My Maccabean Revulsion

What does DC have against the Jews? Apparently, the tribe has come out in full force this Hanukkah season and there are no candles to be found anywhere in the metro area. The festival of lights has been dark in the Feldman household. (Well, until we improvised with birthday candles.)

Yesterday, my friend David and I scoured downtown DC for candles. We stood in a corner of CVS (where, when we asked a clerk for candles, she instead showed us a tiny gift bag with a dreidel depicted on front - their only Jewish item) and David phoned all the area Giants, Safeways, Rite Aids, and Bed, Bath, and Beyonds. ALL devoid of our precious wax. It's like the mythic story of Hanukkah come to life, where a few drops of olive oil miraculously burned for 8 nights.

Is DC so preoccupied with planning for the inauguration they completely forgot to order their stock of Jewish items this year (although, I bet, Rahm Emanuel got his box)? What will happen when Passover comes around. Will buying a box of Matzo harken back to Soviet Union breadlines? Come on, Washington!

Somewhere a menorah is crying.

Blimey!

Thanks to my friend Matt Summers for bringing Up for Renewal to jolly ol' England and actually posing with it on a double-decker bus. I wonder what part he's reading - he looks fairly entertained.



My friend Madelyn emailed to tell me that she needed another copy of the book - hers was stolen out of her gym bag. So what I'd really love is a photo of the thief posing with her bounty (it had to be a female thief, don't you think?)

This robbery had me thinking. What if I was the perp? What if I purposely stole my own book from friends? They'd probably all want to buy another copy, especially if I signed their book with something extra nice. It's one way to increase sales, right?

Miss A asks Ms. C

For those of you who don't already know the wonderful and gorgeous Andrea Rogers (advice columnist, charity champion, socialista, and all around smart cookie), allow me to introduce her and her fun and informative askmissa.com. In fact, if you go there now, you can read a really flattering (thank you, thank you!) piece she wrote about me and the book.

There's a Q&A section, and although I really enjoyed answering all the book-specific questions, I have to say, I really had a good time answering Andrea's dating-centric ones. Like, should you text a guy you've just started dating? Or, how do you know if a guy is interested in you? And, what are some dating deal breakers?

At first I thought, gee, now that I'm married, should I even be answering these questions. It's like when my mother tried to give me dating advice and was completely baffled with the idea of gang dating (which was a bunch of guys and girls all going out together to the movies and you hoped you got to sit next to the guy you liked.) She just had been out of the game too long to know any of the rules.

Another reason why I thought I had no business providing dating wisdom to Andrea's readers is that, until I met Karl, I had no idea what I was doing. (Hence, the book.) I was color blind to all the red flags that guys raised. I allowed and accepted the worst kind of treatment by men. Dr. Phil would have slapped me upside the head and said something like, "You can't get more than you demand." Or something head scratching like that.

But then I realized, after spending a year reading nothing but 14 women's magazines a month, (including Dr. Phil's column in O magazine) I had a pretty good idea of how dating should work. And when I thought back on my year, I also realized that a lot of my single friends were coming to me with their relationship woes, like somehow, I was absorbing all the magazine content into my psyche and, like some sort of circus act, could recall the exact perfect answer to any dating dilema.

Plus, as I was answering some of Andrea's questions, considering what I'd wear on a first date or when you should have "the talk" with a guy - I realized that I was (key the mushy stuff) thanking my lucky stars to have found someone as great as Karl. Considering what and who I suffered through P.K. (pre Karl). As my friend Billy said last night, when describing how his friend Christine never thought she'd find the man of her dreams (a man who listened to The Cramps and liked to hit the town Saturday nights dressed as a woman), a man whom she did find and did marry, "There's a lid for every pot."

Yes, and some fits are better than others.

The real reason I don't blog a lot

I forgot how to make those click-on links. So if I'm writing about my visit to Dollywood, for ex, I could just turn that word Dollywood into a wormhole to the actual Dollywood site. But you see, I can't remember how to do it. Because the way my page view is set up (thank you, Karl) the link gets all small-screen and narrow. And I don't want to insult Dolly by giving her short shrift. So I've been avoiding my blogging duties out of hypertext anxiety.

So there you have it.

But then I thought, hey, how about if dial things back a bit, Alter. Who cares about being able to link to things like Dollywood? Certainly not my readers, who are meccas of self reliance and know how to use Google.

Which is all to say, until I get another lesson in making links to things, I will try and make a more regular appearance here.

Oh Happy Day

I have been totally LAME in keeping up with my blog. It's not like I haven't been writing, dearies. I have. Just out in hard copy. For the greater public. And for money. Plus, I'm sort of in the "enough about my book what do you think about my book" ennui of things. I've been milking this thing since July, after all.

But I felt inspired today to update my site with a simple word: Yippee.

I am so relieved that I don't have to drown my sorrows today in a bottle of bourbon or move to Canada or anything.

Thank you, Obama.

What's Cookin?

Meet Rachel Mark, a new friend and current fan of the book. She emailed to tell me about a dinner party she was hosting that evening (she made Tiramisu, for goodness sakes) and when I asked her to show me photos, she sent along a bunch, including the one above. Which leads me to the following evolutionary question: Which came first, the book or the apron? I LOVE how the cover matches the apron so perfectly. Did she plan it that way or is it just a happy coincidence?

