My mom is cool.

It’s true.  I know I’m biased but others admit it, too.  In fact, Hubby has dubbed her “Yoda.”

Okay.  I know that doesn’t sound like a flattering nickname.  He doesn’t mean she physically resembles the space Muppet (other than being petite in stature, they share no other superficial traits).  However, Mom has that same cheerful wisdom and, like Yoda, imparts sage advice (but uses much better syntax).  I still call her when I need help sorting out a problem.

Also like Yoda she’s unflappable (yes, that gene skipped me).  I’ll never forget this one time when she was driving me home from middle school.  There was a storm brewing and as I hopped out of the car to open the garage door I noticed a white funnel cloud in the near distance. 

“Mom!  Mom!  T-t-t-tornado!”  I said, pointing.

She calmly parked the car, got out, looked at it and said in a completely normal tone, “Oh yes.  I see.  Let’s go tell your brother and sister to get in the hallway.”  (Our bad weather drill.)

That’s mom.  Always composed – even in the face of impending disaster.  (And it wasn’t, by the way.  The twister did cause lots of damage in the area but we were spared.)

Also like Yoda you don’t want to cross my mom.  She ain’t no pushover. 

You know that scene in Attack of the Clones when Yoda goes all Jedi on Dooku?  I’ve seen that look in my mom’s eye.  Just because she’s cute and cheerful doesn’t mean you can mess with my mama.  Try it and you’ll be in sizzling pieces before you know it!

So HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY to my beautiful, talented, and very wise Mommy!

Sure we bake cookies (or at least buy them with doubled coupons), read bedtime stories (skipping one or two pages for time’s sake – and for better plot flow), kiss boo-boos (Neosporin ointment doesn’t sting and easily fits in a purse, glove box, or computer case), and give good advice (such as “Medium-tones hide dust and dirt better than lighter or darker ones,” and “Kids eat free at Elsi’s on Monday – and happy hour lasts till seven!”), but today I’d like to discuss the lesser-known abilities – superpowers, really – that all moms have:

Moms are good for family budgets and the environment.  We eat our kids’ leftovers.  We put scraps of paper in the arts and crafts box.  We recognize that an empty cardboard six-pack carrier makes a handy tote for cleaning products.

Mothers have the ability to do things others apparently can’t—like refill ice cube trays, close cabinet doors, and put new rolls of paper towels and toilet paper on their dispensers. 

Moms are like super spies. Everyone knows they have powers of sight that extend beyond their range of vision.  But they also hide medicine inside desserts, have amazing negotiating skills, and go by several names.  In my case I’ve gone from being known as “Mommy” to “Mom” to “Mo-o-om!” to the very simple huffing-noise-plus-eye-roll.

Moms have specific skills with numbers.  Not all mothers can do advanced calculus, but they never forget shoe sizes, the going retail price of Goldfish crackers, best friends’ birthdays, or the number of poopy diapers in the last 24-hours.

Mothers are all brilliant scientists.  They can identify strange gooey substances by sight, calculate trajectory in time to catch a falling vase (or kid), and invent ways to hold shoes together until the next paycheck.

Moms are extremely good communicators.  They can impart in a single expression what poets and speechwriters would need hundreds of pages to convey.  (I have one called “the face that launched a thousand chores.”)  In addition, moms can translate baby talk and body language, tell a “good” shriek from a “call 9-1-1” shriek (see previous post), and can say things like “Stop putting oatmeal on your sister’s head” without sounding silly.

Mothers’ powers sometimes also cross into the paranormal.  Yes, it’s true.  Mothers can read minds.  They can detect deception from a mere blink or a change in pitch or a particular shifting of the eyes.  Often they can sense an accident before it happens. 

And you know that universal mother’s prophecy?  The just-wait-till-you-have-kids-of-your-own-and-they-treat-you-this-way decree?

It always ALWAYS comes true!

It’s the week before Mother’s Day, so what better time to share one of my own, very recent, Adventures in Motherhood …

Yesterday was get-things-done day.  My family hates those days.  I spent the morning doing eight simultaneous chores and delegating smaller tasks to the kids.  The good news is that we finished almost everything on the to-do list.  The bad news – well, I’ll get to the bad news in a second.

After an easy warm-in-the-microwave meal (I didn’t want to mess up a clean kitchen), we had fun time.  I urged the kids to play outside.  This was for several reasons: a) they’d been inside most of the day and needed fresh air, b) bad weather was coming and it was going to be their last chance to enjoy sunshine for a while, c) I didn’t want them to mess up the freshly tidied-up front rooms, and d) I felt I deserved some peace and quiet for myself.

