Will My Amps Go? Spatial Geometry For Cohabitation
  • Who’s The Boss? How To Survive a Management Job You Are In No Way Qualified For
  • Unreal Estate: Someone, Somewhere Will Probably Let You Buy Property
  • Out Of The Shot Glass, Into The Wine Box: Late Twenties Drinking Made Simple 
Supplies needed:
  1. Gnawing sense of unease
  2. Lease co-signed by no more than one other person
  3. At least one piece of framed wall art
  4. A 401K you don’t understand 
27th Grade (ages 32-33) 

Electives:
  • 50 Shades of Gray: Understanding Your Changing Scalp
  • Literally Anyone Can Create Another Human Being With Frighteningly Little Effort: Parenting For The Emotionally Unprepared
  • Yes, You Need A Will, Even If Your Net Worth Is Negative
  • People Who Became Wildly Successful At The Age You Are Right Now And How To Discredit Them
  • Metabolic Betrayal: Physiology of The Early Thirties 
Supplies needed:
  1. Chilling realization that your mother had already had three kids by this age
  2. A checkbook you rarely use but balance anyway, because if you don’t you fear that Suze Orman will somehow know, come to your house, and beat you unconscious with a stack of savings bonds
  3. A pet, plant, spouse or small child you are responsible for keeping alive
  4. Preventative wrinkle cream 
35th Grade (ages 40-41) 

Electives: 
  • It Is In Fact Mathematically Possible For You To Have A Child Who Is In High School: Beating Denial With Simple Algebra
  • There Is No “I” In Comb-Over: Embracing The Hair You Have Left Without Shame
  • Identifying The Celebrities On The Cover Of Us Weekly, Especially If They Were Born After You Turned 25
  • Grape Expectations: Oenophilia For The Over-40
  • Menopause or Meningitis? Fun With WebMD 
Supplies needed: 
  1. Suspicion that you have Benjamin Button disease and are in fact aging in reverse
  2. A gimlet eye
  3. Coupons for “family-size” sundries
  4. At least three sets of keys that open who the hell knows what
To be continued...

    5 Reasons Indie Bookstores Rock My World More Than a Dancing Paul Rudd Gif

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    Hi, guys! Today, I read the following essay live at Brooklyn's BookCourt in celebration of Independent Bookstore Day, and thought I'd publish it here, too. YAY BOOKS!

    Yeah, I know--that's not technically a book. But it IS a purple corduroy jumpsuit, so act impressed.

    I came a little... late to reading. When the subject comes up, I usually blame this on my early education, which mostly took place in a Hobbit hole of a Waldorf classroom outside of Austin, Texas. Day after day we sang songs and leapt off of tree stumps and wove rough cornhusks into the sort of dolls the Blair Witch might have hung on her Christmas tree. But we didn’t learn to read.

    My parents, who both then and now took pride in their impressive and eclectic home library, read to me often, but I much preferred it when they made stuff up. For a number of years in the early 1980s for example, I forced my father into an episodic tale of a princess trapped in a castle cellar with a family of trolls—a sort of proto-Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt. I begged any adult I could find to tell me “boo-boo stories”—which were detailed accounts of every time they had ever been badly injured, and one memorable babysitter made Ronald and Nancy Reagan the protagonists of his improvised tales, sending them to fantastical places like outer space, or the vaguely R. Crumb-inspired “Big Butt Island.” But I still did not learn to read.


    The turning point came when I left the rustic embrace of Rudolph Steiner and transferred to a local public school for first grade. I was placed into the slowest reading group, but showed such promise that my teacher decided to move me into a different class. Unfortunately I didn’t understand at the time that this was a compliment, and so when she attempted to bodily remove me from my desk I responded with my first—and, so far, only—attempt at fisticuffs. As penance, I was forced, finally, to learn to read.