I wonder how many other products out there match my book cover. So here's my challenge. Scour your local Target. Look through your tee shirt drawer or linen closet. And send me a photo of you, my book, and your matchy-match selection. I will add you to the Wall of Fame and probably send you something nice in return.

Email your Kodak moments to me at cathy@cathyalter.com

Remembering Hava Kane Dunn

My father phoned me yesterday to tell me that my aunt Hava had died. I think the first thing I said was, "Oh no." She was my mother's sister. And despite a history filled with sibling angst, unspoken disappointments in each other and in themselves, and the shared sadness and misplaced anger that resulted from them not knowing what to do with their complicated relationship and so leaving it untended - I know they loved each other deeply.

I shared none of those mixed feelings and loved my aunt in an uncomplicated way, with no worries about family loyalty or taking sides. Even though it would pain my mother to know, I was usually rooting for her sister, my underdog. Widowed at 35 with my cousin Benjamin and his sister Stephanie both still in diapers, Hava must have looked at my mother, my wonderful father, and my easy-going brother and my straight-A self and thought, "Why me?" Her life was a foil for ours - and I grew up acutely aware of being with the winning sister, who was thinner, prettier, and, it seemed to me, happier.

Which is why I loved her so much. I think I looked at my younger, golden-haired brother, my prettier half, who never had to work too hard to win friends, who let almost everything roll of his back, and who now has 2 golden-haired daughters - and I have thought, too, at times, "Why me?"

I related to Hava in so many other ways. A wonderfully gifted writer, she had encouraged me to write at a really early age and sat with me for hours telling me stories about a garden of statues coming to life at night. She was a teacher, beloved by her students. I remember going to one of her classes when I was really young and watching her class work on a project about The Wizard of Oz - they made figures resembling each character and little dioramas of Munchkin Land and Emerald City and I was just so in awe of my aunt. I never had a teacher who encouraged such creativity and such abandon, then or now.

Recently, when I told her I was going to be teaching at Johns Hopkins, I went over to her house and asked her for some tips. She had taught many teachers how to teach writing as part of her job history and she told me a story about showing a bunch of teachers the Mel Brooks short cartoon film, "The Critic," with the sound shut off. For a few minutes, all the teachers saw were a bunch of abstract shapes moving and morphing on screen. When the film ended, she asked the teachers what they thought the movie was about, and they all raised their hands and said pompous stuff and quoted Kant. Then, she played the same clip with the sound on and Brooks narrating and saying stuff like, "What the hell is this? It's a square. No wait, now it's something else. I don't understand this at all. Why am I sitting through this?" I think she enjoyed (playfully) cutting these teachers down to size. It's dangerous, I think she was telling them, for a teacher to elevate themselves so high they can no longer reach their students.

The last time I saw my aunt was September 7. She held a party in my honor at her house, when I was home in CT for a reading. I remember watching my mother and her stand side-by-side at her kitchen sink, cutting vegetables for the bagel platters and was so happy to finally have the family together under one roof. My cousin Steph had driven in from Maine to be there to celebrate and the four of us, buzzing around the kitchen, setting out food, popping Champagne, is a wonderfully lasting and happy memory for me to have.

I received an email from Hava on September 20th, the day she likely died. She asked if I'd consider coming home for Thanksgiving. If I did, she said, she's stay in West Hartford and we could all have one big party. I had meant to email her back and tell her how nice that sounded and that of course I'd be there. I never got to send that email.

I see you, can you see me?

Now that Dr. Phil is all high def, he has this new schtick he calls Web Watchers. Basically, about midway through the hour, one of his lucky home viewers, equipped with a web cam, gets in front of her computer and, sharing her thoughts about the day's topic, becomes a virtual part of the Dr. Phil audience (an audience that never gets to talk, actually).

At some point in the show, when Dr. Phil has exhausted the patience of his immediate surroundings, he'll say, "Let's go to one of our Web Watchers," and then some woman who has obviously cleaned up the patch of space behind her in the kitchen or living room will say something like, "I don't think a nine-year-old should being able to IM with anyone whose user name is Likemyung."

It's not the commentary that's interesting. It's the idea of peeking into a anonymous viewer's private world for just a few seconds. I wonder if Dr. Phil ever thinks, "So this is how my average viewer really lives. I would have thought she'd have better taste in drapes."

I'm going somewhere with this, in case you're wondering the purpose of this preamble. You see, I recently became a Web Watcher of sorts. When, using the miracle invention that is Skype, I was able to "attend" my sister-in-law Abby's book club in CT from the comfort of my drape-less home in DC. Ain't technology grand?

The first thing that happened was that I got really dizzy. Abby started swinging her lap top from person to person and making introductions. I had that weird perspective of looking up everyone's noses (as someone who is close to six feet, I am usually the one looking down on everyone's scalps.)

The next thing that happened was Karl had to leave the room and put on a head set so he wouldn't hear me answering the first question, which was, "How did you manage to have sex in your cubicle without anyone hearing you?" A sex question right out of the gate. These women don't mess around.

For the next hour I fielded some really insightful and probing questions - about the process of writing memoir, the role of my mother in shaping what went into the book and what was left out, the inherent sense of guilt in writing about family, the cubicle sex. It was just like being there, sitting on the couch with everyone - except, from the look of things, Abby had a better spread than my plate of Trader Joe drummettes.

