New Blog

So I'm not ready to declare this blog dead yet, not by a long shot. It's so pretty... and pink... and ME. But for now, at least, I've got, if not a new home, at least a pied a terre over at If You Belonged Here.

There are seven of us writing on a rotating basis, and well, I'm loving being part of it. I'm posting weekly over there for the time being. Check us out!

Wow Me

We’re taking a break from our normal programming. This blog is usually the Bookgirl Channel (all me, all the time), but some of my peoples are doing some pretty amazing things right now. And they’re just too cool not to share.

You know how every so often someone in your life wows you? Just pulls something out of their bag of tricks that you had no idea they had in there? Well, my friend Chris did that this week.

Chris and I have been friends since we were teenagers. (Or, at least I was. I can never remember what our age difference is.) I was a freshman in high school, and he was going to Northeastern. He was home on break and came to a CYO meeting at our church. I remember thinking he was an "older man" and very cool. And cute. We've been friends ever since.

Chris is from another one of those huge, multi-generational, 8-million cousins, French-Canadian families from Woonsocket. I grew up next door to one set of his cousins and a few blocks from another set. His sister-in-law is my sister's best friend. Our moms were in the Ladies' Guild together. We have the same first name. We were pretty much destined to be friends.

Since he was living in Boston when we met, and I moved to New York the fall after I graduated high school, we've really never lived in the same state for more than a summer at a time. But we always had a blast when we were together. He's the one who taught me about football and started my obsession with the Patriots. And even though we never dated, I'm not sure my mother ever entirely got over the fact that I didn't end up marrying him.

He got married a couple of years ago (sorry, mom) to a woman I really like, and they're expecting their first baby in a few weeks.
And this is where we get back to him wowing me. Because he sent me pictures of the nursery he painted for their baby.
My first impulse was, "Oh, wow." My second was pure jealousy that he could do something like that.

My third was back to "Oh, wow."

That's one seriously lucky baby.

And his wife didn't do too badly for herself either...

At the Disco

I don't have memories of playing with my sisters when we were kids the way other people do with their siblings, mainly because we weren't kids at the same time. My oldest sister started college when I was a few months old, and the next two were married and out of the house by the time I was six. Even Countrygirl, who's the next one up, got married when I was in the 8th grade. But don't feel bad for me just yet. Because I had my cousins.

Okay, follow this if you can. My mom's sister Simone is only 2 years younger than she is, and my grandmother's rule was that they weren't allowed to go anywhere the other wasn't invited. So they were pretty much inseperable.

My dad has a cousin a year older than him, and while my dad grew up in a house full of kids, Marcel was an only child, so the two of them were best friends. They were pretty much inseperable.

My parents grew up, met, fell in love, and got married. But Marcel was away with the navy at the time of the wedding and couldn't get leave, and someone else had to stand in as best man, so Marcel and Simone didn't meet. At the wedding, Marcel's mother kept telling Simone how perfect she would be for her son. Simone jokingly began referring to her as her mother-in-law. Hilarity all around. So imagine her surprise much later when a boy she meets at a dance brings her home to meet his parents, and she finds... you guessed it. My great-aunt. Yes, my mother's sister and my dad's cousin met independently of them, fell in love, and got married two years after my parents. The couples were pretty much inseperable.

My parents started having kids right away, and had 3 in five years. Simone and Marcel, much to their unhappiness, weren't able to have kids of their own. So Simone set out to be the most fun aunt EVER. It's from her that I learned so many of my cool aunt tricks. She's also the woman who used to encourage my sisters, when one of them wanted to do something my mom wouldn't allow, to "Cry. Cry and maybe she'll let you." Yeah, I'll bet that won big points with mom.

But wait. There's more. My mom took 6 years off from having kids (I'm sure her uterus thanked her), and then had Countrygirl. You can imagine everyone's surprise when after all those years of trying, Simone got pregnant at the same time. They had daughters 4 months apart. The 2 families were... say it with me now... pretty much inseperable. Fast forward eight years to the blessed event that was the unplanned birth of me. (My mommy says I wasn't an accident, just a pleasant surprise. She thought I was the beginning of menopause. Surprise!!) A year later to the month, 9 years after her first child, my aunt had Missy. So now you've got best friends marrying best friends, 2 sets of matching daughters (distinguished as the "big girls" and "little girls") and 2 families that were pretty much inseperable. We did everything together--holidays, weekends, vacations... we bought campers, parked them near one another at the same campground, and spent all summer together every summer until we were grown. Along the way my aunt and uncle adopted Missy's best friend Christina, who was 5 months younger than Missy, and that was it.

Pretty much every memory I have from childhood involves the two of them. We rode bikes and swam and rollerskated. We played house and school. We spied on the big girls. But my favorite game, the one I remember most vividly, was Disco. They had a long living room the entire width of their house, and on weekend nights it was ours to play in while the grown-ups sat in the dining room, chatting, the men playing cards. We'd shut off the lights, and that room was transformed. We were grown-up sisters, very sophisticated and beautiful, and we owned the coolest disco in town. (Yes, I know I'm dating myself. But this was the early 80s. It wasn't a club. It was a disco.) We would go early to set up, and bring our kids with us. Our Cabbage Patch kids would be lined up on the couch, and our imaginary older kids would play on their own. (I always had like seven of them...) But that was just for set-up. Because when it was time for the disco to open, our husbands would come get the kids to take them home and watch them, and we would work the disco. I'm so proud of our little liberated selves, I could just burst. How many little girls' fantasies involved being working mothers with stay-at-home dads??

Our disco played one album, and one album only. REO Speedwagon's Hi Infidelity on vinyl, borrowed from the girls' older sister.

