But At Least Now I Know Who Peter Orlovsky Is...

Oh my god.  I said Sunday, didn't I?

I swear, I should just put duct tape over my mouth and cut off my fingers because I never do anything I say I'm going to - especially if it involves the computer.

Is there a better word for addiction? Or weakness?  Lack of conviction?

Let us recap, shall we?

About a week ago I said I was going to try to stay off the internet, particularly the social networking media, for thirty days.  Knowing that thirty consecutive days was setting an unattainable goal, I settled for six days in a row giving myself Sundays off or on, in this case.  And, of course, I didn't manage it.  I even tried to write out my goals each day in my moleskin, referring to it on more than one occasion to remind myself of what I was attempting to do.

By Wednesday, I'd stopped writing out my goals and my moleskin hid itself out of shame.  It hates being the written record of my failures and self-deceit.  I'm sorry, moleskin.  Come back!

In the win column, I can say with no hesitation that I decreased significantly my online time.  Especially that non-productive time.  I can also report that I finished reading Skin Deep by E.M. Crane and Say When by Elizabeth Berg.  Both of them delightful.  See reviews here.  I have a crush on Elizabeth Berg's writing at the moment.  I also managed to work out several times and wrote several thousand words as part of the manuscript.  And - the big thing because I'm a little slow on the pick up sometimes, I mapped out how the rest of the book goes so I finally have a framework.  The writing's been much easier since then.

Being offline did give me the gift of time.  I baked a cake, went to the library a crazy number of times, and even spent an afternoon poking around shops, but not buying anything with the girls.

I also wrote a short story that you can find here.   Thanks to those who've left comments and offered critique.  I appreciate it very much.

There is a bit of news.  I'm going to be blogging at a new place.  Be sure to bookmark it.  I don't know why these folks were crazy enough to invite me, but it looks like DCup may be resurrected.

So if I were to grade myself for the week, I'd say I earned a C.  A good solid C.

Around here, there's been the usual chaos.  I watched the Americans play the English in the World Cup yesterday.  It took me about five minutes to tune out those horns.  Even then I had to watch with the sound way down low.  Jesus Christ.  I would last thirty seconds in that stadium with that racket.  I would have enjoyed the game much more if the plate of french fries and beer and I kept wishing for out loud had materialized, but a friend told me that I have to plan ahead and stop with the magical thinking.  Oh.

My parenting skills and patience were sorely tested all day Saturday.  Seems someone had to learn by doing that mixing your hard liquors, rum in Daiquiris followed by vodka shots, leads to misery the next day.  All I can say is if I had phoned up the Big R and asked her to come retrieve me at my friend's house because I was too sick to drive, she would have responded differently than I did.  I mean, that was the woman who marched into my bedroom and turned on the New Years Day Parade full blast on January 1, 1981.  That was the morning after I learned that Jim Beam and Jack Daniels were dangerous friends for a 15 year old who weighed all of 85 pounds.  But then, when I was this child's age, I was living on my own in an apartment with my boyfriend because the thought of leaving him behind and spending the summer with my parents was enough to make me too sick to drive, too.

So armed with a bucket, a can of warm Sprite, and a straw, I was dropped off at the friend's house so I could drive somebody home in her car.  I noticed that the townhouse next door was for rent.  Maybe we should just move there so that when Drinky McDrinkerstein decides to learn another hard (liquor) lesson, she can just slither home.  Or better yet, I could simply mince next store and enjoy the party, too.  That way, I could either (a) tell her when she's had enough or (b) be too damn happy to care (and be so sick myself that I'll be of absolutely no help to her either way.)

And thus ends Sally's sanctimony.  I don't think she'll be giving me the stinkeye anymore when I drink.

And then there are the other two who presented different kinds of challenges in their own right.  Let's just say at one point last night, I put down my second glass of red wine, looked MathMan straight in the eyes and asked "Why did all of our children pick today to go out of control?"  He wouldn't even stop gambling online long enough to attempt to answer me.

Gmail won't work for me anymore and one of the cats now has a Facebook page. And I don't even know why I'm telling you that except maybe you want to friend her.  Fiona Golden.

So here we come up on another week.  I would love nothing better than one day when I don't crawl into bed thinking that I've failed again.  We'll see.  I'm so done making promises I can't keep.

