I can't believe my last post was over a month ago. It's not like I've been bound and gagged in a closet or on a Aerosmith-like world tour.
The truth is, I've been doing a little of this and a little of that and then failing to document it. For starters, I've been visiting book clubs around the area. (And boy do I wish I had my camera for the book club I did for the Potomac Methodist Church's women's group - the pastor showed up and I really had to clean up my reading!) I also did a book club in a far flung corner of Arlington where one woman complained that once I stopped having sex in my cubicle, the book got really boring. "It's too traditional," she huffed.
I've also been working on a few pieces for Washingtonian magazine. One about my the personal training I've been doing - from couch potato to super woman. The other is about high maintenance beauty - which has led me to watch someone get all sorts of needles stuck into her face in an effort to look younger.
So expect to hear more from me soon - with links and photos and lots and lots of stories.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Showtime! From Fluffer to Headliner
I had 2 events this past week, one far more Nixon Sweat Machine inducing than the other. So let me begin with the tremor fest:
This would be my Fall for the Book reading with David Shields, author of the phenomenal The Thing About Life Is That One Day You'll Be Dead (believe me, this memoir-cum-data dump-cum-philosophical exposition is way more upbeat than the title suggests). I couldn't believe my luck in being paired with one of my literary heroes. Until I thought about the fact that I'd actually be sharing air space with him. And, even more terrifying - have to read my actual book in front of him. Reading in front of a roomful of strangers is a lot easier, believe me. (And before I go on, let me just say that in any game of "Who, living or dead, would you invite to a dinner party," Shields would be seated to my right. Jim Morrison to my left.)
So don't need to tell you how nervous I was. And to make matters worse, I decided, either bravely or idiotically, to read the first 11 pages of the book. The smutiest part, for those of you in the know. Can you believe I said the word "penis" in front of my idol and then delivered a passage about blowing some dude? Neither could I. But I did.
And Shields called my writing powerful. Which just about made my entire world. And when Shields blew my reading away with his reading, a 30-minute collage made up of segments throughout the book (including, his uttering the word penis as well - we are soul mates!), I was truly humbled. As well as able to take some lessons away - like, SLOW DOWN. Shields, who sounds a bit like John Malkovich, has true comic timing and enviable delivery.
Here is a photo of the happy couple. All I need is a corsage and I'd be ready for my senior prom.
The night after reading with Shields (I joked with my cousin that I was going to ask to be his fluffer and read first), I headlined at the Barnes & Noble in Reston, VA. I had a great turn out and whether due to a glass of wine beforehand or just pure relief of having made it through the Shields event without puking on his shoes, I was at my most loose and most relaxed. And, remembering my lesson from the previous night, I read slowly and lifted my head out of the book to look directly at my audience (which I had seen Shields do.)
A gigantic thank you to the wonderful staff, Ginna, Jenny, and Pam - all huge fans of the book and unbelievably cool and fun women. And equal thanks and cheers go out to everyone who showed up and cheered me on. It made all the difference in the world.
This would be my Fall for the Book reading with David Shields, author of the phenomenal The Thing About Life Is That One Day You'll Be Dead (believe me, this memoir-cum-data dump-cum-philosophical exposition is way more upbeat than the title suggests). I couldn't believe my luck in being paired with one of my literary heroes. Until I thought about the fact that I'd actually be sharing air space with him. And, even more terrifying - have to read my actual book in front of him. Reading in front of a roomful of strangers is a lot easier, believe me. (And before I go on, let me just say that in any game of "Who, living or dead, would you invite to a dinner party," Shields would be seated to my right. Jim Morrison to my left.)
So don't need to tell you how nervous I was. And to make matters worse, I decided, either bravely or idiotically, to read the first 11 pages of the book. The smutiest part, for those of you in the know. Can you believe I said the word "penis" in front of my idol and then delivered a passage about blowing some dude? Neither could I. But I did.
