Cathy Alter's blog

It's shameful

2009-11-13T10:26:00.000-08:00

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.

Showtime! From Fluffer to Headliner

2009-09-27T13:17:00.000-07:00

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.

Tall Tales - My View From The Top

2009-09-13T12:01:00.000-07:00

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.

From the Mouths of 6-1/2-Year-Old Babes

2009-08-30T12:40:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-10T07:08:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-01T14:44:00.000-07:00

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!

They're here! They're here!

2009-07-28T10:04:00.001-07:00

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.

Paperbackpalooza!

2009-07-25T10:10:00.000-07:00

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

marco! POLO!

2009-07-12T14:34:00.000-07:00

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.

A night with some Renewbies

2009-07-06T09:08:00.000-07:00

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?!

Quelle Horreur

2009-06-26T11:42:00.000-07:00

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.

In honor of the upcoming PAPERBACK release...

2009-06-22T06:58:00.000-07:00

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!

The Look of Love

2009-06-13T08:42:00.000-07:00

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.

Just to reiterate

2009-06-09T14:37:00.000-07:00

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.

Maybe this is a mistake...

2009-06-03T06:40:00.000-07:00

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!

Now that's what I call writing

2009-06-02T06:45:00.000-07:00

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.)

A League Above

2009-05-29T09:00:00.000-07:00

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.

My other life

2009-05-23T09:45:00.000-07:00

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...

A Big Deal!

2009-05-20T14:24:00.000-07:00

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.

I can hardly Believe it

2009-05-18T08:00:00.000-07:00

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

Check it out!

2009-04-28T14:26:00.001-07:00

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.

Summer is here!

2009-04-20T10:01:00.001-07:00

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!

How Do I Look?

2009-03-31T09:21:00.000-07:00

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.

No Close-Ups, Please

2009-03-23T10:17:00.000-07:00

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 bedtime at Healthy Back

2009-02-25T14:21:00.001-08:00

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.

I am nothing

2009-02-22T07:25:00.000-08:00

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.

At last, my third-grade heart is mended

2009-01-17T09:13:00.000-08:00

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.

Farewell Party

2009-01-09T13:59:00.000-08:00

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.

My Maccabean Revulsion

2008-12-23T07:18:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

Somewhere a menorah is crying.

Blimey!

2008-12-21T13:53:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

Miss A asks Ms. C

2008-11-24T05:38:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, and some fits are better than others.

The real reason I don't blog a lot

2008-11-14T14:28:00.000-08:00

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

So there you have it.

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

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

Oh Happy Day

2008-11-05T11:45:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

Thank you, Obama.

What's Cookin?

2008-10-06T19:51:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

Remembering Hava Kane Dunn

2008-09-24T06:53:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I see you, can you see me?

2008-09-22T12:09:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pass the Remote

2008-09-17T13:03:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That was great!" he spurted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hometown Girl Makes Good

2008-09-09T10:55:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

West Hartford Freak Out

2008-09-03T18:11:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Take It Sleazy

2008-08-29T11:42:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Up for Renewbies

2008-08-25T08:30:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

Book Launch Party Redux

2008-08-17T14:31:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Signing some books!

To view all the party pics - click here!

Radio Daze

2008-08-13T16:06:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

O'Scare Airport

2008-08-08T10:21:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

Off to Chicago!

2008-08-01T05:06:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

Go Cubs!

Model Citizen

2008-07-28T09:52:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2008-07-25T10:56:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inn-credible!

2008-07-21T06:01:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

Greetings Comrades!

2008-07-18T16:59:00.000-07:00

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

Eh Buddy!

2008-07-16T06:33:00.000-07:00

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

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

"What are you in for?" he asked.

I told him about my book.

"What about you?"

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

And now for something entirely different!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My ear starts laughing. "Ten seconds."

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

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

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

(Wo)Mano-A-Mano with Kathie Lee

2008-07-13T15:32:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She's a vixen."

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

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

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

Unfit to be tied

2008-07-08T10:35:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hitch a wagon to a fallen star?

2008-07-05T17:47:00.000-07:00

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

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

They went back in the box.

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

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

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

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

The wisdom of 8-year-old girls

2008-07-03T16:59:00.000-07:00

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

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

Mother: Shopping.

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

Me: Do you like Juicy?

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

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

EYOD: You wrote a whole book?

Me: I did.

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

My Book Launched Today! Poop Di Doo!

2008-07-01T14:51:00.000-07:00

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

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

Just keepin' it real.

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

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

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

Hello world!

2008-06-16T19:56:00.001-07:00

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