Are you ready for your close up?

Fame seems like hell on earth.


I have never wanted it.


If I were in a famous rock band, I would definitely want to be the bassist and I would never, ever dress like a rock star. I'd dress like a soccer dad so no one would ever figure out I'm famous. 


My kind of fame is the author-y kind, where few people recognize you on sight. Like my friend's dad for instance, who casually mentions to his daughter that some author lady had been attending their (my childhood) ward for a few weeks because some movie was filming in town. It was Stephenie Meyer. 


I can deal with that kind of anonymity and the checks that come with it.


But Mitt Romney and the South Park guys are indirectly dragging me into the spotlight whether I want it or not. Tony nominated musicals, Republican presidential bids . . . this week's cover of Newsweek:


http://www.newsweek.com/2011/06/05/mormons-rock.html


Sigh.


I'm not voting for Romney. I have way too many issues with him. Jon Huntsman is potentially more interesting. But I may vote (again) for Obama because I DON'T VOTE FOR PEOPLE JUST BECAUSE THEY'RE MORMON.


I do other stuff just because someone's Mormon, like buy their book or album, which I may not ever read or listen to. But I certainly don't vote that way. I don't even vote on American Idol or SYTYCD that way. (Um, I don't actually vote on either of those shows, anyway, to be honest.)


But that's a different post.


This is about the spotlight being on me. My neighbors know we're Mormon. Most of my closest friends aren't Mormon and I'm sure they can't miss the national spotlight we're getting. 


Am I ready for my close up?


I hope so. I hope I've lived my beliefs with thoughtfulness and I match up favorably with the good things they will expect.  Because now . . . everyone's looking.


Speaking of spotlights, the always excellent Melissa Bastow has produced another issue of Barrel of Blogs magazine and yours truly is in there unnecessarily taking up two pages to tell you what I'm doing this summer in case you couldn't stand not knowing. Wander over and find yourself some new bloggers to read. Also, look at all the pretty pictures!

Anatomy of a BAD joke

A bunch of people most of us have in common have been and will be blogging about a conference we all went to this weekend: LDS Storymakers. And it was epic. Most people will tell you it's because the classes were awesome, the speakers incredible, etc. All true, by the way. But it was epic for me for entirely different reasons.


See, here's the thing. The very first post from which most people discovered me three years ago chronicled the absolute disaster of my first writing conference. That story is here. You'll think it's funny. Maybe we're at the point where tragedy + time = comedy, because I admit, I think it's kinda funny now, too. Kinda.


Then at last year's conference, I had another moment of total idiocy which you can read about here. Yeah, you'll get the idiot shivers. Me, too. I'm learning it's a function of me + writing conferences = tragedy.


So it should come as no surprise to you that I'm fresh back from another conference and this time, I reached the highest heights--wait, no. Make that the lowest of lows, in my quest to flame out of one of these on such a massive scale that I'm forever barred from all writing conferences. In the world. EVER.


All right. Here's the thing. This comes down to a joke. Imagine if you will, a girl walks up with something scribbled on her conference name badge. Let's say someone named Becca squints and (to be funny) says, "Does that say (insert name of not very famous author) was here?" And the other girl, we'll call her Karen, says "No," like why would she want the autograph of that minor author? And then I think I'm being funny and I say, "What she's not telling us is that she now has a lower back Sharpie tattoo that says (not famous author) was here."


Okay. Not a great joke. In hindsight, marginally inappropriate. The joke was intended to circumscribe a couple of tropes (yeah, I just explained it that way--I'm too tired to think of the easy words, so let's all cope) into one joke: dumb groupies of rock stars etc. who get Sharpie tattoos on their bodies + how the tramp stamp is usually the most cliched spot for a girl to get a tattoo = witty. 


So, yeah. Not a great joke. But let's now imagine that instead of me cracking this joke about two girls (because I'd been hanging out with primarily women for two days straight at this point) that I cracked it about two guys (because I'd been hanging out with primarily women for two days straight and wasn't thinking clearly about my audience). I meant the joke the same way that it would have been meant had it actually been two girls involved (tramp stamp Sharpie tattoo of minor celebrity = silly), but if it's two guys, the meaning of the joke TOTALLY changes.


Just think about it.


The poor man who I was teasing blanched and looked horrified. It took me a full forty-five minutes to figure out why he was horrified. Then I was horrified. Like, completely and utterly horrified.


I leaned over and begged Becca to tell me how to fix it. She was like, "Oh, sister. You can't." My other friend Brittany was like, "Ohhhhh. Yeah, okay, I get where you were going now, but I totally thought you were making a different joke and I was a little shocked." 


And I was all sobbing and what not.


Okay, I wasn't sobbing. But I was writhing on the inside. Really, it was awful. Beyond awful.


