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.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Paperbackpalooza!
Just a few more days until the paperback release of Up for Renewal and the past few weeks have been a whirlwind of hardcore pimp ass promoting. It's hard out there, yo.
Karl and I leave for NYC at the crack of tomorrow morning and I can't wait. We're staying at The Algonquin with Dorothy Parker (heh!) and I'm appearing on Better TV Monday morning (check your local listings!) and will be wearing my brand new dress for the occasion. If the weather holds, we'll be filming the segment from the station's roof top studio. If my armpits hold, I won't have huge sweat stains by the time the cameras roll. (We all remember what happened to my underarms last year, on The Today Show.)
Next up, I'll celebrate the impending release with my agent, editor, and publicist with lunch at Saks. (Sandwiches and shoe shopping - the only way to celebrate a book launch!)
Then, I will scour Madison Avenue for a decent Goyard knock off. Another reward for a job well done.
If you'd like to read something other than my book, please visit my homepage and click "In the news" and "More by Cathy" (I think these are what the links are called...) and you can check out recent pieces of mine in the Huffington Post and The Washington Post as well as some nice articles written about me in Smith Magazine and The Examiner.
And please send your good mojo my way on Monday! No Richard Nixon-esque sweating for me!
xo
Karl and I leave for NYC at the crack of tomorrow morning and I can't wait. We're staying at The Algonquin with Dorothy Parker (heh!) and I'm appearing on Better TV Monday morning (check your local listings!) and will be wearing my brand new dress for the occasion. If the weather holds, we'll be filming the segment from the station's roof top studio. If my armpits hold, I won't have huge sweat stains by the time the cameras roll. (We all remember what happened to my underarms last year, on The Today Show.)
Next up, I'll celebrate the impending release with my agent, editor, and publicist with lunch at Saks. (Sandwiches and shoe shopping - the only way to celebrate a book launch!)
Then, I will scour Madison Avenue for a decent Goyard knock off. Another reward for a job well done.
If you'd like to read something other than my book, please visit my homepage and click "In the news" and "More by Cathy" (I think these are what the links are called...) and you can check out recent pieces of mine in the Huffington Post and The Washington Post as well as some nice articles written about me in Smith Magazine and The Examiner.
And please send your good mojo my way on Monday! No Richard Nixon-esque sweating for me!
xo
Sunday, July 12, 2009
marco! POLO!
Last night, I attended my first ever polo match in veddy veddy fancy Middleburg, Virginia. It was a twilight game, beginning at 7 PM, when "Heart In Hand" played "Rock Hill Farm." And here's the thing. When we got there, I was expecting the place to look like Churchill Downs, all manicured lawns, food pavilions, and, naturally, real bathrooms. Come on, we were in horse country for Nellie's sake.
But, Great Meadow, is, as the name suggests, a great meadow. And the playing field was more suitable for a rodeo. In fact, in between the second and third quarters, a tractor, like a Zamboni, rolled in to smooth out the dirt. And, help me baby Jesus, there were Porta-Johns everywhere.
And not a Julia Roberts/Pretty Woman hat in sight. The crowd looked mostly like tailgaters at a minor league baseball game.
Our friends, Ray and Miguel, had lobbied hard for a viewing box. I had recently watched a Nationals game from a sky box, so I was prepared for air conditioning and a private bathroom. No such luck. The box was just a picnic bench on the other side of a low wall made out of wood, the only structure separating our heads from the swinging polo mallets. (Actually, I almost got hit in the head by a polo ball, which grazed, instead, the head of one of our box mates. It was okay, he was completely trashed.)
Did you know that there are 3 players on a team? Neither did I. I thought each team would consist of at least a dozen. Like a giant soccer game, but on horses.
This is what goes down on the playing field. I believe this photo is from the main event, 1st Chukker versus Golden Zebra (I am not making this up.) I was personally rooting for Golden Zebra, whose players had better, more impressive-sounding names. Names like Gonzalo Fucci. I think they're all from Argentina. But quite frankly, I did more socializing than horse watching and don't know who won either game.
Here is a photo of Karl and our friend Miguel, who is a talented artist and laughs exactly like Ricky Ricardo.
Can you tell them apart? White shirts are important polo attire (although, Karl was informed by the guy in the background with the white collar, who is originally from Saudi Arabia and ships oil for a living, that he should tuck in his shirt.)
Here is a photo of me and Miguel. I am not in a white shirt. However, my pants are white. Which was a lucky coincidence.
Other than white shirts, cigars are ubiquitous in the world of polo spectating.
To wit:
And:
This is Ray. The thing hanging from his waist is not, as you might think, a black dildo. It is a miniature lantern, which came in handy when they shut off the lights on the field and started up the disco music. People who like polo also like strobe lights.
Needless to say, I had the time of my life.
But, Great Meadow, is, as the name suggests, a great meadow. And the playing field was more suitable for a rodeo. In fact, in between the second and third quarters, a tractor, like a Zamboni, rolled in to smooth out the dirt. And, help me baby Jesus, there were Porta-Johns everywhere.
And not a Julia Roberts/Pretty Woman hat in sight. The crowd looked mostly like tailgaters at a minor league baseball game.
Our friends, Ray and Miguel, had lobbied hard for a viewing box. I had recently watched a Nationals game from a sky box, so I was prepared for air conditioning and a private bathroom. No such luck. The box was just a picnic bench on the other side of a low wall made out of wood, the only structure separating our heads from the swinging polo mallets. (Actually, I almost got hit in the head by a polo ball, which grazed, instead, the head of one of our box mates. It was okay, he was completely trashed.)
Did you know that there are 3 players on a team? Neither did I. I thought each team would consist of at least a dozen. Like a giant soccer game, but on horses.
This is what goes down on the playing field. I believe this photo is from the main event, 1st Chukker versus Golden Zebra (I am not making this up.) I was personally rooting for Golden Zebra, whose players had better, more impressive-sounding names. Names like Gonzalo Fucci. I think they're all from Argentina. But quite frankly, I did more socializing than horse watching and don't know who won either game.
