Crazy from the Heat: Next Time, I'll Take Two-Ply

While vacuuming, naturally I begin to think about three-ply toilet paper. Why three plies? Why do we need three layers to wipe off ... you know. That. And have you seen the Charmin commercials where Momma Bear is doing laundry and she discovers the skidmarks inside the undies and that is how she knows her baby bears need three-ply toilet paper? But then in the next frame, none of the bear children are WEARING any underwear, so what is the point of washing Baby Bear's skivvies if he doesn't really wear them? Are those underwear stolen? Are we witnessing a crime in progress? Or is Momma Bear doing her part to help with the mortgage and she's actually washing the underwear that belong to Goldilocks and her neglectful 9-to-5 parents and those undergarments really belong to the people for whom Momma Bear works, likely for a shit wage and no benes and no paid holidays? 

But -- wait -- if those ARE Baby Bear's underpants, if he doesn't really wear them and he's not good at cleaning his undercarriage, does that mean all the furniture in the house has been soiled and stained accordingly?

DO BEARS HAVE FURNITURE OR HIGH-EFFICIENCY WASHING MACHINES?

Tell me -- do you guys get this commercial in the US? Elsewhere? I can post the link to the French one if you want. Poop sounds so much cooler en Français.

As often happens when I'm vacuuming -- a mind-numbing chore I try very hard to avoid until the memory in my feet screams at me CLEAN THESE FLOORS BEFORE I REVOLT AND TAKE LEAVE OF YOUR ANKLES -- my brain, well, it short circuits a little. All that monotonous back and forth, the drawing of lines in the carpet, the watching while the other members of the household destroy those beautiful lines with their stinky, sticky feet ... Mommy likes the lines ... I vacuum the wee hallway connecting the tiny bathroom off the "master" bedroom (more like the bedroom that really wanted to be the master but had to settle for second mate or even the guy who has to mop the decks) and I see the package of Charmin that I bought because they were all out of the less expensive store brand, and I never buy three-ply because we have the worst plumbing in the world and my children still do not believe me when I say they don't need to use half a roll of toilet paper every time something other than liquid exits their bodies. (I am certified with a plunger. Like, journeyman-level certification here. The universal plumbers' alliance should just knight me, I'm that good.) 

ANYWAY, hummmmmmmm -- that's the vacuum -- it's still going, and I'm now drenched and I've got boob sweat, which is totally gross but would've been so much hotter 20 years ago when my ass was still hard enough to bounce nickels off and I didn't have all these weird hairs sprouting from -- never mind -- and I'm glad I didn't put on makeup because I'd be drinking it at this point, and it is SO EFFING HOT I want to die but not really because dying would suck, especially while vacuuming -- and it dawns on me that Charmin three-ply toilet paper is sold to us by bears who have washing machines and vacuums of their own ... and THAT is why I hate cartoons.

You're following along, aren't you. Aren't you?

I really do hate cartoons. Like, Looney Toons and Baby Looney Toons and Merrie Melodies and Hanna-Barbera and The Flintstones and Elmer Fudd (someone SHOOT him already) and that Tazmanian Devil and that obNOXious Yosemite Sam and that confounded Wile E. Coyote who never, ever gets the bird and the skin-peeling, eye-yanking, thumb-smashing terror of Scooby Doo.

Be very careful Googling this image. A picture of a poorly drawn Wile E. Coyote tattoo on some guy's very hairy ass pops up in Google Images. I cannot unsee that. The bleach just stings us, Precious.

But Jenn, you say. Cartoons were a part of our childhoods, you say. NOT MINE. They stressed me the hell out. How could Fred Flintstone possibly survive getting hit in the head that many times? And dinosaurs and people didn't LIVE in even remotely the same historical period! Duh! How could the Coyote survive the anvil on his skull and not have permanent neurological damage? He should have multiple metal plates and slurp his pureed protein-enriched dinner through a straw by now! How could Daffy Duck turn his beak around after it had been shot off by that mentally challenged man with a speech impediment and a loaded weapon? And who thought it was a good idea to give George Jetson's housekeeper artificial intelligence? I saw I, Robot. That shit scared the hell out of me. No robots in THIS house, even if they do vacuum.

Sunny says HI. (CREEPY!!!!)

