Sleeping with the frenemy

Time was, a person slept near her alarm clock, an object tethered to the socket in the wall. At the very least, stopping it required the initial physical effort of rolling over, which is an excellent start to getting out of bed. A college try.

Now, we sleep with our alarm clocks. We cradle them, hold them close, finish the day staring into them. "I'll just spin through Pinterest one last time," we say, and two hours later we are repinning "25 ways to get Heinz 57 stains out of your jorts," unclear where we are or how we got there.

Then we drift softly to slumber.

The modern alarm clock is inside our "devices," along with the telephone, the internet, the camera, the calorie counter, the 5K trainer, the bank account, the MP3s, the game with the birds, the Groupons, the Urban Spoon, and the breakup letter to the therapist we suspect is overcharging but maybe that's just our chronic self-defeat speaking so we probably shouldn't send it.

My alarm of choice on the iPhone is "Marimba," reminiscent of a steel drum band you might find in Saved by the Bell: Hawaiian Style.

Jim, taking a more utilitarian approach to the matter, favored the one unceremoniously called "ALARM," the grade of foghorn that sounds when, say, white tigers are escaping an animal sanctuary. It's like...

EHHHHHHHH. EHHHHHHHHHHH. EHHHHHHHHHHH. EHHHHHHHHHHHH. EHHHHHHHH

It made me shoot up in a cold sweat convinced the house was burning down, trying to remember what exactly happens with backdraft but only able to picture scenes from Apollo 13.

"Perhaps there is another option," I suggested.

There are lots-o options, from "Crickets" (poor strategy for waking up) to "Doorbell" (only if the Chinese food is here, plz) to "Duck" (why?). He settled on "Sonar," which sounds like icicles falling through space and is rather pleasant.

Our alarms fire at different times each morning, creating a bush league iPhone symphony of "PLINK PLINK ZACK MORRIS PLINK" and "ZWEE ZWEE ICY COOL FRESH ZWEE."

The snooze button on the screen is red and easy to access, especially when it's right there on the pillow and I barely have to open an eye. Round about the sixth or seventh "ZWEE ZWEE MARIO LOPEZ" when things are getting weird, I make a real effort to wake up. That is done, of course, by looking at something in the Device of Broken Dreams. The first stop is usually Facebook, which is a usually a mistake.

That's when it gets tricky.

Looking at someone's sunrise Instagram is still not enough to rouse me. So while falling back asleep dreaming of the Horrors of the Leather Industry PSA someone on Facebook I haven't spoken to in 12 years Rickrolled me into clicking, "ZWEE VIKTOR PETRENKO" goes off again, only this time it's like.

By now, the phone has slid into the covers, lost between the comforter and the fitted sheet that buckles into pockets of robbery. I flap through the layers of cotton like a blind baby bat while the phone is all "PLINKY PLINKY I'M FROM HELL PLINKY I'M HERE TO KILL YOU PLINKY." I find the alarm clock, shaking, and stop it once and for all.

And then I'm up!

The way to solve all this is to relocate the iPhone to so I have to move the first time it goes off. Maybe to nearby table. I try that, but it's so portable that I usually end up staggering back to bed with it, and the whole shame spiral starts again.

Recently we took another spin through the alarm options and discovered you can set any song on your phone to wake you up. Jim set it to Girls by the Beastie Boys, thinking it was a cheerful summertime classic tune that would set a great tone for the day. Super choice. It was done.

Twenty minutes later, the song went off unexpectedly during Mad Men like "DO DOO DOO DING DA-DING-DING." and we started screaming bloody murder until it stopped.

The only appropriate iPhone alarm is Sabotage.

Interview: Pictures of me in bunny ears and eating cheese, but not at the same time

Hey guys, I forgot to post this like a pro, but better late than never. Gina Vivinetto did an interview with me for Articulate. She asked questions about my reporting job, about my side hustles and my storied performance art/music career that I never talk about. Also, she used the picture of me eating a grilled cheese, which I think best represents my life and how I live it.


Natalie Dee just gets me

 Check it out here! Thanks, Gina.

The most awkward massage in the world (and other searing updates)

I love this New York Times story by John Jeremiah Sullivan, like, a lot. He went on a massage marathon, exploring all the wonders and horrors of having a stranger get all handsy with you while you're prone on a table with twinkling waterfall music playing on an iPod dock.

It really resonated with me. My last massage was a few years ago.

That day, a luxurious day off I had planned to spend in total cliche feminine relaxation, I called up my local chain massage store and made an appointment. I didn't specify the gender of massage therapist I wanted. I didn't really think about it, to be honest. I think I just assumed I would get a woman. I arrived all smiley and grabbed the paperwork to check off boxes ("no, I don't want my butt groped, but thanks," "no, don't touch my front friends, either"). That was when a strapping young man sauntered around the corner. He had cropped brown hair and green eyes that looked like jewelry. He smiled and there was nearly a ping.