And Shields called my writing powerful. Which just about made my entire world. And when Shields blew my reading away with his reading, a 30-minute collage made up of segments throughout the book (including, his uttering the word penis as well - we are soul mates!), I was truly humbled. As well as able to take some lessons away - like, SLOW DOWN. Shields, who sounds a bit like John Malkovich, has true comic timing and enviable delivery.
Here is a photo of the happy couple. All I need is a corsage and I'd be ready for my senior prom.The night after reading with Shields (I joked with my cousin that I was going to ask to be his fluffer and read first), I headlined at the Barnes & Noble in Reston, VA. I had a great turn out and whether due to a glass of wine beforehand or just pure relief of having made it through the Shields event without puking on his shoes, I was at my most loose and most relaxed. And, remembering my lesson from the previous night, I read slowly and lifted my head out of the book to look directly at my audience (which I had seen Shields do.)
A gigantic thank you to the wonderful staff, Ginna, Jenny, and Pam - all huge fans of the book and unbelievably cool and fun women. And equal thanks and cheers go out to everyone who showed up and cheered me on. It made all the difference in the world.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Tall Tales - My View From The Top
Today my friend Billy sent me a snippet from a popular YouTube video that totally sealed the deal for me. In it, a pint-sized Asian lady answers a room-for-rent ad and shows up to meet her two female housemates, who both sit in a sparsely furnished living room. When the women stand to greet her, they each unfold to reveal near skyscraper measurements.
"Wow," marvels the Asian, speaking directly into their navels. "I am so tiny compared to you two gorgeous giants."
"It's the latest craze," Billy wrote in his email, "tall porn!"
I knew it was bound to happen. With the recent release of Arianne Cohen's The Tall Book: A Celebration of Life From on High, (not to mention all the fanfare made over Michelle Obama's 5-foot-10 stature), I am, at long last and just an inch shy of 6-feet, finally in style.
Like Cohen, who stands 6-foot-3, I too often feel like I walk through life with a spotlight on me. Growing up (pardon the pun), the question, "How tall are you?" was usually followed by, "And did you play ball in school? (No, why, were you a jockey? I'd respond, especially if a short man was posing the question.)
In an interview made to promote her book, Cohen talks about the trouble she has finding clothing to fit her long frame and the discomfort of squeezing herself into coach class or movie theater seats. I definitely feel her pain, but I have never seen "tall" as being a condition. Or, if I did, I usually saw it working to my advantage. In fact, one of my most shining moments occurred in a movie theater when I was in college. The guy in front of me kept rocking his chair back, repeatedly knocking me hard in the knees. When I leaned forward and politely asked him to stop, he turned around, regarded my cramped quarters, and snarled, "It wouldn't be such a problem if you weren't such an Amazon freak."
"Yeah," I coolly replied, "it's definitely been hard for me having legs that go all the way up to my neck." As soon as the credits began rolling, he turned back around and asked me for my phone number. (And, just to lay this to rest right now, I may be tall, but I have never been confused for a supermodel.)
In her book, Cohen provides an inventory of the difficulties associated with being vertically challenged—like the Goldilockian search for chairs and beds that fit just right ("The world is not built for tall people," Cohen observes). The author also offers some pretty comforting statistics about being tall. Perhaps you munchkins out there weren't aware that tall people possess higher IQs, win more presidential elections, earn approximately $789 more per inch per year, and generally outlive their shorter contemporaries (although, with my being an accident-prone lefty, this sort of cancels that last one right out.)
I'm thrilled that my height is being memorialized on the printed page. But unlike Cohen, who has said, "tallness isn't something that people write books about, " I did have a literary touchstone. Phyllis Krasilovsky's The Very Tall Little Girl got me through the decades of teasing that might have made me feel even more self conscious about my body had I not read and reread it at such an early age. The title character, who truly stands out from the black-and-white ink illustrations by being dressed in a vivid pink and red polka dotted dress, struggles with squeezing into her classroom's tiny chairs and tables and engulfing her smaller friends in her outsized hugs. But, as Cohen does in her book, Krasilovsky catalogs the benefits of being tall. Like, being able to pick out groceries from the high shelves or being allowed to go in the deep end of the swimming pool. While the other children are relegated to their homogenous black and white background, the very tall little girl gets to carry the flag at the school assembly and star as the funny giraffe in her school play.