Which -- of course -- leads me back to the conversation about the bears and their dirty butts. Bears probably have very dirty butts. In fact, I guarantee it. They also have very large paws, as evidenced by a blog post months ago wherein I provide photographic evidence of bear prints IN MY SNOWY YARD. Because I live in the Great White North and of course we have bears and beavers and moose and cougars and Santa SO STOP ASKING. (Okay, that is a partial falsehood. I have never seen a moose. They live farther north. Near Santa.)

I would not ordinarily buy Charmin toilet paper because their commercials stress me out, just like all those nasty little cartoons did when I was between the ages of three and eleven, after which time we got an Apple IIe on which I could write angsty poetry and cable television when MTV still played music videos about how video killed the radio star and how Madonna was still a virgin. Or wait. She wanted us to like a virgin. Or maybe she just wanted us to like her hair, which I totally did, and I totally dressed like her for Halloween one year. Nailed it.

What were we talking about?

Vacuuming. Poop. Cartoons. Stress. All of the above. My conclusion: Stop making commercials that use woodland creatures who not only don't care where they shit but who don't wear underwear EVER in their lives (although I'd pay to watch someone try to put a pair of boxer briefs on a full-grown American brown bear). Bears don't wear glasses. They don't read newspapers. They don't own HE washers or houses nicer than mine. (Way to make me feel like a winner, Charmin. Your stupid bears have nicer furniture than I do AND THEY'RE CARTOONS.) The way to this consumer mom's heart is not through an allegory of fuzzy bears with common sense and a knack for folding laundry. No. You're stressing me out. I can't buy your toilet paper anymore because BEARS DON'T DO LAUNDRY.

Honestly, if these advertisers were smart, they'd put Henry Cavill on every single package of toilet paper. End of story. Because even Superman has to wipe his butt. Right? If he needs help with that, I've been a mom and an editor for a looooooong time. I'm good with wiping butts.

Doesn't look like Superman wears undies, ladies ...

Saturday chores are only four days away. I'll let you know if any stunning revelations occur while I'm again drawing those fated lines in the few patches of carpet left in the house.

Xs and Os ...

Random: Without Method or Conscious Decision. I Give You ... Wednesday

Ready for random?

Good. Let's get to it.

It comes around to my attention that I am due for a blog post. Thank you, gods of guilt, for reminding me that I am witless of word, the dawdler of diatribe, the procrastinator of peroration. Honestly, though ... what is there to say.

I get up.

I get the kids up.

Chocolate Cheerios in my bowl. I eat them, before the kitten does.

Sometimes I shower. Pull on the jeans that don't grab at my girl parts.

And then I don my devil horns and begin anew with bathing other people's manuscripts in red ink.

In the kitten's defense, this DOES look like cat food.

SO. MUCH. EXCITEMENT.

Although the sun has graced us these few odd days with its presence, which MEANS ... I walked. As in ... WAIT FOR IT ... EXERCISE. (I finished the latest draft of my book three weeks ago; as a treat, I bought myself new walking shoes. Reeboks. Pink and gray ones. Because my ass is too big, and  my DNA structure has mutated to where I am now part hippo, part sloth. No bueno.) I take my body OUT of doors, to a track, wherein I proceed to sweat alongside a wordsmithy friend while we discuss the Very Important Aspects of Life, including whether Britney Spears should be pitied because she is bipolar and her skanky family just wants her money, and whether Reese Witherspoon will recover from her recent disorderly conduct arrest by going on Saturday Night Live, where she will make fun of herself (UPDATE: she canceled appearances on Fallon and GMA post-arrest -- me thinks SNL might be a little much), or whether Justin Timberlake really is that charismatic in person (my friend votes no, but that boy can do some comedy -- I do love the influence of Andy Samberg on little JT), or if it really is helpful for one's circulation to flagellate the body post-workout like all the old Asian men at the track do (seriously, they walk, and then they go into the stands and beat the hell out of themselves. My friend, married to a Canadian-Chinese man who's actually Italian, says that it is supposed to open chakras or whatever the Chinese equivalent is. I'm NOT being racist -- I'm just not Chinese, and I don't know the right word. Oh, WAIT! The word is meridian! Right? I remember! Okay, so, someone look into this and get back to me).

What else do we talk about? Omigod, not being able to sleep, why people overuse the word "gaze" in their writing, how you should NEVER overuse the word "gaze" in your writing, how _______________ the government is being this week, whether we should move to Nova Scotia because we could buy a 3000-sq. ft. house with a real yard for the cost of a bachelor condo in Vancouver. I mean, what do YOU talk about when you're exercising?

