WENDIG! In which I review AND interview ... is this real life?

Morning, lovelies.

Yes, yes, I know. Two posts in under a week. I AM ON A ROLL. (Speaking of rolls, wanna go for donuts ...? I'm freakin' starving. What -- donuts and rolls are related. Right? Hell, in my world, everything's related to donuts.)

So, YEAH -- about a year ago, I stumbled upon a blog that is an equal ratio of awesome and paint thinner, and I became a rabid-bordering-on-stalkerish follower of everything the blog's owner had to say. As you may or may not know, I occasionally review books for LitStack.com, a fine site for all things bookish. I'd review more books, but book reviews take a lot out of me. Like, a lot. I can't eat the donuts fast enough or maintain my coffee-to-blood quotient, even with a straw, to compensate for the energy I lose when I write a book review. 

"But, Jenn, that's so lame -- I write a book review every single day on my blog."

Well, that's because you're better at it than me. Or at the very least, faster. Because my book reviews are pretty awesome, I must say. (Aaaaaaand I think I just pulled a muscle patting myself on the back. Just put a donut on it. Maple eases cramps. Ahhhhh, perfect, thanks.)

No, what I mean is, I try to review awesome books. I've read a lot of books in the last few years that I never mentioned another word about. Why? 'Cuz they sucked. I'm a hypocrite, I know -- a reviewer is supposed to provide positive AND negative feedback so that book buyers know what to grab and what to slide past. But ... I'm also a writer, and I don't need to piss off other writers by coming out and saying, "Well, yeah, this and that and this other thing really sucked about this book." Can you imagine the lynching? It's bad enough that I've made such fun of a certain writer of sparkling vampires. (Dude, I totally can't help it.) Maybe when I have a real career behind me, I can rip and shred without impunity. But for now, I provide what are more aptly called "recommendations" as I don't want you to waste time nor pennies on suckage. Life's too short. Pennies are too hard to come by. And I am super hard to please. I just am. I was born that way.

THE POINT IS (God, this used to piss my ex-husband off, how I ramble circuitously -- of course, the fact that he didn't know what the word "circuitous" meant is one of the reasons we're divorced. Well, that and the fact that he cheated on me ... oopsie!), is that the Amazing Blog Dude I mentioned above wrote a BOOK, and his publicist sent LitStack a review copy with the option of an interview on the side. Then my editor, a charmer named Tee, e-mailed and said, "Hey, who wants this?" And I jumped up and down in my chair, arm almost reaching the cobwebs on the ceiling light fixture (I have long arms), bouncing so hard one of the screws fell out of the bottom of said chair and I tumbled to the ground and chipped a tooth and impaled my cheek on the dislodged screw. But it didn't MATTER because I wanted Tee to pick ME.

And she did! Yay, me!

So, CHUCK WENDIG wrote a book, called Blackbirds. Here's the summary from his publisher Angry Robot: 

Miriam Black knows when you will die. She’s foreseen hundreds of car crashes, heart attacks, strokes, and suicides.

But when Miriam hitches a ride with Louis Darling and shakes his hand, she sees that in thirty days Louis will be murdered while he calls her name. Louis will die because he met her, and she will be the next victim.

No matter what she does she can’t save Louis. But if she wants to stay alive, she’ll have to try.

And in response to this book, I wrote a REVIEW, found on LitStack.com. 

When you're done with the review, done with sprinting to Amazon to buy the book, then you can read the INTERVIEW. Why? Because I ask really important, mind-blowing questions and Chuck is, well, fabulous. (Although, I must admit, the guy from LitReactor did a better job with his interview. GAWD! SUCKS! I NEED CHAPSTICK! Aaaaand, scene. Thank you, Napoleon Dynamite!)

Guys, DISCLAIMER (if you need more warning than what the review provides for you): Chuck Wendig sees the world through a rather twisted lens, and his comedy is not for those of you who blush and say, "Oh my, that boy is so rude" whilst cooling yourself with your Delta Burke-inspired, Georgia-peach, articulated fan. That is why I think he is my long-lost brother and I am his long-forgotten, not-nearly-as-funny, slightly-older sister who was left at the Orphanage of Funny-looking Babies. Hey, we all have idols, right? Even though it's against God's law? Admit it. You want your ass to look as good as Beyonce's, your wife to look at you like I look at Mark Strong, your words to flow like [insert favorite author here]. IDOLS. YOU'VE GOT THEM. You're stronger for confessing. Here, have a donut.