    It’s become cliché to describe a relationship with books as “a love affair,” but in my case I think it’s distressingly accurate, as almost every romantic flush or fallout I had with a partner, I had with a book first. As a child I would lie in bed with them, figuring things out, slowly burying us both in a pile of cracker crumbs—which still my signature move. As an adolescent I experienced alternating, hormone-fueled bouts of euphoria and crushing betrayal. To this day I cannot forgive Louisa May Alcott for letting that little bitch Amy March end up with my Laurie, and I let her know it with some extremelyemphatic graffiti on the spine of my dog-eared paperback. As an adult I tend to treat my books not unlike Jeff, my husband of 8 years: they’ve all been read and re-read, over and over, their contents known but no less precious. Their dust jackets don’t fit like they used to, but I don’t make them feel bad about it, just like they don’t make me feel bad about the fact that I sometimes fall asleep while reading them.


    But I suppose the end of the similarities between my books and my men is that I prefer to buy the former whenever possible. I love and value libraries, but I have trouble following their rules. I’m not great with due dates, as evidenced by the book on the Emperor Tiberius that I took out in fifth grade and returned on the way to a friend’s Sweet Sixteen. I fold down the corners of pages to mark my place. I bring books to the beach, staining their covers with smears of sunblock and filling their spines with deposits of sand that will later sift out into my sheets, comingling with the cracker detritus. And I still occasionally feel the need to express my feelings in the margins. So with all due respect to Dewey and his decimals, bookstores are clearly where I belong. And at the risk of seeming like a total suck-up, I’ve taken it upon myself to list for you the five reasons that I think independent bookstores should be considered national treasures.


    1. They’re romantic


    It’s a scientific fact that there are only a handful of jobs you’re allowed to have if you’re one of the leads in a romantic comedy: dog walker, architect, kindergarten teacher, cupcake chef, florist, special needs veterinarian, suspiciously well-paid magazine writer, and independent bookstore owner. So it stands to reason that the likelihood of meeting your soul mate in one is high.


    It is here that I will confess to not having any bookstore memories interesting enough to spin into a single story today, and that is because all of my bookstore memories involve me, standing alone, waiting for someone who looks like Idris Elba or Ethan Hawke to make meaningful eye contact with me from across the room.  This has never happened, unfortunately. It could be my palpable anxiety, it could be my wedding ring, or it could be the fact that the book I’m conspicuously reading is never Anna Karenina or even Lolita, but inevitably one of the salacious autobiographies by erstwhile supermodel-cum-reality star Janice Dickinson.


    2. They’re beautiful


    Carefully curated and lovingly decorated, most indie bookstores I've visited make big box stores look like one of those shipping containers where Dexter killed his victims. Truth.

    3. They support the community


    Shopping at an indie bookstore is basically like joining a CSA, only you learn new words and don’t have to pretend you know what to do with three pounds of kohlrabi.


    4. You can meet authors and observe them in their semi-natural habitat


    [Imagine me doing an offensively bad David Attenborough impression] The American novelist stands nervously at the front of the room. While this species feels quite at home behind a keyboard in its unmade bed, interrupting its writing approximately every ten seconds to tweet about how hard it is working, in public it can appear standoffish and even vaguely nauseated at the prospect of reading its work aloud to mammals other than its house pets.


    5.  They’re REAL


    I’m no saint; I don’t buy everything in a physical store, despite my fantasies of being the kind of person who could bike around the city with a baguette under one arm without being instantly killed. I have, I’ll admit, fallen into Amazon k-holes on occasion, emerging confused and temporarily blinded.


    There’s a disassociation inherent in online shopping—you click a few buttons and enter some numbers, but you have no memory of seeing or touching what you’ve bought, and so when the box—seventeen times the size necessary for its contents and filled with enough bubble wrap to clothe Lady Gaga for the coming winter—finally arrives, you have no idea what it is.