To this day, that album still makes my all-time list of "If I were stranded on a desert island" CDs. And either Keep on Loving You or Take it On the Run would make my all-time favorite songs list, but which one depends on the day. Missy and Christina even had a whole dance rountine worked out to Follow My Heart. And make no mistake. Our disco was the place to be, and the floor was packed with dancers, but those imaginary party-goers cleared the floor to watch the girls strut their stuff.

Iraq

I'm warning you all up front. I'm writing this blog from my soapbox.

I went to mass Sunday morning (sadly, yes, my attendance is sporadic enough that it's worth mention). There's a point in the mass where the congregation present their petitions to God. The lector reads aloud a list of specific causes or requests, and after each one everyone responds with "Lord, hear our prayer." One of the petitions they've been doing every Sunday for, sadly, years now is a special prayer for the servicewomen and men of our parish who are fighting in Iraq.

I've talked about my neighborhood here before. It's in the midst of being gentrified, but Jackson Heights is primarily a working-class to lower-middle-class neighborhood, mostly families, largely immigrants. And my church has eleven soldiers in Iraq right now. ELEVEN. The first time I heard the list, I thought "It's lovely that they do that." And then the list just went on and on.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that there's not one church in any wealthy suburb in America that has eleven kids fighting in Iraq. That when our politicians go back to their posh homes in their tony neighborhoods, their neighbors are not the ones getting shipped off and shot at.

The idea that we're fighting a war that's seemingly without end, that we entered under false pretenses, makes me sick. The fact that men and women are dying every day makes me sick. The fact that there's such a complete disconnect between the people calling the shots and those paying the consequences makes me sick.

One of my cousins spent some time in Iraq, and while he was one of the soldiers who was lucky enough to come home, he'll never be the same again. We're hoping that some day he'll be okay. And even that feels like a stretch right now. We've never been close, but I wrote to him while he was over there. And the letters he wrote back were haunting and horrific. I support our troops completely. But I support bringing them home. This mess is our burden, our resposibility, and our shame. And I'm ashamed.

Great Aunt Bookgirl

Big news, kids. I'm going to be a great aunt. Now, I know what you're thinking. "We've heard the stories. Bookgirl already IS a great aunt." And yes, yes I am. Thanks for noticing. But we're talking geneology here, not quality. My niece is pregnant.

Since the youngest in my immediate family is my godson Jeremy, who's thirteen, it's been a long wait for a new little pumpkin at Casa Bookgirl. Couple that with the fact that Jenn is the only girl in the next generation (my other sisters all had boys), and has been trying for a long time to get pregnant, and this is, like I said, big news.

If I had a magic wand, and I could make one wish come true, it would have been this one. I wanted this for Jenn more even than anything I wanted for myself. I was out with my girlfriends the night Jenn called to tell me, and one of them showed up just as I hung up with her, to find me standing in the street with tears rolling down my face. "What's wrong? What happened?" I kept opening and closing my mouth, not able to get the words out.

I was only 4 when Jenn was born, and as kids, we fought like sisters. Or I guess technically I fought with her, and she had no choice but to fight back. You've all seen what happens when a family gets its first grandchild, right? It's like the sun rises and sets over that kid. Then add in the fact that she was gorgeous, and well, who would blame me for hating her? But by the time we were teenagers, I would drive her friends around. In my early twenties, I chaperoned Jenn's parties so she wouldn't have to have her parents there. Around the time she graduated college, she skidded right past me and became the more mature one.

And along the way, she became a really amazing person. She's a pediatrics nurse in a children's hospital, she took one of the babies from the hospital under her wing and years later still takes her for weekends and vacations. She spontaneously stops by my mom's house with flowers. Sometimes good things do happen to good people. It's nice when those people are the ones I love.

Cats and Dogs

I had similar conversation recently with both Countrygirl and Polly Poppins, and what it comes down to is this. There are two kinds of kids in this world. There are your puppy kids—the ones who clamor all over you looking for attention and affection and will do just about anything to get it. And there are your cat kids—the ones who might, if you’re lucky, deign to cuddle with you. But it’s on their terms, when they feel like it, and only after you’ve passed their rigorous selection process.

Let’s take my nieces for example. Last time I was at their house, Emilie kept following me around the house, giving me her most winning smile, looking hopefully up at me and saying, “Mama?” with her arms outstretched so I’d pick her up. She’s willing to go through her whole bag of tricks, simultaneously if necessary, to get you to love her. My sister had this dog, and if you took out a treat, she’d go through every trick she knew until you gave it to her. You didn’t have to say a word. She’d roll over, sit, and beg in rapid succession, figuring one of those had to be what you were looking for, and going through them all would get her the treat faster. That’s Emilie. She gives it away for free. We’re hoping she’ll outgrow that tendency before puberty, but that’s another story.

And then you have Ella. I love my Ella. You all know that. But she’s got enough attitude for the entire cast of Mean Girls. None of her uncles are allowed to touch her. Not one. They can talk to her, but she’s not going to respond. Or even acknowledge that they’re speaking. I’m one of her favorite people, and she just flat-out refused to say my name until she was 2. When she met my roommate, I told her, “This is Jodie. Can you say Jodie?” She looked at me and said, “Jodie. Jodie. Jodie.” And then kissed her. The little bitch. She’s a total cat.

PJ

In Memorial
PJ
February 14, 1996-December 29, 2007

Nearly twelve years ago, my sister Michelle brought home a perfect little black lab puppy. But this was no ordinary puppy. My family is split pretty evenly between those who are animal people and those who are not. And PJ even won over the “nots.” When my niece called to talk to Mich after she heard the news she said, “For what it’s worth, even I liked him.” I myself even voluntarily took him for a walk once. Those of you who know how weak my stomach is know what a huge deal that is….

Now that perfect little puppy, like all dogs do, he started to grow. And grow. And grow. Which explains why he was often referred to as “The Moose.”