They complied.  I watched for a while as they ran around with the dog, laughing and shouting.  It was a good old-fashioned joyous romp.  A virtual Norman Rockwell painting.  Satisfied, I poured myself a glass of water and sat down at the computer.

I had just started a game of electronic Mah-Jongg when I heard the Girl shriek.  It was the type of scream that kick-starts your instincts -- where your body reacts before your mind does.  I was out of the chair and halfway to the backdoor before I could even form panicked thoughts.

I flew outside and saw the Boy helping his sister to her feet.  Apparently, as they were frolicking gaily, the Girl’s foot hit a twig which rolled and threw her off balance.  She fell backward and clonked her head on the ONLY square foot of concrete around (a tiny section in front of the tool shed).

She was crying and yelling and clutching her head.  Then suddenly she said, “I think I’m going to throw up.”  Big warning sign.  Even worse, she seemed a little spacey, and she couldn’t recall how she got hurt.  When she couldn’t remember having eaten dinner an hour earlier, I was thoroughly freaked.  So I helped Baby Girl into the car and drove her to the ER.

On the way I kept watching her in the rearview mirror.  She wasn’t crying anymore, but she still had that disoriented look on her face.  After a while, I noticed her eyelids droop and her head start to loll sideways.  Going on some half-retained, mostly Hollywood-induced recollection that people with head injuries must stay awake, I started to shout at her.  “Don’t go to sleep!” I hollered.  Not wanting to scare her, I blurted, “Let’s play a game!  Look for a bright yellow car!  Yellow cars are rare.  And lucky!  If you see one, you can make a wish!”  That did it.  She sat up straight and began scanning the highway.

A few minutes later, we arrived at the hospital.  As we walked toward the entrance, the vomiting started.  Poor girl.  And because her ditzy mom parked on the wrong side of the building, we had to navigate a maze of hallways before we finally reached the Emergency Room.

ERs are never the way they’re portrayed on TV.  There was no urgent racing around, no shouting, no percussion-heavy background music.  The workers seemed pretty matter-of-fact, actually, and the whole place had a lazy day-by-day pace about it.

Our doctor (who looked nothing like George Clooney) was very nice and thorough.  After examining her, he suggested we wait there for a couple hours’ observation.  Then, if she still didn’t seem like herself, we could opt for a CAT scan.  Her skull seemed fine and her pupils were even and responsive, but her vomiting and amnesia worried him.

As he talked, I heard a sniffle behind me and turned to find the Girl crying softly.  “Hey there,” the doc said to her.  “Did you hear me say something that scared you?” She nodded.  “Am I going to forget all my friends?” she asked.  I just about melted onto the sanitized vinyl floor.  The doc told her that she would be absolutely fine and that they would take very good care of her.

So we hung around and listened to the sounds of the ER.  The squeaky wheels of passing gurneys, beeps of varying pitch and rhythm, the occasional distant ring of a phone … After a while the Girl nodded off – which they assured me was okay.  When she awoke she seemed like herself.  She even remembered the accident and what we had for dinner.  Dr. Nice Guy returned and after another comprehensive check, declared she was free to go.  One hour and several thousand signatures later, we headed for home.

On our way out the nurse gave us a list of instructions from the doctor – a stapled stack of papers that said what the diagnosis was, what was done for treatment, what symptoms I should be alert for, and, by the way, if I smoke I should stop, immunization is important, seat belts save lives, and no one should have to put up with abuse. 

Last night I woke the girl up every two hours, per doctor’s directives.  I thought I’d have to set the alarm, but I didn’t.  I couldn’t really sleep, and when I did drift off I had harsh, tension-filled dreams.  Today the Girl is home from school recuperating, and I am taking it easy myself.

She’s happy, chatty and headache-free.  Meanwhile, I’m battling guilt, frustration, and occasional moments of sheer panic – classic signs of Post Traumatic Taking-Your-Kid-to-the-Hospital Disorder.  I just can’t help reliving events and questioning my choices every step of the way.

“Know what, Mom?” the Girl said as she ate her cereal this morning.  “I learned something yesterday.”

“You did?  What?”

“I never knew that yellow cars were lucky.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her I made it up.  Besides, who says wishes can’t come true?

Mine sure did.

Cynthia Leitich Smith recently “tagged” me in a meme.  According to the assignment I need to list “15 weird, random things, facts, habits or goals” about myself.

My first thought was, “Fifteen?!  Even I’m not that weird and random.”  But after a couple of days of consideration I managed to put together some assorted tidbits.  It’s a sordid little portrait of me, but true.

Enjoy!

