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.

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.

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!