Here is a photo of Karl and our friend Miguel, who is a talented artist and laughs exactly like Ricky Ricardo.
Can you tell them apart? White shirts are important polo attire (although, Karl was informed by the guy in the background with the white collar, who is originally from Saudi Arabia and ships oil for a living, that he should tuck in his shirt.)
Here is a photo of me and Miguel. I am not in a white shirt. However, my pants are white. Which was a lucky coincidence.
Other than white shirts, cigars are ubiquitous in the world of polo spectating.
To wit:
And:
This is Ray. The thing hanging from his waist is not, as you might think, a black dildo. It is a miniature lantern, which came in handy when they shut off the lights on the field and started up the disco music. People who like polo also like strobe lights.
Needless to say, I had the time of my life.
Monday, July 6, 2009
A night with some Renewbies
Okay, so I'm not arrogant enough to say that I have groupies, but what else do I call the women who have chosen my memoir for their book club and then invited me to come hang out with them so they could ply me with wine and pummel me with questions? Renewbies, of course!
And last week, I spent an evening with some super fun and enviably adorable readers in Arlington, Virginia. And let me just say, they went all out. If their book club was a science project, they would all have received A-plus-pluses. For example, the dining room table was set with magazine-themed food, as in:
and:
Also, they had actually typed out questions to ask me. Usually, the conversation devolves to sex in my cubicle and just continues on a downward spiral (in direct proportion to the alcohol imbibed). But these women could really hold their Cosmopolitans (what else would they drink on a night like this!)
Their questions were thoughtful and intelligent and CHALLENGING. Especially the ones that centered on Bruno (whom I never like to think about), and my ex husband (whom, small, teeny, tiny, microscopic world, one of the members actually works with!) It's hard to comment on my miserable life back then from the happy vantage point of today. But whenever I do, I just appreciate over and over how much can happen in a year, and how, with dedication (and a book contract!) anything can change a life that's ready to be changed - even mine, even Cosmo!
A HUGE thank you to all my new friends: Suzanne, Audrey, Emma, Elliott, Allie, Elizabeth, Anna, Michelle, Jessica, and Alexa.
Come on - how cute are they?!
And last week, I spent an evening with some super fun and enviably adorable readers in Arlington, Virginia. And let me just say, they went all out. If their book club was a science project, they would all have received A-plus-pluses. For example, the dining room table was set with magazine-themed food, as in:
and:
Also, they had actually typed out questions to ask me. Usually, the conversation devolves to sex in my cubicle and just continues on a downward spiral (in direct proportion to the alcohol imbibed). But these women could really hold their Cosmopolitans (what else would they drink on a night like this!)
Their questions were thoughtful and intelligent and CHALLENGING. Especially the ones that centered on Bruno (whom I never like to think about), and my ex husband (whom, small, teeny, tiny, microscopic world, one of the members actually works with!) It's hard to comment on my miserable life back then from the happy vantage point of today. But whenever I do, I just appreciate over and over how much can happen in a year, and how, with dedication (and a book contract!) anything can change a life that's ready to be changed - even mine, even Cosmo!
A HUGE thank you to all my new friends: Suzanne, Audrey, Emma, Elliott, Allie, Elizabeth, Anna, Michelle, Jessica, and Alexa.
Come on - how cute are they?!
Friday, June 26, 2009
Quelle Horreur
It was bound to happen. After over 3 years of avoiding shared air space, "Bruno" returns, looking as smug and superfluous as ever.
Karl and I had decided to take Wednesday off and just be tourists for the day. We went to the National Zoo, did a little shopping, had a leisurely lunch at Open City, a place which normally has tons of people spilling out into the streets waiting for tables. The day was ours to claim!
After lunch, we decided to take one of those double-decker Hop On Hop Off buses that we always see careening down P Street in Georgetown. It just so happened, there was a stop right in front of Open City and the Chinese take-out restaurant just next door sold tickets. We had just missed a bus, so we waited at one of the restaurant's outdoor tables for the next one to swing by. After a few minutes relaxing in the sun, combined with the huge steak and cheese Stromboli that was now in his belly, Karl fell asleep. Which was a very good thing.
Because, all of a sudden, who comes strolling down the street in a shiny blue Argentina soccer shirt and silky running shorts? He himself. Bruno. I quickly alternated between making sure Karl's eyes were still closed and trying to figure out where to direct my gaze once he passed by. Because he was walking like he had all the time in the world, I had a moment to take a few deep breaths. I was already holding onto Karl's arm (which in my mind would tell Bruno - I'm still with the same guy, loser!) and was semi-facing a big sandwich board proclaiming the benefits of the Old Town Trolley versus the Hop On Hop Off bus. All of a sudden, this sandwich board became the most fascinating reading material (even though I had already read, at least 3 times, that Old Town Trolley employs only Americans - like xenophobia is a virtue!)
I just kept my gaze focused on the sign in front of me and didn't notice Bruno again until he had passed by. Karl (who had a Bruno sighting years ago when he picked me up at work for lunch and saw Bruno, eating his lunch al fresco, with a cloth napkin spread grandly across his lap. "Only an idiot like Bruno would think he was at liberty to take such an extended time away from his desk," he had noted), luckily, was still dozing.
Seeing Bruno again reminded me that he was not just a character in my book. Someone I could hold up for ridicule (my own as well) and examination on the silent page. He was still alive and breathing and still a menacing character in my off-the-page life. In just a short span of a few seconds, I had worm holed back to the days when Bruno still made me feel anxious and unloveable.
I was momentarily cheered, though. Just seeing him in his shorts at 3 PM on a weekday told me that he still wasn't gainfully employed (he was, um, "let go" from my company shortly after I resigned). But then I thought, maybe he was thinking the same thing about seeing me in my shorts at 3 PM on a weekday. And seeing my husband, too. "What a couple of Spanish-word-for-losers," he might have clucked to himself. "Both of them without jobs."