One year he knocked over the Christmas tree with his tail. Just his tail. As he got bigger, Mich waited for the puppy energy to burn off, for him to settle down into the temperament of a normal dog. She waited. And waited. And waited. And it never happened. She would take him for 4-mile walks to tire him out. It didn’t work. She would play chase the ball for, literally, hours. Barely even made a difference.

PJ was a good dog. But he was just a teeny bit rambunctious. He had a tendency to eat things. Other dogs eat shoes. PJ ate Mich’s hope chest. And her bedroom moldings. Oh, and the kitchen linoleum. She tried to train him, she really did. But he was too smart for that. One book suggested that she buy a water bottle and squirt him in the face when he barked. But the day she started using it, she left it out while she went to take a shower. He ate it. Another book said to tape balloons to the edge of the dining room table so if he tried to jump up they would burst and scare him. She found him playing with one of the balloons, batting it gently back and forth between his paws. He wasn’t having any of that training stuff.

PJ was the Worst. Guard Dog. Ever. If you came to Mich’s house when she wasn’t home, he’d come trotting up to the door, tail wagging, tennis ball in his mouth. She swears that if a) she had been home and b) he hadn’t known me, he would have barked. And maybe she’s right. But if she wasn’t home, anyone who wanted to could have robbed her blind. As long as they kept flinging that tennis ball, he would have happily let them clean out the house.

I read a book proposal once that said that instead of pets, they should be referred to as “animal companions.” And I’m not going to lie. I rolled my eyes. But that’s really what PJ was for my sister. He was her buddy, her partner, her friend, her child. As she called him, “her boy.” There were rough times when he was what made her get out of bed in the morning. And a lot of times when he was her biggest source of joy.

Michelle’s in a place in her life now where she’s happier than I’ve ever known her to be. She’s got a house right on the ocean, a man who makes her happy, and with that man came a ready-made family. Someone told her that’s why PJ was able to let go. Because he knew that she was happy and taken care of, and he had done everything he was brought into her life to do.

PJ leaves behind a mom, a stepfather, and a sister, a beautiful retriever who’s helping to heal the hole in Mich’s heart. And he also leaves behind a lot of people who were better for having known him. We’ll miss you, Peej.

p.s. If you have a PJ memory of your own you'd like to share, please leave a comment. I'd love to hear it.

The Sweater

My sister Jean had this favorite sweater. It was hot pink, white, and black stripes. It was a hoody that zipped up. I LOVED this sweater. I called it the Good -n- Plenty sweater, because it was those exact same colors. It sounds ugly, I know, but it wasn't. Did I mention I really loved this sweater? I convinced her to go back to the store and buy one for me, but they were all out. Every time time I saw her wearing it, I lusted for it in my heart. I'm not proud of it, but it's true. I coveted my sister's sweater.

When Christmas came a year later, we were both broke. I was paying off my credit card debt, and she was buying a new house, so we decided to do "gifts from the heart," which basically means something handmade or with sentimental value that costs little to no money. And my sister made the ultimate sacrifice. She wrapped up her favorite sweater and gave it to me. Talk about a tangible symbol of how much I'm loved--it's absolutely impossible to wear the sweater and not feel comforted.

For two years I've loved that sweater, but it came up in conversation recently, and she confessed that she still misses it. And there was only one thing to do. I wrapped it up and gave it to back her as one of her Christmas presents.
It turns out you really can wrap up love and put it under the tree.

Week in New England, Part One

Like the Barry Manilow song. Except longer, and without the romance...

So I'm back from my week in Woonsocket with the family. There were no blogs written while I was there, since their house is the land that technology forgot. I finally convinced them to upgrade to a high-speed connection from their crappy dial-up, but only on my last day there, so it didn't do me a whole lot of good. It does, however, mean that they will now be able to open up their Yahoo! email in fewer than 5 minutes, and will actually be able to get onto websites with graphics, so I feel like my work there was well worth it.

I did girls' nights and a spa day, had more family time than I know what to do with, and spent one-on-one time with most of my sisters (except Michelle, who had the world's. Worst. Vacation. Ever. Poor thing.) I didn't get much time with my girls, since there was a vicious stomach flu running through Sarah's house, and my mom would have kicked my ass if I went over and brought it home with me. But that just gives me an excuse to go back for the boys' birthdays in a couple of weeks and spend some time with them then. (Um, Sarah. You were planning on inviting me, right??)

Since every one of my local friends is either pregnant, nursing, or was sick last week, it made for a very relaxed trip. Most nights I stayed in and watched old movies with my mom. I stocked up on Netflix, and came home bearing White Christmas, Holiday, Going My Way, and Holiday Inn. (And when I say watched, I mean saw the first half hour and then fell asleep on my parents' incredibly comfortable recliner and had to watch the rest the next day.) I spent Friday night playing dominoes with my parents and had a blast, except for the occasional twinge of "Oh my God. What happened to me?? I used to be cool." And since they don't even have cable (see earlier "land that technology forgot" comment) I got a ridiculous amount of sleep. I had forgotten what being that well-rested felt like....

On my way back to Rhode Island I stopped in Connecticut to see my friend Nando, who's nine months pregnant and ADORABLE (slight waddle and all) and then stopped by my sister Jean's on the way home, partially to see her new kitchen and partially to get to use her fireplace. So they made me a nice fire, and I lay down on the couch to watch it and instantly fell asleep. After I woke up, I told my sister, "I invited myself over to your house, ate your food, and fell asleep on your couch. If I weren't your little sister, it would mean you either gave birth to me or we were dating. Because no one else could get away with that."

While I was there, I was reminded anew of exactly how different our lives really are. Jean lives in the woods. I mean, their neighbors have farm animals, all the houses had chimneys blazing, her kid packs himself a thermos of cocoa and some snacks when he strays too far from the house into the yard, and I drive by at least twice every time I try to find the house because it's so far back you can't see it from the road. Woods. I gave her older son a driving lesson because my car is standard, and he took to it instantly, starting and stopping on hills without even stalling. I was impressed, until he reminded me that it was because his tractor is a 5-speed too. I'm guessing city kids don't have that experience. My godson, Jeremy, had made himself a Charlie Brown Christmas tree in his room and decorated it. Adorable, right?