So, yeah ... there you have it. PROOF that I do indeed work. There is other proof, but I can't show it to you yet because a proper girl never shares her secrets. You're just going to have to take my word for it.

Xs and Os ...

Bloggity blog blog ...

Gahhhh ... blogging ... I'm lying on the floor, writhing in agony. Can you see me? Look harder. See now? I know, right? And my shirt has a coffee stain on it, despite the fact that my coffee cup is empty, and dog hair is sticking to my sweater even though I JUST EFFING VACUUMED. Wait -- it's cat hair. I stand corrected. Though I'm not standing at all. I'm here, on the floor, writhing, twisting, dust-mopping with my man jeans and stained shirt (dammit, now I have a wedgie). This is so hard. God, what a whiny cow. Shut up, already. Digging ditches for my massacred family in a war-torn land is hard. Not being able to leave my apartment to get fresh water and medicine for my sick child for fear of being shot by government snipers is hard. What a damn baby. Get some perspective, woman. Sheesh.

Okay, FINE.

So ... The teachers in BC are on STRIKE. Yes, strike. As in, not in the classroom, carrying signs, protesting in front of our schools. As in, my kids are home, NOT in school where they should be learning stuff and burning energy and making/breaking important alliances that will carry them on to the next grade. Instead, they're home. Bored out of their ragged minds. Oh, and just in time for the two-week spring break that starts next Monday. Yes! Two weeks! Two weeks of "I'm bored," and "What are we doing today?" and "Can't we go do something outside? It's not raining ..." Two weeks of me getting shit-all done, unless I leave the house at night, which I did last night and it felt so good. Two weeks of making too many dumb meals in a day and the constant threat of playdates, which means all the cookies have to be hidden so that the friends don't eat said cookies. ("MINE!" Slap, slap. "GET AWAY, you little brat! You smell like cabbage!")

Don't hate on the teachers. It's a two-way street. Takes two to tango. Can't have one without the other. Two peas in a cash-strapped pod. Pick your cliche -- bottom line is, the government doesn't have (won't give up) the money to do what they should do to keep the classroom numbers manageable, to give special needs kids their, well, special needs, and to give the teachers the 15 percent raises they want over the next three years. I am not going to get political on this because, while I have my opinions, they are mine alone and sadly uninformed. Plus, I'm friends with a number of the teachers at my sons' school, and they're awesome folks. Just lovely.

The thing that SUCKS ROCKS, though, is the job action. My kids are a bit manic, like their mom. Stimulation is good. Learning is good. Routine is good. Yesterday, Pretty Princess taught the Young lads grammar and math; today, she's asleep on my bed because she magically caught a cold overnight, Kendon's on the computer designing Mario levels, and Brennan's killing something on the XBox. I am a terrible mother. Shut up and stop judging me. I made them read last night (The People of Sparks and Fablehaven). AND we're going to work on Bren's personal history project later that will include information about my family in Indiana (!!!) who had a house where they sheltered SLAVES! Awesome, right? Not the slave part -- that part's yucky -- but the part about my family who sheltered runaway slaves and helped them get to freedom. What refreshing news. I thought my family was all nuts and loose screws and hoarded empty wine bottles.

[Interruption: Must let dog out because none of the other three souls in this house are aware that she needs to make pee-pee.]

Aaaaaaaand we're back. What other news? The oldest of my beloved children is coming home from Afghanistan this week -- THAT is fabulous. He's not coming home home, but definitely back to the U-S-of-A. This is good news. Think happy thoughts. That was a long year of holding my breath. Although now he's returning to the base in Missouri (and soon commencing on a much-deserved vacation to look at fish and boobies in spring-break-infested Florida), and Missouri has tornadoes, so the worrying shall begin anew.

MOVIES: If you haven't seen Anonymous yet, you must. Stupid Academy didn't recognize the script, acting (RHYS IFANS ... Luna Lovegood's father in HP? Yeah, HIM!), or visual effects (though they nominated Bridesmaids???). Don't miss this. 

And don't fall asleep or else you'll lose your place. Alas, I have not converted. I remain committed to Shakespeare, though the argument for Edward de Vere is fiercely riveting, almost convincing.