And just now I spent twenty-seven minutes finding and saving FAIL pictures from the web because, well, I don't even know anymore.  When I finish writing this, I'm going to google 12-Step programs for internet addiction.

That moleskin is never coming back, is it?

So how are things in your little chaotic corner?  News? 

How Can You Miss Me If I Never Go Away?

On Saturday, Chloe and I went to the Friends of the Bartow County Library used book sale.  We had two goals in mind.  I wanted to score some of the long list of books I want to read.  She sought books she knew she'd have to read now that she's officially changed her major to English/History.  Don't ask.  I find it's better not to ask.

We left with an overflowing box and our collective wallets only $15 lighter and for a good cause.  We snagged things ranging from a paperback copy of Junot Diaz's The Brief Wonderous Life of Oscar Wao to the Cliff Notes of The Tempest.  We plucked several classics from the tables holding all those glorious books.  Shakespeare, Edith Wharton, more Jane Austen, Sartre, DeMaurier (can you believe I've never read Rebecca?), Tom Robbins, Steinbeck, Katherine Anne Porter, Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking, Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway, Uncle Tom's Cabin, some Agatha Christie, The Portable Hawthorne (with which to torture MathMan) and a mess of southern literature.

Chloe has a southern lit class next semester.  She's been reading Eudora Welty already this summer.  And she's almost as big a fan of William Faulkner as I am.  Did I ever tell you that during our first year of marriage, MathMan and I were still in school?  I had to read several Faulkner short stories and moaned incessantly the entire time.  It got so bad that MathMan suggested I drop the class and pick up a nice Calculus class instead.  At least then he could help me.  And with those words began our first "domestic incident" involving crockery and footwear.


So in addition to the pile of books I've borrowed from the library (two Dorothy Sayers mysteries, some kid lit and some teen lit), I've now got an even larger pile of my own books to read.  Add to those the few left over from last year's book sale that I never got around to reading and well.....

Time.  I need more of it.  I tried to devise a time machine, but got stabby and gave up after I electrocuted myself for the third time.  Maybe a change in habits would free up some of my time.

"I wonder what would happen if I disconnected from the world for thirty days and just read and wrote."

What in the hell compels me to say such things out loud and to MathMan?  Instead of seeing this as a cry for help or attention, he saw it as a good thing.  "I think you should give it a try."  It was an evil grin spreading across his face, I don't care what he says in any future deposition.

I spent the next hour and a half wondering what his ulterior motive could be for wanting me away from the computer and especially the internets.  We did just recently purchase that life insurance policy for me.

I immediately started backpedaling.  "Oh, well, I mean, I'd still have to blog a couple of times a week.  And check the jobs worksite at least once a day.  And my email.  Lots of people get in touch with me that way."  By the time I'd finished, I'd concluded that what would be best would be if I simply put myself on a social media diet - 30 minutes a day for Twitter and Facebook.  Because it's on those two sites that I waste the most time.  I can sit down at 1:14 p.m. and next thing I know the cats are parading around my office carrying their food bowls in their tiny mouths and I have no idea where my family is as I gaze into the dark night.

And then I wonder, could I do it?  Am I capable of going offline for thirty days?  It's rather like forsaking sugar for this addict.  I might be able to do it if I know I have one day off per week.  In this case, though, it would be one day on.

Even the New York Times thinks it might be a good idea.  Not just for me, of course, but for all of us.  I hate you, NY Times.

I spent much of this weekend rolling the idea around in my noggin.  The kids are incredulous, MathMan is encouraging bordering on nagging, the cats are disdainful.  As usual.  The new friend I met at the Ross Diner lunch counter thought it would be a great idea especially if I meant I came to town and had lunch with him a few days a week.

I'm certain that I will require sedatives by Thursday.

But I'm going to do it.  I'm going to close my Twitter window and swear off Tweetdeck, turn off the sm - esses.  I'll have to figure out how to check the jobs websites and my email without straying, but it's not that difficult.

I think it's an experiment worth trying.  I want to read these books.  I want to write.  I know for a fact that when I have access to social networking open on my computer, my ability to focus suffers.

And yes, yes, we've been through this before - best laid plans and all that.  But this time I'm making my serious face. That's the difference right there.  The serious face.

Thirty days.  One day online per week to check in with you guys and my tweeting friends and Facebook.  I'll blog on Sundays.  I'll cry and throw things and chew holes through pillows the rest of the days of the week.

