Friday I was on a conference call when someone asked me about my availability on a certain date and when I looked around I couldn’t find my phone. I was sitting in front of my laptop but I have a far easier time visualizing whole weeks and months on the calendar on my phone, so I got up and furiously started re-tracing my steps while trying to concentrate on what that person was detailing. And it wasn’t downstairs on my desk, and it wasn’t back upstairs in the kitchen and it wasn’t near my laptop, and right before I asked, “Can you hold on one second, I misplaced the device on which I am having this conversation with you?” I sat down, took a deep breath, and quietly scribbled a note, “Title of next book: ‘Getting Older Means Slowly Turning into Your Ex-Husband’.”
I am allowed to joke about that. Because if he read it he would laugh to himself, rub his hands together like Mr. Burns, and know that his evil plan was complete.
Also, concerning that conference call… CANADIANS! There might be some good news coming your way. Might. Maybe. I announced last week that I’m going to send signed and personalized bookplates to those of you who pre-order the book and can’t make it to one of the tour dates (see details here and here). Sadly, they can’t ship these internationally so it has to be a US address. I warned them that Canadians would most likely be very politely yet understandably upset. And many of you were, very politely as I had predicted you would be, so I am trying to figure out some way to show appreciation for the support you’ve shown me over the years. If this pans out like I hope it does (there are a few components to this), I will be really, really happy about it. So happy that when you say “process” or “about” I promise I won’t pretend I didn’t hear you and ask you to repeat yourself ten times.
Everything leading up to the publication of the book started like a freight train last week—this does not include the months and months and months of editing I did on this thing, and I have no doubt that somewhere in his eventual obituary my editor will have a bullet point under his list of many hobbies that says, “Made that mommy blogger endure a laughably ridiculous amount of edits and loved every minute of it”—so I’m trying to stay as healthy and rested as possible before its release. This started with a colonoscopy and a hot Chilean gastroenterologist last month, and then last week that hot Chilean gastroenterologist had to see me for a certain highly embarrassing followup procedure, the details of which I will not ever get into. I will only say that because of it my google search history is all sorts of fucked up and if law enforcement connected the dots in the wrong order I’m sure they’d arrest me for deviance and perversion.
Here I am after having my hair and makeup done. Marlo told me, “Um. You look, um, different?”
So, anyway. A lot (a lot) is going on behind the scenes and Leta is organizing spreadsheets of names and addresses of people who pre-ordered my book to help me get organized. Because she and her sister are on spring break this week of course they are and instead of visiting an exotic locale we’re all sort of gearing up for the chaos that is to come in the next few weeks and then through the end of summer. Wait, did I just say that? Out loud? The end of summer? Hahaha! Guess what kids? There is no end of summer whatsoever! And I mean that in the most awful and terrifying way possible! Just think! Life is such an ongoing and relentless rollercoaster that one day a hot gastroenterologist will stick his hand up your butt while you’re wide awake because you’re getting old and turning into your ex husband!
Oh. Also. YEAH. Both girls had to play two solo piano pieces in front of three judges over the weekend—it’s only the most important and stressful Saturday of the year—and I mention in the caption of this photo that I wanted to stick my wet finger in Marlo’s ear while she was playing her first piece.
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Because she slays the piano. I mean. I MEAN. She is incredible. She is so undeniably talented. But she hates to practice and makes that 45 minutes of daily life an absolute living hell and, yes, there is a giant story to tell about that, so very many details I could lay out to describe how it has shaped our lives. And I really, really want to tell you all about it (there are a tiny few details about it in my book) but there is a camera crew in my house right now setting up lights and I need to go talk about that one time I agreed to undergo an experiment wherein I might die. And I kinda sorta did. Ten times. Super fun. Especially for my mom. I hear she smoked weed and played the harmonica every time they shoved that breathing tube down my throat. Was a total delight, they said. All while she paced 10,000 steps.