I don't know if I'm going to have to swear off writing conferences in the future, or maybe just the vodka I'm always hiding in my water bottles. But something's gotta give.

Maybe I'm the crazy one.

First things first. The winner of Jana's book is . . . 


Susan! Yay!


To be honest, it was DeNae first but since I happen to know that she already has a copy or two of this book, I did good old Random Number Generator again and it spit out Susan. So hit me up with your address and I'll send it to you, friend.


Next, I'm doing a book review. But I need to give you a little background first. Oh, who are we kidding? A LOT of background. (What, you thought you were reading someone else's blog?)


I started this blog with the intention of discussing my writing journey, and also reviewing books. I sometimes do those things but not a lot anymore. There are a lot of reasons for that but we'll just talk about the books. First of all, I think I'd get bored if I posted book reviews all the time because I'm perfectly happy spitting out a sentence or three on the books I read on Goodreads. So if you want to know what I think about books, go be my friend there.


Secondly, I'm a writer. I know it's inevitable that I'm going to get bad reviews, but I'm not looking forward to it. Why would I do that to other people? This is ESPECIALLY true of LDS writers, whether or not they write LDS fiction, because as Josi Kilpack says, we're in a very small sandbox and it behooves us to play nicely.


But back to when I first started my blog, a couple of people asked me if I'd review their books. I had met both of these people in real life, liked talking to them, and idiotically thought this would mean I'd like their books. So I committed to a date to be on their blog tour and set about reading the book in each case. Both times, I hated the book. And there in lay the quandary.


I'm a very honest person and I hope to be the kind of person whose opinion carries some weight because I make discerning choices. Like for example, all of my friends in real life know that if I say a book is good, it's good. They might not like it but it's probably at least worth the read. I'd like my blog friends to know that, too. Therefore, I only post reviews of books I really like.


So now I was stuck. I didn't like these books but had already committed to blogging about them. Generally, people say "I'd love it if you'd review my book" but they mean, "I'd love it if you'd review my book POSITIVELY." They don't really want you to tell the truth about what you thought. And when it's someone you know, you have to weigh your friendship or even cordial acquaintance against your vaunted credibility. 


I couldn't bring myself to say I liked either book. I just couldn't do it. But I was willing as a friend to help them spread the word by throwing up a picture of the book, a synopsis, and an interview with the author type of thing. It wasn't my favorite compromise because there's still an implicit endorsement there, but it was all I could think to do to preserve the relationships after already committing to do the reviews.


However, I'm smart-ish, and I learned. I have since been asked to participate in blog tours and my response is, "I'm willing to read the book but if I can't give the book a "B" grade or better, then I won't post about it, and I'll gladly pass it on to another reader of your choice at my expense who would be willing to review it instead. Can you live with that?"


This is what happened when Tamara Hart Heiner contacted me about reviewing her book Perilous. 

This is her first novel and it's a YA thriller about some girls who get kidnapped and have to make their way back to home and safety.


I didn't like it. So why am I posting a review when I'd have to grade this less than a B?


Because SHE TOLD ME TO. Seriously.


I emailed her and explained. "Hey, remember our little agreement where I don't really do reviews if it's below a B? How about if I just link to your cover, your contest, etc.?"


"No," she says. "If you don't mind, I'd rather just have the negative review." Then she posts this on her blog (I pasted it in word for word):

Now, on to another subject. I've had two people on my blog tour line up contact me and tell me that their reviews are less-than-stellar. Both asked me if I preferred to remove them from my tour.

Of course I told them I still want them on my tour!

We can all agree that for the most part, honesty is the best policy. Right? Blog tours are no exception. Here's the way I see it:

1) Like it or not, we all know that not everyone is going to like my book. Of the 40 people I have on my blog tour, if 35 of them like it, I'm thrilled. If all 40 liked it, I would probably think that someone was afraid to tell me what they really thought.

2) My book is NOT PERFECT. I'll be the first to admit this. I see the flaws. Others are going to see the flaws. Some people it's going to bug more than other people. I hope the majority of readers will turn a blind eye, but I am certainly not surprised when there are negative responses.

3) Negative reviews create controversy, and controversy creates interest. At least, I hope so.

Give it to me straight! When I get my first 1-star review, we'll have a consolation party!

IT'S EXTREMELY IMPORTANT THAT YOU KNOW ALL THIS STUFF SO YOU KNOW THAT I AM NOT THE TYPE OF PERSON THAT GETS MY JOLLIES BY TRASHING OTHER PEOPLE'S BOOKS, STEALING THEIR LUNCHES, OR KICKING THEIR PUPPIES.