We talk about our kids. Now's the part where I tell you something clever and witty about them. As my kids are a bit older, I don't have any unfortunate barfing baby or saggy diaper stories; my blouse hasn't lately become soaked in the middle of the deli lineup from exuberant lactation when someone else's baby started crying; I didn't get into a brawl over the last parking spot at Gymboree**. There are plenty of blogs that cover this stage of life. I'm done with it. THANK PICKLES. We've moved on, to the part where my 11-year-old has decided on a career as a comedian, which means he took a "personal day" Monday to study a comedy-writing book and then walked around the house all day practicing his "material" on us while we tried to work. *pats top of blond child's head* "Funny joke, Bren. Keep working on it." YES, we let him listen to Patton Oswalt because Patton is The Master. STOP JUDGING ME. (You, in the corner ... YOU ... your kid has the sense of humor of a pond stone, so ssshhhhh and go back to coloring in the lines.) But our lad recently made the select-A soccer team again, third year running, so he's allowed to be awesome and work on his comedy. If only until we stop laughing.

And the Comedy Kid? He hates bees and balloons. And we saw both in the same place, celebrating the grand opening of a new local drugstore. THIS IS FOR YOU, BRENNAN:

Bee + balloon = Brennan bad dream.

((** I did, however, have a near smackdown with a stupid woman in a BMW SUV a few years ago. She was honking at me to go, but there were children in front of me, so go I could not or else -- vehicular homicide. I got out of my car and gave her WHAT FOR. In front of pretty much the entire high school crowd. They were laughing. So much for being badass.))

Speaking of comedy, Pretty Princess just finished her first year of college, so I've been Queen Nag: "Don't you have to work today? You know, you're not going to sit on your ass for the next four months, in jammies until 2 p.m. GO DO SOME WORK AND MAKE SOMETHING OF YOURSELF." Subtext: "Or else you will end up like your mother, fresh out of therapy, totally out of clean underwear, and still in her jammies at 2 p.m." Nah, she's all right. She didn't flunk out this first year (at least I don't think she did), her entertainment blog is almost a year old and still going strong (TrulyLuminary for you newbs), and she's been chosen for leadership training at her job. If you're ever in the area and you want to stuff a bear and buy it a matching tutu, Yaunna is the elf in the denim shirt. No, really. She's an elf. She's 19 and 4'8". ELF. And sometimes, she's an angry elf. For real. Like when she reads this blog post and realizes I'm totally making fun of her. IN THE NAME OF COMEDY.

The Angry Elf (Miles Davis, aka Peter Dinklage), before he became the Master of Coin, Tyrion Lannister.

My oldest boy is a year out from his tour in Afghanistan and finally out of the U.S. Army, now in college. I. So. Proud. Except he drinks too much (crappy) beer and worries too much about women. SON, STOP. Listen to all of us old people. There's plenty of time for carnal knowledge AFTER you have a decent-paying job, after your brain grows in, which should be at around, ohhhh, say, 28, 29? If you're lonely, get a magazine. Look, but no touch. What have I been telling you all these years? "Girls are evil." Trust Mommy. Mommy's a girl. She knows these things.

Aaaaaaand the baby ... what can be said? He started gymnastics. His hair is curlier than a freshly permed circus clown. He is too skinny but won't eat and yet still has the energy of a nuclear reactor. Poor lad is getting braces next month. He's recently learned both pages of the Legend of Zelda theme song in piano class. And he's smarter than I am.

So, for all of you wondering what writers talk about when they are not writing, YOU HAVE BEEN EDUCATED. Stunning, I know. But I received an email recently where the gal asked if I would be answering the email, or if my assistant would be. I might have choked a little on my coffee. Assistant? If you mean an overcaffeinated four-month-old kitten named Nuit, then YES, my assistant will likely answer you back. But if she's busy chasing her tail or attacking her crabby 11-year-old Maine Coon brother or the morbidly obese beagle, chances are I will be answering your email.

My assistant, beating down an unruly roll of paper towels. THANK YOU, NUIT.