But that was just a fleeting thought. Because I'm guessing he's still the same self-satisfied, out-of-touch jerk he was 3 years ago when I last shared air space with him, in an office, surrounded by his superiors, explaining (without much coherency) why he found it so difficult to work with me.
I was never part of the problem, you see. It was the work that got in his way of his working. But now, judging by his get up, he has all the time in the world to work that problem out.
Karl and I had decided to take Wednesday off and just be tourists for the day. We went to the National Zoo, did a little shopping, had a leisurely lunch at Open City, a place which normally has tons of people spilling out into the streets waiting for tables. The day was ours to claim!
After lunch, we decided to take one of those double-decker Hop On Hop Off buses that we always see careening down P Street in Georgetown. It just so happened, there was a stop right in front of Open City and the Chinese take-out restaurant just next door sold tickets. We had just missed a bus, so we waited at one of the restaurant's outdoor tables for the next one to swing by. After a few minutes relaxing in the sun, combined with the huge steak and cheese Stromboli that was now in his belly, Karl fell asleep. Which was a very good thing.
Because, all of a sudden, who comes strolling down the street in a shiny blue Argentina soccer shirt and silky running shorts? He himself. Bruno. I quickly alternated between making sure Karl's eyes were still closed and trying to figure out where to direct my gaze once he passed by. Because he was walking like he had all the time in the world, I had a moment to take a few deep breaths. I was already holding onto Karl's arm (which in my mind would tell Bruno - I'm still with the same guy, loser!) and was semi-facing a big sandwich board proclaiming the benefits of the Old Town Trolley versus the Hop On Hop Off bus. All of a sudden, this sandwich board became the most fascinating reading material (even though I had already read, at least 3 times, that Old Town Trolley employs only Americans - like xenophobia is a virtue!)
I just kept my gaze focused on the sign in front of me and didn't notice Bruno again until he had passed by. Karl (who had a Bruno sighting years ago when he picked me up at work for lunch and saw Bruno, eating his lunch al fresco, with a cloth napkin spread grandly across his lap. "Only an idiot like Bruno would think he was at liberty to take such an extended time away from his desk," he had noted), luckily, was still dozing.
Seeing Bruno again reminded me that he was not just a character in my book. Someone I could hold up for ridicule (my own as well) and examination on the silent page. He was still alive and breathing and still a menacing character in my off-the-page life. In just a short span of a few seconds, I had worm holed back to the days when Bruno still made me feel anxious and unloveable.
I was momentarily cheered, though. Just seeing him in his shorts at 3 PM on a weekday told me that he still wasn't gainfully employed (he was, um, "let go" from my company shortly after I resigned). But then I thought, maybe he was thinking the same thing about seeing me in my shorts at 3 PM on a weekday. And seeing my husband, too. "What a couple of Spanish-word-for-losers," he might have clucked to himself. "Both of them without jobs."
But that was just a fleeting thought. Because I'm guessing he's still the same self-satisfied, out-of-touch jerk he was 3 years ago when I last shared air space with him, in an office, surrounded by his superiors, explaining (without much coherency) why he found it so difficult to work with me.
I was never part of the problem, you see. It was the work that got in his way of his working. But now, judging by his get up, he has all the time in the world to work that problem out.
Monday, June 22, 2009
In honor of the upcoming PAPERBACK release...
I've been pulling together some photos to send to the producer of Better TV, which will be used as part of my segment when I appear on the show, gulp, July 27th. (So please check their website for local times and listings!) She asked for any pictures that showed me carrying out my experiment with women's magazines.
Karl and I spent Friday night going over what resulted in the July chapter - CAMPING! Below are 2 photos from the trip we took to the Laguna Seca Racetrack a few years ago. I still shudder to think about those Porta-Johns.
Even though it looks like I'm having a blast, do not be fooled by my mugging for the camera.
Here's how that section of the book opens:
"The campgrounds turned out to be a fire hazard of brown brush, clouds of perpetually settling dust, and a row of four tilted Porta-Johns that I knew, upon entering, would turn me into a Johnny Knoxville skit where I'd tumble end over end until I cam to a soggy landing, at which point the door would fly open and there I'd be, with my nylon pants around my knees, a camping spectacular for all to see."
So above, you can see the layout of our campsite. We are eating on someone's sleeping bag mat. Karl is the one with the knit cap on his head and I look like I'm enjoying the hell out of my veggie kabob. "Amy" is already drunk and being an idiot. The guy next to her is Karl's best friend Rob, who was so thrilled to be away from his wife and 3 toddlers for a long weekend, he would put up with anything that came his way. Including drunks.
I don't know where I got those goggles from. You can see how tightly the tents were packed together - and how, instead of RVs, people drove to the site on motorcycles. This thumbs up is all for show. I was not too happy with the outdoor life.
Stay tuned for more photos....next, comes evidence from cooking month!
Karl and I spent Friday night going over what resulted in the July chapter - CAMPING! Below are 2 photos from the trip we took to the Laguna Seca Racetrack a few years ago. I still shudder to think about those Porta-Johns.
Even though it looks like I'm having a blast, do not be fooled by my mugging for the camera.
Here's how that section of the book opens:
"The campgrounds turned out to be a fire hazard of brown brush, clouds of perpetually settling dust, and a row of four tilted Porta-Johns that I knew, upon entering, would turn me into a Johnny Knoxville skit where I'd tumble end over end until I cam to a soggy landing, at which point the door would fly open and there I'd be, with my nylon pants around my knees, a camping spectacular for all to see."
So above, you can see the layout of our campsite. We are eating on someone's sleeping bag mat. Karl is the one with the knit cap on his head and I look like I'm enjoying the hell out of my veggie kabob. "Amy" is already drunk and being an idiot. The guy next to her is Karl's best friend Rob, who was so thrilled to be away from his wife and 3 toddlers for a long weekend, he would put up with anything that came his way. Including drunks.
I don't know where I got those goggles from. You can see how tightly the tents were packed together - and how, instead of RVs, people drove to the site on motorcycles. This thumbs up is all for show. I was not too happy with the outdoor life.