For this tall tale, I thank my mother, who stands 6-feet in stocking feet although she prefers to be in heels. "This book belongs to Cathy Alter," she inscribed to my then 5-year-old self, "a very tall little girl." I was then, as I am now, touched by her largesse.
"Wow," marvels the Asian, speaking directly into their navels. "I am so tiny compared to you two gorgeous giants."
"It's the latest craze," Billy wrote in his email, "tall porn!"
I knew it was bound to happen. With the recent release of Arianne Cohen's The Tall Book: A Celebration of Life From on High, (not to mention all the fanfare made over Michelle Obama's 5-foot-10 stature), I am, at long last and just an inch shy of 6-feet, finally in style.
Like Cohen, who stands 6-foot-3, I too often feel like I walk through life with a spotlight on me. Growing up (pardon the pun), the question, "How tall are you?" was usually followed by, "And did you play ball in school? (No, why, were you a jockey? I'd respond, especially if a short man was posing the question.)
In an interview made to promote her book, Cohen talks about the trouble she has finding clothing to fit her long frame and the discomfort of squeezing herself into coach class or movie theater seats. I definitely feel her pain, but I have never seen "tall" as being a condition. Or, if I did, I usually saw it working to my advantage. In fact, one of my most shining moments occurred in a movie theater when I was in college. The guy in front of me kept rocking his chair back, repeatedly knocking me hard in the knees. When I leaned forward and politely asked him to stop, he turned around, regarded my cramped quarters, and snarled, "It wouldn't be such a problem if you weren't such an Amazon freak."
"Yeah," I coolly replied, "it's definitely been hard for me having legs that go all the way up to my neck." As soon as the credits began rolling, he turned back around and asked me for my phone number. (And, just to lay this to rest right now, I may be tall, but I have never been confused for a supermodel.)
In her book, Cohen provides an inventory of the difficulties associated with being vertically challenged—like the Goldilockian search for chairs and beds that fit just right ("The world is not built for tall people," Cohen observes). The author also offers some pretty comforting statistics about being tall. Perhaps you munchkins out there weren't aware that tall people possess higher IQs, win more presidential elections, earn approximately $789 more per inch per year, and generally outlive their shorter contemporaries (although, with my being an accident-prone lefty, this sort of cancels that last one right out.)
I'm thrilled that my height is being memorialized on the printed page. But unlike Cohen, who has said, "tallness isn't something that people write books about, " I did have a literary touchstone. Phyllis Krasilovsky's The Very Tall Little Girl got me through the decades of teasing that might have made me feel even more self conscious about my body had I not read and reread it at such an early age. The title character, who truly stands out from the black-and-white ink illustrations by being dressed in a vivid pink and red polka dotted dress, struggles with squeezing into her classroom's tiny chairs and tables and engulfing her smaller friends in her outsized hugs. But, as Cohen does in her book, Krasilovsky catalogs the benefits of being tall. Like, being able to pick out groceries from the high shelves or being allowed to go in the deep end of the swimming pool. While the other children are relegated to their homogenous black and white background, the very tall little girl gets to carry the flag at the school assembly and star as the funny giraffe in her school play.
For this tall tale, I thank my mother, who stands 6-feet in stocking feet although she prefers to be in heels. "This book belongs to Cathy Alter," she inscribed to my then 5-year-old self, "a very tall little girl." I was then, as I am now, touched by her largesse.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
From the Mouths of 6-1/2-Year-Old Babes
It was a busy post-paperback month, so Karl and I decided to take a week's vacation at my parents' house in Stonington, CT, which is where Mystic Pizza was actually filmed, despite what people think when they visit a place in Mystic called Mystic Pizza and think they are visiting an actual movie set. Not the case.
We spent a lovely week in hot and sunny weather. I even read an entire book, mostly from the top deck of our house. (If you haven't read An American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld, I highly recommend it. You will think very differently about Laura Bush after reading it, I promise.)
