Whilst standing in the security line at National Airport on my way to Michigan (see pics, it was a great trip), I feel a small pang of pain on my left buttock. "I think...I think something's poking me," I say to Ed. He knows better than to roll his eyes. He looks at me with patience...he knows me too well. I turn around and lift up my purse. I see that a ballpoint pen has poked through the leather of my purse and is stabbing me. Then, I inspect the buttock in question. It is completely covered (not an exaggeration...see the picture) in ink. It looks like a two-year-old has discovered his creative talent all over my ass.

And today, as I write this, I am still wondering how I went so long without feeling anything. I mean, the pen had likely been scribbling on me since we left the apartment. On the bus. On the metro. In line getting our boarding passes. Perhaps I have a high pain tolerance. Or, perhaps I have a nerve problem in my left buttock. Maybe I should get that checked out.

Whilst getting ready for work yesterday morning, I had to search for my hair brush. Where was said hair brush, you ask? It wasn't on my dresser. It wasn't on the back of the toilet. It wasn't on the shelf with the toiletries. No. No it wasn't. So, like my mom taught me in second grade, I retraced my steps. Where had I been when last I used my hair brush? Oh, right, I thought -- I last brushed my hair after water polo practice. That was Wednesday night. It was now Friday morning. I am a filthy, filthy human being.

Ed, Christine, Eddy, Janet and I are all standing in line at the Montomgery County Ag Fair for the scariest ride I've ever seen. The ride, whose name I have blocked out because of the trauma of the event, is about eleventy hundred feet tall. It is a newer, faster version of what used to be known as The Zipper. Basically, you pay eight dollars of your hard-earned money to be strapped in and hurled around in a gigantic circle, with your little pod also doing circles. The masterful coorindation of the two horrifying elements of this ride amounts to riders repeatedly being thrown, heels over head, only to see that they are speeding face-first at an ungodly pace directly toward the bubble gum-, loogie- and cigarette-spattered fairground dirt below.

I got on the ride because I have an ego. I was not going to tbe the only one in the family to whimp out. And death, should it come to me on that fateful Friday evening, I thought, would be quick and, likely, painless. I could only hope to be hurled far enough into Gaithersburg to crash land into Chuck E. Cheese and die in pool of plastic balls surrounded by glorious food and entertainment.

As we are waiting in line, the ticket-taker says in broken English that Ed may be too tall for the ride. He makes a karate chop motion with his hand to indicate what happens to the legs of someone who is too tall. Behind said ticket-taker are two men, kneeling down with a welding machine, throwing sparks as they work on some apparantly malfunctioning portion of the ride. People continue to file on, fear in their eyes, and file off, faces green, as the welders work tirelessly below a colored plastic tarp meant to conceal them. Only it's night, and you can see sparks at night, even beneath a beach-ball colored tarp.

We step forward in line. We hand the man our tickets.

Ed steps up to the "You can't ride this ride if you're taller than this," post, which is nothing more than a metal pole with electrical tape haphazardly wrapped around it. No measuring tape, nothing. Ed slouches and his head is at the tape. He's a go.  

As Ed and I take our seats, I mention something to him about needing to have taken a Xanax before getting on this ride. The young man who is strapping us in looks at me, having overheard my comment, and says "Oh no, you wouldn't want to do that. I once took two Oxycontin and got on for a ride and threw up everywhere." He clicks my belt. Cool, I think, the man who just secured me into this machine has a painkiller problem.

Best of all, as we're flying around wildly and I am thinking I should have stayed home to watch Michael Phelps swim his 100 fly, I notice that my legs are swinging perilously close to the edge of the beam holding us up. And if MY legs are close, how close are Ed's legs?  I quiet my screams momentarily and realize that my husband still appears to be intact. I commence screaming profanities that are no doubt not heard by the many twelve-year-olds below, who are expertly executing their own string of adult language while talking about what they did last night.

Needless to say, I am writing this, so I survived. The picture in my flash player was snapped only moments after I stepped off the death trap. Perhaps I am not as unlucky as I once thought.

Actual correspondence I just received in relation to a leather skirt that I posted on eBay because I never have occasion to wear it. (I stick almost exclusively to jeans and sweats):

Q: "Hi. Your photo looks excellent. Nice skirt! Your model looks phenomenal in leather and sells the skirt!! WOW!! Would she consider posing for requests? The request would involve wearing the seatbelts in her car. Thanks."