But look closer. What are those he's using as ornaments? Are those tiny little John Deere tractors? Why, yes they are. And that? That would be a shotgun shell casing.

And a cork.

I dubbed it the redneck Christmas tree, and spent the rest of the time I was there singing "White Trash Wedding" by the Dixie Chicks. While my nephews are rednecks, not white trash, I don't know any redneck songs, and I figured that was close enough. Jean and I look almost identical, she's my best friend, and my mom swears we're really related. But sometimes it's hard to believe.

It's My Party

My college friends and I generally complain that we don't see each other enough. Then the holidays come, and you have weeks like last one, where we saw each other four times. My friend's husband asked us, "By the end of the week, are you going to have anything left to talk about?" Never underestimate the power of women's ability to chat. He's probably one of those men who also doesn't understand why we talk to each other on our cell phones while we're on our way to meet. Sheesh.

Monday night was our 8th annual "Christmas on Crack" theme party. Now to understand this, you need to know that my friends love to create traditions. Even better if it's a crazy tradition. And eight years ago, our friend Anthony planned a drinks night at Rolf's, this restaurant that had totally over-the-top Christmas decorations.







We all crammed into this teeny bar area, pissing off everyone waiting for tables, and drank ourselves silly on German beer. At one point, someone made a comment along the lines of, "Dude! This place looks like Christmas on Crack!" (Except the words were probably slurred.) And just like that, the tradition was born. A year or two later, Schnapps sent around an email with this funny PowerPoint presentation and a comment that it would be great if we made t-shirts. Since one of our friends does marketing promotions for a career, we all showed up in shirts to surprise her. And thus was born tradition #2--the annual matching shirts.

On Friday night was my friends Doug and Joe's annual party, the highlight of which was the most honest invitation I've ever seen:

It's that time of year again to cram a shit load of people into a 600 square foot apartment. Free food and drinks will be served to those individuals willing to go nip-to-nip with their fellow man and woman! We'll start the festivities off at 7:00 so feel free to swing by for 10 minutes on your way home from work, or stay the whole night!
We look forward to seeing you all soon!

In contrast to my "early garage style" decorating mode, their apartment is what I like to refer to as "Gay Pottery Barn." My favorite picture of the night was taken several drinks in. This is Schnapps and me talking to Comet, our pregnant friend,'s belly (which she refers to as Poppyseed, since that was the approximate size of the baby when they found out). Schnapps was telling Poppy that (s)he had to come a few days late, on June 12th, since Schnapps would be on a business trip until the 10th. I was telling Poppy how much fun we were going to have and promising to tell her/him embarrassing stories about Comet.

















Saturday night was Christmas dinner with the friends in my supper club. We do a Secret Santa at this party, and I don't want to imply that we're getting older or anything, but Ronnie got a food processor and was absolutely thrilled. Anthony pulled De's name this year, and her card said "ho ho ho to my little ho. Love, Sexy Santa." She opened it in front of her husband, and no one even batted an eye. I really love my friends.

Then Sunday, the grand finale of our Christmas weekend, was my annual Christmas party. (Well, sort of annual. I had to skip the last 2 years due to the black "paying off my credit card debt" period we don't like to talk about.) I cooked for two days in an effort to make everything perfect, and Louise declared me the "hostess with the mostest" so I guess I pulled it off. Phew. There was a big storm, and a bunch of people cancelled at the last minute (including Sarah, who told me "I really want to be there, but I don't want me and the girls to get dead," an arguement I couldn't disagree with), but we still had about 25 people in my apartment, which was enough to be fun, but not so many that other people's sweat was wiping off on you. Which is always nice. After the initial period of making sure everyone had drinks and walking appetizers in and out of the kitchen, I realized everyone was having fun, everyone was taken care of, and I got to actually enjoy the party. And even though it was an afternoon event, there may have been just a little bit of drinking going on.













I'm sure in a few weeks I'll be complaining again that I don't see them often enough. But for right now, I've had all the togetherness my liver can handle.






p.s. My nativity set has absolutely nothing to do with this story, but Comet took a picture of it, and I really love it, and it was a gift from my sisters. So I'm going to show it off a little.

p.p.s. She also took a picture of the infamous tree.

On Grapefruit

I got my annual delivery of Christmas grapefruit from The Dol today. How excited am I?!?!?

The Dol is Polly Poppins's West Coast best friend. And despite Mr Poppins's not-so-secret dream that we might some day have a rap-style East Coast vs. West Coast rumble, we really like one another. It's a good thing, too, because if Polly had made me slide over and make room on my pedastal for someone I didn't like, I'd be PISSED.

The Dol's husband is from Texas originally, and that's how they knew about Red Cooper Orange-Sweet grapefruit. They're ruby red grapefruit, that are somehow absolutely perfect and completely addictive. Since The Dol is smart and well-connected and loves to read and talk about books, she's found her way onto my big-mouth mailing list over the years. So when they ordered their holiday grapefruit a few years ago, she added me on to the distribution. It was love at first bite.

Once Polly found out about my new addiction, she got in on the action too, and sent me a couple of boxes. Mostly because she eats vegetables only because she has to, and thinks the fact that I can get truly excited about produce is adorable. For years, she would try to trick me into admitting that I didn't really like salad and was just eating it to be healthy. Also, she likes spoiling me. I love that about her.

So my girls spoil me horribly, I love every second of it, and grapefruit came to join apple loaf on the list of foods about which I've written bad poetry.