1.)  Most people are surprised to discover that I lived in Alaska for about half of my childhood.  My dad was stationed there with the army, so Anchorage was my home from age one through eight.  My sister and brother were born there.  They don’t remember much, but I have several vivid memories—especially of the outdoors.  The mountains, the tall pines, the snow, the daylight at night, the dusky dark in the mid-afternoons, the wild moose wandering into our yard to eat our garden …. I would love to go back someday and see it now, through grown-up eyes.

2.) I’m a huge Beatle fan.  One of the first songs I ever learned was “Yellow Submarine,” which I apparently loved to warble as a toddler while taking a bath.  And, in a way, the Beatles introduced me to my oldest, dearest pal, Christy (to whom How NOT to Be Popular is dedicated).  We were eleven years old and we were both hiding out in the restroom of our church because we didn’t want to go to class, but neither knew the other was there.  To help pass the time I started singing “I Should Have Known Better.”  As soon as I finished the fade out lyrics I heard a voice in the next stall say, “You like the Beatles, too?”  And that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

 

3.)  I fiddle with my hair whenever I’m deep in thought.  I’m just twitchy that way.  I was born with bonus energy so if you ever see me completely still for several minutes, call EMS.  Seriously, I even squirm a bit in my sleep (poor Hubby).  The hair-thing has been a habit since … well, since I got hair.  Before that I apparently sucked my thumb and slid my fingers along the satin trim of my “blankie.”  I don’t even realize it when I’m doing it.  And when I’m in seriously deep thought, I’ll sometimes have both hands going at once.  We used to joke that I was trying to warm up my brain cells that way.  Growing up I’d be sitting on the couch reading or writing, hair all a-twirl, and my dad would walk by and say, “There’s Jenny, priming the pump.”

4.)  I’ve had several minor brushes with fame throughout my years, but one of the most memorable was meeting 60’s rock god Arthur Brown while I was in college.  Although he hadn't been popular since the time I was born—or maybe before—I was familiar with his “Crazy World of Arthur Brown” album and had seen footage of his wild stage act.  Then one day I noticed the skinny, shaggy-haired, crazy rocker himself in line right in front of me at Captain Quackenbush’s coffeehouse.  It was funny to see the self-styled “God of Hellfire” shuffle up to the counter and say in a soft Yorkshire accent, “Could I have a cup of Earl Gray tea, please?”  


 

5.)  I’m a pretty awesome doodler.  I can do geometric designs as well as girly stuff, like roses and hearts and kitty-cats.  As I mentioned in my #3 random fact, I’m a little fidgety.  So if I’m not twirling hair or tapping my foot, I’m usually illustrating empty margins, junk mail, or the blank spaces of the phone book cover.

6.)  I’m a rock hound.  Yeppers.  I was one of those kids who wandered about looking down all that time.  My Aunt Liz likes to talk about the day she took me out to the Alaskan countryside to find wildflowers for our landscaping.  I dug up two pretty flowers and then promptly killed them by tossing a bunch of beautiful rocks into the bucket.  I still do that when I go someplace new: find a few interesting rocks and bring them home as souvenirs.  And I’ve managed to put together a pretty cool collection, including fossils, geodes, arrowheads, etc.  (Flowers I’m still not too good with.)

7.)  I love Looney Tunes cartoons!  My sister and I would wake up early every Saturday to watch the “Bugs Bunny Road Runner Hour” and sometimes we would tape episodes to watch later.  Thus, I can quote entire cartoons.  I can even sing songs that Bugs sang in the classic eps.  Anyone remember which cartoon this one was in?  Bugs Bunny came to Martinique/ When he arrived he was pretty weak/ His knees looked like they were buckling/ His tribulations caused by a pen-gu-in/ They built a boat in which they could leave/ He hoped that fickle Fate had nothing up her sleeve/ If he should accomplish this daring thing/ A miracle to Martinique Bugsy bring!

8.)  I’m quite the bad punster—as regular readers of my blog will attest.  Not only that but I am an annoying jokester overall.  Whenever Hubby says, “I’m gonna jump in the shower,” I have to say, “Don’t do that.  You could slip and fall.”  Or when a pal mentions that she’s going to “run to the store,” I quip, “That’s a long way.  You should drive instead.”  And Hubby especially hates it when he tells me something like, “Remind me I need to turn in that movie,” and I immediately say, “You have to turn in that movie.”  He’s learning, though.  Now he phrases it this way: “Remind me LATER that I have to turn in that movie.”
 