I prayed he was just front desk eye candy who would escort me to the back, where my massage therapist, a 6-foot-4 burly woman named Helga, would be waiting. But no.

"I'll be your massage therapist," he said.

If life was like Sex and the City, I would have shown up to brunch in my bra and reported to my harem of unlikely friends about how love really is complicated, but sometimes you just win. But life is actually more like Here Comes Honey Boo Boo. Immediately, I had a few thoughts.

1. I have a boyfriend, and even though this is not technically wrong, this feels weird.
2. I have not shaved in approximately 27 years.
3. Jesus take the wheel. Take it from my hands.

The new, calm-assertive, Cesar Millan Steph might have kindly asked for a different therapist, all the while complimenting this man's dimples so he didn't feel it was personal. But back then I was just all.

It wasn't his fault. He was just trying to do his job, trying to get new clients and make people feel good. I knew it had to be tough for male massage therapists out there, what with skittish women such as myself, and so I just went with it, into the back, where there was dim lighting and a weird pillow with boob indentations for me to lay on. I left on as many clothes as possible.

The massage was a blur, and I didn't enjoy it at all. Mostly I remember that he wouldn't stop sharing all the overtly masculine details of his life, like how he used to be in the Army, how he was training to be a sports therapist for injured athletes and this was a stepping stone. When it was time to work on my calves, which I had naively checked the box for servicing while still picturing Helga, I choked out an apology for the fact that I looked like I had been trapped in a mountain ravine for several weeks.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "I spent a lot of time in Europe."

I don't know if you remember those slap bracelets from the 90s, but one minute they're all curly and then you unroll them and they're so straight their back almost turns concave. That's what happened to me. I was more tense than I had ever been in my life.

"You gotta relax," he said, all whispery.

After the massage, I think he said something about how my sore back wouldn't be all worked out until I had several more appointments. They always say this, but I think they especially say it when they have just attempted to massage a 4-by-4 in-ground mailbox post.

I have not had a massage since, and I've also had the sort of "necky" headache Sullivan describes in his story ever since. Maybe I should try again. I might start out at the mall kiosk where the massage therapist is blind.

Odds and ends:

1. Speaking of Honey Boo Boo, relationships, body hair and having no shame, here's how Jim and I dressed for Halloween:

2. I wrote a story for the paper about an old-fashioned Halloween costume shop having a hard time, and I'm pretty excited that one of my favorite writers EVAR, Hank Stuever, assigned it to his pop culture reporting class as reading. If they're anything like I was in college, they'll skim it in the bagel line while trying to apply eyeliner moments before class. Read Hank's blog here, with all his class assignments. I would love to take his class, now that I GAF and whatnot.

3. I know I haven't posted an OBITCHUARY chapter in a while. I bought a house (more later), I took some trips. I also just needed a break from it, and I felt like people were way behind on the videos anyway. I am aiming to make the next chapter this week or next and get back into the swing. As for the manuscript, it has recently gone out to a few new houses. Maybe some NY editors got drunk during Hurricane Sandy, read it by candlelight and fell in love. We can hope! If you want to catch up on the chapters, clicky, clicky.

Interivew: Michael Boccacino, author of Charlotte Markham, talks writing, wine and high school angst

In high school, my friend Michael Boccacino emailed me a short story he wrote. It was a science fiction horror story, which has never really been my thing. But I read it anyway to give it a chance and be a good friend. It was about cloning and horror movie sets and murders and I don't want to give too much away in case he ever wants to resurrect it, but you guys, it was so good and asjfk&(CGWUBNCW@(*DBC@(E9! I was hooked.

And Michael was just like...

The same year, I was spending my time writing essays for Faulkner week in English class, casting myself as the central character in a scenario in which I brazenly took the big stall moments before Benjy from the Sound and the Fury came into the bathroom escorted by Caddy, and then Caddy started talking about what a B I was for taking the big stall when there were people who really needed it. No, really. I turned that in. For credit. And I was just like...

It is no surprise that Michael got published first.

His book, Charlotte Markham and the House of Darkling, came out recently from William Morrow. It's a Victorian gothic ghost story, chilling and dark and enticing, and it has twisted woods and dead nannies and mystery and all sorts of goodness.

Mike has been the kind recipient of several Facebook messages from me throughout the various book endeavors, subtle notes to the tune of "TELL ME HOW TO FEEL." He has always been gracious and mentally stable with good, solid advice. I decided it was a smart idea to chat publicly with Mike about his novel and the business of book publishing, which we all know is second only to cartwheeling down a tightrope that has been lit on fire.

So, uh... without further adieu, Mike will tell us all how to feel! 

I remember you always writing. Did you always know you wanted to be a published author, and did life ever interfere with that plan?
First off, I'm so very, very sorry that you had to endure the angst-ridden short stories from my teen years. I was angry and weird. But I knew I wanted to write by the time I was in high school. I had a fantastic 9th grade English teacher by the name of Kathleen Granning, and she helped me figure out that it was something I loved doing. When I got to college I had written a handful of short stories, half a screenplay, and 50 some odd pages of a novel, but I lacked the discipline (or maybe maturity?) to actually follow through on larger projects. It wasn't until I was 25 or so and finally finished with grad school that I went through a bit of a quarter life crisis and decided to focus on really finishing something substantial. 