Thanks to Amy, Julie, Jill, and Pauline for not only reading my book - but for considering it on a deeper level. And of course, thanks to the wonderful Abby, who invited me over to meet such smart and lovely women.

I had such a great time doing the book club, I'd like to offer my virtual self to any other book clubs out there. I'd be happy to sit on your couch for an hour and talk to your members about my book. Don't worry, I'll bring my own booze!

Just drop me an email at cathy@cathyalter.com if you'd like to coordinate schedules.

Pass the Remote

I am just back from New York, where I did a remote interview for Australia's Sunrise Morning Show - which is basically their version of our Today Show.

For those of you who have never experienced doing an interview by remote, it's like this: First, you sit down in an empty studio in front of a backdrop of some city scene (in this case, an aerial view of what looked like Fifth Avenue and 34th Street at night). Then, some young technician appears out of no where and puts an uncomfortably large (and hairstyle ruining) ear piece in your choice of ear canal and immediately leaves the room, but not before directing you to look at a Post-it Note with a smiley face scrawled on it that is stuck to a camera. (Again, in this case, the smiley face was just two dots and a semi-circle, with no outer circle denoting the face). Next, almost like listening to a bad transistor radio late at night, you start to hear the crackling and static of voices from far, far away. Finally, as you are sweating and panicking and trying to find the volume on the control switch next to your thigh, an even more faint is heard saying, "In 10, 9, 8..."

The sound quality coming through my right ear was so bad that I could barely make out actual words. I misheard one of the Sunrise host's names and called her Carly, instead of Kylie. (Granted, my slight may have been further complicated by the heavy Australian accent of the producer. Ask any of your Aussie friends to say "Kylie" and you will be surprised how much it sounds like "Carly.")

Meanwhile, during all this ill communication, there is a photo montage of random pictures of me playing out through most the interview. A few days prior to the show, a research assistant had requested I send her 8 photos showing me at various stages of my careening life. I had sent her photos with captions reading, "I believe I was on hallucinogens in this one," or "here's a photo from the New Year's Eve where I woke up with a black eye."

I had no idea what photos, if any, they actually used for the segment, but when I was through, I walked into the green room to find Karl doubled over laughing.

"Was I that bad?" I was extremely concerned that my rhythm had been entirely off and that I had answered questions that had been asked 4 questions ago.

"That was great!" he spurted.

"What was great?" I asked. "Me?"

"No!" he said, showing me his phone. He had tried to take photos from the television screen while the segment aired. "Those photos!"

"How many did they use?" Now I was concerned.

"ALL of them!" he said. "I was laughing so loud I was afraid you could hear me from where you were sitting!"

I had never actually considered that the photos I sent so quickly, just trying to cross another item off my to-do list, would actually be seen on camera. Similar to not considering that my father would be reading about me having sex in my cubicle.

"The one of you putting your face in a bowl of salad," he gasped, "was the best!"

I'm sure my father is relieved we have no relatives in Australia. And there is a joke in here about "remote" and "control" but I'm not sure what it is, yet.

Hometown Girl Makes Good

The last time I read for my parents (not counting reciting my wedding vows) was when I graduated from Johns Hopkins and regaled them with the part of my thesis that centered on The Museum of Menstruation. Looking out into the audience Friday night, I noticed that my mom and dad had the same concerned look on their faces. Like when my dad first heard the word "tampon" and even from up on the podium, I could see him turn to my mother and through gritted teeth say, "Did she just say tampon?"

It's hard enough knowing they read the book (well, my dad did anyway) but performing the book for them was pretty surreal. Eventually, my dad began to beam in the same way he did when he got used to hearing words like tampon and period. My mother never really loosened up, even though I assured her that I wouldn't be reading any parts about her.

But my parents were just part of the crowd. I also had to read for their friends, my sister-in-law's book club, and a few girls from my high school graduating class whom I haven't seen since graduating. Again, totally bizarre. Yet highly enjoyable.

Even though I was worried I'd just be reading for the Thanksgiving table, I managed to fill all the seats as well as the perimeter. And belt out 2 selections without the benefit of a microphone.

Later that weekend, my aunt Hava hosted a brunch for me, where I learned that my father's sister Gladys was totally horrified by the book's content. "I'm a Puritan," she told me.

Before we left for home, my mother hugged me and said, "I'm so proud of you." Which again reminded me of what a remarkable woman she is. Despite being profoundly uncomfortable with the book ("You have a selective memory," she said at one point during the weekend), she is 100% supportive, even calling a few editors at the Hartford Courant to drum up some attention.

Stay tuned for more updates. If my dad can figure out how to get photos from the reading off his camera, I'll post them. And, I leave for NYC Thursday to tape The Morning Show - Australia's version of GMA and The Today Show. Hope they don't throw me on the barbie!

West Hartford Freak Out

The media blitz continues (although, I'm afraid it's in the final death throes). But I will go out with a bang: I leave tomorrow for a reading in my hometown, West Hartford, CT - much to the immense anxiety of my mom and dad, who have no idea what will come out of my mouth as I take the podium at Blue Back Square's (ie: the second coming of retail) Barnes & Noble.