On Grapefruit
I love grapefruit, this I know
Because my tastebuds tell me so

Too much work for breakfast, but perfect for lunch
It's my #1 choice when I want to munch

I keep them in my office
And the refrigerator door
And just when I ran out,
My best friend sent me more!

They're oh so sweet
and nice and juicy
Since they're only 2 points,
Now my pants are loosey

Red Cooper rocks
Polly and Dol too
I love them more
than Winnie the Pooh

p.s. Don't worry. I'm not quitting my day job any time soon.

Hold the Frankincense

It's official. My mother is not going to be the Messiah's grandmother. Phew.

Okay, maybe I should explain. See, this may be an overshare, but a few months ago, I just stopped getting my period. Entirely. No period. My friends told me I should go to the doctor, but I said, "Nah. It's probably just a fluke. It'll come next month." Then October came, and not so much. No period.

Now, there was a time in my life that 2 missed periods in a row would have sent me crying, big, gulping sobs, into the nearest drugstore to buy a stick I could pee on. But this is not one of those times. And as Polly says, "Miracle no happen."

So I made an appointment to see my doctor to find out what was going on. And when I told my mother about it, I said, "I may be pregnant. But if I am, they're going to be talking about it in church for centuries. Just think! You could be the Messiah's Memere! Wouldn't that be cool??"

Mom: "No." She's a great lady, my mother, but she doesn't always appreciate my sense of humor.

So it turns out everything is fine, and occasionally a woman who's been on the pill for a while will just stop getting her period. And it's totally normal. No baby. No period. Kind of the best of both worlds, no?

My mom's next question, because yes, Virginia, she really is that naive, was "What were you put on the pill for in the first place?" There is a time and a place for honesty. This was not that time. And generally speaking, anywhere my mother is is not that place. She knows about the blog. I've shown it to her. I've read entries to her. But she doesn't read it, because she prefers her impressions of my life to come filtered and modified into a version rated M for Mom. So I did the only kind thing I could under the circumstances. I lied. I think she would have wanted it that way.


p.s. There was a moment when I was seriously tempted to answer that question with "Hope springs eternal." But I had a feeling that was another one of those jokes she just wouldn't appreciate...

Thankful

I'm leaving tomorrow for Thanksgiving in Rhode Island, and I am so... freaking... excited. I haven't seen my parents since Labor Day, and for this mommy's girl, that is WAY too long. Yes, I've got my annual fall case of the "miss my moms." And this weekend will be chock full of Mrs. Bookgirl. In addition to the holiday on Thursday, we're spending the day together on Friday for our annual Christmas shopping day. When I was in college and didn't have a car, my mom started taking me shopping the day after Thanksgiving so I could do all my shopping, and she could see what I liked. And even though she's not a big fan of the tradition, I just flat-out refuse to let it go. As one of a pack of kids, one on one mom time is rare. I'm not giving up a guaranteed mommy day without a fight. I did offer her an out this year. "I know you don't love shopping the day after Thanksgiving. I want to go, but if you really don't want to, I guess I can find someone else to come with me." Shocking that she agreed to come, isn't it? He he he. I learned guilt at the knee of the master. I'll bet she never realized I'd turn it back on her some day. Saturday the girls (and dad) are going into Providence to walk around and go out to eat for mom's birthday. (She's turning 73, but don't tell her I told you.) So I'll get a nice, full dose of mommy time. That should be more than enough to tide me over until Christmas.

My family celebrates Thanksgiving at my cousin Lisa's house. One year her son decided we all needed to announce what we were thankful for, and yet another family tradition was born. We're a mushy bunch, so the girls have always been thankful for all the basics--family, each other. The men, well, they're a different story. That first year Mike, Lisa's husband, was thankful that Woonsocket had gotten a home repair superstore. His brother-in-law was thankful that Detroit was covering the spread. As time went on, though, even they got into the spirit. The year that Mike beat his terminal cancer diagnosis and was there with us at Thanksgiving, well, there wasn't a dry eye in the house. And he had a lot more than Lowes to be thankful for.

Since you're my online family, I thought I'd share my Thankful list with you all this year.
1. You, naturally. I've been looking for a creative outlet for years. Knitting, jewelry design, drawing, you name it. But nothing has made me as happy as writing this blog has. And the fact that you guys actually come back to hear what I have to say, that you give me your time and attention, that you respond and weigh in. Well, it's humbling. From the bottom of my heart, thanks.

2. My family. Even my rotten nephew David, who last Thanksgiving said he was thankful for his mother, his grandmother, and his girlfriend. Do you hear my name in there? No? Me neither.

3. That my problems aren't real problems. Before Polly was a mom, she was a full-time writer with no day job AND a cleaning lady (you can take a minute to be jealous, she would want it that way). When she would call me to complain about something, she would always preface it with "I know my problems aren't real problems." And I try to remember that sentiment. Sure, we all have things we bitch and whine about. But I'm healthy, I'm happy, I have a job to go to, a place to live, food to eat, people to love. No one I love is deathly ill or in grave danger. My problems are not real problems.

4. Ella. 'Nuff said.

5. My new suede purse (I can't include a picture because my cell phone battery is low, but I'll try to add one later), and my leopard-print shoes. Yes, it's shallow. But I'm thankful for them. I really am.

Hope you all have a fabulous holiday. And if you want to chime in with your own thankful lists, I'd love to hear them.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Prettiest Girl in the World

Hanging out with girlfriends recently, the talk turned, as it always does, to body image. I complain about my weight. A friend who weighs 80 pounds less than I do refers to herself as a “fat bastard.” Another friend cringes every time she sees herself in a picture. It’s a rare woman who’s completely happy with how she looks, who looks at herself in a mirror without noticing the faults first.