SPEAKING OF: I heard from a college kid named DANIELLE the other day who was interested in Sleight's sequel because she and a few other folks are reading the original (read: self-published 2011 version) book for their college class. How ADORABLES is that?!?!? Danielle, you made my day, pretty girl. Thanks for emailing. And like I told you via email, Sleight will be all shiny and pretty. Eventually. One day. I promise. And YES, there will be a second book. Only it will be an answer to this latest version of the story, which I finished three weeks ago. Did I mention that I finished this draft three weeks ago? Just wanna make sure you heard me. (THREE WEEKS.) And no, I haven't looked at it since.

WHAT I AM READING (and have now decided that Libba Bray is a goddess):

BOOKS BOUGHT THESE LAST FEW WEEKS, for myself and the kids:

And Kendi & I are reading this one right now:

Gaiman's name starts with a G, just like GENIUS.

Any Game of Thrones fans here? DID YOU WATCH THIS WEEK'S EPISODE? Holy Mother of Dragons! God, I am so in love with Khaleesi. #girlcrush

And THIS is the best SomeEcard I've seen in MONTHS:

No, seriously. SO happy.

And what Jenn post would be finished without a dedication to The Man of My Fanciful NSFW Dreams, Mr. MarkStrong, WHO, BTW, has a new series coming out on AMC this summer (after Breaking Bad) called Low Winter Sun. And because I really have nothing better to do (cough cough), Yaunna showed me the magic of Tumblr, how, if you put your search terms into the magic magnifying glass box, you can find All the Pictures of MarkStrong. I might need an intervention. But not yet. Give me a few more minutes. (P.S. When you guys read the newest version of Sleight, this obsession will become crystal clear.)

Thank you, House Elf, for making this pretty banner for Mommy. Ssshhh, don't tell Daddy.

Be safety, and have a grand week. Or month. Please do comment and let me know what you're reading. I AM SO LONELY HERE ALL BY MYSELF WITH ONLY PICTURES OF CHEERIOS AND MARK STRONG.

Xs and Os ...

P.S. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SHAKESPEARE! He turned 449 yesterday. I ate ice cream. Don't worry -- I ate enough for you too.

Mother Nature Calls Me Ma'am

Disclaimer: This tale will not be true for everyone. Either you will understand its sentiments, or you can treat it as a cautionary tale for what happens after you turn 40. For the record, I am not obsessed with my weight. I love Oreo cookies too much for that. No need to send me links to "age gracefully" or "love your body no matter what" memes. /end disclaimer

Onward:

Mother Nature -- she's a fickle cow.

Picture this: You're 25. You're the hottest you're ever going to be in your whole life, legs strong, arms chiseled, pants fit right, no blubber roll around your middle to remind you that you've had two babies too young. When you want to lose weight, you stop eating. You decide you're a vegetarian, only you hate vegetables so your diet consists largely of Red Vines, bread, and Diet Coke. Losing weight is easy, thanks to a genetic gift and years of athleticism in childhood, but also because you're young. You're very busy chasing toddlers, doing theatre, working several jobs, fighting with ex's. There is never a dull moment, and your metabolism rewards you for your industry. 

Breakfast of Champions.

Mother Nature's ploy is to make us the most desirable when we're the perfect breeding age, from, say, 17 to 28 or 29. Some can stretch this into their 30s, and some reach their prime at 45, but not all. Not everyone's that dedicated. Not everyone's so gifted to have skin like my friend Carmen and an ass/legs like my friend Danielle. I had gray hair and the first signs of crow's-feet in my 30s, despite the fact that I was still not done breeding. But I also wasn't out on the market trying to find a partner with whom to continue breeding. I found him at 29, so the slide began. Slowly, slowly. (However, I did not acquire my first yoga pants until age 40. No, my yoga pants have never seen the inside of a yoga studio.)

When you're young and everything is in the right place, gravitationally speaking, you go to the gas station or the market and upon handing you your receipt for something you likely paid way too much for, the helpful clerk says, "Have a nice day, Miss." You smile, say, "Thanks, you too." You climb into the car for the drive home, crack open the sweating can of Diet Coke and the yellow wrapper of the peanut-buttery Butterfinger, and you know that if you skip dinner, these calories will not land in the foundation of the wee fat condos blossoming on the exterior of your thighs. It's early days. You can get ahead of those condos before they become a full-fledged, size 12 housing development with pools and pleasant tree-lined walkways and grassy knolls where you can read your tabloid magazines. A few laps around the block a few times a week? Finally breaking the seal on the Wii Fit disc? You can handle that. (You won't. But you will tell yourself you will.)