Immediately, I had to change one of my standard reading selections. There is no way I'm going to read from the November chapter, where I bring Karl home for Thanksgiving and cringe as my mother tells a story to the whole gathering about making a home movie with a bunch of her friends that ended with her going topless - TO HER FACE IN FRONT OF ALL HER FRIENDS. That is, if she invited any of her friends. I think she's really worried about my passive aggressive fantasies coming to life. Like I've been waiting all these years to FINALLY get her back for not letting me have my own phone line in high school.

But, that is not going to happen. Mostly because I have no passive aggressive fantasies. I think my mother would prefer to think she's not in the book at all (she has decided not to read it) and I'd prefer to extend her version of reality. (And actually, it was my mother who, in her words, "got me back for being such a bitch to her when I was in high school," by fixing me up on a blind date with a pimply faced loser who actually burst a zit into my salad over dinner and when I got home and yelled at her for sending me out on the town with such a freak show, laughed her head off in full and complete vengeance mode.)

Instead, I will be reading from the June chapter, where I used an article from Real Simple that detailed how to wrap things in Saran Wrap. Decidedly less volatile in subject matter.

But come out and see for yourself. Seriously. Please come out. Friday, September 5th, 7pm, Blue Back Square Barnes & Noble.

Take It Sleazy

I'll admit it. I have very thin skin (which is why my wrinkles look much more visible, okay?!) I don't read any of my reviews until someone else has vetted them for meanness. And I have no idea how many books I've sold to date. And I have not been to my Amazon page since July 1, when the book launched. Why, when a lot of writers check their sales and ranking compulsively? In my fantasy world, everyone is buying my book and loving it. And until someone (like my agent or editor) tells me differently, I'm just extending the fantasy. Kind of like Michael Jackson and his face.

So when my cousin Steph emailed me today and let me know she posted a review on Amazon, I told her I was afraid to go and read it - just in case I saw 2,300,457,897,001 next to my ranking. She wrote back to say that my reviews have been great - with the exception of a few people who called me sleazy.

Which, I initially thought, is kind of an awesome review. Sleazy? Moi? I mean, there is a lot of sex in the book - but not really graphic. And so, I screwed someone in my cubicle. Big deal. That's tame compared to shows that detail the lives of swingers (which is seriously, a great show) and the comically slutty yet supremely boring Tia Tequila.

I spent about 5 minutes feeling kind of good about the sleazy moniker. But then I remembered another show I watched last night - the season debut of The Moment of Truth. (Shoot me. That show is a fun time!) This total cyborg looking woman was in the hot seat just burning through all the questions, earning dough and completely torturing her poor boyfriend (who was French, I think) and her even more desperate boss (who found out, that no way, not in hell, did she find the thought of kissing him even mildly exciting. Doh!) She's up to $100K and the question is "Do you sometimes make it difficult for a guy to get you in bed?" She answered, "Yes." Which was false! Which means, she's totally an easy lay.

My husband turned to me and said, "What a sleaze!"

So please, if you'd like to write me an Amazon review, thank you very much. That's really nice of you. And you can call me every name in the book. Just as long as you don't tell me about it!

Up for Renewbies

I just wanted to take a moment and acknowledge all the readers who took the time to email me about the book. Being reviewed (mostly positively!) in The Atlantic is thrilling, but it really can't compare to some of the glowing feedback I've been getting from women who went out (okay, maybe they just visited Amazon), spent money on my book, and actually read it cover to cover. By the way, I can tell when I reviewer or interviewer hasn't read past the first chapter when they say I subscribed to 9 magazines. Around midway through the book, I add more magazines to the mix and bring the total up to 12 magazines a month. I guess the Cliff Notes don't include that.

Anyhootenanny. When I get an email from someone who has really related to the material, the writing, the story, an email when someone tells me that they'd want to be my friend just because they liked the me in the book, well, that is just an amazing feeling. So thanks to everyone who has written me - especially to Rosette, Brandi, Gayle, and Hurricane Jeanne.

I welcome more of you to write me - either with a posting here or with a real, live email - cathy@cathyalter.com

Book Launch Party Redux

Finally, for your viewing pleasure, here are the photos from my book launch party, held at the fabulous Artists Inn Residence.



Here I am flanked by the hostesses with the mostesses - Carrington, Barbara, and Page.


Here is "Jeanne" from the book and her wonderful husband, Paul.



What a cute couple! It's me and Harriet Kassman, owner of the store where I bought my wedding dress. Did you know she wasn't a virgin when she got married?!




What about this cute couple? It's me and my wonderful husband, the Chew.



What do you think Betsy is saying to Jon? She's the maven behind Fashion is Spinach. Do you think she is interviewing him about his shirt?



Signing some books!

To view all the party pics - click here!

Radio Daze

I've been doing a lot of radio in support of the book. The majority is call-in, which means, I sit in my nightgown with a cup of coffee and all my index card "talking points" spread out in front of me and basically field a bunch of questions for 20 minutes. Some questions are pertinent - like, why did you write the book. Some, are provocative. Like, who's fault was the divorce.

And every so often, some are freaking whoppers. Like the woman who asked me why I didn't subscribe to any Christian magazines. I had initially thought I was doing a show that targeted a mostly male audience, age 20-60 (that's what the booker had told me), so I had prepared by reading sex month again. But when I greeted the host with, "Hi, how are you?" and she responded with, "I am so blessed," I should have been tipped off. Who knew NPR had a Christian affiliate?! Luckily, by the time I gave this interview, I was used to dancing around the subjects I didn't really want to entertain (NOW I see how politicians do it!) so I just told her I got my religion from Oprah's magazine. I couldn't run the risk of alienating her listeners (and potential book buyers) by letting her know that the reason I didn't subscribe to Christian magazines was that I was a Jew.

