Jen Lancaster's Blog, page 5

Setting:  Earlier this
week at The Marrow restaurant in the West Village.

“How awesome is this?” I say.  “We’re in a new place, trying a new thing.  I mean, it’s Tuesday – if we were home, we’d
be camped on the couch, eating delivery and watching Doomsday Preppers.  Look at
us, out to dinner in New York together!”

Fletch takes in the scene and nods.  “Yeah, this is great… but so you know, I’m not eating rabbit neck.”

“I’m sorry?

He taps the menu.  “Right
here.  There’s a dish made from rabbit
neck.  Yes, I ate squirrel when I went hunting
with my dad as a kid, but I draw the line at rabbit neck.”

I furtively glance over his shoulder to make sure no one’s
listening.  “Please never tell anyone you’ve
eaten squirrel.”

He shrugs.  “It’s not
so bad.  Tastes like chicken.”

“Listen to me,” I hiss. 
“Every time I’m in New York, and no matter how hard I try, I wind up
feeling like I just rolled off the bus from Bugtussle.  For once, I’d like to not have the waiter
say, ‘So, where are you from?’  Just be cool, okay?  Maybe we’re not hardcore foodies, but we’re
not squirrel-eating rubes.  Follow my
lead.”

“Okay.”

I begin to read and… there are a lot of words I don’t
understand on the menu. 

Like, a lot.

“What is quark*?”

He shrugs.  “Software?”

“So it’s software covered in hazelnuts and paired with
stewed wolfberries?  Yeah, probably
not.  By the way, what do you think
beerenauslese is?”

“What’s the context?”

“Well, it’s part of the culotte steak dish.  I also don’t know what that is.  It sounds safe, but how can I be sure that’s not
fancy foodie talk for pancreas?”

Fletch shrugs for the hundredth time since we were
seated.  “You could ask.”

“What part of ‘I don’t
want to sound like a hayseed’ do you not understand?  Oh, heh. 
Look at this.  They have a salad
made from lady apples.  Doesn’t that
sound dirty?  Ha!  Lady apple!” which I say at the exact moment the
waiter materializes over my shoulder with our cocktails.

He smiles at us as he hands us our drinks.  “So… where are you two from?”

GODDAMN IT.

I recover my pride a little bit once we place our
order.  I’m having the culotte steak,
after a surreptitious Google search assures me it’s in no way a bovine
digestive organ. 

“How would you like that prepared?” the waiter asks.

I wave my hand.  “However
the chef thinks is best.”

He gives me a respectful nod. 

Yes! 

We manage to not look like hillbillies through the appetizer
and main course.  We’re working on our
desserts when the waiter checks in and I’m secretly delighted at his delight
over my recognizing the flavor of cardamom in the caramel sauce.

“I bet no one watching Doomsday
Preppers is having handmade apple hand pie with quark ice cream and cardamom
caramel sauce,” I tell Fletch, who thus far has been narrating descriptions of
all the dogs who’ve walked by.

“Whoa,” he says.  “Someone’s
breaking into the apartment across the street.”

“What?”

“Look over there – guy in the camouflage outfit.  He’s trying to push in the air conditioner on
the first floor.”

I crane around to gawp at the shadowy figure working on the
air conditioner unit.  “Holy crap, you’re
right!  What should we do?”

“Well, I’m going to eat my quark ice cream and watch how it
plays out.”

I stare as the guy presses against the air conditioner again
and again.  It’s only a matter of time
until he gets in. “We have to do something!” I insist. 

“Like what?  All those
people are walking by with their dogs, like it’s nothing.”

“But this is New York!” I argue.  “You could be on fire here and people would
just step over you.”

He shrugs.

“Shrug one more time and I will murder you and I’m not
kidding.”

“You want any more quark ice cream?  ‘Cause I’m about to lick this plate.”

The waiter approaches again. 
“Everything good?”

Fletch gives him a one-handed thumbs up while he attempts to
scrape up every molecule.

I shake my head.  “No,
we’re fine, but someone’s trying to break into an apartment across the street.  We should call the police.”

“You’re kidding! 
Where?”  He peers out the plate
glass window behind me.

I point.  “Over there,
by the door.”

He squints into the darkness.  “I don’t see him.”

“Seriously?  The
window by the door in the middle of the building.  Look at him – he’s bobbing back and forth,
working on that window.  It’s hard to see
him because he’s camouflaged.”

“Right by the door?”

“Yes!” 

Hey, check me out, the Chicago Good Samaritan! 

When the chips are down for you, New York, the Midwest is
there to save the day!

You’re welcome, West Village! 

I’m a hero!     

He squints again.  “Is
he behind that bush that’s blowing in the wind?”

“Well, no, he’s…”  A
wave of profound mortification washes over me. 
“He’s… he’s a bush, isn’t he?”