OKAY?
Here's the deal. I'm a character driven reader and writer. I love a great character. I'm fairly indifferent about plots. If they kinda make sense, I can live with it if I'm really into the character. Tamara has written some pretty good characters, and I think she shows promise as a writer, but  . . .


I could not deal with the plot. Drove me nuts. Hole after hole after hole after leap in logic after hole. That's my beef with it in an nutshell. On her blog, she introduces herself by saying, "The book I started when I was 12, Perilous, is scheduled for release from WiDo Publishing on November 16, 2010." And to be honest, that kind of says it all. The writing is fairly polished, but the plotting . . . well, yeah. It didn't surprise me that the plot was conceived of at about that age. That's exactly what it feels like. 


No throwing tomatoes. She said it, not me. I'm just confirming it. Because she insisted on it. The other problem is that this ends in a cliffhanger, which okay, is not my favorite thing but I don't mind as long as there's some kind of resolution for at least some of the major themes/conflicts in the novel before it sets up for the next installment. Here, it's so abrupt that yeah, there's some stuff that's "resolved" but with zero catharsis, ZERO, for the reader or characters and it feels . . . unintentional. Like maybe the author thought they solved stuff and didn't realize that they didn't. It's a major pacing problem. Super major.


That's all I'm going to say and I don't feel happy about having said it, but Tamara, my friend, if you're hoping controversy generates interest, I guess I'm handing you a gift-wrapped present. 


To the rest of you, I will say two more things. First, I'm not going to tell you what letter grade I would give this except to say "less than a B." Secondly, take my opinion with a grain of salt. On Goodreads, this book got a 4.64 with 11 reviews and on Amazon it has an average four star rating with five reviews. So either I'm crazy, because I don't see it, or they're all crazy. I'm willing to entertain either notion.


And btw, anyone who has read the book and wants to argue the point, fine. Rule #1, you can't do it anonymously. If I had to stick my neck out, you do, too. Rule #2, in defense of the plot, I will not accept the argument that it was written for 12-year-olds and the plot holes won't bother them. I won't accept that argument for a lot of reasons, most of which I'm way too tired to explain right now, but it all boils down to: that's a weak argument.


So there. I did it. I publicly said I didn't like a book of someone I kind of know. That was not fun. Tamara, I'm sorry, but I really did try to avoid this! Regardless of my opinion, I wish you great success because I definitely think you have talent. I think it just kind of got married too young to the plot of this book, but I have no doubt I'll see great stuff come from you in the future. As I honest as I was in my review, that's as honestly as I mean my assessment of your potential.


Okay, done. That was hard. And in case any of you were wondering, NO, I don't want an honest review of my book unless you LOVED it. My nerves can't take it.


I shall now and forever after return to my policy of not saying anything about a book at all if I can't say something nice.

Stupid Mean Girl

I am turning into a mean girl and I hate it so much.


I'm not even going to go into detail so I can protect the identity of the innocent, but . . .


Can you think of someone who currently (or has in the past) gets on your last nerve? And I mean the very last one, the one that when it snaps, will take the firewalls that keep all your worst instincts in check. That one.


There is now someone in my social circle who is this for me, a last-nerve-getter-on-er. It makes me nuts and I try, I really do, to be patient and sympathetic and understanding. I MEAN it. I do. I've gotten as far as figuring out that part of what bugs me about her, MOST of what bugs me about her, is that I see most of my worst traits amplified in her. Except she doesn't have any, ahem, witchiness about her (which I do, in spades). She's just needy. And annoying. And that's all the detail I'm going to give.


Anyway, I find myself doing passive-aggressive mean girl crap. Like for example, she and another girl were walking side by side, both wearing their jeans tucked into their boots. So I say to the one but not the other, "I like your boots." And I did like the pair I complimented and not the other but it's mean not to compliment both. I should have kept my mouth shut.


But then I had to twist the knife a little so I said, "I can't wear my jeans tucked into my boots because I have wide hips. I look like a triangle. It's not cute." Which is totally true, both that I don't do it and why I don't do it. But guess what? This girl has wide hips, not just in my opinion but as a FACTUAL TRUTH, and I said it as she was standing right there with her jeans tucked into her boots. On purpose.


Because I suck.


I hate when I see girls do this to each other. I'm fully aware that I'm doing it AND I CAN'T STOP.


I hate me a little bit right now. Sort of a medium bit, actually.


I have been praying hard for a change of heart. And it always seems to work until I see her again and then I just want to smack her. 


I am definitely not the only person that she bugs, but my friends are nice people and overlook her flaws. The group of "popular" women who orbit near us do not necessarily pull their punches like this. I don't want to be like them. I want to be kind. I usually have much better control over my behavior.


But she's making me crazy.


So I guess I'll just pray some more that I can quit being awful.