Now, after more than a month of being on air, I am comfortable enough with the call-in format to pee during the course of a show. I did it today, while a gossip reporter from Kansas City, MO (oh, sorry, he prefers to be called a "personality interviewer") talked about a story he did on a local go-go dancer.

Ocassionally, I get to actually do an in-studio show. Like XM Satellite Radio's Broadminded, which is hosted by 2 women (broads, get it?) who are friends in real life. So there was this kind of fun banter going on, the way girls get when we get together and rip apart celebs like Katie Holmes for rolling up her jeans and trying to make herself interesting.

Tomorrow, I'm off to Philadelphia for another in-studio show. This time, it's a show called The Chef's Table. I have no idea why they want me to show up in person - unless they plan on humiliating me by making me poach a chicken on air. What if I have to braise something? I don't know how to do that at all. Maybe I'll just get to sit at the actual chef's table and someone will cook for me.

But then again, the station is a NPR affiliate. What if I get to make Schwetty Balls?

O'Scare Airport

I'm sure I'm not the first one to make a joke out of that airport's name. Especially after being stranded there for the night - when ALL FLIGHTS EAST were canceled due to lightning strikes, and yes Dorothy, a tornado. The whole airport felt like a refugee camp, with thousands of people wandering around, dragging their carry-ons behind them like Linus' blanket, trying to reconcile the terrible heat and the idea that they were not leaving Chicago anytime soon.

I don't need to tell you it totally sucked. At around 1 AM, Karl began to pillage and plunder for food and practically knocked over an old lady who tried to buy the last turkey sandwich in Illinois. There was an old man sitting across from me for most of the night with one of those metal canes that branches off into three feet at the bottom. Every time I felt badly for myself, I just looked across to his beyond tired face, which still looked composed and elegant, and put things into perspective for about the millionth time that night.

We finally made it home the next morning, upon which we were totally taken advantage of by a lying bastard driver of a Washington Flyer van. He told us he'd have us home in 5 minutes for $23, but when we saw all the other passengers crammed in his van, we knew we were nothing but suckers. An hour later, the last 2 passengers in the van, us, were finally home. Karl handed the driver $20 and when he complained, Karl shot back, "I'm taking $3 off for the scenic route."

Next week, I'm traveling to Philadelphia by train.

Off to Chicago!

It's time for a get-away! Karl and I haven't found the time to say 2 sentences to each other all month. He's taking over the world of fancy mattresses and massage chairs at Healthy Back and I've been going going going ever since the book came out.

What better place to reconnect but at our good friends' wedding! So romantic!

Check back next week for all sorts of fun photos from my book launch party. And, I'll recap all the crazy radio I've been doing. You can get a hint of one of the more challenging interviews, right here: Dr. Alvin Jones

Go Cubs!

Model Citizen

What's a woman who prides herself on her ability to distinguish this season's Proenza Schouler from last season's Prada doing dressed head-to-toe (with accessories to boot) in Talbots? Why, taking part in the Harvard Club of DC's "Ladies Renewal Evening," of course.

When the director of the club offered to host an event in my honor, I grabbed at the chance, especially after she told me she had over 1,000 people on her mailing list. I'm pretty sure my eyes got that crazy gumball with dollar sign Looney Tunes look to them. And when she asked me if I'd be one of the models, slinking onto the cat walk in plaid and ruffles and blazers with contrast piping, I had the same thought I had when the publisher of Chelsea House asked if I'd write a book for his company about The Backstreet Boys: When is anyone ever going to ask me to do this again in my lifetime?

And I can't say that I wore my A-line skirt and patent leather belt with the same smirk I wore when writing lines like, "Nick is considered the cute one in the band!" I actually had a blast dressing so out of character. And the members of the Harvard Club, around 50 well-heeled women ranging in age from 20 to dottering, were really receptive and engaged.

After the fashion show, it was time to put on my street clothes and give a reading. I was nervous, since earlier in the evening, a woman came up to me and said, "I heard this book is a bit racy."

I chose to read the scene in the Chinese restaurant, where Karl's mother looks at our placements and asks me in what animal year I was born. It's always a crowd-pleaser. Especially when I get to the part when Karl's mother figures out my age in snake years and starts shrieking to the heavens. And I wisely replaced the word "fucking" with a more Talbots-friendly "messing."

The best part of the evening was when Page, a lovely older woman with silver hair presented me with a book to sign.

"I just hope this is better than Cormac McCarthy," she said. "Because he really stinks."

Kentucky: Horses, Bourbon, and a Million Screaming Kids at My Hotel

Just a piece of advice for those of you who don't know about those massage chairs they have now at airports: You can't just sit in them without paying. If you do, every ten seconds or so, this horribly loud recoding proclaims, "Welcome to Mr. Massage!" I learned this after being stuck at the Louisville airport for 6 hours and being so tired I just wanted to curl up in a comfortable chair. I supposed I could have put on my iPod and ignored the warning, but that would assume I had actually charged my iPod.