    There’s something wonderful about holding a book in your hands, feeling the weight of it. You don’t have to judge it by its cover, or by its misspelled, all caps one-star reviews. You can judge it by more intimate factors, like the font choice, whether you might slip a disc carrying it in a shoulder bag, or what kind of Zoolander face the author is making in his or her photo.


    There’s also something lovely about buying it from a real person, a person who’s working there either because they’re very passionate about books or because they’re hoping for a meet-cute with a quirky but unbelievably attractive dog-walker played by Paul Rudd.



    Both of which, I might add, show incredible character.


    ***

    Some of my favorite local(ish) indie bookstores, in no particular order, are: BookCourt,  Oblong Books & Music,  McNally Jackson Books, Greenlight Bookstore, Community Bookstore, and R.J. Julia Booksellers. Rhapsodize about yours in the comments, or just share more gifs. I can never have enough gifs; they truly are the gifs that keep on gifing.



    Adult Curse Word Coloring Book Giveaway!

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    A few months ago, I ordered a coloring book from Amazon. I had been reluctant to hop on the "adult coloring" bandwagon, mostly because my "adult" method of stress relief usually involves a fishbowl-sized glass of wine and a certain reality TV show in which beautiful but kind of dim-witted people are forced to fall in love under contract while being held hostage at Sandals Jamaica.

    However, this particular coloring book had the word ASSHOLE on the cover in fancy script, and since curse words are part of my DNA, I really had no choice.

    I ordered it, it arrived. I took a picture and posted it on Instagram. On a whim, I shared it on my Facebook page. Where it got shared... 406,111 times.

    This asshole went viral.
    It was a total surprise, and a total delight. The coloring book hit #1 on Amazon a few days later. Publisher's Lunch even did a story on it. I will never know how much my post influenced this trend, but apparently it was enough for the creator of the coloring book to send me some free copies as a gift! Here they are, in all their obscene glory:


    Since I already have one, I'm giving these beauties away. Use the embedded box below to enter. You can follow me on Twitter or tweet a link to the Amazon page to enter (I'm using the affiliate link for my son's public elementary school, so if you buy one, 10% of it will go to education!) The raffle will start at midnight tonight and run through Wednesday, and at the end the program will select three winners at random.

    Good luck! May your cursing be creative and passionate.

    XO
    Una

    a Rafflecopter giveaway

    Pre-Order YOU IN FIVE ACTS and Hillary Wins! Or You Get Another Book. Anyway, Something Good Will Happen, Probably

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    OK, fine, I may have exaggerated. 

    My new book, YOU IN FIVE ACTS (out November 1!) has nothing to do with the upcoming election. Hillary has no idea who I am, and neither does Trump... unless he stumbled across my 2012 Open Letter to Racists while furiously self-Googling in the unholy dungeon full of discarded clown wigs and Doritos fragments that I am convinced he sleeps in, and draws his frightening power from.

    (I am not voting for Trump.)

    But I am humbly asking that you pre-order my upcoming novel, YOU IN FIVE ACTS, regardless of your political leanings.



    I realize this is a big ask--it's at least $14, in hardcover, depending on where you order from... and you don't even know if it's good yet! Sometimes I order a lot of take-out to meet the delivery minimum because the idea of using my legs for walking or my voice for human contact seems like too much work, and if I don't like the food I am very disappointed! I mean, I still eat it--all--but with an angry face, like this:


    Anyway, my point is, you are taking a risk, much like Amelie when she decided to gaslight that dick of a grocer. 

    So. Here are some things that might convince you that the book is OK:

    1. THIS GREAT BLURB!

    "Una LaMarche perfectly captures the competitive, high-stakes atmosphere of professional-track ballet through the eyes of a refreshingly strong protagonist who you can't help but root for. I loved it from beginning to end."