And don't tell me I'm not a bad person. In this specific respect, I AM. You can say you relate or that it's normal, but I don't want anyone trying to make me feel better about acting this way because it's NOT OKAY. And I don't want any credit for recognizing that fact, either.


I just want to find a grain of niceness and compassion and water it until it grows.


But son of a biscuit, she makes it HARD.

All growed up. Today, anyway.

Mostly I'm glad I have common sense, but sometimes it can suck the fun out of things. 


Like for example, let's say I wanted to tell you, a hundred of my nearest and dearest girlfriends, a hilarious story about how I ran into my husband's boss and his wife out at dinner the other night. It's hilarious because I made a startling and embarrassing discovery about my clothing an hour after I left them, but it's the kind of thing I probably shouldn't share on my blog. I'd tell you if it was just you and me goofing off over a plate of something delicious at our favorite local taco dive. So that makes me want to tell you here, too. 


But in the same way I might be mindful of the nearby company when I told you my story at dinner, I realize I need to do the same thing here. It's the whole principle of "there's a time and a place" for everything. I wouldn't go on a breastfeeding rant with a table full of my husband's friends. I wouldn't start a political debate in relief society. I wouldn't offer a breakdown of my aches and pains to the grocery store checker or an overview of my innermost feelings to the bank teller.


You know what? I probably would go on a breastfeeding rant at a table full of my husband's friends if I thought it would be funny.


But there I would know my audience. Here, I hit "publish" and I'm not always sure who will be stopping by and I have to think about who I'm putting my stories in front of. It's not that I want to self-censor, but for sure some filtering has to happen. So I guess I'm not going to tell you my funny and possibly inappropriate story because danged if I didn't turn into a grown up when I wasn't looking. It only took, like, thirty(ish) years.

Clothes make the (wo)man. Not.

So I think I'm not superficial. 

But I am.

It bothers me.

Here's how I know I am: I like to look in style. That's not such a big deal and it doesn't make me superficial. But I don't have a great sense of natural style. I've talked about my overly matchy-matchy dressing tendencies before. I can see stuff in a magazine or on a mannequin and then buy it for myself, but that's not exactly an organic approach to fashion. It seems like people with a natural sense of style can find really disparate items of clothing from all kinds of places and pull them together in a way that is totally hip. I would never be able to look at the same pieces they do and come up with an outfit. Yet you look at the same stuff on someone else and they have that air about them, that confidence that even if what they wore didn't all match, they'd feel sure they were awesome, anyway.

Yesterday at church I saw a girl in a gray and white striped blouse (matte cotton), a silver skirt (shiny), opaque black tights and metallic gold Mary Jane heels trimmed in silver. It shouldn't have worked, but it did. I'm sure (in my own head) that if I tried to wear the same outfit, it would look all wrong. People would look at me and think, "She has no idea how to dress."

Naturally stylish people can find the coolest outfits at the Goodwill. I'm sure if I wore thrift shop clothes, people would know I got them from a thrift store. That wouldn't matter if I still came off looking cool or stylish, but I would look like a bag lady. And that's how I know I'm superficial. Give me a Payless version of a shoe or the $90 Nordstrom version of it, and most likely, I'll pick the Nordstrom version of it because I'm sure in the Payless shoe people would look at me and say, "Huh. Cheap shoes" and in the Nordstrom pair, people will say, "Huh. Cute shoes." Even if they're IDENTICAL.

Basically, my self-esteem depends on me spending more money than I need to on clothes so that I can feel confident in front of other people.

I'm so pathetic that I've actually seen something cute on markdown and then thought, "Wait. If it's on markdown then nobody else wanted so it must not be that cute after all." And then I've not bought it.

On a related note, I'll be spending my next vacation running with the lemmings.

Anyway, I'm trying to overcome this. There are flashes of hope. When I have bought items of clothing or pairs of shoes on a whim simply because they amuse me or appeal to me at some emotional level, simply because I like them or the mood they put me in, those are the items that I get the most compliments on no matter how much or little they cost.

So you'd think I learn. The lesson would be: spend less time and money on trying to project an image and more on the things that please YOU. That is REAL.

I understand that this is about the lamest, most inconsequential issue ever. But it's been on my mind because I have the LDS Storymakers writing conference to go to next week and I've been planning my wardrobe for weeks now. It's fun to dress up for stuff, but as I puzzle over what to wear and discard or as I eliminate choices and consider my reasons why, I realize how totally lame I'm being. If I showed up in my oldest, rattiest stuff, the truly cool people are still going to like me regardless. And if I think wearing my sharpest brand new outfit is what will gain me friends, then I'm not cool at all.

The funniest thing is that I couldn't care less what other people wear. I don't know why I think they care what I do.

That's it. It's official. Something inside my head is broken. Maybe a little retail therapy will help . . .