I remember being at an aerobics class with my sister when I was in junior high and telling her that I would give anything to look like the instructor—thin and conventionally pretty. Michelle reminded me that I was most likely both far smarter and a much better person than her, but at that age none of that mattered. I would have gladly traded in my genius IQ for a size 6 body and a face that wasn’t perfectly round. It’s a damn good thing God doesn’t answer all our adolescent prayers, because you all would be reading someone else’s blog right now, and I’d be admiring myself in a mirror somewhere.

While I’ve long since lost the willingness to give up what I am to look different, I’m not going to lie. I never outgrew the longing to experience, just for a little while, what it’s like to be pretty. To see my looks open doors, to feel what’s it like when you turn heads. Remember the movie The Mirror Has Two Faces with Barbra Streisand? She plays a plain-looking woman whose mother and sister are both gorgeous, while she has to come to terms with never being the pretty one. I saw it in the theater with my niece, who is the pretty one, and I cried for five hours afterward. It hit a little too close to home.

All of this female dissatisfaction is heartbreaking, and it terrifies me for my nieces. All those perfect little girls, with their round cheeks and smooth skin and chubby bellies, are some day going to see themselves with unkind eyes. They’re going to compare themselves with models and actresses and with their friends who are more thin or more pretty or more something, and feel they don’t measure up. They’re going to devalue themselves and demand less than they deserve from others, and it’s easy to meet a woman’s requirements when she sets the bar that low.

And that, my friends, is where we come in. Because can’t we make a difference? If we start now, can’t we teach them what they’re worth? Those little girls are clay, waiting to be molded. So why can’t we mold them not in our own images, but in the images we want them to have? My friend Kerri knows this woman, G. I first met her years ago, and although G was on the heavy side, she seemed to suffer from none of those crippling insecurities the rest of us were writhing under. I asked Kerri about it once, and she explained that it was simple. G’s family, the whole time she was growing up, had reminded her constantly that she was beautiful, she was fabulous, she could do anything she wanted to. And hearing it over and over, she believed it.

What if it’s that simple? I mean sure, it’s not a proven solution, but it could be part of it. Maybe if we’re positive about ourselves instead of talking about our faults, if we focus on what we like about ourselves instead of what we don’t, and if we remind them every chance we get how fabulous they are, we can raise our daughters and nieces to be different than we were. To love themselves, to love their bodies, to not get caught up in those same destructive cycles we did.

As soon as my goddaughter was old enough to listen to me and pay attention to what I was saying, I made up The Ella Song. “There once was a girl named Ella, and she was the prettiest girl in the world. There once was a girl named Ella, and she had the prettiest nose in the world.” One by one I go through her body parts—eyes, ears, mouth, arms, belly, legs, touching each of them, telling her how pretty they are, how pretty she is. I’ll hold her close when I sing to her, and she’ll stare into my eyes the whole time, moving her head back and forth to my singing. Just recently, she started directing me. “You forgot dis one,” she’ll say, and hand me her arm. Or I’ll tell her how pretty her left hand is, and she’ll hand me the right one and say “Dis one too.” Sarah told me after Ella and I are together, she’ll hear her playing, singing the song to herself.

I’m not naïve enough to think a silly made-up song will somehow save her from heartbreak, or keep her from teenage angst. But when’s the last time you saw a girl suffering from too much self-esteem? Yeah, me neither.

Quick Hits

A few schizophrenic and totally unrelated thoughts...

On Halloween night I was on the E train, and I saw two friends dressed up as an Arab and a Jew. And the costumes were PERFECT. The one had on the red-checked head covering, the white robe, thick black mustache, the shiny, reflective sunglasses. The other was dressed all in black, had the sidelock curls, the black hat with the brim. Just perfect. And I was overtired, and punchy, and couldn't stop laughing. I'd get myself under control, and look at them out of the corner of my eye, and start giggling all over again. I heard someone compliment their costumes, and the Arab responded, totally deadpan, with, "Oh, this is real." Cue additional giggling. I came very close to asking if I could take a picture of them for my blog. But then I remembered this is New York, and we don't do that. They absolutely made my night. Well, them and the teeny Donald Duck in the stroller who was so tired he was head-bobbing.

I called my mom when I got home from Florida to tell her I was back in New York, and she told me she didn't know I was away and had to hear about it from her sister, who heard from my sister.
Me: "I called before I left and told dad all about it. We had a long conversation. Didn't he tell you?
Mom: Long Pause. "No."
Me: "When I call the house to tell you guys something and I get Daddy, do I have to actually specify to him that he needs to tell you?
Mom: "Evidently, yes."
Good job, Dad. The thing about my dad is that his phone behavior is completly dependent on what he was doing, and therefore what you pulled him away from, when you called. Some days I'm dying to talk to my mother and he's feeling chatty. Other days I get a perfunctory half-attention, and then when my mother gets close enough to pass off the phone he cuts me off no matter where I am in my story to say, "Here's your mother," regardless of which one of them I actually called to talk to.

While fall may have officially arrived in September, the weather around these parts only got on board recently. But it's here. Which means that today was the first day totally conducive to all my favorite things about fall: I'm wearing my red boots that zip up the sides, I had a pumpkin space latte this morning at breakfast, I have on a brand-new sweater I bought this weekend, I'm still feeling the afterglow of yesterday's big Pats win, and I got to wear my pink coat, which is my very favorite piece of clothing. It's like a perfect storm of things that make me happy.

Oh, and I got these pictures from Sarah. They sure do have pretty fall decorations at her house. All I've got at mine is a felt pumpkin...

L.O.V.E.

My friends Kris and Chris (yes, really) got married on Saturday, and it was one of those magical days that I wish I could save in a snow globe so I could shake it up and revisit it whenever I wanted to.