Stay tuned for more photos....next, comes evidence from cooking month!
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The Look of Love
Even though my book chronicles the year I spent following the advice found in women's magazines, anyone who has read it (and if you have not, please do!) will tell you the book is really a love story. Starring Karl.
And as the book is about to relaunch in paperback (gulp, July 28th), I've been looking back on the year since its release and taking a bunch of strolls down memory lane. This of course will help me for the next round of publicity (I haven't looked at my index card talking points in a while). But these little trips are also making me all warm and fuzzy, just thinking about how lucky I was to meet someone like Karl when I was so out of control. And lucky too, that he saw something stable and loving in me when I most certainly did not.
So I was already in this mushy state when my friend Sabrina sent me some old photos, taken in the first few months of Karl's and my courtship. We were in Positano, Italy, at our friends' wedding and I absolutely remember thinking that I had never been happier in my life. Never ever. And even though I think back on that trip now and realize that it marked the course of my future with Karl, I didn't realize that anyone had captured any of this pure joy on film.
But here it is and it is not for the faint of heart.
And as the book is about to relaunch in paperback (gulp, July 28th), I've been looking back on the year since its release and taking a bunch of strolls down memory lane. This of course will help me for the next round of publicity (I haven't looked at my index card talking points in a while). But these little trips are also making me all warm and fuzzy, just thinking about how lucky I was to meet someone like Karl when I was so out of control. And lucky too, that he saw something stable and loving in me when I most certainly did not.
So I was already in this mushy state when my friend Sabrina sent me some old photos, taken in the first few months of Karl's and my courtship. We were in Positano, Italy, at our friends' wedding and I absolutely remember thinking that I had never been happier in my life. Never ever. And even though I think back on that trip now and realize that it marked the course of my future with Karl, I didn't realize that anyone had captured any of this pure joy on film.
But here it is and it is not for the faint of heart.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Just to reiterate
Like I said in my last post - it's hard out there for a pimp. I was reminded of this lesson today, along with my stupidity, in approaching an editor at a major newspaper in an attempt to woo her into writing about me and the book.
In an effort to sound self-deprecating and funny (when in actuality, I was trying to come up with an excuse for why I was contacting this editor directly, an approach which always strikes me as desperate and/or aggressive and always makes me feel a bit ashamed) I made a joke about having to do all this publicity work myself since my publicist was already off working on the next big book.
Of course, my intention was just to be poke fun at myself and the whole business of marketing and promotion. Which is why I then forwarded the email I sent to this editor to my publicist, who read my attempt at humor and saw nothing amusing about it. To put it mildly, she was pissed and I don't blame her.
This is the kind of idiotic oversight that will have me up all night. I'm surprised I haven't cried yet. That's usually my go-to reaction. But when my agent called to tell me how my email had made the rounds at the publisher, I managed to keep it together. And immediately emailed a sincere mea culpa to my publicist.
This almost-year since the hardcover publication has taught me so much. But obviously, I still have an awful lot to learn.
In an effort to sound self-deprecating and funny (when in actuality, I was trying to come up with an excuse for why I was contacting this editor directly, an approach which always strikes me as desperate and/or aggressive and always makes me feel a bit ashamed) I made a joke about having to do all this publicity work myself since my publicist was already off working on the next big book.
Of course, my intention was just to be poke fun at myself and the whole business of marketing and promotion. Which is why I then forwarded the email I sent to this editor to my publicist, who read my attempt at humor and saw nothing amusing about it. To put it mildly, she was pissed and I don't blame her.
This is the kind of idiotic oversight that will have me up all night. I'm surprised I haven't cried yet. That's usually my go-to reaction. But when my agent called to tell me how my email had made the rounds at the publisher, I managed to keep it together. And immediately emailed a sincere mea culpa to my publicist.
This almost-year since the hardcover publication has taught me so much. But obviously, I still have an awful lot to learn.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Maybe this is a mistake...
Since it's hard out there for a publishing pimp, in lieu of wearing a sandwich board all over DC (which, actually, would be a brilliantly stupid marketing campaign), I have decided that, starting tomorrow, I will be Tweeting an entire chapter of my book, which will be out in paperback July 28th. I don't think I'll make it through the whole chapter with just 140 characters a pop, but at least I can get through all the juicy stuff.
Please follow along!
Please follow along!
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Now that's what I call writing
I think most writers would agree: We think we're brilliant to the proportion we think we're crap. I mean, some days I write a sentence and feel like I've found the lost note. (BTW, do any of you out there know this story? I vaguely remember hearing this fairy tale as a kid, about a pianist who one day sat down and played the most beautiful note - or chord, I guess - in the world. And then promptly forgot how he did it, never to play it again but never giving up trying to recreate it.) Other days, like today, for example, I spend an hour tangling with the opening of a new essay and think: Why bother?
There are writers out there composing magical notes all over the page. Junot Diaz, for example. Here's a bit from his magnificent The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. "But that's not what I wanted to tell you. It's about that crazy feeling that started this whole mess, the bruja feeling that comes singing out of my bones, that takes hold of me the way blood seizes cotton." GORGEOUS.
I have met another writer with this same power over words. Her name is Susan McCallum Smith and she wrote a book of delicate, funny, and tenderly told short stories called Slipping the Moorings that just made me weep. It's put out by Entasis Press (with the fabulous Ed Perlman at the helm) and if you ever ever ever get the chance to hear Susan read from her book, her lyrical Scotish accent makes you just want to crawl into the page and disappear into her world.
It's way better than a Saturday night at the movies. (Although, The Hangover does look like a pretty good runner-up to a trip to the moors of Scotland.)
There are writers out there composing magical notes all over the page. Junot Diaz, for example. Here's a bit from his magnificent The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. "But that's not what I wanted to tell you. It's about that crazy feeling that started this whole mess, the bruja feeling that comes singing out of my bones, that takes hold of me the way blood seizes cotton." GORGEOUS.