At least everyone else was funny.

The blogosphere lately has been seized by panic. Hyperventilating, can't-see-or-think-straight panic.

Or at least the parts of the blogosphere that are going to the Casual Bloggers Conference in May. The panic has something to do with people revealing their true personalities. Some people seem to be sitting on the fence about going because they have a deep fear of people getting to know them in real life. They're afraid they'll be unmasked for who they really are. "What if people don't think I'm funny in person?" "What if they figure out I'm a nerd?" "What if they don't like me?"

And I have sat back and felt

SMUG.

I know. I suck.

I guess smugness is a luxury if you're not going to CBC and don't have to worry about being outed for who you really are. But that's not even the cause of my smugness. Oh, no, it's way worse than that.

Mine was rooted in vanity and conceit.

 Boo.

See, I couldn't see what the big deal was. I never worry about meeting new people. I make friends easily. Everyone likes me (except for posers, people who suck, and booger eaters) and I never have a hard time being myself. I make everyone laugh and always have something to say. Why would I worry about meeting people in person?

What's that old saying, the one about pride going before . . . ?

TIMBERRRRRRRR!

I got to participate in my own little blogger meet up when Kristina P invited me to join her and some blog friends at Disneyland. Since the baby was cooperating that night and Kenny graciously and bravely agreed to handle the kids on his own, I went. And I wasn't nervous at all. Because I'm stupid.

The only two people I "knew" virtually were Sister Pulsipher and Karen, and then I got to meet Kris, Kristen and Nikol. And I had some good guacamole and very average carne asada. And I listened to and enjoyed the banter around the table. And then I opened my mouth to speak. (Cue ominous music here.)

Thanks to the properties of sleep deprivation, I have been wandering through the last two weeks like they were one, long out-of-body experience. 

Unfortunately, this allows me to have a weird clinical detachment about myself while at the same time having zero control over my filters. I can hear myself making an ass of myself but I have no ability to stop it. It's lovely.

So we're sitting there at dinner and I'm listening to myself talk and everything out of my mouth, EVERYTHING, was an opinion. A STRONG opinion. That's okay. Except for where then I started spewing strong, JUDGMENTAL opinions about every.single.thing that came up. Other blogs. Blogging styles. Loud tables in the restaurant. Jennifer Love-Hewitt. Television. My stupid carne asada.

You could have thrown out nuclear proliferation and I would have been like, "Let me tell you . . ."

I shared my thoughts like I was the Oprah of Tortilla Jo's, a fount of dubious knowledge.

My Other Self, the clinical observer, watched and listened to all of this and eyed the steak knife, wondering if I could use it to give myself a tracheotomy before the next topic of conversation came up. The actual me just kept talking, and talking, and talking.

It was NOT me, though. It was some crazy girl who clearly thought being pompous equaled hilarity for all. 

Shudder.

It led me to wonder if I'm always so awful but I needed severe sleep deprivation to recognize it. 

It was humbling. So now instead of obsessing over what I can find to wear to the Storymakers conference that looks cute on my 6 week post baby body, I am now going to obsess over "how to be a good listener and shut the heck up" when in the presence of other humans.

I suppose it's a good lesson but it leads me to wonder exactly how long and how often I've been a total tool (or whatever the girl version is) over the years. 

Dear friend: if you've hung in with me because you have to (i.e. our husbands are friends, we are blood related, Jesus said be nice to everyone, etc), please know I will be much better company in the future. Even if I never open my mouth to prove it.

P.S. Proof it happened:

What's up with that?

Three little words.

I don't know why they're so hard for me to say.

Three little words, one syllable each, and yet I can't spit them out.

How are you?

How hard is that?

Not very.

But I can't do it.

I'm not saying it isn't weird that I can't. It is. Someone calls and says, "Hey, it's Jane. How are you?"

And I should say, "I'm fine. How are you?"

AND I CAN'T.

Is that just about one of the weirdest quirks you've ever heard?

Granted, it's not socially crippling. I think generally it goes unnoticed, although I encounter those occasional awkward moments when someone is expecting me to reciprocate and I don't. But usually not.

It's not like I made a conscious decision. I didn't sit around as and as a matter of conscience declare: I will not say, "How are you?" But I've noticed lately that I don't do it and I've wondered why. 

Here's my best guess: I don't like small talk because I'm bad at it and when I ask that question, I really want to know the answer. I'm not just throwing it out there because it's the polite thing to do. So since I feel like I can't ask it back with sincerity when it's a perfunctory, habitual and almost rhetorical "How are you?" in response to someone else asking first, well . . . I just don't ask it.

But that's just a guess.

And let's make it weirder: I say "Bless you" when people sneeze. I say, "You, too" when the checkout ladies tell me to have a nice day. (Or I at least say, "Thank you.") 