About 15 of my sorority sisters were there, plus significant others, some additional friends, and all our best gays. Throw in an open bar into the mix, and seriously, what more can a girl ask for? From the time we got there until the last song ended, unless the DJ specifically told us to sit down, we were on the dance floor in a big pack. And we're all so free and easy with one another that the lines behind us seem to blur at those moments. It's totally natural to just grab whoerever's closest and start dancing up against them--guy, girl, whatever. At one point, I looked around. I was dancing with one of the boys, M was kissing A's husband on the cheek, another girl was dancing with T's husband. And it occured to me: this is what love looks like. This is proof positive that yes, sometimes you can pick your own family.

The bride is a couple of years yearger than me, so while my whole crew was there, she also had a bunch of younger girls from the sorority, who pledged after I graduated. They're just as close as we are, and it made me feel like we had to have done something right in choosing who we passed the sorority on to, because they found the same things we found, share the same bond we share. And isn't that what it's all about?

I'm not an Ashlee Simpson fan. I find her vapid and largely untalented, and I think her career wouldn't exist if it weren't for an agressive father and famous sister. But there's this one song of hers that they play in my gym, and I can't help liking it despite myself. I was going to post to the lyrics, but in print they sound even more mindless, so here are the important ones:

"L.O.V.E."

I'm talkin' bout love
All my girls stand in a circle and clap your hands. This is for you.
Ups and downs, highs and lows.
No matter what, you see me through
All my girls, we're in a circle and nobody's gonna break through.

And isn't that what friendship really is? Whether you're on the dance floor, or sitting around a table eating dinner, or emailing from hundreds or thousands of miles away, your friends are the ones who form that tight little circle with you, who help you block out anything you don't want in. And the beauty of circles is that it's always easy to to let one more link in and make it just a little bit bigger, a little stronger.

p.s. I'd post pictures, but none of my friends sent theirs around yet, and when I was bringing things into my apartment from the car the other day, I threw the camera and the half a cup of coffee into the same bag. Because I'm a moron.

Ode to Apple Loaf, A Poem

Sunday was our annual girls-only trip upstate to go apple picking. My friend Adriana, who we call Schnapps, makes this thing called Apple Loaf. It's like heaven and apples baked together into loafy goodness. I can't describe it, except to say that it's like crack, and no one but her makes it.

Every year with our picked apples, she makes these amazing loaves, and I get some. Except for the year that her thieving husband, John, ate mine because I didn't make it over to get it quickly enough, and he found it in the fridge. That bastatrd. I'm still bitter.

But anyway, I wrote this special poem for her last year, as a thank you for both the apple loaf and for hiding my piece from John. I think the poem has held up well over time....

Ode to Apple Loaf
How do I love thee, apple loaf?
Let me count the ways

I love that you're moist and squishy,
while maintaining a breadlike consistency
I love that I got a piece of you
before you ended up all in John's belly

I love that you're perfect for dinner
when I'm too tired to cook
I love that you're there at breakfast
In a house, you'd go in that nook

I love that you're a reminder
Of how much my Schnappses loves me
I'll bet you that if I fell down,
You'd be better even than a kiss on the knee

So thank you, apple loaf
And thanks to my friend
I'll be singing your praises,loafie
Right till the end


p.s. Yes, I was stone sober when I wrote this.

Party Like a Rock Star... Sorta

Sarah decided she missed me, and she had the weekend off from the hospital, so she threw the two babies in the van, made her oldest son come along to babysit, and headed down to new York on Saturday for some Bookgirl lovin'.

Her brother-in-law's cousins own Manor, a club downtown, so we decided to do it up big. Phone calls were made, the owners knew we were coming, and VIP status was promised. We slutted Sarah up with my make-up and my roommate's clothes, and we were off.

No velvet ropes for us. We made a phone call when we got out of the cab, and Anthony came out to meet us. After air kisses all around, he brought us to the hostess and made sure she knew that we were special. The hostess got us a waitress. Our importance was reiterated. The waitress brought us to a table right off the dance floor. The tables, of course, were bottle service only, so she set us up with our bottle of Kettle One, our mixers, and left us to have our fun.

The big group next to us thought we were infringing on their space and were none too happy. The drunken suburban asshole who appeared to be their ringleader started with us, letting us know that he "had paid $5,000 to reserve these tables and we should shoo." Proving that he was not only an asshole, he also needed to find something better to do with his money, a charity perhaps. The bouncer got involved and tried to kick us out, until someone told him who we were, at which point he came over to shake our hands and apologize to each of us personally.

Now if the story just ended there, we sound like such rock stars, right? But alas, this was me, Sarah, and Jodie. So the story, well, it doesn't end there. Three intelligent women might have recognized that even though they had a full bottle of vodka, it was not necessarily a good idea to drink it all. But not us. No, we finished it off. And that's where the night took a turn for the sloppy.

I, of course, fell down. Because that's what I do. Jodie made out with a strange Israeli man. And Sarah, well, let's just say I had to undress her when we got home, since she decided to take a shower. Fully clothed. And then couldn't get her clothes off.

But wait. There's more. Sarah's sister has been trying to fix me up with one of the aforementioned cousins. Except he didn't know it. And we were going to do it all subtle-like. But when drunk, our Bookgirl is a talker. I'll tell anyone anything that's on my mind. And while I blessedly don't remember the details, I have a faint recollection of filling him in on the plan. In what I'm sure was a really sexy slur. Classy... Sarah's bit of the memory was him looking at us and saying, repeatedly. "Go home. Just go home." (Sarah, If you remember anything else, or hear anything at a later date from your sister, you're not allowed to tell me. The pool of shame I'm swimming is deep enough, thank you very much.)

So yes, while our big glamorous night may not have ended entirely the way we planned, and my fantasies of spending a happy life together with Cousin James and his Hamptons House are now out of the question, we got to be VIPs for the night. We drank, we laughed, we danced. We partied like rock stars. Sorta.

Pulling a Bookgirl

Sarah called me today to tell me she "pulled a me." Any time one of my friends starts a conversation with "I pulled a you" it means one thing and one thing only. That they fell, publicly, while people were there to see it, in some spectacularly embarrassing way.