    -Sophie Flack, author of Bunheads

    2. THIS KIRKUS REVIEW:
    (Highlights mine)

    "Five teenagers live for their art in this coming-of-age story of achievement, ambition, and heartache. LaMarche's latest novel (Don't Fail Me Now, 2015, etc.), which chronicles the tribulations of a group of friends in their senior year at a prestigious New York arts conservatory, is a pleasing mix of Fame and Gossip Girl. Each character narrates a section, addressing it to the titular "you," who changes depending on the narrator: Joy, the black ballerina and a passionate perfectionist terrified of failure; Liv, a Puerto Rican actress whose party-girl ways have tragic consequences; Ethan, the nerdy, white Russian immigrant's son, a playwright with Broadway ambitions; Dave, a white teen celebrity desperate for a fresh start away from his mistakes in LA; and Diego, a Latino dancer for whom ballet is a ticket to a better life. The author knows her subject matter well, and she effectively captures the essence of teenagerhood, from the hormones and the slang to the heartbreak and paralyzing self-doubt.As in a Shakespeare play, everyone is in love with the wrong person, and it takes most of the novel and some dramatic events for everyone's feelings to be sorted out correctly. Of the five storylines, Joy's—in which she copes with body shaming and other indignities that have kept the rarefied world of ballet largely off-limits to black women—is the most compelling. Given the current political climate, the characters' struggles with the white establishment create a poignant and timely socially conscious narrative."

    3. THE BOOK'S FIRST PAGE:
    So mysterious! WHAT HAPPENED? HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY FIND OUT????

    Well, you could ask me, and I will spoil it for you--for free!--if I've been drinking.

    Or you could pre-order it from Barnes & NobleAmazoniBooks, or your local independent bookseller (you have to use your legs and/or voice for that option, which is why I listed it last even though I love independent bookstores more than I love a dancing Paul Rudd gif!)

    Why pre-order instead of getting it when it comes out? Well, pre-ordering helps show booksellers that there is some excitement/demand for the book, which might mean they order more copies, or display it someplace prominent, like next to other exciting new YA books, or maybe by Donald Trump's upcoming memoir, Why is My Sphincter Where My Mouth Should Be? 
    (OMG please vote. I cannot stress how important it is that we all vote in this election.)

    OK, HERE'S THE INCENTIVE PART:
    If you pre-order You in Five Acts, I'll send you a second book or audiobook of mine--signed, sealed, delivered. No matter where you live, as long as it's on Earth. (If you have already pre-ordered, you are still eligible!)
    I currently have 50 of my own books taking up space on my shelves. It makes me look like a real asshole when I have guests. So please, take them off my hands.
    Here are the choices:
    FIVE SUMMERS, hardcover:  7
    FIVE SUMMERS, paperback: 13
    FIVE SUMMERS, audiobook on CD: 1
    LIKE NO OTHER, galley paperback: 3
    LIKE NO OTHER, official paperback: 3
    LIKE NO OTHER, audiobook on CD: 1
    UNABROW, paperback: 5
    DON'T FAIL ME NOW, paperback: 13
    DON'T FAIL ME NOW, audiobook on CD: 4
    Here's how you get one:
    Email me at unawrites@gmail.com. Email should include:
    1. Proof of pre-order for YOU IN FIVE ACTS (you can forward your receipt from an online store, or attach a screen grab or other receipt). Must be dated October 31, 2016 or earlier.
    2. Top 3 choices for which book/audiobook you want (first come, first served--if none of your top 3 choices are available I'll let you know; otherwise it'll be a surprise when you open the package!)
    If somehow I get more than 50 responses I'll start giving away other books by more popular authors, but signed by me. Which might be illegal. Let's find out!


    Nine

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    I left Lilly Tomlin in because we don't have a pet, and sometimes I pretend she's my mom.
    Today, Jeff and I have been married nine years.

    [Hold for applause.]

    Just kidding. I mean, that's kind of anticlimactic. It's not like ten. At ten, you can throw yourself some kind of luau-themed vow renewals at a luxury resort, invite all of your friends and drink too much until you push someone into the infinity pool.