But I don't say, "How are you?" when people call. Or bump into me out and about.

I'm going to file this under "Life's Great Mysteries" . . .

It's the Itchy and Scratchy Show

I am being driven slowly insane by the itching in my ear. My left ear. It's making me nuts. I know what it is. The eustachian tube. Something's draining. Whatever. It's the itch that cannot be scratched. I totally would if I could.

My ears have not always been kind to me. I think they like to reassert their primacy every now and then. I like to say primacy.

Anyway, I had tubes twice when I was kid. The second time, they didn't come out on their own. I had to have them surgically removed and one eardrum had to be reconstructed with a skin graft from above my ear. I was fourteen and I got to wear this big, white Princess Leia looking plastic cup shield thing over my ear. At school. It cemented my coolness.

I think DeNae recently asserted her primacy as the Queen of the Nerds. But I'm confident I could be super high up in the nerd hierarchy. You read my blog. You know. Just in case the giant plastic shield wasn't enough to paint the picture. Anyway, I could definitely rise in the nerd ranks. I mean, I have too much fashion sense to be president of the Nerd Nation, but I would soooo qualify for a cabinet level position. Maybe the Nerd Secretary of Commerce. I definitely spend enough money in nerdly pursuits. I just bought my husband the entire boxed set of Star Trek: TNG dvds for his birthday. And I passed more than one party in high school and college in a corner with a book that I snuck in my purse, bought after haunting used book stores for hours. Oh, and I'd run right out and rent the next BSG episodes last summer if Netflix was taking too long to get them to me.

But whatever. I think I lost my train of thought. Which is so weird because that NEVER happens.

What was I talking about?

Oh, yeah. So anyway, the point is, my ear itches. It's making me crazy.

Lessons from public restrooms, #3

Lesson #3
Any time you're in a store, but most especially when you're in Target, pay attention to the most annoying teenage girls in the store with you. Memorize their faces, study the details, because you will have a stomachache that causes you to rush for the restroom. This stomachache will cause you to suffer from loud sound effects that abuse the bathroom acoustics, and the quieter you try to be, the louder you will get. And when you finally do walk out from the stall, the only other people in the restroom will be those two girls, silent now, staring at you in fascination, memorizing your face, studying your details. And this will happen more than once. In fact, any time you are in a public place with obnoxious teenage girls this will happen, and yes, you are totally justified in suspecting you may have an allergy to them.

Lesson #2
No matter how tempting the acoustics are in a tiled public restroom, and no matter how convinced you are that you are all alone, this is NOT the time or place to bust out your Mariah Carey impersonation. People will hear you and they will wait for you to come out and then they will applaud. But it won't be the kind of applause that makes you feel good.So don't do it. Just saying.

Lesson #1
The people whose numbers are written on the walls of the stall? Usually don't want to be called no matter how bored you are.

Lessons from public restrooms, #2

Lesson #2
No matter how tempting the acoustics are in a tiled public restroom, and no matter how convinced you are that you are all alone, this is NOT the time or place to bust out your Mariah Carey impersonation. People will hear you and they will wait for you to come out and then they will applaud. But it won't be the kind of applause that makes you feel good.

So don't do it. Just saying.

Lesson #1
The people whose numbers are written on the walls of the stall? Usually don't want to be called no matter how bored you are.

Stuff and Nonsense

I want scratch and sniff stickers. I used to have a bunch of them. I mean, granted it was second and third grade, but I had a sticker collection with all kinds of cool stuff. I had holographic pink ballet slippers and a pretty shiny rainbow thingamabob. But the scratch and sniff were my favorite. I distinctly remember my pickle and root beer ones the most. Now, though? I wouldn't have the faintest idea where to find a smelly sticker. Maybe they went the way of Garbage Pail Kids and plastic charm bracelets. Maybe they were recalled for high levels of lead. Maybe kids just think they're dumb.

I've had a bunch of collections over the years, so let me share a little bit of my accumulated (pun intended) wisdom. Unless you really, REALLY love what you're collecting, NEVER tell anyone that you collect it. Not unless that's all you want to get for every gift-giving occasion for the rest of your life. Letting your penchant for a certain something out of the bag basically just hands everyone in your life an excuse to never think of what to buy you again. You like hummingbirds? Guess what you're going to get forever?

I know because in high school I really liked frogs. They were everywhere when I was growing up in Louisiana but there were none in California, where I moved. So I started collecting them, maybe as a homesick thing. Just cute little figurines, wooden or pewter or whatever. But then word got out and for years, that's all I got from friends and family, even when I outgrew the collection. I got a handmade frog quilt (still cool), a frog jewlery box, plastic frogs, frog shirts, a Buddha frog. It rained frogs in my life until I finally begged for mercy at the age of twenty-five. "Let's ALL move past the frogs. Please!"