9.)  In addition to groan-inducing witticisms, I also make lists.  Lots of them.  Usually I have several going at once.  I have my to-do list for the day, another for the week, and another for the things I want to accomplish by a certain date (say, before I start on a book or before someone comes to visit, etc.).  I also have lists of books I want to read, books I want the kids to read, movies I want to see, and stuff I want to find on sale for the house.  Then there’s my Overall Goals for the Immediate Future.  This list is semi-permanent and changes only when my priorities reshift or I (yes, really) accomplish something on it.  At present, it includes such objectives as coming up with a better housecleaning strategy to attempting to write a screenplay.

10.)  I once made the New York Times’ Bestseller List.  Swear to god honest.  On November 3, 2002, I made it to number ten on Children’s Paperbacks.  It was for a mass market prequel novel based on the TV show “Alias.”  The story was called Alias: Recruited and was published under my pen name Lynn Mason.  The show wasn’t a huge hit yet when I signed the contract to write the origin story, but my editor had a sixth sense about such things.  When the book was published, there was a huge signing and release party at a store in Los Angeles—except I wasn’t invited.  Only the main cast and the show’s creator, J.J. Abrams, were on hand to sign books.  I mean, I get it.  No one would have wanted my signature.  And the book’s success was due more to J.J.’s characters and Jennifer Garner’s pouty lips than my skills as a writer.  But it’s kind of like one of those philosophical riddles:  if you write a successful book but no one knows about it, does it still count?

11.)  I’m double-jointed.  Basically my limbs are hyper-flexible.  Since I’m not employed by a circus, this does not seem to help me in life that much.  But the meme said “random” and “weird” facts, so … there you go.

12.)  I was once almost involved in an international incident while driving with pals through East Germany (back before reunification).  And that’s all I’m going to say about it.  Sorry. 

13.)  As a child I had a make-believe pal named Archie.  I don’t really remember it.  Probably just your typical lonely first-born with an overactive imagination.  But when I think about it now, I’m mainly struck by the name.  Archie?  Where’d that come from?

14.)  The meme mentioned goals, so here’s one:  I used to want to be featured on either “Space Ghost Coast to Coast” or “The Simpson’s,” but lately my dream is to be interviewed by Terry Gross on “Fresh Air.”  I just love her program so much!  These days hosts of interview shows make it all about them.  Usually it’s a comedy act with only a few questions thrown in (typically rehearsed, and designed more for entertainment than actual information).  Terry, however, is old school.  It’s her show, but she completely focuses on her subject—and gets the most interesting nuggets out of them.  Whether it’s an author, politician, filmmaker, musician, historian, whatever, she always manages to extract the most significant facts along with several thought-provoking tales.   Right now my interview with her wouldn’t be that fascinating. “So you write books for teens?”  “Yep.”  “And I hear you can quote Bugs Bunny?” “Yep.”  “Great.  So … thanks for stopping by!”  But one of these days I will do something to merit being asked onto her show (this is me being all positive).

15.)  Okay, I’ll leave you with the weirdest one of all.  My childhood home was on a half-acre lot in an old section of Round Rock, Texas.  That’s not the weird part.  Stay with me.  The lot sloped down to a small creek and there was a large brushy section off in one direction.  Growing up, we ran into all sorts of wild animals:  foxes, coyotes, heron, owls, tortoises, water moccasins, frogs, possums, and … one animal we couldn’t identify.  It looked like a cross between a pig and a dog.  It had a blunted snout like a pig and had flesh-colored hide instead of fur.  But otherwise it looked and moved like a dog.  I was the first to see it, and for months everyone teased me relentlessly about seeing a “Pig-Dog.”  Then my sister saw it.  Then my dad.  Finally Mom saw it, too.  One day (my sis and I didn’t live there anymore at this point) Pig-Dog came and sat underneath one of the live oaks at the far end of our lot.  Dad called animal control and told them the “Pig-Dog” was there.  I’m sure they thought he was a nutcase until they showed up and saw it through the binoculars.  “What is it?” my dad asked.  “I have no idea,” the animal control officer said.  They tried to catch it, but he got away.  A year later my parents moved.  I have no idea what happened to Pig-Dog—he conveyed with the property—but I would love to someday figure out what he was.

So now I will spread this contagion to other (and I’m sure far less weird) blogger pals.  These are all people I want to get to know better:

Mike Guentzel at Guentzel.org

Debbi at One Writer’s Journey

Kim at One Over-Caffeinated Mom

Little Willow at Slayground

and the mild-mannered high school librarian at lit_mischief

Thanks for playing!

