To SJJ

If there was some part of you that wanted to indulge in a pedicure in the next day or so

just know that I would be amenable to such a thing

I have a wedding to attend, after all

and you and I have a tradition of such things

and you might not be able to see your feet for too much longer, I am told

so think pink

(or maroon, really, as is your wont.)

Hello! Gosh, I feel like I’ve been a non-internet vacuum these last couple of days, even though I think I posted less than a week ago. I certainly am in a vacuum of sorts–I’m in New London, Connecticut. Not that New London is a vaccuum in and of itself (and maybe I just like saying vacuum, because I like those two u’s next to each other, and the way I pronounce it in my head as “VACK-you-um”)–I’m just in an, um, self-contained pouch.

My partner is working at the venerable Eugene O’Neill Theatre Center, and since I am about to attend–nay, participate in–my best friend’s wedding in New England this weekend (!!!), it made sense for us to come up here together.  (Thre is a much more ridiculous picture of O’Neill at the center itself, but I can’t find it online.)  Anyway, while A. has been faithfully attending to the play at hand, I’ve been hiding out at the lovely house they’ve let us stay in, working on a la novel.  Did I mention that I finished a draft?  Maybe I did, which is a huge accomplishment, at least a year in coming.  I also re-outlined and cut 90 pages just for starters!  I always laugh at how hard we writers try to nudge up our page counts and then how much we cackle when we’ve cut whole chunks.  It makes a certain amount of sense, but it’s still funny.  As a teacher, I never would have been like, “The students just learned twelve new vocabulary words and forgot five!  Bliss!”

In the midst of all this novelicious productivity (which is also, I might add, somewhat lonely, although the beach awaits at the end of the day)–are odd memories of New London.  I passed through here all the time on my AmTrak way to and from college, of course, but I think I only stopped here once, and not even on purpose.  It was the summer of 1996, and I was on my way back from visiting a friend, whom I’d formerly had a huge crush on.   I’d thought we’d had a good visit, including a nap for me on Saturday afternoon that was, no joke, The Best Nap I have Ever Taken, but then Sunday morning we got into a fight somehow.  It was strange, because we’d never fought, but I remembered her accusing me of not, I don’t know, supporting her relationship with her boyfriend, and I burst into tears.  “That’s so not true!” I blubbered.  “I always ask you about him and how things are going.”  Who knew which one of us was right, but I’m not the kind of person who bursts into tears during fights at all, so it obviously really upset me. 

We reconciled enough to go on a great bike ride and meet up with two other friends for Mexican food, and then I was on my merry way back on AmTrak–except that the train stopped in New London with a bomb threat.  Since this was in the late ’90s, it was way more of an eye-roll than the actual scare it might be a few short years later.  (Gosh, it’s kind of crazy how much things changed in such a relatively small amount of time.)  Anyway, we all had to unload off the train and of course there was hardly anywhere to go and I hadn’t eaten dinner, but we ended up at the bar across the way that must make a huge living from stranded travellers.  I don’t remember if I got anything in the way of enough to eat, but the great thing was that the Women’s Gymnastics Team Competition was up on the screen!  So not only did I get to see my beloved gymnastics (I’m sure readers of this blog will understan what that means to me)–but I also got to see Keri Strug do her amazing vault with a cracked ankle or whatever it was to victory!  I can be a bit of a wimp and I am sure that if I injured myself on a vault, I would have been like, “Sorry, Team USA; you may be the Magnificent Seven” (a reference I didn’t understand then and still relate to only hazily), but you’ve made your bed with your poor scores.  I can’t do anything for you at this point, so I think I’m going to sit it out for Vault #2.”  Not so for Keri Strug!  As I slurped Diet Coke at a New London bar, Keri Strug ran and flipped and landed on that injured ankle and brought the US GOLD.