I have met another writer with this same power over words. Her name is Susan McCallum Smith and she wrote a book of delicate, funny, and tenderly told short stories called Slipping the Moorings that just made me weep. It's put out by Entasis Press (with the fabulous Ed Perlman at the helm) and if you ever ever ever get the chance to hear Susan read from her book, her lyrical Scotish accent makes you just want to crawl into the page and disappear into her world.
It's way better than a Saturday night at the movies. (Although, The Hangover does look like a pretty good runner-up to a trip to the moors of Scotland.)
Friday, May 29, 2009
A League Above
I will preface this by saying, "I'm sure they're all very nice," but last night, I went to a book party for Jill Kargman's The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund and was scared out of my mind. It was like the Stepford Wives had all flung their flaxen hair and metallic Chanel purses at the innocent people of Chevy Chase, MD (well, as innocent as they can get with Jimmy Choo, Louis Vuitton, and Ralph Lauren as fellow residents). As a former member of the Junior League of Washington, I can report, this crowd was like the Junior League raised to the power of 57,000.
I'm sure my discomfort says way WAY more about me than it does about them, but it was still a pretty disconcerting experience. I came wearing a vintage Pucci dress and black gladiator sandals and felt woefully uncool and underdressed. All around me were red carpet women with glowing skin, bouncin' and behavin' hair (so much for my chic little bob), and enough designers on their body to repopulate a small country. The party was a Nanette Lepore, but the attire was more like the second floor of Neiman Marcus threw up all over the room. In a good way.
Luckily, my friend Carrington knew some people and the highlight for me was when one of her friends asked me about my own book. When I told her it was about the year I spent subscribing to women's magazine, she said. "Oh, like Dee Dee Myer's?" Which made absolutely no sense to me (granted, the party was loud, so maybe she thought I thought I used women's magazines to rule the world), but her comment totally made my night.
And even more luckily for me, my wonderful friend Joyce Neave was in attendance. I thought one or both of us would get whiplash from all the looking around we were doing. "Why can't everyone just wear name tags so we can debrief later?" I asked her. "This is not good for my ADD," she admitted.
In the end, I came away with an autographed book (Kargman has the most miniscule handwriting of all time), a mini Nanette Lepore umbrella, and a store gift card. And a curious desire for a metallic Chanel purse so I could gain brief access into this beautiful little world.
I'm sure my discomfort says way WAY more about me than it does about them, but it was still a pretty disconcerting experience. I came wearing a vintage Pucci dress and black gladiator sandals and felt woefully uncool and underdressed. All around me were red carpet women with glowing skin, bouncin' and behavin' hair (so much for my chic little bob), and enough designers on their body to repopulate a small country. The party was a Nanette Lepore, but the attire was more like the second floor of Neiman Marcus threw up all over the room. In a good way.
Luckily, my friend Carrington knew some people and the highlight for me was when one of her friends asked me about my own book. When I told her it was about the year I spent subscribing to women's magazine, she said. "Oh, like Dee Dee Myer's?" Which made absolutely no sense to me (granted, the party was loud, so maybe she thought I thought I used women's magazines to rule the world), but her comment totally made my night.
And even more luckily for me, my wonderful friend Joyce Neave was in attendance. I thought one or both of us would get whiplash from all the looking around we were doing. "Why can't everyone just wear name tags so we can debrief later?" I asked her. "This is not good for my ADD," she admitted.
In the end, I came away with an autographed book (Kargman has the most miniscule handwriting of all time), a mini Nanette Lepore umbrella, and a store gift card. And a curious desire for a metallic Chanel purse so I could gain brief access into this beautiful little world.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
My other life
You know what they say about those who can't write, teach? Well, I'm here to prove the theys of the world wrong. Because when I am not composing epic literature, I am on the faculty of Johns Hopkins, shaping young minds as part of their Masters of Writing Program. And below, is one of my most favorite recent graduates, Jean Stanula. (And I'm not just saying that because I was her thesis advisor.)
Jean, of the faux hawk and authentic voice, wrote some amazing stories about: her fear of flying, a urban archaeologist in DC who takes people on dino digs, making peace with her Catholic upbringing while on a trip to Nicaragua, and, an admiring look at a newly outed comic book heroine.
And another bonus - her partner Lauren has a sister who absolutely worships my book and actually cried when she met me at the Hopkins thesis reading (although I think she had been tossing back a few beers prior to the reading). Photos to hopefully (if she's not too embarrassed) follow.
In the meantime, enjoy this Kodak moment...
Jean, of the faux hawk and authentic voice, wrote some amazing stories about: her fear of flying, a urban archaeologist in DC who takes people on dino digs, making peace with her Catholic upbringing while on a trip to Nicaragua, and, an admiring look at a newly outed comic book heroine.
And another bonus - her partner Lauren has a sister who absolutely worships my book and actually cried when she met me at the Hopkins thesis reading (although I think she had been tossing back a few beers prior to the reading). Photos to hopefully (if she's not too embarrassed) follow.
In the meantime, enjoy this Kodak moment...
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
A Big Deal!
Today I got to chat (in real time!) with my newest favoritest writeriest friend, Izzy Rose, author of the brand-spanking-newly released The Package Deal. (A book that yours truly has, ahem, blurbed.)
We had been trading emails for months and this morning, la Rose rang me up. And, tah dah! Just as I expected, she is as funny and smart and thoughtful as her book, which, by the way, is about her becoming an instant stepmother to 2 fairly grown boys and moving from San Francisco to set up a new home in Austin, Texas.
What I found particularly fascinating was listening to Izzy talk about her mother's sidekick role in her recent book readings. Mother Rose was the Q in the Q&A portion of the event and I can only imagine how much she relished the role. And how lucky Izzy is to have her mother's eager participation and partnership in these early and exciting days of her book's release.
It made me remember when I gave a reading in my hometown and looked out in the audience to see my mother's nervous face, a weave of dread and, well, more dread. Even though I assured her I wouldn't be reading any parts of the book containing the words "my mother," she still looked ready to vomit, fearing that I'd put her on display for our whole town to appraise (or worse, deride).