Anyhoodles. I was in Lexington and Louisville doing some local news and a reading at the super nice Joseph Beth Booksellers. Earlier that week, I had done a call-in radio interview with Kopana Terry, one of the hosts at Tonic. I "met" Kopana when I interviewed her for my first book, Virgin Territory. I say, "met," because we just sort of sonically met over the phone, when Kopana recounted this great story about being the only female in a all-male band, The Southern Gentlemen. Which is extra awesome, because she's a drummer. Kickass!

Kopana picked me up at the airport and after four years, I finally got to give her a proper hug. We went to her house and I got a real taste of Lexington living - cute little ranchers and bungalows, detached garages, deep backyards. Neighbors who know each other (hi, Stacy!), and a proclivity toward owning cats. My kind of place.

Until we got to my hotel and I discovered that every 8-year-old in the state was staying there, too - some sort of week-long basketball tournament. The entire staff looked like they had been repeatedly hit in the collective face. Mercifully, my end of the hall was quiet, but the next morning, when I went to grab breakfast, the waitress asked with gripping desperation, "Are they gone yet?"

Seriously, there were kids everywhere - hanging off of lobby furniture, riding up and down and up and down the elevators, turning the swimming pool into some sort of slick and wriggly mass entity.

The one kid I did fall in love with was Clara, the daughter of the wonderfully warm and welcoming Peggy and Larry. Stay with me: Peggy is the sister of the man who married friends Billy and his sister Laura's mother. I met Peggy and Larry only once before, so many years ago we all forgot when exactly. But no matter. When Laura told Peggy I'd be in Lexington, Peggy immediately emailed me and invited me over for dinner. The short time I spent with them was the best part of my trip. I was sorry not to have a camera with me, but then Clara drew a picture of me, Peggy, and herself all holding hands and that is a better Kodak moment than I could ever hope to capture.

There's an article in this month's Atlantic by Ann Patchett, who writes about her early days on book tour. She describes throwing one dress in the trunk of her car, driving store to store, state to state, changing in the bathrooms at local McDonald's, bumping her head into the walls of countless unfamiliar hotel rooms on her way to the bathroom -- only to get to a reading with an audience of one. As I got on the microphone at my reading, the phrase "the sound of one hand clapping" came to mind. Not because of the low turnout (I had 6 listeners!) but because of how surreal it is to show up in a new place in front of new people and just read your heart out. It's both isolating and communal all at once.

But thankfully not as communal as my hotel's swimming pool!

Many many hugs and kisses to new and existing Kentucky friends - Kopana Terry, Stacy Yelton, Peggy, Larry, and Clara Wheeler, Brooke Raby, and Chris Mohr. And a big thank you to Debbie Ketron, for carting me all over the place.

Inn-credible!

I've been waiting to post about last Wednesday's book launch party until the photos came in - I can't wait to see the ones of me and Harriet Kassman, the 90-million year old grand dame who owns the store where I bought my wedding dress. She comes up to my belly button and has the quickest wit. When I asked her if she was a virgin when she got married, she grinned and said,"But at least we came home at night."

As soon as I get the pictures, I'll do something more splashy. Terry Gerace, who owns, operates, and provided Artists Inn Residence as the party venue really outdid himself. He had these huge wooden artists models sitting in Baroque chairs all with my book in their lap. The 100 or so guests wandered around all 4 floors, peering into rooms dedicated to different artists from Shakespeare to Ellington. The Dali room, with it's huge bronze clock melting over the bedpost and bathtub that fills from the ceiling was a big hit with the crowd.

The night was a huge celebration for me - I lost count of how many books I signed. And it just kept getting better. After a late-night supper, Karl and I went back to our room at the inn (the Hepburn) and as I washed up, Karl hid presents under my pillow, in my overnight bag, and in the nightstand - all from Tiffany. I was so surprised, when I found the first one under my pillow, I actually thought Terry, the most thoughtful and generous host, put it there. Karl got me a sterling bookmark, "for the books I am reading," a pink enamel pen, "for the books I will be writing," and a diamond necklace, "for the celebrations to come." When I told my friend Bonita she said, "Karl should be nominated to be a National Treasure."

But now I must leave Karl and whoever is reading this for a few days. I'm off to conquer Kentucky!

Greetings Comrades!

Up for Renewal is being sent to Siberia! Well, close. I just sold the rights to Russia. I know there's a joke in there somewhere. Like, "They're paying my royalties in Vodka!"

Eh Buddy!

Fortunately I didn't have the tune "Blame Canada" playing an endless loop in my head as I sat down for a crack-of-dawn interview on Canada AM. I imagined this would be just like my Today Show appearance, with the Canadian versions of Hoda and Kathie Lee just ending all their questions with, "eh?"

When I arrived, there was an old guy sitting in the reception area reading the paper.

"What are you in for?" he asked.

I told him about my book.

"What about you?"

"I was here to talk about the Israel/Lebanon prisoner exchange."

And now for something entirely different!

It was the same feeling of insignificance I encountered on Monday, when I appeared on Channel 8 news. I walked into the studio along with 2 very conservatively dressed men with camera-ready hair. They each shook my hand and the shorter one asked why I was on the show. I gave them both the 3-second pitch of the book. Then, as I waited my turn on a broken swivel chair, I watched these guys their seats in front of a laminated desk and field questions ranging from Virginia's transportation woes to possible running mates for Obama and McCain. Turns out the shorter guy is a republican senator from Virginia, the other is the state's democratic delegate.