Or at least, I think she did.  The crazy thing about memories of important events, as I learned ound September 11, 2001, is that they create–oh gosh, this is becoming eerily related–a sort of vacuum.  They suck nearby events into their orbit to the point where people who attended weddings in July or November of 2001 will say, “Yeah, that wedding was right around September 11th.”  I suppose the important event in my story, embarrassingly, might be the winning vault.  Maybe it didn’t occur that night as we waited for the train to be searched; maybe that was later, on my mom’s bed, with my cousin who was living with us for the summer.  I honestly don’t remember. 

What else to say?  I stopped being friends with the crush, although we did have a rather poetic re-meeting.  We didn’t correspond over the summer except for me to send her a postcard requesting that she return a library book I’d left behind, and apparently I’d said something like, “I’ll see you online at the bookstore,” because that was pretty much how you’d see everyone back on campus. 

I didn’t see her then, and I didn’t contact her, but a few weeks into school, my roommate and I were at Shaw’s (oh, that great Shaw’s–I still think of their Indulgences chocolates sometimes)–and there was the crush in the cereal aisle.  (Okay, I made that up–I have no idea what aisle it was.)  It was deep enough into the year that it was clear that our silence meant something, but I hadn’t known she cared until she said, “Well, I guess it’s not the bookstore after all.”

She may as well have been speaking Sanskrit.  “Um, what?” I asked.

“You know.”  She blinked.  “That thing you said in your postcard–how you’d see me at the bookstore.”

“Oh.  Yeah, I guess not.”

And we weren’t really friends after that.  Which in way was too bad, because I’d really enjoyed her when I’d thought she might like me back, but the things that had complicated the crush (including the fact that she turned out to be, you know, kind of straight) got in the way, and in some ways, at least at that time, she wasn’t such a good friend.  I will say, though, that that is the only time I ever remotely felt like I had the last laugh on anything, though if for some reason the crush is reading this (which I sincerely doubt), I hope she knows it does not reflect on her.

So au revior, bad crushes–I’d get a much better one several months before September 11th, 2001, who would become my wife–and hello to a less troubled New London; and hello wife herself, whom I am about to go off and meet, maybe for Mexican food, not at a bookstore.

[That's my answer.  A picture's worth a thousand words, and while this post is only half that, you don't need to read it to provide your answer.  You will, however, miss an amazing coincidence unless you read!]

Right around Thursday is when I run out of steam with the work-week and start posting questions on Facebook like, “What pipe-dream profession do you wish you could have?” or “What were the favorite foods of your misspent youth?”  The answers are always great–etiquette consultant!  spy!  Lick-em-ade!  Hot pockets!–and add a real boost to my productivity.  Some people work best when they are totally unplugged, but I find that as the week wears on, I work best when I have frequent, fun, brief distractions. 

Today, I’m going to try a little experiment: putting the question on my blog.  I’m excited to hear answers to the question,

What movie are you embarrassed to love?

I ask because of a funny coincidence.  Fellow Tenner Jenn Hubbard and I were both psyched to be on the Summer Blast Blog Tour, she on Writing and Ruminating and I on Shaken and Stirred.  Amazingly, we both referenced the incredible Hugh Grant-Drew Barrymore movie, Music and Lyrics.  (Is anybody else noticing the conjunctive titles here?  “Writing and Ruminating”–”Shaken and Stirred”–”Music and Lyrics”–”Nice and Mean”…  I tigress.) 

Anyway, I had to laugh, because while Jenn relates to the youths of today (I haven’t read her book, The Secret Year, just yet, but I’m dying to), she has a very thoughtful blog, and I’m basically kind of an entertainment snob, so the fact that we both have a thing for this goofy, kind of predictable movie was quite a surprise. 