My collections are much subtler now. I didn't even realize I was collecting in some cases until I sat and considered what I spend time acquiring. I collect books. Lots and lots of books. Hundreds in storage, dozens in my home. Slowly I'm beginning to build a subset of super cool books: I have an original edition of Huckleberry Finn (whoa!) and a SIGNED copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. I think I'd like to expand my collection but only with books that resonate with me emotionally, so I imagine that my pile will grow slowly. That's a particularly expensive habit.

It's better than some of my collections from years past, though. In fifth grade, I collected fingernails. Don't read on if you're easily grossed out. My fingernails grow really long, really fast. I keep them short now but for years they were super long and that was kind of my trademark. I'm talking an inch long, in many cases. And when my really long ones broke, I would keep them. I had spent a lonnnnng time with them as part of me, you know. I think in high school I finally figured out that it was a bizarre thing to do and they went in the trash. That particular quirk makes a cameo appearance in my recently completed novel, because heaven knows, you just can't make stuff like that up.

I've had other less disturbing collections, too. Buttons. Shoes. Empty Pringles cans (sour cream and onion). Red M&Ms. Wheat pennies. Foreign coins.

But as I grow older, I become less attached to things. What I like to pull out and dust off and admire now are memories, experiences, stories, adventures past. So that's the collection I aim to grow for the next seventy years. I expect I'll be rich indeed when I'm done.

*P.S. If you didn't collect your compliment on Saturday, you can pick it up below.

La, la, la, la, la...I can't hear you!

So bunches of people, maybe four-and-a-half, were kind of fascinated when I mentioned my parents were deaf. Apparently, it's bad form to drop that into a blog post about firemen ogling your underwear and not explain.

And so you guys wanted to know all about growing up with deaf parents.

Here's a list of weird stuff I do because my parents were deaf:

1. I flick the lights to get people's attention.

2. If you are in my way, instead of saying excuse me, I will just move you out of the way.

3. I usually forget to close my eyes during other people's prayers.

4. I just found out that my brother, sister and I are the only hearing people in America who say "food store" to refer to the grocery store. It's an ASL thing.

5. I have an overly expressive face. Gargoyle-ish, in fact.

So now you know. I didn't know this wasn't normal until I took a Deaf Culture class in college. Then I was embarrassed as years of strange looks from regular people registered and I understood things like that the way to get someone's attention is not to pound on a table. So now I know. And sometimes I remember. But mostly not.

An Adventure, In Which I Tell It Like It Is. Politely. Of course.

I must have cursed myself on Friday by talking about absurd things that happen at cultural events, because Saturday was just a riot of, "Are you kidding me?"-s, and a couple of, "Are you freakin' kidding me?"-s.

We went to see a Fall Dance showcase previewing the coming season at our local performing arts center. They get international acts and the variety and caliber of the dances was impressive. But seated right behind us ("us" being my husband and I, my brother and his girlfriend) were three little girls. Three very excited, very loud little girls in their fanciest Sunday dresses but without Sunday voices.

The chatter began as soon as the dancing did, and to be fair 1) the first piece was highly conceptual and pretty inaccessible for eight-year-olds, and 2) their talk was all about the dance, not Miley Cyrus or HSM or something. Still, it was distracting. Really distracting.

I shushed them a few times, and my husband who never does that, shushed them a couple of times, too. The thing is, I've decided I must be an auditory learner because I can't have any kind of meaningful noise going on while I'd doing something or I can't concentrate, i.e., I can't read and listen to music, I can't fall asleep to the TV, and I can't listen to kids talk during a modern dance interpretation of "the internal circular and aspects of bounce".

During the short intermission before the second company took the stage, we turned to see the culprits (not the kids. The parents who weren't shushing them) and figure out what the problem was. They appeared to be flanked by grandparents who didn't know what was going on. Kenny and I decided we would wait until the second act was over before addressing the problem, in case, you know....it magically improved by itself.

Second verse: same as the first. Chatter: shhh. Chatter: shhh.

Before we could say anything at the end of the act, the grandmother took her brood to the restroom and didn't make it back to be seated for the third act (a really cool African dance thing) that we enjoyed in blissful quiet. Except for the pounding drums and all. You know: the stuff you're supposed to hear?

During the intermission, the boys in our party disappeared and deciding to approach it the politest way I knew how, I walked over to the grandmother and had the following conversation:

Me: Hi. So I don't know if you can hear them or not, but your girls are pretty excited about the performance and they're talking to each other kind of loudly about it.

Her: Oh, really?

Me: Yeah. They're pretty cute, but we've shushed them a few times and I just wanted to let you know that we're probably going to do it again during the second act and we just didn't want you to think we were being mean.