As per usual, Hubby and I went to Selene’s house to join up with her, Mr. Selene and Pamela for the Annual Oscar Watch.  And as per usual, she had a scrumptious and hilarious spread.  Here is the menu, verbatim:

For your snacking pleasure:

There Will Be Blood …Olive OIL and garlic

Michael Clayton … French bread

No Country for Old Men … Powdered sugar and fruit (they were out of Geritol)

Sweeney Todd … Meat Pies (3 flavors: vicar, poet, and president)

For your drinking pleasure:

Eastern Promises … Vodka

La Vie en Rose … Red wine

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly … Water

Inside your Bag of Swag:

Juno … Orange Tic-Tacs

Atonement … Hershey Bars

We were so glad there was actually an awards ceremony instead of an excruciating Billy Bush newscast a la the 2008 Golden Globes.  Of course, the writers got working on it a little late which left it lacking in parts.  But more on that later …

FASHION REPORT

What was with all the red dresses and the I’m-not-wearing-makeup makeup?  Looked as if everyone was headed to a fancy Christmas picnic.  After scarlet gown number twelve, I found Rebecca Miller’s eccentric grandma-of-the-bride ensemble positively refreshing.  Poor bland Cameron Diaz (and …why was she there?) resembled a ten-year-old playing dress-up.  And I love Tilda Swinton—I do, I do, I do.  Only last night it seemed like she’d just popped over after performing with Mummenschanz.  But hey, at least she had color, having apparently poured tangerine nail polish on her hair.

Best dressed:  For the women?  Cate Blanchett in pregnant plum.  Marion “I’m not really ugly” Cotillard in freshly skinned mermaid.  Saoirse Ronan looking lovely in her leprechaun green.  For the hombres?  Javier Bardem, George Clooney and Viggo Mortensen produced the heaviest sighs in my bosom.  Johnny Depp always tries to hide his pretty features behind bangs, beards and Buddy Holly glasses, but this year several other men sported whiskers or goatees or extra-long sideburns.  Personal confession here:  I find stubble sexy.  Don’t know why, I just do.  So it was nice to see the guys look as if they’d slipped into tuxes after spending the afternoon chopping wood.

2007 FILM THEMES

I don’t know what Wolfgang served at the Governor’s Ball, but some sort of crepes, champagne, and chocolate éclairs would have been appropriate.  France was the flavor du jour for movies in 2007.  Think about it.  We had Paris, Je T'aime, Two Days in Paris, and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.  Even Atonement was partially set in France.  Marion Cotillard disguised her dewy beauty to play Edith Piaf in La Vie en Rose and won!  I personally didn’t like the film (why must all biopics be an endless stream of every tragic moment in the subjects’ lives, without giving us quiet time to get to know them as people?), but her performance was enthralling.

Another French-themed film that I enjoyed this past year was Broken English, with the always amazing Parker Posey.  Why was her performance overlooked?  It wasn’t a perfect film, but it was a chick flick in the best sense.  She perfectly captured the character of a single woman caught in a lonely rut—grappling with feelings of abandonment after the death of her loving father, her shameful envy of happily married friends, and the injustice of having to constantly validate her solitary situation.  I ached for her.

I suppose Parker Posey is just too offbeat for the Academy, and that she will continue to be underappreciated until she plays a famous musician/activist/scientist/ ruler of a Western nation who overcomes drug addiction/mental illness/physical deformity/the ravages of war in a “heartfelt drama about the triumph of the human condition.”

Ah, but I ramble and froth.  Back to themes …

The only other motif I spotted in last year’s films (besides France and homicidal mania) were movies with numbers in the titles (3:10 to Yuma; 12:08 East of Bucharest; 4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days; 2 Days in Paris; 28 Weeks Later; 27 Dresses; 12; 30 Days of Night; 300; The Nines).  I’m not exactly sure what that signifies, but I thought it worth mentioning.  At least Once.  (Ar, ar.)

OSCAR QUIBLETS

Because of the writers’ strike, this year’s ceremony could have been more stripped down, classy and heartfelt than in the past.  The Academy could have taken all the minutes they waste on lame banter or comedic stunts and given them directly to the winners.  In short, they could have allowed the little people (including the once-again employed writers) a chance to give their entire acceptance speeches for a change.

Am I the only person in this country who wants to hear what these sound mixers and costumers and directors of short, barely-to-be-seen films have to say?  Instead of thanking agents and publicists, these winners give tearful shout-outs to friends who lent them money for their documentary … or to buddies who let them crash on their sofas while they completed voice-over work on their animated short … or to long-suffering spouses who are seeing a red carpet event for the very first time.  These are the people who make film because they truly love it.  To me they are more deserving, rather than less so.  Would it hurt us to give them the same glory we lavish on movie stars?