But I even cringe to dismiss the movie, because it is so great!  First of all, it start out with a dead-on-the-nose (if that’s not from the redundancy department of redunancy) spoof of an 80s video, featuring Hugh Grant’s character, called “Pop! Goes My Heart”:

A movie that can put that together knows what it’s doing, right?  Plus there are incredibly charming scenes of the songwriting collaboration:

And Hugh Grant is funny, right?  Sarcastic but also suave.  You’ve got to be observant to pull that off, too.  There’s a wicked parody of a Brittney Spears type (I’ve given you enough YouTube links to last the lunch break, but just put in “Buddha’s Delight + Music and Lyrics), a legitimate backstory for our creative collaborators…Darn it, I’m not going to be ashamed anymore:  I love Musis and Lyrics!  I think it’s great.  It’s charming and real and has New York City in the background and Hugh Grant in the foreground, and Drew Barrymore is pretty cute, too.

And now I want to know–

which movies are you

kind of

sort of

embarrassed to love?

Why, it’s good old reliable Nathan –Nathan, Nathan, Nathan Detroit!

– Guys and Dolls

I have a long history with that song.  An excellent history!  It all started on a very slow cab ride to a play called, ironically enough, Full Gallop.  I had the number, “Good Old Reliable Nathan” in my head, and I kept sort of bursting into song.  My dad was mildly amused, but you know, it’s never a total joy when someone keeps bursting into song next to you.  Until I turned it into a game…

“Oh my gosh,” I said, ”guess who called me out of the blue?”

“Who?” my dad asked.

And I started vamping: “Good old reliable Nathan–Nathan, Nathan, Nathan Detroit!”

Chuckles!  Score one for Jess.  I should clarify that there’s nothing inherently anything about Good Old Reliable Nathan.  He’s the guy who runs the Oldest Established Permanent Floating Crap Game in New York–the gambler who never makes good on his promise to wed his fiancee (hence another famous song from Guys and Dolls, “Miss Adelaide’s Lament.”)  I don’t really care about crap games or gangsters; I wouldn’t even name Guys and Dolls as one of my favorite musicals.  But that song just has a great swing to it, and I really loved singing it.  So a game to give me the chance–well.  Too good to be true.

Once the game was established, though (and the cab was still inching its way across West 45th Street), my dad and couldn’t carry on a real conversation. He would venture, “Hey, do you know who I — ” Sputter, sputter, sputter.  We both kept veering into the obvious, and we both knew it.

He got me good at intermission, though, coming back from the bathroom.  “Oh my gosh,” he said, settling into his seat.  “Do you know who the assistant director is on this show?”

I was pretty knowledgeable about people in the theatre scene, and I was very curious to know who my dad thought was an interesting AD for the show.  “Who?” I asked.

No!  Walked right into it!  “Good old reliable Nathan–Nathan, Nathan, Nathan Detroit!” 

Fortunately, that was not the end of the game.  Well–my dad and I didn’t play much after that.  But a few months later, when I was a camp counselor, Good Old Reliable Nathan struck big-time.

That’s all we have time for today.  Stay tuned for more GORN and the real pay-off, the thing that made me start this post in the first place — how a line from this storied song found its way into an RSVP for my book party.

Hello, readers!

I’m sure you’re with me in thanking Micol, Irene, Susan, Tami, Margie, and Emily for their guest posts.  I had immersed myself in the world of niceness and meanness for so long to write my book, but they all reminded me of the emotional consequences of how we humans treat each other.  Plus, some of them made me laugh or had cute photos, and it was a treat to come back and see something new on the blog.  So thanks!

In another version of the world, I’d be telling vacation tales, but I’m trying to limit my computer use because I’m still landsick from being on a boat for so long.  I’ve tried ginger, Bonime, sea bands and sleep, and nothing seems to be working, so I will probably need to call my doctor or pharamacist, but that’s another story.  The real story is that while I was away (and, um, a bit before), two bloggers were kind enough to feature leetle interviews with me on their blogs. 