Fletch puts down his spoon and concurs with the waiter.  “Oh, yeah, that’s definitely a bush.”

GODDAMN IT.

I’m rendered mute by abject humiliation and am thus unable
to answer when the waiter asks if we’d like anything else.  He does not wish us a safe trip back to
Hooterville, but I’m pretty sure he’s thinking it.  And who could blame him? 

Fortunately, Fletch is right there, using his best
Christian-Bale-as-the-Batman voice to say, “No, thanks.  Just the check.  We have to go fight crime and keep Gotham
safe.”

Stick a quark in me, for I am done.

Ironically, we make it back to the hotel in time to catch a
repeat of Doomsday Preppers.

So there’s that.

(*A type of German cheese that’s not dissimilar to ricotta.)

(Also, in retrospect, I realize I pronounced cardamom as ‘cardamon.’  GODDAMN IT.)

Judgement call - we're rescheduling the Naperville signing due to inclement weather.  The event is not going to happen tonight and I'm so very sorry.

Here's the thing - there's no upside to me making this call. I don't get a Gold Star in the Big Book of Awesome for disappointing everyone.  I don't make the bookstore happy by seeming like a total flake.  I'm not delighting my publisher by not being there to facilitate the sale of books.  And I hate the idea of having let anyone down, especially considering how much I love doing in-store events. 

There are no winners in this situation. 

Yet given the current weather and the ominous predictions for later today all over the metro area, I can't in good conscience ask anyone to risk their lives behind the wheel to hear me talk about mean girls, time travel, and Whitesnake.

I'll have more details on the whens, wheres, and hows of rescheduling shortly.

But for now, I wanted to let you know about tonight and to apologize again.

I'll see you soon!

As much as I hope to see everyone at the Anderson's event in Naperville tomorrow night, I don't want you to die en route. (Is reasonable, yes?) So, we're going to pay attention to the winter weather warning for the rest of the day and by 1:00 PM tomorrow, we'll make a decision if the event needs to be rescheduled. Again, this is to make sure that none of us die in getting there. (Don't know where you may be coming from, but it's almost 100 miles total there and back for me.)

For those of you who pre-ordered, please don't fret! We'll sort out all the details tomorrow if the weather chooses to be an asshole. For now? Game on.

Remember, Here I Go Again = Not Dying En Route to Naperville.

Will update you all tomorrow!

Setting:  Breakfast table, earlier this morning, conversing about possible basement upgrades.

Me:  So, that would be, what, two hours of an electrician's time?

Fletch:  Hey, quick!  Quick!  Come over here!  Look!  Right there, corner of the yard on the other side of the fence - coyote!

Me:  What?

Fletch:  (He points.)  Look, small gray furry thing - coyote right over there. 

Me:  I see it!

Fletch:  There's a rabbit warren in that corner, so I'm not surprised he's come so close to the house.

Me:  He can't get in the fence though, can he?

Fletch:  No, it's too high.

Me:  Well, I don't want him hanging around here.  (I crack the sliding glass door.)  Hey!  Coyote!  Get out of here!  No coyotes allowed!

Fletch:  I think barking would be a more effective deterrent than yelling.

Me:  Got it.  (I crack the door again.)  Hey, coyote!  Woof!  Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof! 

Fletch:  I meant the dogs barking.

Me:  In retrospect, that does make more sense.

Hello!  As I get ready to leave for the Here I Go Again tour, I have a quick favor:

If you're coming to see me next week - and I hope you are! - I ask you to please pay attention to my Twitter feed on the day of the event you're attending, in the rare instance that I hit any travel snafus.  (I'm @altgeldshrugged over there.)  I'll also put updates on my Facebook page.

The only reason I mention this is that starting Tuesday, I'm going to be in two cities per day, which means planes, more planes, and automobiles.  We picked southern locations specifically so weather wouldn't be a factor.  However, I'm always anxious about connecting flights (ahem, DFW and ATL, I'm looking at you/your collective bitch-panic when it rains) so I just want to make sure everyone's up to date in case there's a delay.  I don't anticipate problems, but on the off chance one pops up, I want everyone to be informed.

That being said, I'm ridiculously excited to be adding the Tucson Festival of Books to my tour schedule, which takes place at the University of Arizona on March 9th and 10th.  I don't have many details yet, but can say I'm doing a panel with Laurie Notaro AND Quinn Cummings, which is just about the most badass thing ever.

Also, in case you missed the nine million announcements of where I'll be next week, here I go again (see what I did there?) with all the deets:

MONDAY, JANUARY 28

SAINT LOUIS, MO

Girls Night Out with Alive Magazine at Mad Art Gallery

2727 S. 12th St.

St. Louis, MO

*books sold by Left Bank Books

7:00 PM

Guidelines: The book talk is free and open to the public. Purchase your copy of HERE I GO AGAIN in advance or at the event from Left Bank Books to receive a ticket to the signing line. Backlist will also be available for sale at the event, but you are also welcome to bring your favorites from home for Jen to sign as well. People without signing line tickets from Left Bank Books will be asked to wait until the end to have their books signed.