It might have something to do with the fact that I fall down. A lot. And that if I can break it, lose it, spill it, or hurt myself with it, I will do just that. Those of you who don't know me well might think I'm exaggerating. I'm not.

My falls take one of two forms: there are the slow falls, the ones where I start going down, and know it's coming but can't stop myself. I usually start giggling before I even hit the ground, and I'm told that I look almost graceful, since I've perfected the art of kind of gliding down to minimize the impact. I once was in a coffee shop in SoHo on a snowy day and slid on the wet floor. I hit the floor, got back up, and didn't even spill a drop of my latte. That was one of my prouder moments. If I had to choose, I like those falls the best. They make people laugh, because I'm laughing so hard. And as long as folks are laughing with me, not at me, we're all good.

The second kind of fall, though, well they just suck. Those are the ones I don't see coming. My friends describe it as "one second you're there, and then you're just gone." I'll be cruising along, not paying attention to where I'm going, and I just go down like a brick. The next thing I know I'm face down on the ground surrounded by onlookers with expressions of horror. Inevitably, someone will try to be helpful and assist me up before I'm ready, and will not let go of my arm. So now I'm floundering on the ground with a complete stranger gripping me, adding insult to the injury. Next time you try to help someone up and they say "I'm fine" what they really mean is "Please, for the love of God, go away so I can start pretending this didn't happen." Those falls are embarrassing. Also, they really hurt. And usually leave me dirty. I hate being dirty.

I was at Polly's once and I spilled coffee, and she said, without irony, "That's okay. We purposely waited until after your visit to have the carpets cleaned." I have one earring and one glove from almost every pair I've ever owned. I once spent all of Mardi Gras with a giant bruise on my head from where I fell out of a bathtub our first night there, and I've seen Disney World from the vantage point of a wheelchair.

Yes, I'm clumsy. And I've resigned myself to the fact that embarrassing and potentially painful experiences are the ones people most closely identify with me. But just once, wouldn't it be nice if someone did something kind, or thoughtful, and referred to it as "pulling a Bookgirl?"

My sister Jean, in a moment of kindness, told me I had to outgrow the clumsiness eventually. But we both knew she was lying. I'm just like our sister Denise. And Denise is in her 50s, still falling on a pretty regular basis. She's had more broken bones then some NFL career starters. It's okay, though. We both have excellent insurance. And a well-developed ability to laugh at ourselves.

People to See. Social Butterflying To Do.

I know, I know. I've been lousy at posting lately. I got a disgruntled phone call yesterday telling me the caller was "starting to twitch a little" from lack of blog. I'm so proud. I gave someone the DTs.

Lots of exciting things going on around here lately. I got this email Monday afternoon from one of my coworkers:
SATC is shooting downstairs right now. RUN! ;-)

Yes, they were shooting scenes from the Sex and the City movie in my building. Just about every twenty- and thirty-something woman in the company suddenly found an urgent need to wander outside and get some air. As I was leaving the building with 3 of the marketing girls, we saw 4 of the publicists coming back into the building. As we came back in, we saw another group coming out. I have this mental image of the men walking around, seeing all those empty offices, asking, "Where did all the woman go?"
I know the picture is tiny. Sarah Jessica has on the red dress. The yellow jacket is Kim Catrall.You can just see Cynthia Nixon's hair, and Kristen Davis is on the right with the black flowered sundress and the white purse.

Then Monday night, I got to make sushi. I can't even describe how cool that was. In addition to my two book clubs, I also have a supper club of sorts. (Yes, I'm a joiner.) Six of my college friends and I take turns hosting dinner parties. It started organically shortly after college when we had pasta at my friend Ron's house one night, with jarred sauce, sitting on the floor because he didn't have a dining room table. The events (and the furniture) have gotten a little more elaborate since then, and fortunately our collective culinary skills have improved vastly, but by keeping it to just the seven of us, then the dinners never get too big, and no one ever has to be insulted about not being invited, since it's a set group.

Ron and his fiance just got back from a trip to Japan, and before they left they took a sushi-making class to get into the spirit. So they bought us all the supplies, and taught us how to make our own rolls. It was so much fun, and a lot easier than I thought it would be. I even got to make wasabi paste.

Yesterday, my friend Mandy, another of my very best friends from home, came into the city to meet me for dinner. Her husband's consulting on a project in Connecticut (they live in Mass.) and she drove down to visit him for a couple of days with their daughter Delaney and the new baby we'll get to meet in a couple of months. They came into the city to meet me for dinner, and it was so great to see them. We did the Times Square tourist thing, Delaney and Steve got to ride the giant ferris wheel in Toys R Us (Liz, I'll let you ride it if you're really good), and then we went to Hard Rock for dinner since Steve had never been. It turns out Melissa Etheridge was doing a Breast Cancer event there at the same time, so they were playing it on the screens in the restaurant, and Al Gore was there. I know that after all the celebrities I've met, being just in the same building as Al Gore, not even meeting him, shouldn't excite me, but it did.

Also, I found another reason to love Melissa Etheridge. I think it takes a lot of self-confidence to be a celebrity, and to be that real at the same time. She's a middle-aged woman who looks like a middle-aged woman. She has lines on her face, and is a little overweight, and was wearing what could only accurately be described as mom jeans. She looked great, but she looked like anyone else you could see on the street or at the supermarket. We live in a culture where you're supposed to be impossibly thin and unlined and perfect, no matter what age. And for celebrities, that pressure is multiplied exponentially. I love that she just is who she is. You can like it. You can not like it. I get the impression she doesn't much care.

So yes, a little less blogging this week, but a whole lot of fun. I figured you'd all understand. You know what they say. When Bookgirl ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.


p.s. I got all my hair chopped off yesterday, and I totally love it. I keep doing the hair flip, just so I can feel it.