The first was Julie Halpern, a writer whose website is about the cutest I have ever seen (go ahead–click on it!) who asked me some of those Inside the Actors Studio questions.  She’s the author of, among other things, Into the Wild Nerd Yonder, which examines the upside of nerdiness in a very pleasing manner.  Here are some of the q’s she asked.  My favorite, of course, is, “What is your favorite swear?”  I remember fondly watcihng Stephen Sondheim’s lips form the F word to the sound of a skipping stereo.

Also, Chick Loves Lit (who has a supremely beautiful blog header, herself) gave me her Fun Five questionnaire.  I got to regale her with my first unfortunate introduction to “Suite Judy Blue Eyes” and my not-very-kind feelings about birds.

That’s all she wrote today, folks!  Hope your life is balanced in more ways than one.  I will be searching for that as I do un-computer things, like oh, folding the laundry that’s been sitting in the dryer since last night…

Okay, so, nice and mean. 

One of the questions I get asked over and over at school visits is, which one of the characters in LEAVING GEE’S BEND are you most like?  While I am tempted to say “Ludelphia,” because she is so delightful and determined and even when she goes astray, is completely motivated by love…. But the real answer is this:  there is something of me in all of the characters – even the villain, Mrs. Cobb.

Where does this meanness come from?  I blame my older brothers.  Particularly Ken, who is just 17 months older.  Ken’s the one who taught me to be “Mean Irene.”  The truth is, I had to be mean, just to survive.

 While I don’t remember it myself, one of my earliest experiences of meanness came when I was an infant.  According to my mother, Ken and Stan tried to kill me with baby powder.

 Later, Ken tormented me in adolescence by saying my new breasts, of which I was so proud, looked like “rat droppings.”

 Lovely, huh.

 And yet, this boy was so charming with all my best friends, that each and every one of them eventually fell head over heels in love with him (no kidding – -he even MARRIED one of my best friends!).  Which left me alone.  And so very angry at Ken!   All this to say, I was completely justified in the meanest thing I ever did to Ken.

See, Ken had a Samson-like thing about his hair.  He was constantly trying new hairstyles.  And at one point, he had this rat tail.  Well.  One night he made me sooo mad, for reasons I can no longer remember.   I waited for him to fall asleep, then I tiptoed into his room.  And, whack!  Say goodbye to rat tail! 

Cruel, huh?

 But oh man, did he deserve it.

 And ladies, tell me the truth:  I did him a favor, didn’t I.  (Love you, Ken!)  To find out more about me or Ludelphia, please visit www.irenelatham.com.  And Jess, thanks for inviting me over!  xo

Hello NICE readers of the blogosphere!
My name is Micol Ostow, and I’m so excited that Jessica was NICE enough to have me here!
(Okay, I’ll stop with that. Promise. Just had to get it out of my system.)

For those of you who don’t know me, I’m a young adult author living and working in New York City. Jessica and I met at the amazing Vermont College of Fine Arts MFA in writing for children program, and have since bonded over our mutual love of fiction, young readers, and snark.
You can read more about my books at www.micolostow.com, but this week is ALL ABOUT JESSICA, and NICE AND MEAN, so let’s get to it!

Once upon a time, there was a young, insecure, high-strung little girl who had just graduated from a big scary college and was now thrust into the even bigger, scarier black hole known as the “real world.” The real world was loud. And dirty. And occasionally construction workers would shout things at the girl when she walked to work.
It was awkward.

And, yes, there was this “work” thing. What to say of that? Suddenly there was an alarm clock, and a commute, tepid, stale office coffee, and Xerox copies to made.
The girl, you see, was working for an EDITOR. This meant that she traveled every day to an office teeming in cubicles and, when she’s wasn’t busy answering phones and mailing out contracts, she even sometimes got to help MAKE THE BOOKS.

Despite the airless, windowless cubicle, and the paltry so-called “paycheck,” the girl enjoyed MAKING BOOKS, and working with some of her favorite authors from her own childhood, and would have spent her time editing until the end of her days. Happily.