But even if my mother came out smelling like, pardon the pun, Roses, I can't imagine her ever wanting to share such a public spotlight. Same goes for my father and brother. No amount of begging could convince any member of my family to get up and deliver my wedding toast. My father even tried to avoid walking me down the aisle, telling me he'd "meet me up front." He didn't, he explained, want anyone looking at him.
So to have a daughter who not only writes about the most personal, intimate details of her life but then has an unexplained urge to get up there and spit them all out into a microphone must be a real parental mind bender.
Still, I do wonder what sorts of questions my mother might ask me. And if I'd be able to answer the tough ones.
We had been trading emails for months and this morning, la Rose rang me up. And, tah dah! Just as I expected, she is as funny and smart and thoughtful as her book, which, by the way, is about her becoming an instant stepmother to 2 fairly grown boys and moving from San Francisco to set up a new home in Austin, Texas.
What I found particularly fascinating was listening to Izzy talk about her mother's sidekick role in her recent book readings. Mother Rose was the Q in the Q&A portion of the event and I can only imagine how much she relished the role. And how lucky Izzy is to have her mother's eager participation and partnership in these early and exciting days of her book's release.
It made me remember when I gave a reading in my hometown and looked out in the audience to see my mother's nervous face, a weave of dread and, well, more dread. Even though I assured her I wouldn't be reading any parts of the book containing the words "my mother," she still looked ready to vomit, fearing that I'd put her on display for our whole town to appraise (or worse, deride).
But even if my mother came out smelling like, pardon the pun, Roses, I can't imagine her ever wanting to share such a public spotlight. Same goes for my father and brother. No amount of begging could convince any member of my family to get up and deliver my wedding toast. My father even tried to avoid walking me down the aisle, telling me he'd "meet me up front." He didn't, he explained, want anyone looking at him.
So to have a daughter who not only writes about the most personal, intimate details of her life but then has an unexplained urge to get up there and spit them all out into a microphone must be a real parental mind bender.
Still, I do wonder what sorts of questions my mother might ask me. And if I'd be able to answer the tough ones.
Monday, May 18, 2009
I can hardly Believe it
My friend Maggie just forwarded me the following email from Amazon:
Dear Amazon.com Customer,
We've noticed that customers who have purchased or rated books by Cathy Alter have also purchased The Believer, Issue 63: June 2009 by Heidi Julavits. For this reason, you might like to know that The Believer, Issue 63: June 2009 will be released on June 1, 2009.
Just to see my name in the same hemisphere as Heidi Julavits is pretty cool. And I guess there is this six-degrees-of separation between her and me and Dave Eggers (I guess it's one degree from Eggers which makes me two degrees from Julavits which again, is pretty cool.) Okay, very cool.
Because I don't look on my Amazon book page (too chicken to see what people are saying about me and my book - I'm sensitive!) I would never have known about this coupling. And it got me thinking. what other author names pop up in relation to me?
Here is a wishlist of my desired Amazonite pairings:
Carolyn Parkhurst (come on, have you read Dogs of Babel? It's heartbreakingly fabulous.)
Martin Amis
Jonathan Franzen
Mary Gaitskill
Malcolm Gladwell (hey, as long as I'm fantasizing)
Jennifer Egan
Charles Dickens
and, of course, Diana Vreeland
Dear Amazon.com Customer,
We've noticed that customers who have purchased or rated books by Cathy Alter have also purchased The Believer, Issue 63: June 2009 by Heidi Julavits. For this reason, you might like to know that The Believer, Issue 63: June 2009 will be released on June 1, 2009.
Just to see my name in the same hemisphere as Heidi Julavits is pretty cool. And I guess there is this six-degrees-of separation between her and me and Dave Eggers (I guess it's one degree from Eggers which makes me two degrees from Julavits which again, is pretty cool.) Okay, very cool.
Because I don't look on my Amazon book page (too chicken to see what people are saying about me and my book - I'm sensitive!) I would never have known about this coupling. And it got me thinking. what other author names pop up in relation to me?
Here is a wishlist of my desired Amazonite pairings:
Carolyn Parkhurst (come on, have you read Dogs of Babel? It's heartbreakingly fabulous.)
Martin Amis
Jonathan Franzen
Mary Gaitskill
Malcolm Gladwell (hey, as long as I'm fantasizing)
Jennifer Egan
Charles Dickens
and, of course, Diana Vreeland
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Check it out!
No, seriously. Check it out - of the library! My wonderful friend Courtney Macavinta, of the equally wonderful Chicks Who Click sent me this photo taken at her local library. Notice whose book is first in the rack?! Isn't it funny, though, how your eye wonders to the book Over Success? And then back over to my neighbor Steering Straight? It's like this whole pile of returns is trying to tell me something.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Summer is here!
As evidenced by my friend Zena's brand new pedicure. She used the cover of my book for her color inspiration. Okay, she did not. The matchy match is just a coincidence - but cute, no?
And speaking of summer - Up for Renewal goes paperback July 28th! Woot! Woot! I even have a spanking new cover design (which is way less pink and way more black.) Just think of the goth-inspired pedicures to follow!
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
How Do I Look?
Below is a lesson for all of you out there with straight hair who attempt to brush the head of someone with curly hair. As you can see from the photo, what you will get is an aftermath of frizz.
Why am I and my fuzzed out hair-do draped in a brick-colored Pashmina, you ask? I am profiling image consultants who work with teen clients and although I am clearly not a teen, Jane Pennewell, a lovely consultant in Falls Church, VA, took pity upon my unadorned face and undirected hair. I was invited over to her house to be a fly-on-the-wall as she helped Hannah, a sweet 16-year-old put on her best face. After deciding Hannah was "intense," (like Elizabeth Taylor and Billy Dee Williams!) Jane brought out Hannah's huge green eyes and porcelain skin using products from her very own makeup line. Hannah had never used pressed powder before and was preciously flummoxed when presented with an eyelash curler (which should be the appropriate reaction for a 16-year-old, I think, despite Hannah's coming of age in an era of Gossip Girl).
