Tag Archives: book deal

i-ve been thinking mary—-dammit baltimore- you must always have the last word–

Try keeping some emergency bad ideas in your desk.

I am at a loss on several counts.

My sister and I are considering writing a book. I wonder if we should make an outline, or just attack with finger paints? I may start by making an actual visual map of everything I remember about early childhood. There’s the trailer, the addition to the trailer, the garage with the stash of St. Pauli girl bottles, the goat shed, the pile of red dirt I was not allowed to play in, the place where the cat got shot, the yellow jacket nest in the potato patch, my Sycamore tree. The yellow toyota with the Netherlands sticker, the old black truck with the running boards, the well, the Lady Slipper patch, the treehouse that was only 3 feet off the ground, the black tulips, the random sink sitting in the back yard, the root cellar. We had a dog briefly, named Barky or Bitey or something like that. He looked a bit like a beagle.

And there is more. Carpet in the trailer kitchen (ha!), lots of nudity, swimming, being allowed sips of beer, being hit with a shoe, books about proper British children, awful, awful food that once was part of the garden. Cherry trees, thick with worm nests. Drowning Japanese beetles from the grape vines in a bucket of water.

The Westvaco logging forest across the property line was filled with bulldozer piles. Sometimes you could find shards of china, with patterns. Exotic because we did not have decorative things. The ruts from the logging trucks filled with water and made bright red mud. We rolled in it and were hosed down before we could come inside.

The nearest town eight miles away. The shoe factory, the prison, the A&P, the library where I was forced to alphabetize at a young age. The nursing home, the railroad tracks, a snack bar in the gas station where I ate hamburgers with mayonnaise and once got food poisoning.


Revenge is a dish best served hot, hot, hot

Well, it’s Day 5 of the book deal! So far, so good. After Lambchop’s brief but eventful hospitalization, we filled her narcotics prescription and shopped for Lip Smackers. I purchased Martian Mallow and Gum Job Galaxy, er, Gum Ball Galaxy. I let my sister the moose choose one, and she opted to coat her pie hole with marshmallow flavor. I also purchased another note pad featuring a horse on the cover. After some bubble tea, we determined that Lambchop is on her way to health once again.

I am feeling a bit confessional, which will make for a lovely Chapter 3. In my time, I have done some terrible, meddlesome things. Just last week, I convinced a dieting acquaintance to eat an ice cream bar, citing the need for “you time.” I also told this individual to consider keeping “emergency chocolate” in his or her desk. Why? I don’t know! If someone asks me if he should do something patently destructive and contrary to previously disclosed goals, I am probably going to give permission out of sheer perversity. In other words, don’t come whining to me.

When I worked at Starbucks, I would frequently prepare drinks for substantially overweight people using skim milk whether they asked for it or not. I would only dispense low-fat cream cheese. Another time a woman insisted on sending her drink back for more whipped cream, and I pointed out that her Maple-Oatmeal Scone already contained over 700 calories, and that she had even requested butter packets to go with it, so maybe we should just check ourselves? This might qualify as public service, but it probably violates some civil rights statute somewhere.

I’m not even going to mention all the times I’ve tried to kill annoying roommates. That could be a chapter in itself. Let’s just say one should never leave their toothbrush out if I am around. If I have taken a dislike to you, it is a short trip to brushing your teeth with toilet water and having all your food removed from the fridge as soon as you leave, only to be replaced shortly before your return.

Finally, last week I attended a concert with Lambchop, and we were bothered by a beer-selling slattern jawing away during quiet moments in the performance. She wandered off to give her David Spade lookalike manager a chance to look at her lower back tattoos, and I ticked off a bunch of extra marks on her scratch pad where she kept track of what she’d sold. Later, she came up short on the till and no doubt had to go to the back office with David Spade.

Also, I lie on the internet.

I am going to be run over by a bus any minute now.


Just meeeee for you, and you for meeeee

Things are looking up. I finished the wedding thank you notes that so plagued me. Sample: “Can you believe we haven’t even thrown these at each other yet? I am sure they would hold up admirably even if we did, owing to the high quality.” I resisted the temptation to say “Thank you for contributing to our wedding slush fund. We used your generous check to pay some teamsters to deliver the garden chairs.”

And the book deal, well, snap, that was easy! I should have tried getting one years ago! Lambchop and I are kicking off the writing process with a viewing of Mean Girls. Then we’re getting matching tattoos. I got the idea for the design from the latest issue of Martha Stewart Living. You’ll have to buy the book to find out what it is!