I know most of you have more self-control than I do so it's not such a big deal, but do you think you could do it?  Could you go thirty days offline?  Could you go six days at a stretch like I'm going to do?  And if you did, what would you do with that time?

See you Sunday,

Lisa 

Word by Word

Part 1
We have another writer in our midst. Sophia recently won first place for the county for her grade in the Georgia Young Authors contest. Tonight we attended the school board meeting where she received her certificate. She's entered in the district contest and we're anxiously awaiting news about that. When it's all done, perhaps she'll let me post her story here. She wrote it all on her own, allowing me only to proof it for spelling and punctuation. I am so incredibly proud of her.

Part 2
I used my new writing schedule today, but I can see modification is needed. Waking up on time would be a good start, but perhaps I ought not go crazy.

I did do my morning pages, even if it was in a helter skelter fashion. I wrote about one third of a page then switched to capturing a dream I had. (Nan, you were in the dream). I could not escape my usual morning duties. I retrieved the brown bag lunch items from their super secret hiding place, managed the feline input and output, tossed in a load of laundry and made coffee. I went back to writing morning pages as soon as everyone left. Once complete, I worked out, drank a protein shake (blech!) and had a shower. Finally, nearing 9:30 a.m., I sat down to actually work on my manuscript. Right now, that consists of reading it aloud to myself and editing it.

It's closer, but it ain't no cee-gar. As much as I hate to do it, I'm moving my workout to later in the day. That helps me to write when my mind is less cluttered. A stringent limit on my online activities will be a major factor in getting work done. I'm moving my online allowance back to 1 p.m. or even 2 p.m. The time not spent checking Facebook, refreshing my twitter page (are you happy now, Utah?) and opening window after window of authors and agents blogs is the best gift I can give myself. Of course, things will get tricky when I start to research agents, which is done mostly online. I'll fret about that later. For now, I'm busy being sick of this story and the sound of my own voice.

Part 3
A couple of weeks ago, my friend Craig posted videos of Lev Yilmaz's work on his Facebook page. To illustrate their quality, I can tell you that they inspired Sophia who has been off and on cartooning. Nathan laughed out loud at them (a rare thing for a 14 year old boy when his mother is in the room). They cracked me up, too and there wasn't any potty humor involved. That is a mark of true genius.

In a lovely bit of life symmetry or as an example of how our world continues to shrink, Nathan Bransford, a literary agent whose blog I read, posted a Lev video over the weekend. After having to own up to my own procrastination, I found it both amusing and, well, honest......

Now I have to go drink a couple of shots of tequila to get inspired.

Still Editing

That is all.

Okay, that's not entirely true. I am a mess of self-doubt. I am re-reading this story, this novel, this manuscript and I'm thinking it is utter crap. I'm prepared to chuck it in the bin and walk away, forgetting that I ever entertained the idea that I could write a story.

I'm sick of the story, fed up with the characters and unsure of the narration. Should it be first person? Is there really a story there? Is there too much in the beginning and not enough in the second part? Wrap things up or leave them hanging? Do I give enough description? Is the writing too simple, not literary enough? What if I've just wasted all this time telling the wrong story, using these characters the wrong way?

I put the pages down and do something else. Play cards with Sophia, watch British murder mysteries with MathMan and Chloe. Goof around with Nathan. Pet a cat and stare out the window.

I think about the novels I'm reading lately. What is it that I like? What don't I like? How do their characters develop enough so that the reader cares what happens to them? And don't even get me started about genre. I haven't a clue where this story will fit.

Considering all that's wrong with the world (and, by the way, I'm heartened to see the good that disasters like Haiti bring out in people), all of this is incredibly petty, meaningless stuff. But it's my stuff and hopefully it will unlock a different kind of future for me and my family and so I press on even when all I'd rather do is read a book without analyzing it or catch another old film on TMC.

I'm about 90 pages from done with my read-through edits, so it's back to it. There is likely a bit more writing to do.

Be well and be good to each other and yourselves....

Lisa

Never Fear

Vintage Pussies for Peace

Dear People of the Internets,

Lisa hasn't died. She hasn't stopped writing. We're holding her hostage until she finishes editing her manuscript. She's on page 99 after a whirlwind of editing yesterday. In the meantime, we are struggling to get her to focus. Those of you who've met her, know what we mean.