After turning Hannah into an older version of herself ("You look 18!" gasped her mother when she returned to pick her up), Jane worked her magic on me (I fall on the "subtle" quad of Jane's color chart). And I have to say, despite taking a brush to my hair (see lesson above), I think a dose of color - the sunny bronze lip and gray lid - looks pretty nice. Jane sent me home with a care package of goodies and when I put on my face last night (wiht a slightly lighter hand), I felt pretty cute.
Which means my mother was right all along. I do look better with a bit of blush.
Why am I and my fuzzed out hair-do draped in a brick-colored Pashmina, you ask? I am profiling image consultants who work with teen clients and although I am clearly not a teen, Jane Pennewell, a lovely consultant in Falls Church, VA, took pity upon my unadorned face and undirected hair. I was invited over to her house to be a fly-on-the-wall as she helped Hannah, a sweet 16-year-old put on her best face. After deciding Hannah was "intense," (like Elizabeth Taylor and Billy Dee Williams!) Jane brought out Hannah's huge green eyes and porcelain skin using products from her very own makeup line. Hannah had never used pressed powder before and was preciously flummoxed when presented with an eyelash curler (which should be the appropriate reaction for a 16-year-old, I think, despite Hannah's coming of age in an era of Gossip Girl).
After turning Hannah into an older version of herself ("You look 18!" gasped her mother when she returned to pick her up), Jane worked her magic on me (I fall on the "subtle" quad of Jane's color chart). And I have to say, despite taking a brush to my hair (see lesson above), I think a dose of color - the sunny bronze lip and gray lid - looks pretty nice. Jane sent me home with a care package of goodies and when I put on my face last night (wiht a slightly lighter hand), I felt pretty cute.
Which means my mother was right all along. I do look better with a bit of blush.
Monday, March 23, 2009
No Close-Ups, Please
I am the subject of a photo shoot tomorrow. A subject who must wear a string bikini. A subject who has done zero exercise for 100000 years (unless lifting a remote and running across the street to avoid traffic counts). Luckily, (if you want to consider any of this lucky) this photo shoot - with shoot being the operative word - will constitute my "before" photo.
It's all my own doing, of course. I decided to see how much I could change my un-athletic, un-exercised, un-bodied body in a short period of time. I met a trainer who either took pity on me or saw the business potential of turning Mush to Madonna (with the photos to prove it!) She thinks she can turn me into Ms. Olympia in four months.
Tomorrow marks day one. I begin the day with a 10 AM workout at the gym and end it in a barely-there 2 piece (purchased at American Apparel, the mecca of 17-year-olds with zero body fat.) (Because, if I'm going to torture myself, I might as well start in the bright lights of a dressing room under the care of a rocker sales guy in tight pants and a raised eye brow.)
I can only hope that in four months, I'll return to the store wearing nothing but that bikini and arm wrestle that same guy into a humilation as deeply felt.
For now, I can only stock up on Tiger Balm and start lifing.
Here's to the first rep!
It's all my own doing, of course. I decided to see how much I could change my un-athletic, un-exercised, un-bodied body in a short period of time. I met a trainer who either took pity on me or saw the business potential of turning Mush to Madonna (with the photos to prove it!) She thinks she can turn me into Ms. Olympia in four months.
Tomorrow marks day one. I begin the day with a 10 AM workout at the gym and end it in a barely-there 2 piece (purchased at American Apparel, the mecca of 17-year-olds with zero body fat.) (Because, if I'm going to torture myself, I might as well start in the bright lights of a dressing room under the care of a rocker sales guy in tight pants and a raised eye brow.)
I can only hope that in four months, I'll return to the store wearing nothing but that bikini and arm wrestle that same guy into a humilation as deeply felt.
For now, I can only stock up on Tiger Balm and start lifing.
Here's to the first rep!
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
It's bedtime at Healthy Back
Yes. You are correct. What you are seeing is a Kodak moment of me and Karl, getting ready for bed, at the Healthy Back Store. As a story assignment, we spent the entire night trying out beds - because really, how can you buy a bed without testing it out first?
This was our first offering of the night, the P1 BackTex, which was, Goldilocks, way too hard. So, with a travel alarm set to go off every 90 minutes, we bed hopped (which was more like a Bataan Death March) around the store.
To learn about the winning bed, you'll have to read the June issue of Washingtonian magazine.
To learn what happens when Karl does not get a good night's sleep, please read the post before this one, where he gets into a street brawl.
Pleasant dreams.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
I am nothing
without my book. I had said that I was done blogging about Up for Renewal, but have you noticed what's happened? I just stopped blogging entirely. Am I nothing without my book?
Of course not. But in order to keep this blog up (which I need to, ironically, to keep interest up in the book) I have to redefine what this blog is all about.
I had considered renaming it "Five Finger Day" and document how many times I felt like giving the middle finger to someone. For example, last Thursday, Karl got into an almost-street brawl with an eye-bulging, Jeep-driving, lunatic. He was defending my honor, since the eye-bulger had nearly mowed me down the previous week as I was crossing P Street. He also called me the C word. So when he started yelling at Karl for driving to close to his car door and I recognized him as being the C-word thrower, Karl pulled over on 27th Street and flew out of his car and just went all Tourette Syndrome on him - yelling stuff about this guy sucking puppies dicks, amongst other nonsensical insults.
I, of course, called the guy the C word, which caused the bulger to fly into even more of a rage. It was horribly misguided and I'm embarrassed to report it all here - but this is an example of a five-fingered day.
But, really, how flattering of a light does this really cast me in. Is the alternative to keeping an online journal about a really exciting time in my life with this book really writing about how many times a day I want to flip the bird?
There has to be a happy medium.
Of course not. But in order to keep this blog up (which I need to, ironically, to keep interest up in the book) I have to redefine what this blog is all about.