The week ended with a visit from my brother David, his wife Abby (whom I love and adore), and their 2 disgustingly adorable children, Sophie and Josie.
Here is a photo of the girls to help along with the rest of this story:
Was I lying? They are ridiculously cute.
Right before dinner one night, Sophie, the elder, marched up to me and asked, "Aunt Cathy, how old are you?"
A million possible replies popped into my head.
"Guess!" or "I'm getting old just thinking about the answer." or "Old enough."
Instead I just told her the truth. I didn't want her to think she was asking anything out of the ordinary and I certainly didn't want her to feel foolish or wrong for asking me what you eventually learn, as an adult, not to ask.
"And how old is Uncle Karl?" was her follow up.
So again, I answered her honestly and plainly.
It took about about 3 seconds to do the math.
"Aunt Cathy," she said, regarding me like she was appraising an antique."You're a lot older than Uncle Karl."
"You're right," I replied. "I am."
I had to wonder why she was asking me this. Was she just trying out her new math skills? Or, had she overheard someone in the family talking about Karl and my age difference? I also wondered if I was allowed to be pissed off at a little girl. Was Sophie fucking with me or what?
But later on that evening, as she fought her sister to sit next to me at dinner, she again regarded me seriously.
"Aunt Cathy," she began and I felt my stomach seize a bit.
"What's it like to be famous?"
"I'll let you know when I get there," I told her.
"You are there," she said smiling.
And even though I am far from any kind of celebrity, sitting there looking at my sweet niece, I really did feel pretty special.
Here is another photo that will gross out even those with strong stomachs.
We spent a lovely week in hot and sunny weather. I even read an entire book, mostly from the top deck of our house. (If you haven't read An American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld, I highly recommend it. You will think very differently about Laura Bush after reading it, I promise.)
The week ended with a visit from my brother David, his wife Abby (whom I love and adore), and their 2 disgustingly adorable children, Sophie and Josie.
Here is a photo of the girls to help along with the rest of this story:
Was I lying? They are ridiculously cute.
Right before dinner one night, Sophie, the elder, marched up to me and asked, "Aunt Cathy, how old are you?"
A million possible replies popped into my head.
"Guess!" or "I'm getting old just thinking about the answer." or "Old enough."
Instead I just told her the truth. I didn't want her to think she was asking anything out of the ordinary and I certainly didn't want her to feel foolish or wrong for asking me what you eventually learn, as an adult, not to ask.
"And how old is Uncle Karl?" was her follow up.
So again, I answered her honestly and plainly.
It took about about 3 seconds to do the math.
"Aunt Cathy," she said, regarding me like she was appraising an antique."You're a lot older than Uncle Karl."
"You're right," I replied. "I am."
I had to wonder why she was asking me this. Was she just trying out her new math skills? Or, had she overheard someone in the family talking about Karl and my age difference? I also wondered if I was allowed to be pissed off at a little girl. Was Sophie fucking with me or what?
But later on that evening, as she fought her sister to sit next to me at dinner, she again regarded me seriously.
"Aunt Cathy," she began and I felt my stomach seize a bit.
"What's it like to be famous?"
"I'll let you know when I get there," I told her.
"You are there," she said smiling.
And even though I am far from any kind of celebrity, sitting there looking at my sweet niece, I really did feel pretty special.
Here is another photo that will gross out even those with strong stomachs.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Facebook Strikes Again
I know I'm not saying anything new, but Facebook is really one of the best inventions of all time. Even better than the Post-It note. Besides being a great marketing tool (my own pimp cup, if you will), I've been able to reconnect with people I never really connected with in the first place.
Hence, high school reunions are happening in the comfort of my own home practically every day. Most recently, Joe, a kid I helped tutor in French class, sent me an email (or maybe I sent him one first). In high school. Joe was this scrappy, mischievous, popular boy who looked a lot like a young Leonardo DiCaprio when he had that guest stint on Growing Pains.