When you're young, you get sick and you drop two pants sizes. Pneumonia? Bring it on! You'll be able to wear that red dress! Stomach flu? Yes, please! Emily Blunt's character said it best in The Devil Wears Prada: "I'm one stomach flu away from reaching my goal weight." When you get sick, Mother Nature rewards you with a flatter stomach, thinner thighs. Some say that a single drink of water will reset you to the prior weight, but still -- it FEELS like there is a consolation prize. And when you drag your coughing butt to the pharmacy for codeine cough syrup, the pharmacist says, "Here you go, Miss Sommersby. Feel better soon."

The world is still calling you "miss." Mother Nature is still offering consolation prizes so you will be hearty and good-looking enough to go forth and multiply.

And then ... one day ... September 21, two days after your 40th birthday, you're sitting at the gas station, waiting for the attendant with the overstretched gauges in his ears and the scary, might-be-infected lip piercing. What is taking him so long? You look into the rearview mirror -- OMIGOD IS THAT A GRAY HAIR?! No. It's TEN gray hairs. And a singular white one that grows STRAIGHT out of your head like it's reaching for the International Space Station. You swear you will pluck it the moment you get home. Your Diet Coke is warm, and it's making you nervous to drink it after reading an article about all the chemicals they use to replace the sugar (thus making it diet), that it can make your bones hollow and the aspartame/phenylalanine causes cancer in lab rats. Maybe I should stop drinking this stuff ...

This rat had too much Diet Coke.

But you're young. The world still calls you "miss." There is time left. You can remedy the err of your ways.

The attendant, finally finished staring at the boobs of the younger girl in The Car That Is Not a Minivan, comes and takes your money. He smiles, that lip piercing very worrisome up close, so much so that you resist the motherly urge to say, "You might want to get that looked at." He hands you the receipt and says, "Have a nice day, ma'am."

OMIGOD HE CALLED ME MA'AM.

The end is nigh.

Once you've become "ma'am" instead of "miss," the gray hairs multiply like bacteria in blood-red agar. Those Red Vines aren't sitting so well, and you find yourself reading nutritional value labels and standing, wide-eyed, in the vitamin aisle, wondering if you should supplement with Ensure, recalling the Geritol commercials of your childhood.

And Mother Nature gets stingy. Remember those consolation prizes mentioned above? Yeah. When you reach "ma'am" status, the consolation prizes are rescinded. No more. Nada. Gonzo. Not for you, babe. 

When you get the flu, which might turn into bronchitis and pneumonia, you don't lose 10 lb., despite the thunderous coughing that scares the neighbors so much, they seal their windows in plastic film; despite the megadoses of antibiotics that are clearing your lungs but ravaging your intestines; in between begging for death and praying to live, you're hoping that this drowning sensation goes away soon so that you don't die because your kids are still really little and PLEASE GOD/BABY JESUS/BUDDHA/UNIVERSE DON'T LET ME DIE I PROMISE TO STOP EATING SO MANY RED VINES.

Mother Nature -- she's a fickle cow. You get pneumonia, but you don't get the consolation prize. And the much-younger pharmacist with the great hair, Crest Whitestrips teeth, and the very large, sparkly engagement ring says, "Here you go, ma'am. Feel better soon."

Ma'am? Really? You don't punch her. She has a pretty nose. Instead you cough in her direction, and smugly stroll from the store.

This. Is. My. Future.

Xs and Os, lovelies ...

P.S. If you're not yet 40, go do some sit-ups post haste. You will thank me later.

Obligatory New Year's Post: No Resolutions, Please

What I Learned in 2012

That I can survive:

… one child in Afghanistan and his triumphant return stateside,

… another child during prom season, high school graduation, and the first day of college,

… another starting middle school and going to his first dance—with a girl,

... another breaking a tooth,

I don't have a broken tooth photo. This will have to suffice.

… yet another year in the grips of the flaky film industry with a dollar that won’t stop rising,

… yet another rewrite for a book that seems to never find its end (please don't give up on me!),

... the Mayan calendar meltdown apocalypse end of days what-have-you thingie. We're still here. (I secretly knew we would be.)