Selene was reminiscing about the good old days, when the preshow simply involved watching the stars parade down the red carpet in their fancy duds.  No one was assaulted by an overly botoxed babe wanting to know if it was “hard to play a bad guy.”  Back then viewers could dish the dirt in the privacy of their own home.  There were no online comments, no style-meters, and no reporters on the roof of the pavilion telling you via live TV who looked fabulous and who made fashion boo-boos.

Well, apparently the Academy was also reminiscing.  So much so that they had to precede every award with a *&%$# montage!  I’m sure they meant for us to swell with nostalgia, laugh at the silly outfits of yesteryear, and sniffle to see dear departed Oscar winners.  But to me all it said was, See?  See how we screwed it up in the past? Schmaltzy Dances with Wolves won!  John Cameron won and gave the worst thank-you speech in history!  Cuba Gooding brought people to their feet … and got D-listed the minute he left the auditorium! 

We can only hope that next year the film editors go on strike.

I hardly ever like the set.  This year the Oscar stage looked as if the Queer Eye guys made over Fritz Lang’s Metropolis.  It was Dr. Frankenstein’s lab goes modern loft.  What, exactly, was that space-age tube thang?  Was it some sort of chute that sucked presenters out of their seats and onto the stage?  At any moment I kept expecting some Spinal Tap-esque faux pas.  Poor Martin Scorsese stuck in mid-pipe, cursing his New York best while pounding his fists against the designer PVC.  Thankfully, other than Colin Farrell skating into the podium, there were no dangerous slip-ups.

Oh, the Disney Horror.  Why were there THREE nominated songs from Enchanted, but only one from Once?  It should have been the other way around!  Pamela astutely pointed out that Disney is probably working on a stage show version of Enchanted, which is why they were all set with the schlocky dance numbers.  The music was dull, the choreography was charmless, the costumes were pointless.  Even the singers didn’t seem to want to be there.  (Speaking of … None of us could identify the guy in the Swiss dot suit.  Was he an actual performer?  Or some animatronic contraption from one of the theme parks?) 

OSCAR HIGH POINTS

Jon Stewart was spot on.  His jokes were clever and current, his monologue wasn’t too long or showy, and he seemed genuinely thrilled to be there.  And I wanted to hug him when he brought out Marketa Irglova to give her acceptance speech after she’d been pompously played offstage by the orchestra.

It was also refreshing to see a Hollywood “It” Girl admit to being a mere mortal.  When Katherine Heigl stepped out in her (you got it) red dress to present an award, she preceded with an apology and said she was nervous.  Aww! 

Favorite winners?  So glad Glen and Marketa won—especially after the absurd extravagance of the Disney numbers.  Thrilled for Javier and his adorable mamacita.  But overall, there were so many deserving nominees this year, it almost didn’t matter who went home with the butt-naked statue.

What a night.  Who needs to ooze into a silk gown and nibble on smoked salmon mini pizzas when you have friends like Selene?  I got silly on red wine, stuffed my face with cheese and chocolate, made snide comments, and thoroughly enjoyed myself. 

I’m just sorry I didn’t film the festivities or I’d make you a montage.

I am often asked advice on getting published or finding an agent or how to understand the literary market in general.  I’m happy to help as best as I can, but I’m actually not the best resource – being the new kid and all.

Who is the best resource, you ask?  That I can help you with.  It is none other than my pal Cynthia Leitich Smith, the patron saint of children’s and young adult lit! 

Not only is Cynthia an accomplished author and all-around beautiful person, she is also an unofficial “tour guide” or “envoy” between those in the literary know, and those of us orbiting the periphery.  If you haven’t already, you MUST check out her blog Cynsations.  It is a magical place where several of your questions about the world of publishing are answered.  Her posts feature writers, editors and agents, contest details, and information about new releases.  In addition, she has links galore!

This week Cyn has launched the SCBWI Bologna 2008 series: 32 in-depth interviews that will forever demystify the inner workings of children’s publishing – featuring agents, publishers, authors and illustrators from the U.S. and across the globe.

So if writing is your thing (or even if it isn’t) hop on over to her blog these next few weeks.  You’ll be amazed at what you learn.

All hail Cyn!  Thank you, girl, for lighting our way!

My daughter’s best friend came over the other afternoon.  These girls have been super close since their diaper days, so whenever they get together they automatically launch into complicated pretend play.  Some of their made-up characters are a couple of years old, in fact.  As you can imagine, it is quite something to behold.