Acutal reponse I just sent back:

"Well, lucky you. The model in the picture is moi. As much as I love entertaining creepy requests via eBay, and for that matter, modeling "seatbelts," my facial modeling career came to an abrupt end recently when the Batman couldn't save me from a burning building and half my face burned off, a-la Two-Face. I am sorry to say that, while you can't see my face in the picture, it is indeed a grotesque specimen -- one that surely will not be well received by your audience. Sorry, but thanks for the inquiry."

But, wait, later in the day, the saga continued:

Q: "Let me see. I don't believe you.

How much would you charge for personal modeling?"

My response:

"Now you're just flirting with me.

But if you are really interested in my modeling, I only do commercial modeling. No "personal modeling" allowed as it turns out I am not a prostitute. If I were a prostitute, do you think I would need to sell off clothing on eBay for a little extra cash?

But on to the matter at hand. If you care to hire me for commercial modeling, I never accept less than $10,000 a shoot."

There's more.

Q: "The requests would be e-mailed to you and someone you know would photograph you. The photos would then be e-mailed upon completion.

"personal modeling" referred to the fact that the photos were for my eyes only.

I thought you looked awesome wearing the leather skirt and wanted to inquire.

I'd appreciate your consideration. I'd like to see you model for requests.

Thank you."

About this time, I decided that my witty banter was clearly being wasted on this person. If you're out there, my eBay pen pal, the answer is no, I won't pose naked for you with an apple balanced on my head and peacock feather sticking out of my ass. People have been inappropriately propositioning me since two weeks after my 18th birthday. I know your kind. Plus, I've been playing water polo with a slew 6-foot somethings and, consequently my bicepts are super-toned right now. So back up.

Seriously, why do I need to write fiction? I can just throw together a collection of inappropriate advances toward me online and it would sell better than anything I could make up.

Coming back to real life after a long vacation really blows. Last week it was really hard to get back into the routine. If you look at my pictures, you'll understand why.

But, now that I have had my fun, I will take a break from adding to my witty, intelligent blog so that I can funnel all of my creative energy into finishing this GD book.

I tell you: to pick your favorite New Kid is like picking your favorite chocolate from a Godiva box. All tasty, none better than the other. Luckily, Mer and I were sitting in a little pod of 30-somethings who were New Kids fans. I would like to share some direct quotes heard from the ladies around me:

"I think my baby might slide out, I'm so excited." --A 6-month preggers fan

"Jooooooooordan--Can I have your baby? I'm old enough now!"

"Impure thoughts. I'm having IMPURE THOUGHTS."

As Mer and I made our way to the IZOD center, faces crusted with sweat and glitter, several people honked at us. It just so happens, however, that every single one of the honkers was driving a minivan. A minivan? Really? Is that our flock of admirers? Minivan drivers? Do minivan drivers even honk at ladies walking on the sidewalk? Aren't they in the car with their wife and kids? This was a clear signal times have changed for us.

Please check out the pictures from the concert on my flash player.

Well, now I suppose I am a real adult, since I turned 30 on May 2. But, this will not stop me from screaming like a 12-year-old on Saturday, when Mer and I attend the New Kids on the Block concert at the IZOD center in Jersey. Jon, Joey, Danny, Donnie and Jordan, here we come, puff-painted shirts and all. This was all made possible by Ed, the almighty, who gave me this concert trip for my birthday and then conveniently made his way to Dublin, where he'll be working until--you guessed, AFTER the New Kids show. Nice avoidance move, honey. The 'ol "I have to negotiate an international cluster munition ban" excuse. Like I've never heard that one before.

Much less important than the trip to see the New Kids is my impending graduation. Yes, I passed. Fooled them all. I get my diploma on May 23. Holy crappers. The cover pic is me doing my thesis public reading.

Actual headline on a local news broadcast Thursday night:

"A pit bull attacks two ponies. Hear how a school bus driver and her students came to the rescue."

John Mayer, I'm not going to buy you a watch.

P.S. But I want to.