And I’m grateful that this year, thus far (there are a few hours remaining in 2012), in this household:

… no one contracted Ebola,

… no one broke any bones,

… no one crashed any cars,

… nothing caught on fire (other than my cooking),

… we laughed more than we cried,

… we had access to the medical care we needed,

… I signed with the World’s Most Incredible Agent and have worked/am working with two of the best editors in the industry,

… I got some secret book news that I am dying to share,

… I felt swathed in bubble wrap by friends who love me, who lavished me with signed books, Oreo cookies, and rubber ducks from all over the globe,

… that the confounded U.S. elections are over so people can put their brains back on.

I also learned that …

… I complain a lot but I don’t really mean it. I’m mostly kidding,

… our school district really does have a lot of days off,

... that no matter what my agenda has scratched on it, patience really is a virtue, and if I want my dreams to become reality, I have to understand that the people I rely upon have a lot going on besides just little ol' me,

… there is no accounting for some people’s taste—case in point, everything on TLC,

… that I can shove a needle into the flesh of my ailing cat in order to save his life,

… that I can change out the shower diverter, replace the sink faucet, and fix the black thingie that makes the toilet flush, ALL BY MYSELF,

… that some people are just stupid and can never be changed,

… that THIS is my new favorite artist: http://enpundit.com/genius-photorealistic-paintings-by-ana-teresa-fernandez/,

… that Bag Chemistry makes the awesomest messenger bags (we have four now: a Mockingjay, two Shakespeare bags, and the Minecraft Creeper): http://www.bagchemistry.com/,

… that every second of my publishing journey is THIS: http://blog.nathanbransford.com/2012/08/the-publishing-process-in-gif-form.html,

… that despite being late to discover this, GAME OF THRONES is the greatest thing ever invented in the whole long history of cinema and television (#HouseStark!),

… that this is my favorite entertainment website: trulyluminary.wordpress.com. Disclaimer: It’s my daughter. But she’s comprehensive and really cute. Plus, if enough people like this, she can eventually monetize and, well, who doesn’t like a kid with a JOB?

… that I love Grammar Girl: http://grammar.quickanddirtytips.com/,

... that there will never be enough hours to fix bad writing nor enough hours to read the writing that makes me drizzle those happy tears,

Thank you, Heidi ... I still can't believe you did this for me. *heart*

… that I have had the best editing clients ever this year, and every time someone emails and trusts me with his or her work, I am grateful and humbled,

... that sometimes, no matter how hard you try, no matter how much of yourself that you give, you can never be the right kind of friend. Conversely, sometimes it only takes an “I’m sorry, I screwed up” to get a friendship back on track. Never be too proud to say you’re sorry. And always be humble enough to say thank you to the people who count you among their friends.

I won't make a list of 2013 resolutions here because ... resolutions are made to be broken, and I don't want to fail first day out of the gate, especially because my brain is addled secondary to megadoses of antibiotics fighting whatever beast is currently inhabiting those squishy things in my chest that enable me to breathe. (Oh. Lungs. Right. Those.)

Here's hoping YOUR 2012 was better than expected, and if it sucked, take solace in the fact that only a few hours remain, fiscal cliff be damned. Thank you so much for being my friend. Please keep in touch.

Gumball #8: Toilet Water Is Not for Drinking

Magical Gumball of Irradiant Genius #8:

No-brainer, right? Suuuuuure, it is. Mmmmm, Comet!

Xs and Os ...

Gumball #2: Driving Miss Potty Mouth

Magical Gumball of Irradiant Genius #2:

Hey, watch it, Judgey McJudgerson. 

I live in an area densely populated with people who cannot drive.
AND that kid who shouted that at me is now the best speller in his class. For all the words, not just the bad ones. 

Xs and Os ...

In Which I Go On Ad Nauseam About Books. And Life.

I should've updated weeks ago, after posting the picture of that luscious apple from our tree. That was one of three juicy multicolored globes we were able to salvage. (And with its leaf? So pretty!) The rest were ravaged by crows and worms and bugs. YES, I raked up the dead ones so you don't have to call the bylaw officer and send him to my house because there are no dead apples to attract bears. SHEESH. Relax.

Hmmm ... what's happened in the interim?