As it is, we cannot turn our collective backs on her because the minute we do, she's vacuuming or screwing around on Facebook or scrubbing and organizing. We understand that this is how she processes things, but it's damned annoying. The book is almost there.

As you may know, we can't continue our advocacy work and lying about in patches of sun without the financial support of Lisa. Left to MathMan alone, we would be out on our ten ears or sold off to be made into catgut strings for violins. We understand that we are here at Golden Manor through the begging of children and the beneficence of Lisa, so we understand the gravity of this situation. That sweet, but insane woman (have you heard that voice she uses when she talks to us?) must finish this book and find an agent and get the book published in order for us to continue to have the kibble and shelter we so richly deserve for being so heartbreakingly adorable and peace loving.

So please forgive Lisa her absence from this blog and yours. You know she's on a desktop computer now that she's lost her job. That it so our advantage. We've figured out that the thing she calls a "mouse," but is NOT(duh! daft woman!) is critical to her ability to sit at the computer and waste precious time. As long as she can't find her "mouse," we have a better chance of "encouraging" her to read and edit.

Wishing you peace and Fancy Feast for 2010, we are,

The Pussies for Peace

P.S. We've remained silent on the activities of the Obama Administration vis a vis Afghanistan, etc. because we have not achieved a consensus among ourselves. It's a little like herding cats, you know.....

Better Late Than Never OR Still Waiting to Win

.....the lottery.

I know, as a friend recently reminded me, planning to win the MegaMillions is not a strategy for life. Still.

The things I've learned, relearned or had to admit about myself this week:

1. I have an addictive personality. I know, stop ROFLYAO. I know. Nothing like opening with the obvious, right? This week's addictions (because it's a busy squirrel factory in this here brain, people) include (a) music - Vitamin String Quartet, Imojean Heap, the adolescent stylings of Jason DeRulo, and Gomez.

In a sad attempt to engage with my neglected children Nathan and Sophia (Chloe won't let me neglect her, the smart girl), I played bits and pieces of songs by the Vitamin String Quartet and made them guess the original artist and song title. It was a hoot. There were prizes given. Everything was fine until Sophia realized that Nathan was ahead by about 3.47 points in the elaborate point system we'd devised. She got upset. Her bottom of the barrel Halloween candy sucker went flying across the room, connected with a cat instead of the intended target (Nate's head) and there were the expected, subsequent tears.

The cat will get over it. The hair that came off on the sucker will eventually grow back, right?

My other addiction (why do I sound so proud?) is writing. Lately, I've gotten in to some serious writing grooves and I am loath to stop when that happens. It really and truly upsets me. Yes, I know that I have to remove my astronaut diaper occasionally and hit the showers, but seriously? I can suffer for my art. Why can't the people and felines who live and work and commute with me suffer a little with me? When I've made the big bucks, they'll want to be lavished with gifts, right? Let them earn it, I say.

2. I continue to fight my need to be a complete loner. Sure, y'all see this happy go lucky, cheerful chica who never seems to have a care in the world. I am a cyber-cheerleader, spreading a kind, happy word wherever I go online. But the real me is a dark, dark hellion, desiring nothing but the solitude of the grave. Or a cave. On a mountaintop. Imagine dark. Dour. That's me. Anyway, I'm fighting it - without meds. Chocolate and red wine have amazing pharmaceutical powers. So does singing loudly to Indigo Girls songs when alone in the car.

But seriously, me + deserted island = paradise. Although, I'm sure at some point I would get sick of me, too.

3. I am still trailing in the Mother of the Year awards race. This week, I parented by text and for bonus points, used the phrase "sucks ass." To the ten year old. Yeah, I know. I should write a book of parenting tips. Y'all think I should be jailed, don't you?

4. I am resilient and resourceful. Day before yesterday, I mentioned to MathMan that I should back up my story which has grown to 41,500 words. I expressed concern that I was inviting danger by not having a backup copy of it on a jump drive or something. I had visions of dropping my laptop out the car window on I85 and it being run over by the semi truck that's tailgating me. Bad, bad dreams.

(Don't dwell too much on the reasons why I would be dangling the laptop out the window in some unseemly reenactment of Michael Jackson and the Baby on the Hotel Balcony incident. Just stay with me here a minute. And stop clucking your tongue. I know we're supposed to be all warm and fuzzy about The King of Pop now that he's escaped this mortal coil too soon, but please. It happened. I'm using it.)