TUESDAY, JANUARY 29

NEW ORLEANS, LA

Garden District Book Shop

2727 Prytania Street

New Orleans, LA

6:00 PM

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 30

MOBILE, AL

The Venue

105 S. Section Street

Fairhope, AL

“Read it and Eat”luncheon

*books sold by Page & Palette

12:00 PM

Guidelines: This is a ticketed luncheon. To purchase tickets, call Page & Palette at 251-928-5295.

THURSDAY, JANUARY 31

GREENVILLE, SC

“Book Your Lunch”

The Lazy Goat

179 River Place

Greenville, SC

*books sold by Fiction Addiction

12:00 PM

Guidelines: This is a ticketed luncheon. To purchase tickets call Fiction Addiction at 864-675-0540.

THURSDAY, JANUARY 31

CHARLOTTE, NC

Barnes & Noble – Arboretum Store

3327 Pineville-Matthews Road

Charlotte, NC

7:00 PM

Guidelines: There will be a ticketing system and groups of 40-50 will be called up group by group for signing so that you don’t have to stand and wait. You will be required to have a copy of HERE I GO AGAIN to get in the line, however other books can also be signed in addition.

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 1

PAWLEY’S ISLAND, SC

Luncheon at Pawley’s Plantation Clubhouse

70 Tanglewood Dr.

Pawley’s Island, SC

*books sold by Litchfield Books

11:00 AM

Guidelines: This is a ticketed luncheon. To purchase tickets, call Litchfield Books at 843-235-9600.

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 1

ATLANTA, GA

Barnes & Noble – Buckhead store

2900 Peachtree Road NE

Atlanta, GA

7:00 PM

Guidelines: Customers that purchase Here I Go Again from Barnes & Noble Buckhead will be given priority seating/placement in the signing line. Color coded passes will be available at cash wrap beginning at 5PM the day of the event. Please ask any bookseller for more details.

THURSDAY, FEBURARY 7

NAPERVILLE, IL

Anderson’s Bookshop

123 West Jefferson Ave.

Naperville, IL 60540

7:00 PM

Guidelines: Anderson’s will issue signing line numbers with a purchase of HERE I GO AGAIN. Books purchased outside the store will be honored in addition to the purchase of HERE I GO AGAIN, but limited to two per person.

Anyway, thanks, and I'm looking forward to meeting you guys next week!

I just joined a gym for the first time in more than three
years.

Sure, I belonged the East Bank Club in the city, but I can’t count
it as gym because I only joined for the sundeck and rooftop pool.  Also, I never once “exercised” there, but a
couple of times I had so many Mai Tais that Fletch had to drive me home.  (Two pudgy thumbs up for a gym with a bar!)

And really, the truth is that the EBC cardio room was such a
meet/meat market – I didn’t want to be there sweating out donuts in a meatball
stained workout shirt next to Bulls cheerleaders and Gold Coast trophy wives.  Even though I generally feel pretty good
about myself, I tend to avoid situations where I’m uncomfortable.  (Related note: I have a photo somewhere when
I was on Joy Behar's show and I’m posing with Daisy Fuentes and Miss
Universe.  IRL?  They truly are two of the most beautiful women I've ever seen.  Fuentes is radiant, and I don't use that term lightly.  Even having had my hair and
makeup professionally done, I was like an entirely different species from those
two gals.) 

Anyway, my point is I joined a gym and I can’t stop congratulating
myself. 

Not only did I join the gym, but I’ve been a member for less
than 24 hours and I’ve already worked out more there than I did in my entire
two year East Bank tenure. 

I’m a hero; where’s my medal?

For a brief while, Fletch belonged to my new gym, but he
didn’t renew his membership because the place bums him out.  It’s not that the gym isn’t convenient (it
is) or well appointed (it’s gorgeous) or over-crowded (not even a little) or
lacking amenities (there’s a spa!) 

The
problem is that the gym is on the same campus as the hospital and a senior
center.

So let me put it like this – I joined an old-people gym.

I kind of figured Fletch was exaggerating, as he is wont to
do.  Yet before I even got to the locker
room, no less than three seniors cruised past me with those zippy wheeled
walkers.  That’s three more walkers than
I’ve ever seen in a gym in my entire lifetime. 
Boom.

Anyway, to begin my path back to fitness, I hopped on an elliptical
machine with a built-in television.  (Maybe
this has become standard in all gyms in the past three years, but I’m still
impressed.)  After about two minutes, I
realized there was a problem with my iPod, so I had to go back to my locker to
swap it out for my phone so I could listen to music, too. 