Now that I've just turned in my final draft of my thesis (let's hope the committee doesn't tear it to shreds), I am finally back on the blogging train. First, let me say that Paris was wonderful in so many ways, especially because on the train ride back to the airport at the end, our good friends Nate and Jaime asked us to be the godparents of their baby on the way. That was hands down my favorite part of the whole thing. But, spending time in Europe really pointed out the excess of the American way of life. As soon as I got off the plane stateside, I remember thinking that everything looked HUGE -- the roads, the cars, the buildings, the food portions. The French were amazingly nice and accommodating, especially considering that between the four of us we know, uh, four words in French. Then there was also the American guy in the airport who had cornered a British man to ask for directions to Terminal 2. The British guy, looking slightly afraid, just kept patiently repeating that we were all standing on the platform awaiting the tram that ONLY WENT TO TERMINAL 2. The American recounted his search for Terminal 2 over the last three hours (I think there were only 3 terminals) and said in complete frustration that "Nobody speaks American." That's right, sir. Nobody does speak American.

In completely unrelated news, I am obsessed with #47, Chris Cooley and his dog, George.

In further unrelated news, the New Kids on the Block are back, bitches. You WILL be seeing me at their concert.

Add to the things you never want to hear your husband say: "Honey, you're on fire." Yes, this was reality for me yesterday morning. Let me walk you through it. I was standing at our gas stove cooking eggs, thinking in my half-awake daze that the new pan we got for our wedding works really, really, ridiculously well. The eggs pull right off--not a fleck sticks, and the Teflon...the Teflon coating doesn't scratch off and make the underside of the eggs black. This is beauti--"Honey, you're on fire."

"Oh, right," I say, not understanding the gravity of the situation. I presumed it was just my sleeve. No big deal, I think, as I swat my arm. But I wasn't just a little on fire. No. I do things big. I was on fire from my waist to my shoulder. So, my Eagle Scout husband keeps his cool (as he always does) and slips past my burning figure, pulls off my robe, throws it on the floor and stamps out the flame. I never felt any heat and saw only one small lick of a flame. I do, however, remember a smell of some sort, which I immediately attributed to the new pan.

As a result, I have resolved to make a few changes in my life: I will not cook over a gas flame with a robe on. I also will not cook anything before I have had a cup of coffee.

I wonder how many more times Ed will save my life.

The Elephant (and I don’t mean in a Republican way) in the Voting Booth

When I stepped up to the fold-away voting booth at a Takoma Park elementary school on a recent Tuesday, I was not alone. There was something with me, some force that extended far beyond knowledge of voting records, qualifications and stances on issues that was acting upon me, directing my forefinger to the electronic boxes on the primary ballot.

It wasn’t until the next night, as I was hunched over a clothing steamer at one of my jobs, that I realized exactly what that mysterious force was. My co-worker and I, though usually aligned on political issues, learned that we supported different Democratic candidates. She is a Hillary. I am a Barack. So we got to talking about why, and I explained that it was a tough choice for me, but that it ultimately came down to three things: My fear of a two-family political dynasty, the candidates’ voting record on cluster munitions and—dare I even say it—Monica Lewinsky.

I launch into what I thought was a rational, fact-based, well-thought-out explanation that Hillary had sent the message to millions of women that it’s ok to let their men get away with cheating—and it’s even more ok if staying with their men would help them, let’s say, clinch the Presidency of the United States one day. A young man leans over the counter and politely says that he would like to pipe in on our debate. It’s unfair to make assumptions about Hillary’s marriage and motivations, he explains. He’s “not a Hillary supporter by any means,” he says, because she’s far too “opportunistic,” but nonetheless, deciding not to vote for her over how she handled or did not handle the Monica Lewinsky scandal is wrong.

In an ideal world he might just be right. But we’re human, and humans have a way of processing information that involves assumptions and presumptions on a daily, if not hourly or minutely basis. The woman in that car looks elderly, I’d better pass her before we got to the one-lane section of the road or I’ll be late for work. I’ve heard that professor is hard—I’d better steer clear of her class. That man looks like he’s barely got hold of his hyper-looking pit bull’s leash, better take my toy poodle to the other side of the street. After all, isn’t saying Hillary Clinton is “opportunistic” just as much of a judgment as saying she’s set a bad example for women?

I’ve got news for you—we all do it. We’d all like to say it isn’t so, perhaps no one more than me. But it is part of human nature. It is part of what makes us able to function effectively without toiling for hours over every small decision we make.

I know what you’re thinking. Saying judgments are acceptable is a slippery slope—one minute it’s about a granny behind the wheel, the next it’s about all black men being thugs. But there is a wild difference between ignorant judgments and educated judgments.

Most Americans don’t know the presidential candidates personally and so we are forced to make judgments about who they are and what they will do in office, when there is no way for us to be even close to sure. How many of us really do exhaustive research on candidate voting records before Election Day? Even if we did, how do we know that that bill to kill puppies that so-and-so voted for wasn’t attached to a larger referendum to house all homeless people?