So last night, before I followed through on my very correct idea, I had my own incident. You know the kind, right? I'd gotten into one of those writing grooves and voila! I'd added another 3,000 + words to the story. Some of it was very good writing, I felt sure. And some of it was pretty hard to write because it required me to reach deep for some repressed emotions and memories.

Well, it wasn't a laptop dropped from a moving car into the path of an oncoming semi, but the little spinny thing that Microsoft Word does has the same effect. I tried saving the document, but it just spun and spun and spun. I muttered and went to the bathroom because I had to leave to pick up MathMan from a late meeting at school. When I returned, Word had reopened and the options for auto-saved documents appeared at first to be promising. Feeling hopeful, I clicked on the most recent one. It came up with nothing. I clicked the second, which was auto saved about 25 minutes before I'd finished writing. A very large piece of what I'd just written was gone, daddy, gone.

I didn't have time to rewrite the piece just then, because I was already late to get MathMan. I panicked momentarily, which looked more like losing my shit, to the untrained eye. Trust me - losing my shit is much more disturbing than what happened last night. I kicked the desk and cried in spite of myself. The kids didn't quite know what to do. They looked concerned and then got out of my way as I dragged my sorry ass out of the house.

I sat in the car and pounded the steering wheel for a second, then remembered my camera. I pulled it out, turned it on video and recorded myself telling the story, the best I could from memory. Today I wrote the scene over again, without using my recording. And I think it's even better than the first writing of it. Maybe that's not a bad writing strategy? Write, erase, rewrite. Maybe not. That would make me crazy. Anyway, I was glad to have the piece rewritten, saved to a jump drive and feeling like it was even better than before.

But really? Talk about cruel jokes of fate. I mean, who doesn't want to write a rape scene two days in a row?

Until next Wednesday, my lovelies.....

Lisa

Ivory, Not Pearl

Why is it exactly that blogging inspiration hits me when I'm in the laundry room, devoid of paper and pen?

The world may never know, but I can assure you if I had the presence of mind to put pen and paper in the laundry room, I'd never get another flash of an idea whilst moving the wet clothes from the washer to the dryer.

You know I'm writing a novel, right? Well, I'm still threatening to write about writing, but for now I want to tell you that my children will use any and every opportunity to commit some act of soul-sucking sibling rivalry. I bring this misery onto my own head, of course. It's all my fault. You see, when they ask if I love them more than the others, I've simply taken the easy route. "Yes, but don't tell the others," I'd coo at them.

Bad idea.

So last night Nathan and Sophia wanted me to read them the parts of the story that contain characters based on them. So I did. And do you know that turned into a fight about who was depicted in a better light? I kid you not. To cut through the ensuing bickering, I sent Sophia out of the room to finish her homework. Nate stayed behind, alternately rolling around on the floor like a puppy and running on the elliptical that sits, disapprovingly, next to my desk. We talked some about the story and I asked him for some of his expertise on a particular issue. He was glad to oblige.

Sophia, who had apparently been skulking about in the hallway instead of doing the homework she'd been assigned, took great umbrage at the fact that Nate was helping me with some details and brainstorming ideas for a particular scene in the story. She pouted into the room and was sent out again with an admonishment for what included, but was not limited to, eavesdropping, not doing her homework, pettiness, poutiness and being an all around bad sport about things.

For my part, I thanked Nate and busied myself by going back to work on the story. At this point, MathMan got involved, trying like hell to give Sophia some solace in the knowledge that her inclusion in the story mattered just as much as Nate's. He learned, however, that was not what was eating her. She'd become incensed that I'd asked Nate specific questions about General George S. Patton. Quick thinker that he is, MathMan instructed Sophia to show just how much she knew about Patton by producing a three paragraph essay. She came back to him in under thirty minutes and presented him with a titled, by-lined and perfectly typed three paragraph biography on Gen. Patton. I believe it employed the correct Strunk and White style.