In those two minutes, a very large, very old, very naked woman
had stationed not only herself but also her walker in front of my locker. 

Oh, dear.

In the process of the both of us trying to move her walker,
towels were lost.

Things were seen.

Things were seen that cannot be unseen. 

I have no business body-snarking  here.  I
can’t speak to anyone’s circumstances, and good on her for getting to the
gym.  Instead, let me offer up this piece
of advice – when a younger, entirely ambulatory, fully dressed patron offers to
move your walker for you, please take her up on the offer.

After The Unpleasantness, I did twenty minutes on the
elliptical – without dying, I feel that should be noted – and I moved to the
exercise bikes.  Shortly after I started
pedaling, a couple of seniors stationed themselves on bikes on either side of
me, trailed by a staffer with a clipboard. 
The gentleman was clad in an old-guy plaid shirt, suspenders, khakis,
and Rockports, while his wife chose to do her workout in a cashmere sweater, a
turtleneck, slacks, and a pair of sensible heels.

I swear I’m not making this up.

After I got home, I began to peruse my membership materials
and saw that in addition to all the regular classes, they also offer ballet
classes for those with arthritis and have a warm pool for those who don’t care
to do water aerobics in cold water.

I’m not really sure what my point here is except…

OLD-PEOPLE GYM, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE??

 And I’ll be back tomorrow!

I'm officially done living/writing about my year of living Martha Stewart-style, which means I can get back to blogging without worrying that I'm accidentally spoiling book contents.  That being said, I'll miss having Martha in my head all day, every day.  She's an excellent influence, even if she is kind of bossy and forces me to make my own salad dressing and pie crust.

Anyway, I'm putting The Tao of Martha out of my mind for a while.

Instead, I thought you guys would get a kick out of previewing the prologue/first chapter of Here I Go Again, a novel in which heroine (sort of) Lissy Ryder doesn't cook, clean, organize, entertain, or cover household items in a shit-ton of glitter. 

First, I want to show you something cool.  Here's the cover again:

You notice the mirror?  The green book jacket has a cut-out and the actual book behind it looks like this:

So the pink in the mirror is that of the prom dress.  I really love that my publisher wanted to make the physical copies more collectible.  And the endpapers in the book are green daisy-printed, which causes me an illogical amount of joy.

Anyway, here's the beginning of the book - I hope you like it!

Prologue

Every high school has a Lissy
Ryder—you know, the girl who’s absolutely untouchable. She goes by many names,
but you might have known her as the Prom Queen.    

The Head Cheerleader.

The Mean Girl.

The Bitch.

She was the richest and the
prettiest, with the blondest hair, the thinnest thighs, and the hottest car,
and she never let you forget it. Nothing made her happier than stealing your boyfriend, just to see if she
could.

And she could.

Of course she could.

She was Lissy Ryder.

Lissy Ryder spent her teen years
making yours miserable. She’s the one who “accidentally” tripped you on the
bus, mocked the sweater your sweet old Nana knitted, and told the boys you
stuffed socks in your bra, despite being the one who taught you how to do it.
(Ankle socks. The trick is using ankle socks.)

Every time she looked at you,
sighed, and rolled her eyes, a little piece of you died inside.

You hated her.

You wanted to destroy her.

But you were satisfied just to
graduate and get away from her.

So you went to college, grew up,
and now live a successful, fulfilling life, vaguely wondering if that thing
called “karma” ever comes for the Lissy Ryders of the world.

Hmm . . . let’s find
out.

Chapter One

Perfection Is
Overrated

Oh, honey, no.

I scan the woman’s outfit up and
down. A thong-bottom leotard worn over neon tights? With high-top Reeboks?
Seriously? I’m sorry, were you possessed by the ghost of 1983?

I sigh into my Bluetooth. “What are
people thinking when they come here dressed as extras in an Olivia Newton-John
video? This is the West
End Club, not some
nineteen-dollar-a-month Boys Town storefront, full of old StairMasters and HPV
germs. So shameful. So inappropriate.”

I glance at my properly clad self in
the mirror across from where I’m paused on the elliptical machine. Lululemon
Wunder Groove cropped capris paired with a Back on Track tank in Heathered Pig
Pink?

Check.

Long blond layers of honey and ash
(never platinum—I mean, who am I? Holly Madison?) pulled into a messy, yet
attractive high pony?

Check.

Smashbox O-Glow blush and a swipe
of MAC Lipglass in Early Bloomer?

Check.

I continue. “The West End Club is a
sophisticated place and you’re pretty much nobody in Chicago if you don’t belong. I mean, Oprah’s
a member, for God’s sake. I wish the Big O were here right now, because she’d
be all, ‘My friend Jane Fonda called and she wants her leg warmers back.’”