• We went for 2.5 months with 8 mm of rain (0.31 inches, Yankees). A RECORD for this area. It was lovely.
• Soccer season has started. Not for me. I'm just the chauffeur. Four days a week of sweat and smelly. But Bend-It-Like-Brennan is a killer player, and I loves him because he is squishy and he's not embarrassed to give his mom a smooch in public, even though he's almost 11. OMIGOD I LOVE THAT KID. You should see the note he wrote me the other night when I was having a Temporary Loss of Confidence and Will. (They handed me an Oreo and stepped away quietly. All was set right with the world.)
• Canadian Thanksgiving has passed. It was delicious, thanks.
• I finally succumbed and put on the yoga pants I bought in March (yoga pants are a big deal in this part of the world -- which is why Vancouver was voted Worst Dressed City in North America). MOST COMFORTABLE PANTS EVER. I wore them NOT to do yoga (HA! Me? Exercise? Are you feverish?) for 12 minutes and managed to get a dollop of mayonnaise on the knee whilst cleaning the fridge. I am now back to wearing jeans.
• I wrote a whole bunch of words I cannot wait to share with you.
• I had a birthday. Yay. I'm a year older. *sigh* Oh, wait -- YAY! I'm a year older! Which means I'm not dead yet. This is good. AND I got kisses from these handsome blokes:

• We started watching Game of Thrones. Why did I wait so long? Joffrey is SUCH an insufferable prick! And omigod, Sean Bean ... why, Eddard Stark, whyyyyyy?
• And ... I went to the bookstore. Several times. See below.

I buy books like some people buy shoes. Or jewelry. Or Star Wars figures for their personal collections that family members rib them about. I allow myself the luxury of buying real, live books (despite the fact that I also own e-readers that simply collect dust and run out of battery power on the forgotten corners of my desk) like some women go to the nail salon or get their hair done. To permit this expense, I trim my own nails, ignore the overgrown cuticles (until they ache and turn into hangnails). I find nail polish uncomfortable, as if my fingers cannot breathe or are somehow heavier. And I let the shelves at Walmart, the ones that hold L'Oreal in every shade and hue, color my grays every eight weeks or so. I sacrifice new pants, instead wearing one of the same five pairs of well-worn Old Navy men's jeans, topped with one of the ten new long-sleeved T-shirts I buy myself every year on my birthday (again, Old Navy, with some occasional H&M splurges thrown in for good measure). A scarf, heavy sweater, and fake Uggs from Costco finish this imperfect look. But it's enough that I can leave the house clean and not get arrested for going out of doors nekked.

Books are important to me. But do you have any idea how hard it is to find decent bookshelves? The fourteen already in the house are bursting to capacity. The boys need new shelves -- their tastes are changing, and it is reflected in their book collections. My desk has taken on the feeling that it is an oasis amongst the stacks, like my own dry patch of paved, uneven sidewalk among high-rises constructed from books, precariously stacked atop one another. Don't sneeze or move too quickly; the buildings will fall. If we have an earthquake, be sure to look under the books for my crumpled form. It is my hope that their bindings and thick insides will cushion the fall of the ceiling onto my beleaguered head.

This high-rise is tilted. It sort of spilled. OH, and there isn't really a
child being held hostage behind the stack. I promise. Peekaboo! I see you!
Oh, and I drank that wine. It was delicious.

A friend recently commented that she doesn't have means to buy books new (which is an untruth), so she waits until she finds a decent used bookstore. Those, however, are far and few between these days. I posit that everyone has money to buy books -- it means no extended trips out of the state or country, no dinners out, no trips to the spa for pampering and primping. My children ask for many things -- Legos that will only come apart and get lost under my feet (owie), new video games that they will master in six-point-five hours, magic kits to which they will lose the wands and rubber balls and trick cards within days -- and often I say, "No, you don't need another one." But the second they ask for a new book, it's a race to get my shoes on and find the keys in the chaos of the aforementioned literary jungle. Even in a blizzard, I can find my way to the bookstore. 

Someone else once said to me that if I bought fewer books, I'd be able to buy a house instead. In this neighborhood? Are you insane? Even if I returned every book I've ever purchased in the whole of my life, I wouldn't have nearly enough pennies for the 20 percent down payment on the bargain-basement $600,000, 40-year-old pieces-o-shit in these suburbs of Vancouver. Have you checked lately? Most expensive housing market in Canada. Right here, folks. Right friggin' here. So that argument, I smile, laugh, and then smile again. Tell me that story again while we sip coffee and peruse the stacks.

