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.