Nicole is my go-to person for
phoning when I’m working out, because she’s always home. I’d urge her to get a
life, but frankly it’s kind of nice being able to chat with her whenever I
want. She hesitates on the other end of the line, finally saying,
“Um . . . Lissy, I thought you weren’t allowed to come within
five hundred feet of Oprah.”

I slowly begin to pedal. “That was
a suggestion, Nicole, not a law. Like
it’s my fault she thought I was too
aggressive for sneaking into her massage room. I mean, the world of PR is all
about differentiating yourself. You’d think she’d want to work with the publicist who tried something different to
catch her attention.” I begin to pedal harder. “Whatevs. Doesn’t matter anyway,
because she’s totally passé now that her show’s over. Enjoy your obscurity!”

Okay, the truth is that unpleasantness
with Oprah still stings even though it was years ago. I know I’d have done an
outstanding job for Harpo, Inc., but she wouldn’t even hear me out, which is
rude, considering I forked over ten thousand dollars I didn’t have back then
(thanks, Daddy!) to join this place to get close to her.

To be fair, she didn’t have my club
membership revoked. I grudgingly give her credit for that.

I blot my face with a thick Turkish
towel and pat the area around my Bluetooth so I don’t, like, accidentally
electrocute myself. Theoretically I’m not supposed to use a cell phone in here,
but I think that’s because the management wants patrons to keep both hands on
the machines. Liability and all. A couple of the regulars are shooting me dirty
looks, but if they can’t multitask while getting their cardio on, that’s not my
prob.

“Who else is there today?” Nicole
asks gamely.

“Um . . .” I scan
the room. “There’s the Chris Colfer doppelgänger who lip-synchs to the Glee sound track and is always talking
about his ‘girlfriend.’ You’re not fooling anyone, sweetie! The closet’s
wiiiiiide open! Come out already!” I take a swig of filtered water from my
skull-print SIGG bottle. “Let’s see . . . Hey, there’s Cougar Town
who takes Pilates with me. She told me she can wrap both her ankles around her
neck. I’m all, ‘Really? Did you do porno back in the sixties or something?’ And
there are the two fake-titted twenty-somethings who date Bulls players. They’re
totally fat.”

This, of course, means they’re
totally thin.

I don’t tell Nicole that, though.
Don’t want to shatter her illusions about me. But how could they not be in perfect shape? These bitches
have no responsibilities save for workouts and waxing. I mean, SOME of us
aren’t a size two anymore because SOME of us have day jobs.

“Uh-huh . . .”
Nicole sounds distracted. She’s got three rug rats under the age of six and
they’re always screaming in the background when we’re on the phone. Not cool.
Plus her husband brought a stepdaughter into the marriage, and I swear I want
to slap the smug right out of that brat. Last time I was over, Charlotte was all, “Wait,
you guys were alive before the Internet?
How old are you?!” I told Nicole to
go all Snow White’s wicked stepmother on her, yet for some reason she’s got a
soft spot for the kid. I don’t understand it.

Actually, I’m less than thrilled
with a lot of Nicole’s decisions. For example, she traded her adorable Audi
coupe for some hideous, multirowed family truckster with automatic sliding
doors and built-in video monitors. I was like, “What’s next, mom jeans?” I
won’t ride in it on principle. I wait for her to say something else, but she’s
quiet, possibly because of all the banging and shuffling in the background.

“Nicole! Are you even listening?”

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry! Bobby Junior
just poured his own milk for the first time. He’s so independent lately!” Her
voice goes up a couple of octaves. “My little man, I’m so proud of you; yes, I
am! Lissy, you won’t believe it—he pulled up a chair and got the fridge open
all by himself, and almost every drop made it into his sippy cup! Every time he
accomplishes something on his own, I feel this incredible surge of—”

I’ve found that if you give a
mother an opening, she’ll yammer on about her boring offspring all damn day.
Like I care that little Madison
or Isabella can wipe her own ass. I feel it’s my job as a friend to keep Nicole
from spiraling into the Mom Zone, where it’s nothing but sensible haircuts,
soapbox derbies, and organic carrot sticks. “That’s just super, Nic. But let’s talk about tonight instead.”

That shut her down right quick.

Nicole exhales a little loudly on
the other end of the line. “Okay, Liss, so what are you doing later?”

“Tonight’s our anniversary dinner!”
I gasp. It’s not that I’m all pumped about the evening. Rather, I’m slightly winded
from having ratcheted up the resistance on my machine after watching the
stunning red-haired Bulls consort sprint on the elliptical like a goddamned
gazelle.

“Where’s he taking you?”

“We’re going to MK on Franklin
Street. I made Duke book us in the private room. I don’t really want the Great
Unwashed in the regular dining area honing in on my joy.”