The last time I saw Joe was at our 5-year reunion when I marched over to him and said, "I'm surprised you're not in prison," since I had always considered him a bit of a trouble maker in class (to a goody two-shoes like me, anyone who didn't have a 4.0 grade point average was trouble). He laughed and told me he was modeling for Levi's and was currently appearing on a billboard in LA. I think I spoke to him more in those few minutes than I ever had in 4 years of high school.
Fast forward to last Friday, when Joe came to town for a business meeting. He now owns his own marine taxidermy company in Florida, is married and the father of a beautiful little boy. And probably one of the nicest, warmest, most upbeat guys on the planet.
We spent most of the afternoon catching up and, also, (stay tuned!) talking about a story I'll be writing about him and his company. The visit, for me, was almost a do-over of all those painful and awkward moments from high school. Moments when you wish you had just been cooler. Moments when you weren't so afraid of not fitting in. Moments when you longed to break out of your safe but sometimes cruel clique and screwed up your courage to say hello to a boy who was stratospherically more popular and outgoing and happy.
And I think that's the real value of Facebook. For me, at least.
Hence, high school reunions are happening in the comfort of my own home practically every day. Most recently, Joe, a kid I helped tutor in French class, sent me an email (or maybe I sent him one first). In high school. Joe was this scrappy, mischievous, popular boy who looked a lot like a young Leonardo DiCaprio when he had that guest stint on Growing Pains.
The last time I saw Joe was at our 5-year reunion when I marched over to him and said, "I'm surprised you're not in prison," since I had always considered him a bit of a trouble maker in class (to a goody two-shoes like me, anyone who didn't have a 4.0 grade point average was trouble). He laughed and told me he was modeling for Levi's and was currently appearing on a billboard in LA. I think I spoke to him more in those few minutes than I ever had in 4 years of high school.
Fast forward to last Friday, when Joe came to town for a business meeting. He now owns his own marine taxidermy company in Florida, is married and the father of a beautiful little boy. And probably one of the nicest, warmest, most upbeat guys on the planet.
We spent most of the afternoon catching up and, also, (stay tuned!) talking about a story I'll be writing about him and his company. The visit, for me, was almost a do-over of all those painful and awkward moments from high school. Moments when you wish you had just been cooler. Moments when you weren't so afraid of not fitting in. Moments when you longed to break out of your safe but sometimes cruel clique and screwed up your courage to say hello to a boy who was stratospherically more popular and outgoing and happy.
And I think that's the real value of Facebook. For me, at least.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Paperback Bash
Two days after the paperback dropped (that's what we say in the biz. I think.) my wonderful friend Gretchen had a fantastic party for me at her Bethesda Row boutique, Ginger. (If you live anywhere within 50 miles of Bethesda, you should definitely buy your entire wardrobe there.) There were at least 100 people in attendance (and only about three men in the room.) Seriously, why don't single men go to these chicky parties - they would have a total field day. If I had my own dating advice column, I'd just spend all my time culling through the week's girly-girl parties, book readings, and jewelry truck shows and do these guys a huge favor.
Anyhowdydoo, here are some photos from the party. Mostly of me looking stunned, blinded, I think, by the color of my own dress. Wow. It's like being on the surface of the sun, that dress.
What you can't see on this sign is the name of the other woman feted that evening, Suzanne Somersall, who makes the most exquite jewlery. Karl, if you're reading this by any chance, please give her a call. My birthday is just around the corner, nudge, nudge.
It's bright, right? That's why my friend Elaine is squinting. It's like staring into fire.
This is even worse, right? Dana and I spontaneously combusted right after this photo was taken.
Okay, rest your eyes for a moment and say hello to the nicest women on the planet, Karen and Jane (whom I featured in my Washington Post Style article.)
No, that is not a pocketbook around my arm - it's my camera, which I totally forgot I had brought along until practically the end of the party. My friend Dan, who called himself my minion that evening, helpfully imagined what I might have in my contract rider: A bottle of Perrier and M&Ms with all the reds removed. Thanks, Dan! Next time, don't forget the magenta Snuggie.
All of these guys are named Dan. The one in the white shirt is my first cousin, who was in town on business from Atlanta and drove to the party and surprised the hell out of me. You made my night, Danny!