The Hunger Games releases soon -- duh -- but before that, I will likely see John Carter, not because Taylor Kitsch is hot but because my Other Lover, MARK STRONG, is the bad guy. See:

Hi, honey. I like your ear cuff.

So, I know this other bad guy you'd be perfect for ...

READING LIST (yes, concurrently -- I like to multitask): Juliet (Anne Fortier); Half Brother (Kenneth Oppel); The Fault in Our Stars (John Green); This World We Live In (Susan Beth Pfeffer); Blackbirds (Chuck Wendig -- just finished and LOVED it -- review and possible interview forthcoming for LitStack.com); and Arctic Rising (Tobias S. Buckell, also just finished -- 3.5/5 stars).

BOOKS I'M WRITING: Secrets, secrets. Sorry, guys. I suck, I know. But I'm wildly superstitious. I don't write and tell. Geezus, Jennifer, what about BOOK 2? Can I get back to you? I should totally have some info by the end of THIS month. I swear. Seriously. No, I mean it. If you give up on me, you might miss something epic. And awesome. Or at the very least, cool.

WHAT CONFOUNDS ME TODAY: 

#1: Why Vagisil and maxipad commercials always come on when my sons are watching TV with me. Do I really want to explain what those things are for? No. I do not. Especially because I'm not sure I can. Sure, I can form words and give the scientific answer for maxipads and tampons. That's easy enough, I guess. I mean, not really. I get stupid embarrassed about talking to my sons about these things, simply because they're little-ish, and I don't want them to look at me funny and because they know that the OB tampons in the bathroom every month are "mommy things," and ... yeah. I'm not very good at this sex-ed stuff. (I'm better with commas and parts of speech.) Brennan made a comment the other day about how baby animals are made, something he's learned at school, that "the parents do You Know What, and then there are babies, and it's totally gross." 

And you wonder why I have a complex about this stuff? It's not enough that God and the Nuns are watching because everyone knows that God and the Nuns can see through the curtains, just like the satellites that are floating in that hazy layer between the atmosphere and deep space -- now my 10-year-old is figuring out where he came from, too? Oh, I am so embarrassed. 

But Vagisil -- this is the best I can do: "Son, when girls have stinky girl parts, they use this special soap to make their stinky girl parts smell like roses and linen and a fresh rainfall." That should be enough. Right? Sarah Silverman says that cleansing products of this nature are for the neurotic. Apparently, she's never been in the change room at our local pool. Um, EWWW. And speaking of, when you go to your local pool (which I apparently committed to doing today ... *sigh*), do you ever move the bottle of Vagisil that someone left behind on the counter or on the shower shelf? Or are you, like, "Uh, gross, SO not touching that." I'd have to put on my Purell gloves before sliding it across the counter and depositing it into the trash bin. Sorry. I, Queen Recycle, cannot recycle that. And if you do use said products, do you recycle the plastic bottle in the Blue Bin so all your neighbors can see that you have stinky girl parts? I mean, there are all these ISSUES with this product. Right?

And speaking of public pools, especially those in suburbia (we have those here in O Canada), have you ever noticed how they are gathering places for those who've given up? Who've added 40 lb. to their physique but still wear two-piece bathing suits or Speedos to show off their midlife-crisis tattoos? Who have that lost look of "Omigod this is all I'm worth, chasing my bratty 2-year-old around this cesspool of human soup"? Men who're balding and paunched out who now drive minivans and dole out goldfish crackers and warm juice boxes when just 20 years ago, they were driving Mustangs and smokin' Marlboros and giving the finger to The Man? Women who have so many dimples on their thighs, I swear said thighs are smiling and winking at me when she shuffles by to the snack bar to get another donut and whole-milk latte because nothing says swimming like donuts and lattes?

Gratuitous donut shot. You're welcome.

It's sad. Seriously sad. (For the record: I do not swim when we go. I sit and observe. And my bathing suit consists of board shorts and a tank top. Hardly any exposed flesh with which to scare the little children, with which to give the other judge-y moms, like me, fodder to nosh on. Suck it!)

#2: Why is the Department of Defense spending millions on developing a robotic "cheetah"? Pretty sure the bad guys will just blow it up before its robotic ass reaches the summit. Just curious.

#3: PINTEREST. No. I'm not pinning. I do not need anything else to distract me from being awesome.

Any questions?

Xs and Os ...