The intense competition amongst our children continues. Even Chloe gets in on the act by leaving snarky comments about her siblings on Facebook. I can see it now, they'll all three be together, taking care of the arduous duty of scattering my ashes and there will be some conflab about who gets to carry the urn. Next thing you know, I'll be scatterd all over the parking lot of some Taco Bell where they've stopped before carrying out their solemn task. MathMan and his young wife will find their vacation on Aruba interrupted by a panicked call from Sophia while they can hear Nathan and Chloe nearly coming to blows in the background. MathMan's beautiful, interesting and unmarred by motherhood young wife will take the phone from his hand, tell the three adult hellions to solve the issue themselves and then, purring something sweet into MathMan's ear, will toss his cellphone into the ocean and hand him his fancy glass of some tropical, rummy drink.

Where the hell was I before I died? Oh yes. Taunting you with the threat of writing about writing.

One of the most delightful sensations I've had lately, was the magic I felt when I finally and for the first time printed off what I have thus far written as my novel. 13,000 words. (and growing!) I printed it yesterday so I could take it with me to edit as I waited for MathMan who was in a meeting. Holding that forty-six pages of black letters on white paper that told a story of my own making was magic. All the sudden, it became real. No longer was it something I was going to do - it was something that I'm doing, I've done and I continue to do. I held that stack of papers in my hands and just looked at them for a few seconds to savor that feeling. The last time I held my own writing in my hands like that was in 1981 when I used to write horror stories in spiral bound notebooks. Since then, most of my writing has been on the computer and has never materialized from screen to paper.

Right now I'm writing about another kind of magic - the time that I lived and went to school in France is still one of my fondest memories. I loved being there and didn't want to leave. Nevertheless, the decision to come home to the U.S. and finish my degree created twists and turns in my life that I would have never imagined back in 1987.

One of the ways that I get in the proper frame of mind to write about a specific event or place or time is to listen to the music that was part of my life then. Here's a brief sampling of the songs of that time. I am not declaring them good, just, um.....representative of that time.

Man, remember how you used to love when I sang this song with hand gestures and everything, MathMan? I know, so much fun! How could you forget?

Until next Wednesday,

Lisa

What in the Hell Is SHE Talking About?

So it comes to pass that this woman, this transplanted woman, initially a Hoosier - a resident of Indiana, then a domestic foreigner trying not to be called out as the fraud small town hick she is, living and working in Chicago and its environs, with stops along the way in the home of Ball Jar and Dijon Mustard, and let us not forget that young adult stint in the coolest town in all of Indiana - and there when Bobby Knight lived and won there, too. Now settled, even if briefly, in the hills of Northwest Georgia, U.S.A.

This woman. Me.

I am done for now. My heart's not here. It's somewhere else scribbling madly, writing bits and pieces of stories, dictating to myself and transcribing in the in-between times when I don't have other things tugging at me. Devouring books of all kinds. Looking at faces and places and things and thinking about how to describe them so that you can see them, too.

There is so much unfinished business. And then there is business. Which demands my attention to be done properly. The Royal Pains think they need food, shelter and stylish clothing. Selfish gits.

There's the fact that I hate being a bad friend and if I cannot reciprocate and come visit you, then I feel it's rude for me to expect you to come visit me. There's so much good stuff out there, you don't need to be wasting your time popping in here to see if I've said something goofy or done something boneheaded.

So here's the deal - I'm going to post once a week on Wednesdays. The best way to know if I've done something embarrassing or have something irrelevant to say is to grab the rss feed. Then your reader will tell you when I've posted. If you don't use rss feeds, but want to start, this article explains how to use them. (Scroll down when you get there.)

Since I am actually producing something, I will be posting bits of the work here (maybe?) or telling you about how the process is going (maybe?) or I'll just be blowing off steam. Or pushing skin care products that YOU MUST HAVE. You guys know me. Anything is possible. Except outright sanity.

Until then, thank you. Thank you for being here with me when I laughed, cried, ranted and raved. When I swung from plucky political pundit to purveyor of plucked chicken porn. When I took gratuitous pictures of the now gone garden. Thank you for not shaming me when I ran away from home for a day. For not abandoning me when I was broke, losing my house and running out of gas.

Thank you for not calling the Department of Children and Family Services to report me for founding and promoting The School of Benign Neglect. Thank you for not calling the Humane Society about the way I make the Pussies for Peace ears bleed when I screech at them in the high kitty voice. Thank you for not submitting my name to What Not to Wear. That, in and of itself, is HUGE.

But most importantly, thank you for being my friends. Everyone should be so lucky as to have such a swell posse in their corner. You guys rock.