Here are some gems I overheard on this recent play date:  
(Note: I can’t explain the context.  Your guess is as good as mine.  I only know that they were playing with their stuffed Webkinz animals.  And I think our living room had become a “vet’s office.”)

“Pretend I’m a midget and I don’t feel well.”

“PAUSE THE GAME!  I can’t find the magic thermometer!”

“What’s a reindeer gotta do to get some respect around here?”

Girl #1:  “Pretend he needs a CAT scan.”

Girl #2:  “But he’s a dog!”

It was after this last exchange that I could no longer contain my laughter.  Once they heard my guffaws, they picked up the toys and moved to her room.

Ah, to be able to let loose with your imagination like that.  That’s the true magic of childhood, is it not?

Here are more pix of the book launch/ "unpopular" party at Book People.  Remember that clicking twice on the photos make them bigger and prettier.

Some views of the crowd:





Here's a shot of Mandy B., Book People person extraordinaire, who was such a huge help.  Love her hat.



My high school pals Sharon, Melissa and their friend Sandra (who married a high school pal) showed up to support me!



My lovely pal Lisa talking with me in the signing line:



My buddy John looking way too hip and cool to be near me:



Here's my high school friend Mike and his beautiful daughter Kayla:



Me laughing at ... something.  I can't remember what.



Me trying to channel Mary Tyler Moore:



In conclusion, I would like to leave you with a quote from those modern-day philosophers, Spinal Tap:

Marty DiBergi: Do you feel that playing rock 'n' roll music keeps you a child? That is, keeps you in a state of arrested development?
Derek Smalls: No. No. No. I feel it's like, it's more like going, going to a, a national park or something. And there's, you know, they preserve the moose. And that's, that's my childhood up there on stage. That moose, you know.
Marty DiBergi: So when you're playing you feel like a preserved moose on stage?
Derek Smalls: Yeah.

Couldn’t have said it better.  Writing Y/A books makes me feel a little like a preserved animal … with arrested development.

**(Thanks to Mike, Sharon and Book People for some of the photos!)

If you were going to hold an ANTI-POPULAR party, what would you do?  How about holding it at a bookstore?  Perhaps instead of junk food and a big keg you set out a fruit and cheese platter and some pigs-in-a-blanket?  Rather than cranking up some rock music or hiring a garage band, you get a weird girl to stand up and read aloud?  And to top it all off, you ask people to dress dorky, wacky or just plain wrong?

Guess what?  If you do all that, you’ll have an amazing time!

On Saturday I hosted an official “unpopular” party/costume contest at Book People to help launch my latest novel.  It was great, giddy fun.  Around 75 family members, friends, and friends-yet-to-be-met gathered to hear me speak, read, answer questions, and look dorky in my unfashionable ensemble:

You can’t see the bottom half of me, so picture purple, polka-dotted leggings and speckled galoshes.  I have to say, I loved those boots!  We truly bonded that evening.  Normally when I give presentations I’m teetering on heels, but this time I was comfy and stable.  Of course, I walked like a lumberjack, but when frump-town is your overall look it really doesn’t matter.

In a way, it felt like my wedding (only Hubby wasn’t up there beside me and I was dressed waaaaay uglier).  Since this was a hometown crowd, I’d look out and see people I know from different sections of my life all shuffled together in the seats, smiling and rooting for me as they witness this important event in my life.

We held the official costume judging at the end.  Kathie Sever of Ramonster and Kayci Wheatley of Moxie and the Compound were our fabulous celebrity judges.  They organized a fashion show of sorts and chose the most creative anti-fashion ensemble based on applause.  The winner was my wacky-wonderful pal Selene!  She won a set of mullet magnets, a “Keep Austin Weird” bumper sticker, and a gift certificate to Book People. 

For some reason, I don’t have a pic of her hilarious outfit!  Augh!  I will try to find one.  In the meantime please picture an adorable spunky gal in a pair of mismatched checked pajamas, slippers, rain cap and bright blue eyeshadow.  And a single braid in the front of her head tied off with a huge bow.  Other creative runners-up sported various geek-wear, ski clothes, pink pajamas, shoes on their heads, 1970s-themed attire, and a Star Trek uniform (hubby).

Book People took good care of me.  Nothing was beyond their superpowers.  All evening they were busy organizing, promoting, author wrangling, bartending, directing traffic, and being their pleasant, helpful selves.  A big special thank you goes out to Mandy Brooks for all of her hard work.

When it was over Hubby and I packed up, bought a few books, and clowned around outside the store underneath the marquee.  This photo captures my Spinal Tap moment.  Notice I get second billing to “Puppet Show”:

I like to think this is because it’s listed in chronological order and not necessarily order of importance.  However, next time I’ll aim for an exclamation point of my own.