If you want to be all nitpicky,
Duke and I have been together off and on since our junior year of high school,
but we’ve been married for only three. Yes, before you say it, we’re that
“breakup” couple. We know. We’ve had more splits than Real Housewives’ Taylor
has had lip injections, but we always find our way back to each other. I mean,
yes, I dated all kinds of people when we were on a break—and even when we
weren’t, like when I hooked up with my neighbor Brian for a few weeks—but
ultimately we were fated to be a couple. Our not being together is like a
manicure without a pedicure—sick and wrong and not of the Lord.

Also, his real name is Martin
Connor, but everyone started calling him the Duke of Hurl back when we were
seniors at Lyons Township High School in La Grange, Illinois. His clueless
family still believes it’s because he was a quarterback with a golden arm, and
not due to the night he mixed Jack Daniel’s, Jolt cola, and Jägermeister.
Seriously, do you know long it took my dad to get the smell of vomit out of my
car? I had to drive with the top down for a solid month!

While I mentally cycle through my
wardrobe for the perfect dress, the timer dings on my machine. “Woo, one point
five hours! Yay, me! I just burned one thousand and eighty-three calories!”

Which should make up for the three
lattes I had this morning.

(I hope.)

“Listen, I want to catch a little
peak tanning time, so I’ve gotta bounce.”

“Shouldn’t you get back to the
office soon?”  Nicole sounds
characteristically worried. If fretting were a sport, she’d be a gold medalist.

“Um, thanks for your concern, Mom, but it’s fine. I told my boss I was
going to a meeting, and that’s not really a lie. This place is filled with
potential clients.” I glance over at the Bulls girls. “I mean, escort services
need publicists, too, right?”

“Still, maybe you should make an
appearance.”

I blot the thin sheen of sweat from
my unlined brow . . . TGFB! (Thank God for Botox.) “Please, I
can do whatever I want in that place. They love me there. I’m kind of a
legend.” After all, I brought in so much new business during the dot-com era
that they hired me an assistant.

Of course, that assistant
eventually became my boss, but that’s only because I refuse to be an ass
kisser. “Later!”

I hang up and step down from the
elliptical, staggering for a second before I get my legs back. One of the Bulls
sluts smirks and I may or may not make an obscene gesture back at her. I head
to the locker room to change into my bathing suit (a tasteful tankini, natch)
covered with the sheer floral sarong I bought in Bora Bora
on my honeymoon, and I run up the stairs to the rooftop pool.

This is my favorite spot in all of
Chicago. I love being here during the workday because it’s practically
deserted. The deck’s all done up in just-bloomed hibiscus bushes and prairie
grass and there’s nothing but empty loungers as far as the eye can see. The
pool is placid, with wisps of steam rising from it, making it warm enough to
use even though it’s still early summer. The sky’s an impossible shade of blue
today, and because the club’s next to the river, none of those pesky office buildings
casts shadows and blocks my sun. It’s heaven . . . if heaven
served cocktails. (Of course there’s
a bar in this gym. You think Oprah would join a place that didn’t boast every
amenity?)

I arrive at the check-in area and
present my club ID to the buff teenager working the desk. “Hey, James, I’ll be
in my regular seat. Bring me extra towels, a piña colada, and an order of
fries.” He taps in my information and an odd look crosses his face. “Oh,
please, I’m not going to eat them all. I just want a few.” (“Moderation” is so
the new “binge and purge.”)

James gets all flushed and
flustered, and he keeps a king fu grip on my card when I try to grab it back.
“Um, Mrs. Ryder—”

“Ms.,” I correct him. “It’s Ms. Ryder.” I’ve always been hesitant to
let go of the name I had in high school. Otherwise how would anyone even know
who I was? Were I to call myself “Melissa Connor” on Facebook, everyone would
be all, “Who?” But Lissy Ryder? Queen
of the Belles, the best clique in school? No one forgets her.

James clenches his jaw. “Ohhhh-kay,
Ms. Ryder. There seems to be a problem with your membership.”

I nod. “Um, yeah, the problem is I’m standing here without a cocktail.” He
continues to tap in information for so long that I attempt—and fail—to wrestle
my card back. Listen, we’re burning daylight, and if I don’t get color on my
shoulders I can’t wear my new Akris goddess-sleeve dress tonight. So I may or
may not lunge at him to speed the process.

“Ms. Ryder! Please! Stop that!” he
exclaims, launching into bitch panic mode.

A steroid-addled trainer waddles
over to us. His legs are so muscular he moves in tiny, mincing steps. “What is
going on over here?”

“What’s going on is that I’m losing
my tan by the minute! And he won’t let me have my French fries!” James turns
the computer monitor toward the side of beef in gym shorts standing next to
him. I bet this guy hasn’t seen a carb since the Clinton administration. Or his nut sac.