Who among us really sits down before Election Day and makes a list of pros and cons of candidates and then votes simply based on the column with the highest number? Not me. No matter how many pros or cons I come up with for Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama, I still come back to that “feeling” that they give me. Hillary conjures up images of my own family members, wounded by, yet tolerant of adultery. Barack makes me think of the chills down my spine when I watched Martin Luther King, Jr. speak on grainy video tapes in my high school history class. It’s as simple or as complicated as that.

Are you still angry about what Bill Clinton did? my co-worker asks me. I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I can feel my blood pressure rise as I begin to recite his public denial of an affair with “that woman.” The disrespect ingrained in that phrase is almost too much for me get my mind around.

Who are we to say that the Clintons are together for the wrong reasons? she asks. It doesn’t matter to me what their arrangement it is. If Hillary’s fine with it, I’m fine with it. Sure, I’d rather not know about the guy’s affinity for cigars, but he was careless during the information age so now I do know about it. My best judgment is that someone with good character—the kind of character I would want the leader of our country to have--would simply own up to it, tell the truth and move on. And so would his wife. Maybe she was fine with it. Maybe she was crushed. Either way, to earn my respect, she had to tell the truth rather than give some watered down explanation about being hurt.

Emotions and instinct, not information is what drives our voting. As for what actually wins elections in this system, well, that’s a whole other issue. But I realize now what was in that voting booth with me on Tuesday. It was two little words: “that woman.”

Eureka! I just got news that Spoken Like a Queen, a monthly E-zine, will publish my chick lit short story Flower Shop Girl in its next issue. I could not be more pleased. After submitting for months to no avail, I finally broke through and got something.

I think the key is really to start small--or at least smaller than you think your work might deserve. Sure, we believe our writing should be in The Paris Review, but chances are it won't even get read if you send it in and the editors don't recognize your name. I am so glad to be in a better frame of mind now, as my thesis class has its first meeting tonight.

For the love of god, how did it get to be January 15? Husband is in France, and I had planned to go to the Library of Congress today for the first time to fill the day. It would be an excellent event, no doubt, but instead I am going to otherwise occupy myself with chores and indulgences today because I am tired of all things writing.

I met an agent at a holiday networking event for Washington Independent Writers, and she was lovely. She only represents young adult fiction, however, so I was unable to push my manuscript on her. She recommended that I contact another agent, based in Denver, who is very popular right now. So, on Jan. 2, just after the holiday, I submitted a rather unsophisticaed query email with a synopsis of my novel attached. It was only after I sent the query that I read the agent's blog and learned that in 2007, she had 30,000 queries, requested 74 manuscripts and took on 8 new clients. Eight out of 30 Gs. Wow. Needless to say, I was prepared when I got a form rejection email.

But, how do I feel about the idea of being rejected by someone who has not read a word of what I've written? In some ways, it makes me feel better. She had no real basis to reject the work. In other ways, it makes me feel discouraged. Was just the IDEA of my novel enough to turn her away? How am I to elbow my work to the top so that it actually gets read before these agents and editors get so tired they don't care any more?

It would make sense that they read the pile only until they get enough good material, and then they simply stop, rather than sifting through to find the very best. After all, they are only human and they have deadlines to meet. Back to the library. After giving up my heart and soul to this manuscript for the last three and a half years, I am just not in the mood today to go to the ultimate shrine of literary achievement. It would simply hurt too much to look around the room and see millions of manuscripts that were good enough, or that were in the right hands at the right time, when my piece is sitting lonely and dejected, as "Revised Novel" among my many personal Word files.

In picture news, I have added some fun pictures from Christmas and New Year's to my Flash Player.

I have long resisted the idea of having a blog, as my smart ass response to such endeavors has always been "If you want to catch up with me, pick up the damn phone or come over to the pad."

But this morning I logged onto Sean's blog and realized that, though I am having dinner with Sean tonight, we likely won't get around to discussing everything he has put in his blog recently, including the Presidential race and what it means for our futures.

Surely, blogging breaks down barriers, at least for us writer types, and allows us to address highly emotional topics when talking about them in person with friends may not suit the environment. With a blog, you can get to know your closest friends more intimately, and you can really sit with and absorb their words, exactly as they intended them--unobscured by social expectations, time constraints or cheap wine. So, in 2008 I have turned over a new leaf. Welcome to my blog.