Thank you to everyone who took part in my silly party!  You truly made me feel “popular.”

**(Now that I know how to do hyperlinks, I go a little nutty with it – no?)

Today I am featured in the book section of the local paper. 

This is the first time the hometown news has shined its ever-lovin’ light on me.  When I got the call that they wanted to do this, I was, of course, thrilled.  But it felt slightly surreal, too.  As if for a change I was a character in a story.

It’s an almost poetic turn of events.  I used to freelance for that paper.  When the real reporters would go home for the day, I’d get on one of the VDTs and input my stuff along with the other “special to the Austin American-Statesman” writers.  Now I kinda do feel “special” to the Statesman.

The interview took place last Sunday.  The paper’s book editor, Jeff Salamon, was very nice about having to meet me over the weekend – especially since he has a new baby at home.  (It was going to be Monday, but then we found out about the funeral.)

Jeff let me choose the spot.  This was surprisingly nerve-wracking since I don’t get out a whole lot.  I knew I didn’t want it to be at my house.  Otherwise he might close quotes with “…she described in between shouts at her son to get off the X-box.”  Or he might set the scene with too much accurate detail, referencing the basket of yet-to-be-folded laundry or the sticky stain that no cleaning substance known to man can remove from the dinner table.

I considered my favorite quaint little coffee shops, but worried we might not find a table to ourselves.  I then mulled over all the restaurants I frequent, but most of them were also too small or too noisy or not yet open on a Sunday morning.  Finally, I decided on Central Market Café.  “Which one?” he wrote back.   I’d had no idea there was another, southern location.  (As I mentioned, I don’t get out much.)  “The truly ‘central’ one,” I wrote back.

So it was all set.  I wasn’t too nervous, mainly because I was busy preparing for our out-of-town trip.  But I have to admit to some minor, irrational fears.  Mainly I was afraid I wouldn’t seem bookish enough.  Jeff and I had emailed each other several times and his messages were always pleasant and witty.  Still, I couldn’t help picturing him as a fast-talking super intellectual who might toss out some question on Dante or Voltaire or the different incarnations of Faust in the Western canon.  Then I’d mumble a reply referencing Harry Potter and Bugs Bunny cartoons, exposing myself as a pop culture-addicted charlatan.

The day finally came, and by that point I’d reined in my overly hyper imagination and was simply looking forward to it.  Only Fate decided to play with me some more….

That weekend allergies slammed me hard.  I woke up on Sunday with a puffy face and  throbbing head.  To make things worse, I’d sneezed really hard the night before and bit my tongue, making it swell.  Anytime I talked at length I’d start lisping like Walter Brennan.  I took allergy medication, but it didn’t work.  Thus, by the time I drove to Central Market, I was sleepy, sneezy, dopey and slightly grumpy – more than half the Seven Dwarves.

Somehow, though, it all turned out okay.  Jeff was very charming and easy to talk to.  When we weren’t discussing me, we talked about our kids, our career paths, and our favorite Austin hangouts.  He even shared an adorable story about how he met his wife.  He also didn’t seem to mind that after several minutes my words began to slur and my voice took on a Carol Channing-esque quality.  Even so, I felt compelled to explain the tongue-chomping incident – just so he wouldn’t assume I was drunk by 11 a.m. on a Sunday.

So this morning I snatched the paper from the driveway – as usual.  I opened it up and pulled out the Life & Arts section – as usual.  But instead of starting on the crossword or sudoku puzzle, I scanned the pages for me.  When I found the article, I ran like a little girl to a back room and shut all the doors.  Then I sat down to read.

It’s strange reading someone else’s take on you and your life.  In this case, however, it was an entirely positive experience.  Jeff “got” me.  He made my personal story seem interesting.  He even managed to find quotes that didn’t ramble too much.  Such is his talent.

The photo I could have done without.  I felt a little stupid when he pulled out the camera at the end of the interview.  I should have known there’d be pictures.  If I’d thought of it beforehand, I would have … I don’t know.  Done something.  Hired a body double.  Or asked my friends Diane and Gina to wait in the wings and gussy me up when the time came.  I should have at least pleaded with him to explain my cedar fever in the caption.  But hey.  Who expects authors to look like supermodels?

So that’s my adventure in media-land.  I showed.  I lisped.  I enjoyed myself.  I’m extremely pleased with the outcome and the attention it will bring to my new book.  Don’t think Letterman will be calling anytime soon, but I’m ready if he does.  (Got some non-drowsy allergy pills!)

For now, though, it’s back to work and back to life.  The real story must go on.