Her: Well, I can't hear them at all.

Me: Tell you what, why don't you just pay us back for our tickets and I'll spend the rest of the night listening to them instead of the show?

Editor's note: That's not what happened. Please tell the real story.

Her: Well, I can't hear them at all.

Me: I figured you probably couldn't. It's just that we're right in front of them, so I guess I notice a little more.

Her: Well, it's probably because they can't see over you.

Me: (Confused because...what? That's relevant how? And because it's stadium seating and I'm 5'6" and Nadine is 5'0". In heels.) Oh, no problem. I can scrunch down. (I'm determined to kill her with kindness.)

Her: Besides, I think you have to expect that at something like this.

Me: I don't. (Feeling really proud of my immediate {polite} response and amused by her eyebrow shooting up, suggesting shock that I would contradict her).

Her: You don't? (In an offended sniff).

Me: I don't. I taught school for five years and I always trained my students to pay attention and be respectful of others during events like this. They get it. If you explain it to them.

Her: (Huffing) Well.

Me: Look, it's really not a big deal. I don't mind shushing them if they get a little loud and I'll just work out a little deal beforehand with them. I just didn't want you to think I was coming down on them.

I go sit down, my very proper British faux sister-in-law fuming over the line, "You have to expect that at something like this," which is rightfully blowing her mind.

Grandmother calls her minions over and scares the bejeezus out of them by telling them that they have made the lady in front of them VERY ANGRY. I sweetly disabuse them of that notion when they return, terrified, to their seats by complimenting their pretty dresses and making them laugh while I scrunch down to different heights in my seat so they can check the visibility to the stage. By the time the performance started, though, the grandmother made them switch seats and I didn't hear them talk again until the last act at which point it was my brother's job to shush them, anyway.

You know what the problem is with today's kids? Their parents. Or overly-coiffed, Dooney & Bourke-toting, ill-mannered grandmothers.

I don't think I could have been nicer. Was I wrong?

Seven comments to move on, y'all.

Mommy Badge of Honor

A few days ago, I posted about dumb things I did in public this weekend. I reached number six on my top ten list in one day, which made me sure I would stockpile incidents seven through ten in no time at all. I was kind of right.

I was standing in line for a workshop or a free book or food (okay, probably food), keeping my mouth shut and not scratching anything. My clothes were free of salad dressing, butter, and highlighter marks. I secured the area to ensure there was no water to knock over. I wasn't dumb enough to feel confident, but my nerves were settled. It would take a greater genius than me to create a minor disaster with nothing in arm's reach. Then again, I underestimated my own genius.

I heard a snicker behind me.

Don't think I'm paranoid when I tell you that snickering in my proximity is pretty much always about me. I could dedicate an entire blog to a detailed rundown of all the ways in which I have totally earned my snickers. So I looked around and found the girl behind me smothering a smile. Smarting from my humiliating Day Glo skin disorder of the day before, I didn't even try diplomacy. I turned fully and smiled. "Yes?" I asked politely. Meaning, "Bring it on."

"Nice band-aid," she said.

I didn't even have to look to find the new item on my List of Shame. I knew exactly what she was talking about. Let me set the scene: I was wearing my new Ann Taylor Loft skirt, knee-length and pencil cut with a cool abstract brown and yellow floral print. (Trust me, it sounds like baby puke but it was cute). I topped it with a cream shirt and a three quarter sleeve brown cardigan. I felt like I looked sharp. I also had my favorite brown wedge platform sandals on. Not bad for a mom who didn't sleep most of the night due to the fact that NO ONE IN SAN FRANCISCO EVER SLEEPS and and they had all hung out UNDER MY WINDOW the night before. I considered being at my conference on time in fairly unwrinkled clothes a victory.

But I had forgotten that my crop pants the day before hid the band-aid I stuck over an unsightly mosquito bite on my calf. The bright blue and yellow Spongebob band-aid. No, not bright. Make that screaming neon. Now totally exposed by my oh-so-chic skirt.

I will bet money that I was the only person in the San Francisco Marriott with a Spongebob bandaid on her calf. I bet everyone else has normal colored band-aids at their house. I bet no one forgets to buy the lovely flesh toned strips every time they go to the store.

I smiled weakly and almost turned around, ready to make it Number Seven on my downward spiral to a dubious top ten. But then I stopped. And I firmed up my smile. And I said, "I stole it from my kid."

And I was proud. Because that stupid Spongebob band-aid said clearly that I am a MOM. And so I wore it all day as a Mommy Badge of Honor.

I don't think I even want the fake skin ones now. Bring me your Scoobys, your Harry Potters and your Hot Wheels. They will find refuge on my calves!