As they passed by me on their way out the studio, I said, "You fellows are going to be a tough act to follow."

The senator backed up a bit and stood in front of me. "Your book sounds more fun than tax reform."

Back at the Canadian station, a slight young man with a goatee pushes back my hair and inserts an ear piece in my right ear. Then he clips a mic on. I haven't done a remote interview yet, and I'm highly concerned about where to focus my gaze. Behind me is a back-lit blow up of the Capitol.

"Just look straight ahead," goatee says. I catch a quick glimpse of myself on the monitor and notice I look really orange.

"Hi, Cathy," says my ear. "This is Mary."

I assume she's the Kathie Lee of the duo.

"You have 30 seconds and we go live," my ear continues. "And then we throw to Seamus."

"Is Seamus your Hoda?" I call out into no where.

My ear starts laughing. "Ten seconds."

All of a sudden, the disembodied (male) voice of Seamus comes into my ear. It's totally bizarre. I have no idea where to look, so I wind up looking at my lap while I try and understand what he's saying. I have to concentrate extra hard just to reassemble what's coming into my ear into actual language. Like in Willy Wonka when Mike TV gets blasted out over the air waves in tiny little particles.

I'm glad when it's over. The nice goatee guy presses what are probably my most mortifying moments ever caught on film into a DVD. He asks me some questions about the book - like how I decided what magazines to listen to each month and what I did with the magazines after I was done with the year.

Walking home from the studio, I am blanketed by DC's heavy July air and an even heavier sense of fatigue. I'm so used to just sitting alone in front of my computer, writing out into the void. I realize that part of being a writer is the stuff that happens post-writing - the song and dance of selling the book. And I love it once I get going. But I kinda get why some celebrities get hooked on smack.

(Wo)Mano-A-Mano with Kathie Lee

I came, I saw, I gabbed. Considering the lather I had whipped myself into, my time on the couch was just a flash in my cropped pants. (Again, courtesy of Ginger.)

Now, the hours leading up to my appearance were another story. Because I was absolutely certain I'd sweat huge pit stains a la Richard Nixon during his Kennedy debate, I had a Secret weapon. That's right: Secret. Their new "Clinical Strength" formula, which basically meant I was rubbing a silicone barrier across my underarms. I waited until the very last moment to apply, and decided that I'd be extra smart and put my magenta silk peasant blouse (Ginger!) on FIRST and then carefully feed the Secret up my shirt and swipe accordingly.

Bad idea. I didn't realize just how wet and watery the clinical formula was. Or the magnetic properties that would cause my blouse to adhere to my pits, resulting in huge white rings around my underarms. Classy!

I spent the whole limo ride over to 30 Rock (seriously, can you believe I had a car and driver pick me up on West 52nd Street to drive me to West 48th Street?Neither can I. And I loved it.) licking my index finger and dabbing along the perimeter of the chalky rings. Nothing worked.

When my publicist and the segment producer met me at the door, I greeted them by raising my arms over my head.

"It's not so bad," said Kim, my publicist. But, really, I know it's her job to make me feel good.

The wardrobe lady, a completely nonplussed woman with her hair pushed back with a terry cloth sweat band, came at me with what she called a "magic eraser sponge." Maybe if David Copperfield were wielding it, it might have made my stains disappear.

"What time do you go on?" asked wardrobe lady.

"At 10:47," I said. It was 9:23.

"Take it off," she ordered. "And let's hope it dries in time."

So I spent my fancy time in the green room (which, I'm sure you'll guess, is neither green nor an actual room) wearing a pink bathrobe - that conveniently and mortifyingly fell open to reveal my beige bra just as Ed Helms walked in and stood in front of me waiting for hair and make up. He looks a lot younger in person, by the way. And makes eye contact with us little people. Well, maybe he made eye contact with me because I was sitting there with my robe open to my navel. Which means, I guess, he looked downward before looking upward.

Eventually, my blouse dried and I'm pretty sure the camera didn't pick up the aftermath of my dirty little Secret. (I wouldn't know, because there's no way I'm watching that clip). I even felt brave enough to talk to Ed Helms after his Today Show appearance and right before I was ushered up to Kathie Lee's and Hoda's couch.

"Ed, any pointers for dealing with Kathie Lee?" I asked, touching his arm. (Nice, soft shirt, Ed!)

"She's a vixen."

"Unfortunately, that doesn't help me much, Ed," I replied.

But, in a way, it did. Right as the camera guy was counting down the seconds to air, I turned to Kathie Lee and teased, "Did you know there is one degree of separation between you and me?"

Turns out, we share a friend in common, Eric Schaeffer, the creative director of The Signature Theater. And somehow, in a weird Celebrities are just like us! We have the same friends! moment, I was able to relax and just have fun. Cathy and Kathie. And oh yah, Hoda, who seemed even more surprised to find herself on that couch than I did.

Unfit to be tied

Again, in a moment of supreme denial, I decided to focus on my outfit for tonight's reading at Barnes & Noble. Because, come on, it's better to look good than to win a Pulitzer.