And, no, I cannot go to the library. It's not a cost-effective method for me to get books. I end up owing more in late fines than the book is worth. THAT, and the fact that dozens of people have TOUCHED the books before me. Curled up with them in their beds. Picked at scabs on their faces or chewed on their nails or sneezed on the pages or or or ... If you could wring out a book's pages -- or worse, send it for forensic analysis -- I shudder at what they would find lurking on those oft-turned pages. *shudder*

But my books pay for themselves. I read them, I become a better writer, ergo I write better books. (See how that works?) If you're a writer, and you don't read, lean forward whilst I slip this Cone of Shame around your neck. (It's itchy.) If you're a writer who doesn't read, we THE READERS can tell. Worse, if you're a writer who lies about reading just so you can look cool at conferences and in your writers' group (reading the summaries and reviews of popular books on Goodreads does not mean you've read the damn book) -- once again, we can tell. If your writing sucks, you probably haven't read enough books. Or, if your writing sucks, maybe it's because you were meant to be an opera singer or an embalmer. Maybe you're in the wrong line of work. But what do I know ... the writing ranks these days are stuffed full of people with less skill than a blind, three-legged gopher on leftover prescription meds spilled from a neighborhood garbage bin, and those folks are making SERIOUS bank. Jealous much, Jenn? (Think how my therapist feels having to listen to me wax on about this. Every. Other. Week.)

But this is not a prescriptive blog. I'm not going to tell you how to improve your writing skills. There are plenty of folks far more qualified than I to do that. Some of them even have blind, three-legged gophers as pets.

Nah, instead, I will share with you the reading lists I'm working on, and maybe, just maybe, one of you will tell me what YOU are reading too. I am always looking for an excuse to go to the bookstore.

AND: for the BEST BOOK BLOG EVER, where she actually READS and REVIEWS the books (instead of where I just make long lists and pet the shiny covers), go see Raych at BOOKS I DONE READ. She's my idol.

Recent acquisitions -- and NO, I didn't buy all of these, for those of you concerned about my addictive personality and fiscal health. Some were given to me as gifts, others loaned by clean-handed friends, a few purchased. (If you follow me on Facebook under the Jennifer Sommersby page, you will have seen a semblance of this list before. Not everyone loves FB, though, so we should share accordingly.)

Every Day -- David Levithan

This Dark Endeavour (yes, Canadian spelling) -- Kenneth Oppel (LOVING IT. ALMOST DONE!)

Will Grayson Will Grayson -- David Levithan and John Green

Ape House -- Sara Gruen

Power of the Dog -- Don Winslow

The Winter of Frankie Machine -- Don Winslow

Girl with the Dragon Tattoo -- Stieg Larsson

City of Bones -- Cassandra Clare

City of Ashes -- Cassandra Clare

A Casual Vacancy -- JK Rowling

The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making -- Catherynne M. Valente

Son -- Lois Lowry (just ordered this one for my lads)

The Twelve -- Justin Cronin (!!!!)

Rage Within -- Jeyn Roberts (even got a signed copy to match the signed copy of its predecessor, Dark Inside)

Keeper of the Lost Cities -- Shannon Messenger (great middle grade title!)

Creepy. AND set in Vancouver! Sweet!

Books on the WANT List:

Gone Girl  -- Gillian Flynn

Insatiable -- Meg Cabot

11-22-63 -- Stephen King

The Diviners  -- Libba Bray

Bright's Light -- Susan Juby

The Weird Sisters -- Eleanor Brown

The Edge of Nowhere  -- Elizabeth George

Shadow and Bone  -- Leigh Bardugo (I keep hearing amazing things about this one ...)

Code Name Verity -- Elizabeth Wein (another I'm hearing rave reviews about)

Everything by Kristin Cashore (Graceling, Fire, and Bitterblue)

Now that fall has finally settled upon the Great Western North (we don't get a lot of white so I'm officially renaming our geographic locale), I'm looking forward to hunkering down and locking myself in the house while the rain does its best to destroy what remains of the roof's shingles. Ba ha ha ha ... who am I kidding ... I never leave the house, anyway. OH, except to go to the ... well, you know.

I wish my Old Navy men's jeans weren't so tight. I need donuts.

Oh, and here's a cat. Eskimo, the world's laziest writer's assistant. Yeah, he was supposed to be reading my latest pages. He instead chewed the edges. WAIT -- maybe he didn't like it. Maybe the tension was off or the character's motivations were muddled. Omigod, I didn't even think about that. He was trying to tell me by hiding the pages and ingesting the paper. Shit. 

Xs and Os, lovelies ...