A book and some booze. The perfect combination!
Anyhowdydoo, here are some photos from the party. Mostly of me looking stunned, blinded, I think, by the color of my own dress. Wow. It's like being on the surface of the sun, that dress.
What you can't see on this sign is the name of the other woman feted that evening, Suzanne Somersall, who makes the most exquite jewlery. Karl, if you're reading this by any chance, please give her a call. My birthday is just around the corner, nudge, nudge.
It's bright, right? That's why my friend Elaine is squinting. It's like staring into fire.
This is even worse, right? Dana and I spontaneously combusted right after this photo was taken.
Okay, rest your eyes for a moment and say hello to the nicest women on the planet, Karen and Jane (whom I featured in my Washington Post Style article.)
No, that is not a pocketbook around my arm - it's my camera, which I totally forgot I had brought along until practically the end of the party. My friend Dan, who called himself my minion that evening, helpfully imagined what I might have in my contract rider: A bottle of Perrier and M&Ms with all the reds removed. Thanks, Dan! Next time, don't forget the magenta Snuggie.
All of these guys are named Dan. The one in the white shirt is my first cousin, who was in town on business from Atlanta and drove to the party and surprised the hell out of me. You made my night, Danny!
A book and some booze. The perfect combination!
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
They're here! They're here!
The new paperbacks are here!! That's right. Today is the official day of the paperback launch of Up for Renewal - just in time for your last gasp of summer reading.
And, just how did I kick off my big day? Kind of how I memorialized the hardcover release. Taking care of a friend's, um, pets. Today, gentle reader, I tended to the dietary needs of the local squirrel and pigeon population. My neighbor, you see, has a weak spot for critters. She's like a German Snow White. Rescuing injured birds and scabies-laden squirrels. Because of her love of animals, I am happy to have her watch our cat Raymond when we're away. She plays him classical music on the radio and throws every toy in his play bin around. He loves her.
So now it's my turn to return the favor. When I went over to her place to learn the ins and outs of squirrel feeding, she was particularly anxious to tell me that she allows the squirrels to run about freely in her apartment. She opens the window and sometimes sprinkles peanuts on her living room carpet. "They come right in!" she announced, and, seeing the look of sheer terror on my face (I'm not sure the last time I was inoculated against rabies), she added, "they don't bite."
She suggested I come do the feedings at 6 AM, when the white squirrel normally drops by for breakfast. I'm almost tempted to set my alarm. An albino squirrel? In Washington, DC?
And so, as I contemplate another Ripley's Believe it or Not, I urge you all to run right out to your favorite bookstore, purchase your hot-off-the-press paperback. The first person to send me a photo of themselves waving the book over their head wins a FREE autographed copy.
And maybe a photograph of the rarely seen albino squirrel.
And, just how did I kick off my big day? Kind of how I memorialized the hardcover release. Taking care of a friend's, um, pets. Today, gentle reader, I tended to the dietary needs of the local squirrel and pigeon population. My neighbor, you see, has a weak spot for critters. She's like a German Snow White. Rescuing injured birds and scabies-laden squirrels. Because of her love of animals, I am happy to have her watch our cat Raymond when we're away. She plays him classical music on the radio and throws every toy in his play bin around. He loves her.
So now it's my turn to return the favor. When I went over to her place to learn the ins and outs of squirrel feeding, she was particularly anxious to tell me that she allows the squirrels to run about freely in her apartment. She opens the window and sometimes sprinkles peanuts on her living room carpet. "They come right in!" she announced, and, seeing the look of sheer terror on my face (I'm not sure the last time I was inoculated against rabies), she added, "they don't bite."
She suggested I come do the feedings at 6 AM, when the white squirrel normally drops by for breakfast. I'm almost tempted to set my alarm. An albino squirrel? In Washington, DC?
And so, as I contemplate another Ripley's Believe it or Not, I urge you all to run right out to your favorite bookstore, purchase your hot-off-the-press paperback. The first person to send me a photo of themselves waving the book over their head wins a FREE autographed copy.
And maybe a photograph of the rarely seen albino squirrel.
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