I had considered renaming it "Five Finger Day" and document how many times I felt like giving the middle finger to someone. For example, last Thursday, Karl got into an almost-street brawl with an eye-bulging, Jeep-driving, lunatic. He was defending my honor, since the eye-bulger had nearly mowed me down the previous week as I was crossing P Street. He also called me the C word. So when he started yelling at Karl for driving to close to his car door and I recognized him as being the C-word thrower, Karl pulled over on 27th Street and flew out of his car and just went all Tourette Syndrome on him - yelling stuff about this guy sucking puppies dicks, amongst other nonsensical insults.
I, of course, called the guy the C word, which caused the bulger to fly into even more of a rage. It was horribly misguided and I'm embarrassed to report it all here - but this is an example of a five-fingered day.
But, really, how flattering of a light does this really cast me in. Is the alternative to keeping an online journal about a really exciting time in my life with this book really writing about how many times a day I want to flip the bird?
There has to be a happy medium.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
At last, my third-grade heart is mended
We all remember our first heartbreak. Mine came courtesy of Jason Singer, whom I recently reconnected with thanks to King Philip Elementary School's Facebook page.
"Are you the boy who broke my heart?" I emailed and reminded him we were boyfriend and girlfriend in Miss Armstrong's class.
"I'm not sure," he instantly wrote back. "Can you send me a photo of yourself from third grade?"
It didn't take me long to figure out that mine was just one of the many hearts Mr. Singer left littered on the playground.
But at last I had my day in court. I told him how I've told and retold the story of our breakup endlessly - and even wrote about it in my first book, Virgin Territory: Stories From the Road to Womanhood. (To this day, I believe Jason (a stud in a puka bead necklace) broke up with me because my mother forbade me from sleeping over his house, because, she told me, "It's illegal for boys and girls to sleep in the same room unless they're married." A small mom fib that I believed until I was in college, when my boyfriend at the time laughed his head off when he suggested getting a hotel room in NYC so we could stay late and see a Squeeze concert and I told him we'd be arrested upon registering at the hotel's front desk.
Naturally, Jason never thought about me again, but I continued to peg his breakup as the reason for the many to follow. But oh wonderful, life-affirming, Clint-Eastwood-vengeance-seeking Facebook. I could finally confront my past and get that long overdue apology.
And so publically!
Jason, I am set free.
"Are you the boy who broke my heart?" I emailed and reminded him we were boyfriend and girlfriend in Miss Armstrong's class.
"I'm not sure," he instantly wrote back. "Can you send me a photo of yourself from third grade?"
It didn't take me long to figure out that mine was just one of the many hearts Mr. Singer left littered on the playground.
But at last I had my day in court. I told him how I've told and retold the story of our breakup endlessly - and even wrote about it in my first book, Virgin Territory: Stories From the Road to Womanhood. (To this day, I believe Jason (a stud in a puka bead necklace) broke up with me because my mother forbade me from sleeping over his house, because, she told me, "It's illegal for boys and girls to sleep in the same room unless they're married." A small mom fib that I believed until I was in college, when my boyfriend at the time laughed his head off when he suggested getting a hotel room in NYC so we could stay late and see a Squeeze concert and I told him we'd be arrested upon registering at the hotel's front desk.
Naturally, Jason never thought about me again, but I continued to peg his breakup as the reason for the many to follow. But oh wonderful, life-affirming, Clint-Eastwood-vengeance-seeking Facebook. I could finally confront my past and get that long overdue apology.
And so publically!
Jason, I am set free.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Farewell Party
Well, not exactly. But, you see, I am looking for a graceful way to segue out of only blogging about my book (I'm getting tired talking about me. How do you feel about me talking about me?) There is more to me than just my book. Until my next book, that is.
So with a last hurrah in mind, below are some photos from my most recent book signing. which took place last night at Ginger, the official outfitter of Up for Renewal and my friend Gretchen's store. The party was a real Who's Who in DC and included appearances by former Miss DC Kate Michael and Project Beltway's awesomely adorable Rachel Cothran.
Thanks to all my friends for showing up and making me feel so popular. Thanks especially to Gretchen Hitchner and Barbara Martin, two of the most generous, beautiful, huge-hearted, hard-working, and all around super duper fantastic friends a girl could ever hope to have. I appreciate you way more than the confines of the blogosphere will allow.
It's a Project Beltway sandwich! That's Rachel Cothran bookended by me and Gretchen Hitchner.
My first role model, Gail Cleere, whom I wanted to desperately look like when I was under her care. Gail lived at my house as a college student and quickly became a member of the Alter family. For years, my younger brother thought Gail was his sister and cried for days when he learned that I was the one related to him.
Carrington Tarr, Page Evans, and Page's daughter Peyton, who has the best fashion sense going. What you can't see are Peyton's magenta Tory Burch ballet flats.
Please tip your hat to James Henry, author of Mind Your Manners! He based his etiquette book on George Washington's Rules of Civility.
So with a last hurrah in mind, below are some photos from my most recent book signing. which took place last night at Ginger, the official outfitter of Up for Renewal and my friend Gretchen's store. The party was a real Who's Who in DC and included appearances by former Miss DC Kate Michael and Project Beltway's awesomely adorable Rachel Cothran.
Thanks to all my friends for showing up and making me feel so popular. Thanks especially to Gretchen Hitchner and Barbara Martin, two of the most generous, beautiful, huge-hearted, hard-working, and all around super duper fantastic friends a girl could ever hope to have. I appreciate you way more than the confines of the blogosphere will allow.
It's a Project Beltway sandwich! That's Rachel Cothran bookended by me and Gretchen Hitchner.
My first role model, Gail Cleere, whom I wanted to desperately look like when I was under her care. Gail lived at my house as a college student and quickly became a member of the Alter family. For years, my younger brother thought Gail was his sister and cried for days when he learned that I was the one related to him.
Carrington Tarr, Page Evans, and Page's daughter Peyton, who has the best fashion sense going. What you can't see are Peyton's magenta Tory Burch ballet flats.
Please tip your hat to James Henry, author of Mind Your Manners! He based his etiquette book on George Washington's Rules of Civility.
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