BUT her fairy-godmother-editor-boss knew something about the girl, which was:
In her own day, back in COLLEGE and even before, she’d been a writer of sorts. The girl had written poems, short stories, and even novellas. These days, she was too busy EDITING to write books.

FGEB had no need to extend a particular kindness to her lowly assistant-girl. AG would have been pleased as punch to while away the hours on such things as cover copy, and the taking of phone messages. But FGEB was fair and benevolent, and offered a gift: the opportunity to contribute a short story to an ANTHOLOGY that the house was organizing.

Reader, she wrote it. AG wrote a story, and then PUBLISHED that story (though it was written under a pseudonym and she has since come a long way and NO I’M NOT GOING TO TELL YOU SO JUST LET IT GO).

And lo, when other editors heard of this, they contacted AG for more and more projects. Ghostwriting, work for hires, and then finally, HER OWN ORIGINAL NOVEL, with her name on the cover and everything.

And now she lives in NYC and works as a writer ALL OF THE TIME, and looks a lot like that gal in the picture above.
Feel free to pre-order her latest forthcoming novel:

http://tinyurl.com/yezmcrh

AG never dreamed it would be possible to make an entire career out of what had once been her passion. So, thanks, FGEB*. That invitation to write was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.

*(she knows who she is)

It’s been a busy week, what with prepping for the honeymoon and eating all those malt balls (yes, they are all gone), so I’m sorry that it’s taken me until now to properly thank and credit the excellent Tenner authors who donated bookmarks to the Nice and Mean giveaway.  I now present ze following bookmarks, with huge apologizes for the uneven image sizes and blind-monkey format.  WordPress, I opted for you over Blogger, but I fear you will be the death of me…  

Tortilla Sun by Jennifer Cervantes     

            Everlasting by Angie Frazier   

Forget-Her-Nots by Amy Brecount White 

Mistwood by Leah Cypress      The Deathday Letter by Shaun David Hutchinson 

                                                     Whisper by Phoebe Kitanidis    

The Mark by Jen Nadol 

The Rise of Renegade X by Chelsea Campbell   

Every time one of these winged its way into my mailbox, I thrilled.  They are quite attractive, durable, and, most importantly, remind me of books I need to read.  Now, if only someone else would have a giveaway, so I can get my mitts them…

You can enter the Nice and Mean ARC giveaway to win these bookmarks, books from Simon and Schuster (see below), and, of course, the advanced copy of my book, until 9pm on Thurs.  At least, I think it’s 9pm.  Whatever I said on my earlier post, that’s what it is…  

Books donated by Simon and Schuster

[Note: advanced copy giveaway contest still in swing til Thurs 4/8!  See next post or click http://bit.ly/bwNItS for info.]

So I recently had my most-commented-on Facebook update ever, which was something to the effect of, “Shopping for the honeymoon–Galapagos!  Reports of tortoises, blue-footed boobies and the elusive mola-mola fish will ensue.”  I am super, super excited.  I could expand on how I excited I am to see unique creatures, walk on volcanic beaches, walk on beaches, period, and see the place that ignited Darwin’s theory of evolution (which, if you don’t believe in it, this is not the blog for you).  However, I am currently preoccupied by–oh, what the hell, eating–malt balls.

Everyone buys fun food for vacations, right?  My dad used to call it Provisions.  We never had things like soda or Hershey bars in the house, but when we went to Arizona, for example, darned if we didn’t need to pull off the road to stock up on proivisions like this.  It was important!  Necessary! 

So when in the Whole Foods to buy Easter-basket presents for the wife, of course I had to buy some yummies for the trip.  Yes, I bought ginger candies in case of an upset stomach and nut-mix in case we end up with an unfilling dinner, but the real pay-dirt was the malt balls.  They are the perfect candy!  Staggerling sweet on the outside; crunchy on the inside.  Like Oreos, there are a million ways to eat them, and all are good.