    Let's face it: Nine is juuuuust shy of impressive. I mean, the anniversary gift for ten is diamond jewelry; the gift for nine is leather.



    It's a subtle difference, but I think it speaks volumes.

    Nine is not a show pony. Nine is a workhorse. Nine is hard-earned, like tanning a gross piece of rawhide to make a sexy anniversary codpiece. Nine is also a 2009 musical drama directed and produced by Rob Marshall. Basically, nine is a diamond still in the rough.

    What I'm getting at with these heavy-handed metaphors is that marriage can be hard. (In retrospect I think the hora was trying to prepare me for this fact, as I struggled in vain to hold onto a chair with no arms, hovering eight feet over a drunken mob.)

    That's not delight, it's pure terror.
    I'm sure some people have effortless unions based on shared values, matching Christmas pajamas, and compatible astrological signs, but Jeff and I... are not those people. We love each other--a lot!--but we're very different, and always have been. He is dark by every definition of the word, hirsute and enigmatic, a steak-loving chain-smoker who reads historical nonfiction and suffers from what he calls “emotional constipation.” I, by contrast, am light in interests if not in body hair. I live for awards show red carpet specials. I have read all of Janice Dickinson’s autobiographies (there are three). I eat a lot of avocado and sometimes drink green juice. Emotionally, I tend towards hyperbolic overexpression, and am prone to dramatic weeping during arguments (if anything, my heart requires Pepto Bismol). Finding common ground, for us, often takes work.

    The past few years have been especially rough. Co-parenting is a constant, humbling struggle, money is tight, quality time is scarce, and stress is high. It's a recipe for resentment, and for forgetting why you liked each other enough in the first place to fund an extravagant, legally-binding party just to rub it in people's faces.

    I don't think we actually uttered the words "for better or for worse" in our vows nine years ago, but everyone knows that's the deal you make, before you step on the glass or jump the broom or almost fall to your death from your hora chair. And while we're lucky beyond belief in many ways, we've been wading towards the worse end of the spectrum for a while. Which is why I'm writing this post. Because in between bliss and divorce is a wide, murky middle where most marriages go to float like so many lanterns launched hopefully onto a moonlit lake. And we should talk about it.

    We should talk about how much it sucks that passion fades. I listened to the Aziz Ansari audiobook, so I get it--our brains can't handle that much dopamine; we would never get anything done if that new-romance high lasted more than a few years. But still, it sucks! It fucking sucks!

    We should talk about how a child can change a relationship in ways you don't expect. A baby is literally the manifestation of love (or, OK, at least lust) between two people, so it seems logical that it would multiply affection instead of divide it. But parenting is hard, sleep deprivation is real, and sometimes, at the end of the day, you only have enough love left for one person (and the kid always wins).

    We should talk about how every couple is cosmically destined to have the same fight over and over again, at least once a month, for the rest of eternity, like a really terrible remake of Groundhog Day starring those Children of the Corn-looking Hough siblings from Dancing With the Stars.

    We should talk about how there's a reason that romantic comedies usually end with the first kiss, because if you followed people through a real relationship--especially one that spans a decade--it would stop looking so romantic and comedic and would quickly start looking more like a documentary with no plot and increasingly infrequent nudity.

    I don't mean to scare or depress you. Jeff and I are not teetering on the brink of divorce. In fact, I've been feeling extra grateful for him lately. It's easy to stop really seeing your partner when you're mired in the day-to-day slog, so I try to look up more often--to notice his smile when he comes in the door, or stand up and kiss him before I go back to building whatever 1500-piece Lego set Sam has dumped onto the rug. Jeff and I have been together for thirteen years now. This recent stretch isn't the first skid we've hit. We have a life and a child and a long history together and we are still in it.

    I mean, look, we're not exactly living the plot of 9 1/2 Weeks over here, but we also haven't gone the 9 to 5 route of trying to poison and/or kidnap each other. Which bodes well, I think.

    We must be into leather.




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