A few weeks ago, I visited my friend Gretchen's new store, Ginger, in Bethesda. She is fast becoming the official outfitter of Up for Renewal, doing for me what Botany 500 did for 1970s game show hosts. We picked out a fun pink dress by Calypso, in a crinkly silk taffeta that said "professional but packs well," and matching glitzy sandals. It's a wrap style, but instead of the traditional DVF way of wrapping, Gretchen's manager Ivy showed me how to perform a new kind of wrap. One that tied and twisted and floofed and resulted in a super sexy get up. She showed me a few times, I practiced a few times, and then I brought the dress home and promptly forgot about it.

Until last night, when I decided to give the dress a trial run. Why I decided to do this when our nation was in the final nail-biting moments of The Bachelorette is beyond me. But I paused the show right as poor Jason half-got down on one knee and ventured off to the bedroom.

"I'm going to model my reading dress for you," I told Karl.

I tied, I twisted, I floofed. I looked like I was wearing a rumpled bathrobe. I floofed some more. Now I looked more maternity rumpled bathroom.

"Oh shit." I called out from the bedroom.

"And you bought that dress because it looked good?" asked Karl.

We went to the Calypso website where they actually have instructions for how to wrap the dress. Karl is very mechanicially inclined and reads his auto manual for enjoyment. I figured, before I began to panic in earnest, I'd let him have a whack at the hydraulics of the dress. He wrapped, he pulled, he tugged, he knotted.

"This is ugly." he said examining his handiwork. "Did you pay actual money for this?"

Let the panic begin. All while Jason remained freeze-framed in all his agonized glory.

Karl explored the depths of my closet, throwing out various options on the bed. I felt like I used to feel when my mother used to pick out my clothing for school, before I was tall enough to reach in the closet for myself.

"I hate it," I'd tell her over and over again. "I hate it," is what I now told Karl.

When he had had enough, he threw down one final option - a 40's style silk dress in with a kitchen-of-the-future sort of print. It's the same dress I've worn for the past 5 days out of 7.

"Wait," he said, picking it back up again. "Let me smell the armpits."

So, if any of you happen to come to the reading tonight, just don't stand too close to me.

Hitch a wagon to a fallen star?

I've wisely decided to stop panicking about my (wo)mano-a-mano with Kathie Lee on Thursday and focus instead on finding a cute pair of shoes to wear on her show. Hitting the Pentagon City Mall, my mission was to procure a simple black ballet shoe. No amount of bondage/gladiator sandal, Richard Gere/American Gigolo 80s bootie, peep toe Minnie Mouse shoe would sway me from my vision.

Finally, after hitting Steve Madden (kinda one step above BOGO), Coach, and Macy's (why does Macy's suck so much?) I found a cute pair of simple flats in Nordstrom's. They even had that genuine en pointe ballet thing going at the toe. They fit. They were $59.99. They were by Jessica Simpson.

They went back in the box.

They had a husband-showing-me-up-by-nicely-rebounding-Employee-of-the-month-fiasco-suddenly-having-a-more-interesting-now-married-and-knocked-up-younger-sister vibe written all over their soles.

"Are you afraid you'll jinx yourself?" asked Karl, who had silently suffered through the mall on a Saturday.

"I can't be a winner in these shoes," I told him.

Now, if K-Fed comes out with a line of skimmers, this Cinderella has found her glass slipper!

The wisdom of 8-year-old girls

All week, I've been getting ready for my close-up. This mostly involved getting highlights and my eyebrows waxed into a permanent surprise. Today, while getting a manicure (my nails have to be in shape for turning pages at my upcoming reading), I sat next to a mother and daughter visiting from Chicago. The mother, who looked a little like The Real Housewives of New York's Ramona, asked for directions to Georgetown. And here's how the rest of conversation went down.

Eight-year-old daughter: What's there to do in Georgetown?

Mother: Shopping.

EYOD: All I know about Georgetown is the school and the battlefield.

Me: Do you like Juicy?

EYOD: (taking off her Juicy flip flop) OH MY GOD.

Me: While you're there, be sure to go to Barnes & Noble and buy my book. (Why not, right?)

EYOD: You wrote a whole book?

Me: I did.

EYOD: Now I know 3 famous people. Sanjaya. Jordan Sparks. And you.

My Book Launched Today! Poop Di Doo!

So how did I celebrate the release of my new book? Blowing the rest of my advance on jet skis and gold chains for all my friends? Doing monkey chugs of Dom from on top of the bar at the Four Seasons? Standing on a busy corner of the Rockville Pike spinning around a huge arrow sign reading "Buy my book?"

Not even close. I had a nice plate of pasta with a friend, spent an hour on my shrink's couch, and stopped by my vacationing friend's apartment to scoop her (multiple) cat's litter box.

Just keepin' it real.

And actually, the last part of my day, the scooping part, was the first time in weeks I finally got myself quiet enough to realize the significance of the day. For weeks, it's been about this day - getting my talking points ready for public consumption, pimping myself out to local media outlets, doing more planning on the book launch party than I did for my own wedding.

But now that this day is here, I realize, I'm not even sure how I feel about it. And this is coming from the woman whose whole book relentlessly examined every single feeling she was having.

And even if I wanted to get a big head and parade around wearing a dress made out of my book cover, my husband will still call from the car and ask me what I plan on making for dinner.

Hello world!

For someone who just lay herself bare on the printed page, I feel very shy about this blog thing. I hope you'll put up with a few hiccups as I begin to document my life online. So let's begin.