I know Whole Foods takes a firm NO SAMPLING stance on bulk foods, but they charge so freakin’ much–I’m not sympathetic.  Plus, there’s always so much fruit, nut and grain debris from hapless self-servers–they can’t be that concerned about their bottom line.  Having recited these beliefs to myself, the first malt ball of the day was sampled right then and there.  Hey, I was going to buy some anyway.  And they were out of chocolate, so I had to sample the peanut butter kind before I invested.  I assure you, though, that they were just as delicious as the chocolate kind.

As I wandered the store, I told myself I’d keep the twisty affixed to the bag, but shopping is a stressful experience.  Should I buy the 8-pack of eco-toilet paper (more cost-effective) or the 4-pack (easier to tote upstairs)?  Should I get us some Emergen-C, or did my honey think that was barfy?  With decisions like this to be made, clearly I needed some malt ball accompaniment. 

Made it home, planted some kale and love-in-a-mist (yay!)  Did some dishes, talked on the phone, got hungry, and fell prey to weakness again.  I had taken the food out of the fridge for dinner, but I wasn’t going to dive into that.  That was for dinner.  I ate some malt balls but also needed to stop myself, so I closed the bag, put the coveted candy in a grocery bag with other trip items.  (I did get the Emergen-C, incidentally.  It’s in the bag.) 

But the malt balls, at this moment, are not.  They are on my desk.  There are…five left. 

How many did I start with, I wonder?  Twenty?  This is kind of pathetic. 

I’m often very good at delaying gratification.  A. and I got married in August, and for various reasons, we decided it would be best to put off our honeymoon until April.  I regularly shock my family with how long I can wait to open presents or refuse to hear about surprises.  I am not totally reckless; I have impulse control.  But next time a vacation rolls around, I’m stocking up on provisions no sooner than the day before.

ps I hope Whole Foods doesn’t have a Google alert on Bin Theft. 

pps Love in a Mist photo credit to…me!  They were in our wedding bouquet, and they grow a block away from the dorms at Vermont College, where I got my MFA.  I love love in a mist!

pps I just shared this with A. and she said, those aren’t Love in a Mist, those are Thistles.  But I want to call them Love in a Mist!!  And she is okay with that.

The Music Man’s Marion is, of course, an excellent librarian, but my favorite librarian is my friend Judy, whom I worked with several years ago.  Judy was obsessed with cleaning the gunk off the binding labels, and whenever I’d stop in to chat (often), she’d say, “Let me just get my cleaner,” and she’d stand there and attack the binding with a wet cotton ball.  She had a fantastic collection of colored pens and paper clips, and while she’d clean, I’d arrange the paper clips in rainbow order.  Often, I’d find that one of my favorite students, a Judy fan as well, had beat me to it.  Judy’s that kind of librarian–loyal fans, long talks.

One of my favorite Judy Library stories involves the Poppleton books for young readers.  Poppleton is a great character: large and pink, what he lacks in intellect he makes up for in kindness.  In one Poppleton book, he carries, among other things, a suitcase and–I believe–a pink hanky.  Judy, being the great librarian that she is, assembled miniature Poppleton items for her class to hand around, including a tiny square of pink Kleenex.  One of her first-graders, on seeing it, looked up at her anxiously.  “Is this Poppleton’s?” he asked.  “Should we be careful so we don’t mess it up?”

Or at least I think that’s how the story goes.  The point is, Judy is a librarian who makes magic happen, whether she’s solving your problems over a stack of gummy books or cutting a tissue down to imagination size. 

Saturday, March 27th is your last day to have a comment counted toward the Library-Lovin’ Blog Challenge!  Leave a comment and I’ll donate $1 to the local library.  If I amass 10 comments today, I’ll make it $1.50 per!  And thanks to Jennifer Hubbard for starting the challenge in the first place!  You are a visionary!