Then, in a manner far less gentle
than merited, Captain ’Roid Rage takes me by the arm and escorts me to the
membership service desk three floors down. I suspect the manhandling might be
due to my inquiry on exactly how small his marble bag is. (Hey, I watched the
MTV True Life: I’m a Juicehead Gorilla special, and I’m well versed in
exactly what anabolic steroids do to your junk. I can’t be blamed for merely
stating what everyone’s thinking.)

When we get to the membership
office, some minimum-wage desk monkey tells me my membership hasn’t been paid
in three months.

Oh, I know someone’s accountant who’s about to be fired.

(Do I have an accountant? I should
check with Duke.)

I slap my well-worn Visa on the
desk. “Put whatever I owe on here. But make sure my fries are ready when we’re
done with this nonsense.”

The desk girl runs my card. “It’s
been declined.”

Um, that’s an awful lot of smug
coming from someone who makes six dollars an hour. “Run it again,” I demand.

“I already did,” she replies.

Is a shit-eating grin appropriate
at this time, really?

In the next ten minutes, I’m a lot
less haughty as each of my cards is systematically rejected. And when she takes
out an enormous pair of scissors and snips my prize gold AmEx, I get a sinking
feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Um, what’s happening? Duke makes
plenty of money, despite the current economy, and we’re always on top of our
finances.

I mean, aren’t we?

I kind of can’t be bothered with
all that stuff. Numbers. Ick. My mom always said I was too pretty for math. But
this has to be a mistake. I keep dialing Duke’s office number, but each time
the phone goes straight to voice mail.

I’m summarily escorted out of the
club without even being allowed to change from my bathing suit. When I get down
to the parking garage, my Infiniti is missing. The parking attendant blathers
something in Mexican about a tow truck.

What
the hell?

I immediately dial Nicole and tell
her to come get me. I give her explicit instructions not to drive the van, but
when she arrives twenty minutes later the family truckster is full of little
bastards watching a show about a big gay dinosaur.

The side door swings open and I’m
suddenly overwhelmed by the stench of Cheerios. I point at her demon spawn.
“Why are they here?”

“Because I’ll end up on Dateline if I leave them home alone,”
Nicole cheerily replies. “Hop in!”

I attempt to climb in the front,
but Charlotte’s already stationed herself in the shotgun position and makes no
indication that she plans to move. She pretends I’m not standing there while
she busies herself sending texts about important shit like Justin Bieber’s most
recent haircut. When I try to nudge her out of my seat, she plants herself and rolls her eyes while Nicole grins at me like there’s
nothing wrong with this scenario.

Really? We’re letting the fourteen-year-old
stepchild run the show now?

Fine.
I’ll just get in the backseat like some snot-nosed little asshole on her way to
T-ball practice.

I attempt to launch myself into the
back of the hateful van, which is almost impossible with this slim-cut sarong.
I hike it up and try again. Ugh. This place smells like juice box and
desperation. As I attempt to clamber into the far back row in order to avoid
the sticky hands coming at me from car seats on all sides, I catch a glimpse of
an enormous blob in the side-view mirror.

Upon closer inspection, I realize
the big, fleshy moon eclipsing the mirror is actually how my ass looks while
I’m bent over.

Perfect.

* * *

If you like what you've read... yay!  You can preorder at any of the following places:

Barnes & Noble

Amazon

Books-A-Million

IndieBound

Target

Walmart

And, if you don't like it, well, then I don't know what to tell you... except that I'll be back in the next few days with the winter reading list.

Cool?

Okay, if the world doesn't end on Friday (is that the 21st?  I don't even know) then this might be relevant to your interests. 

I'm delighted to post the trailer for the new novel Here I Go Again, coming to a bookstore/ereader near you on January 29th!

Do you love this?  I love this.

As I'd hoped, new tour dates have been added to the schedule.  (Holla, New Orleans, Charlotte, and Atlanta!)  If you were planning to see me in St. Louis, please note that date has been pushed back - we've actually gotten permission to hold the event the day before the book's release, largely because it's patently impossible to get from St. Louis to Mobile, AL overnight. 

Here we go again with the new and improved dates:

MONDAY, JANUARY 28

SAINT LOUIS, MO

Girls Night Out with Alive Magazine at Mad Art Gallery

2727 S. 12th St.

St. Louis, MO

*books sold by Left Bank Books

7 PM

Guidelines: The book talk is
free and open to the public. Purchase your copy of HERE I GO AGAIN in advance or at
the event from Left Bank Books to receive a ticket to the signing line.
Backlist will also be available for sale at the event, but you are also welcome
to bring your favorites from home for Jen to sign as well. People without
signing line tickets from Left Bank Books will be asked to wait until
the end to have their books signed.

TUESDAY, JANUARY 29

NEW ORLEANS, LA

Garden District Book Shop

2727 Prytania Street

New Orleans, LA

6 PM

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 30

MOBILE, AL  

Camellia Café

61 Section Street

Fairhope, AL

 “Read it and Eat”
luncheon

*books sold by Page & Palette

12 PM

Guidelines: This is a ticketed luncheon. To purchase tickets,
call Page & Palette at 251-928-5295.

THURSDAY, JANUARY 31

GREENVILLE, SC 

“Book Your Lunch”

The Lazy Goat

179 River Place

Greenville, SC

*books sold by Fiction Addiction

12:00 PM

Guidelines: This is a ticketed luncheon. To purchase tickets
call Fiction Addiction at 864-675-0540.

THURSDAY, JANUARY 31

CHARLOTTE, NC

Barnes & Noble – Arboretum
Store

3327 Pineville-Matthews Road

Charlotte, NC 

7 PM

Guidelines: There will be a
ticketing system and groups of 40-50 will be called up group by group for
signing so that you don’t have to stand and wait. You will be required to have
a copy of HERE I GO AGAIN to get in the line, however other books can also be
signed in addition.

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 1

PAWLEY’S ISLAND, SC

Luncheon at Pawley’s Plantation Clubhouse

70 Tanglewood Dr.

Pawley’s Island, SC

*books sold by Litchfield Books

11:00 AM

Guidelines: This is a ticketed luncheon. To purchase tickets,
call Litchfield Books at 843-235-9600.

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 1

ATLANTA, GA

Barnes & Noble – Buckhead store

2900 Peachtree Road NE

Atlanta, GA 

7 PM

Guidelines: Customers that purchase Here I Go Again
from Barnes & Noble Buckhead will be given priority seating/placement in
the signing line. Color coded passes will be available at cash wrap beginning
at 5PM the day of the event. Please ask any bookseller for more details.

THURSDAY, FEBURARY 7

NAPERVILLE, IL

Anderson’s Bookshop

123 West Jefferson Ave.

Naperville, IL 60540

7 PM

Guidelines: Anderson’s will issue
signing line numbers with a purchase of HERE I GO AGAIN. Books purchased
outside the store will be honored in addition to the purchase of HERE I GO AGAIN,
but limited to two per person.

* * *

If I'm not coming to your town, then you can preorder Here I Go Again here, here, here, here, and here.

Again, if John Cusack, the Mayans, etc. were right, then all bets are off.

Hope to see you in 2013! 

(Both literally and figuratively.)

Look what just arrived! 

I had the foresight to purchase these items at regular price the night before Hostess "Gone Galt."

In my head:

"I'm going to be rich, rich, rich!"

In my heart:

"I'm going to be fat, fat, fat!"

Fatness Shrugged.

Patsy:  Hi, I’m bored.

Eddy:  Hi, I’m bored, too.  If you think you adopted us together so we’d entertain one another, you were wrong.

Patsy:  Hi, so very
wrong.

Patsy:  Hi, what are
you doing on the computer?

Patsy:  Hi, did you not hear me?  I asked what you're doing.

Patsy:  Hi, I just
barfed.

Eddy:  Hi, shall I knock over this lamp?

Patsy:  Hi, I love you
so much I need to sit on your chest right now. 
No, I totally don’t mind that you’re typing.  Surely you’re looking to take a break.

Patsy:  Hi, why did
that make you mad?

Eddy:  Hi, what is that, a cappuccino?  Lemme stick my foot in it to make sure it’s
not too hot.

Eddy:  Hi, AUGH! 
Is hot coffee foam!  Must shake
off immediately! 

Patsy:  Hi, I should
probably bite you in the face right now.

Eddy:  Hi, about that lamp?  I’m knocking it over, yes?

Patsy:  Hi, hey,
another hairball.  I’ll just deposit this
on your stack of files so I don’t have to get up.

Eddy:  Hi, that lamp’s not going to tip itself.

Patsy:  Hi, when I
sneeze in your eye, it means I love you.

Eddy:  Hi, turns out I love licking wool, too.  Gave your favorite J. Jill sweater some much-needed ventilation holes.  You're welcome.

Patsy:  Hi, are you
still trying to do that whole book thing? 
You should do an app instead. 
People love apps.

Eddy:  Hi, would it be easier without the lamp?  I feel like everything would be easier for you
without this lamp.

Patsy:  Hi, I’m aware
of how important good grooming is to you, so I’ll just clean myself on your
keyboard.  No, really, it's my pleasure.

Patsy:  Hi, I need to
be somewhere across the room immediately for no good reason.  No, I don’t mind if you have to pick up
everything I left in my wake.  Looks like
you could stand some bending, amirite?

Eddy:  Hi, I almost got the lamp over.  It's just a matter of technique now.

Patsy:  Hi, it took me
a while, but I found where you stashed the catnip.  I shall cover myself in it forthwith and then get in your face in earnest.

Eddy:  Hi, the good news is I took care of that lamp
thing.

Patsy and Eddy:  Hi,
WHY’D YOU JUST SHUT THE DOOR ON US?