What was the spark for Charlotte Markham?
Charlotte Markham began life, quite literally, as a dream: an English governess stood on the side of a dirt road with her two young orphaned charges as they consulted a homemade map. They were debating whether or not to enter a forest up ahead and I knew, as dreamers often do, that something terrible awaited them in the woods. I remember waking up and being fascinated with where they were going. I felt the most lovely combination of dread and excitement, because I knew that their journey would be extraordinary, terrible, and wonderful, even if I remained uncertain about their final destination. The dream stayed with me, but didn't really crystallize until my mother died of cancer at the age of 44. I dreamt of her nearly every night afterwards, and though we both acknowledged in the dream that she was still dead, we continued to have a relationship. The idea fascinated me, and I quickly realized that the children from my previous dream were looking for a way to reconnect with their dead mother. 

How long did it take you to find an agent and get a publisher? I think people think once they get an agent, it's all immediate fame and fortune from there.

It took me about a year to find an agent. I did three rounds of querying to about twelve different agents each time. Even after I got my agent, we had to spend some time editing, and then it took about 9 months after that to get a publisher. Then more editing. And then even after its out, you need to allow time for people to actually hear about your book. So it's definitely a process! 

Did you ever feel like you should switch genres to fit what was popular in publishing at the moment?

I mean, it occurred to me that I could easily turn it into an urban fantasy novel, or perhaps inject some vampires or zombies into the mix to make it more marketable, but my whole rationale for wanting to be a writer is to write the kinds of books that I like to read. I just happen to like weird, slightly literary-skewing genre mash-ups along the lines of Neil Gaiman, China Miéville, and Susannah Clarke. 

What did you do to get through the times of doubt and writerly self-loathing?
I drink a lot of white wine. Also, I just keep writing. That's all you. can do, really! But at least you know that you're in good company. 

How did you celebrate when you got your book deal?
My agent called me while I was at work and told me about the deal with HarperCollins. It was extremely surreal, and I remember that I could NOT stop smiling for the whole week. Later that day, a friend at my office bought a couple bottles of champagne, and we celebrated toward the end of the day. They made me give a little speech, which was slightly horrifying, but very sweet. It really didn't officially sink in until I got the first galley copy many, many months later.

What's your next project?

I've written a TV pilot with a wonderful actor/writer by the name of Michael Arden. It's about the south bank of London in the 17^th century, and we're in the midst of shopping it around to producers at the moment. I'm also working on my second novel, which is inspired by the works of Lewis Carroll, C. S. Lewis, and J. M. Barrie. It's a book about children placed into fantastic situations, but written for adults, but it's probably 6 months away from being readable.

What books are on your nightstand right now?
Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell, and The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes.

Whatever became of that horror story about the cloned movie murder victims? That was so good. Seriously.
The Neverborn! I still have it, but I seem to recall there being an influx of clone-related sci-fi a few years back, so I shelved it. Maybe I'll expand it one day, or polish it up enough to actually show it to people again. Good ideas never die, they just percolate until they're ready!

Follow Michael:

Website

Facebook

Twitter

Goodreads

Interview: Talking writing, Mexican lasagna and poo on Write at Five

Hello, out there in radio land. Internet radio land? Podcast land?

Well, whatever. A while ago, I did an interview on an Internet radio station, Rhino On Air.

 The lovely Write at Five hosts R. MonaLeza and Daphne invited me on to talk about writing and journalism and novels, but I will admit, we spent a lot of time talking about my bush league Mexican lasagna, and how my refrigerator makes it look like a 4-year-old child runs the household. You recall.

Then we got back to talking about stories, made some bathroom jokes and had a ton of fun. The podcast is online now, so take a listen!

PODCAST, Y'ALL.

Be sure to check out Mona's blog, where she posts quick little flashes of inspiration from writers and artists from all walks. She did one with me. They're great to shake you out of a creative funk if you're just like, "UGH, WHY AM I SO HORRIBLE, I NEED TO BE LESS HORRIBLE." So if you're like me, most days.

Enjoy. I need to buy groceries.

OBITCHUARY, Chapter 12

Pro tip:

If your friend ever asks you to dog-sit at her mom's isolated luxury house on the water in the Florida Keys, you just immediately agree, no questions asked. At least that's what I did. I'm grabbing two friends and heading south Wednesday in a little airplane with chickens in the back then spending the next few days in a hive of hydrating face masks, US Weekly, pina coladas and comatose sleep. I'm just going to be like:

See? She even has a dog.

On my way out the door to this strenuous dog-sitting job, I leave you with Obitchuary, Chapter 12. And guess what? In this chapter, you get to hear more Kenny Loggins! Penny continues her drunken pursuit of Mark, who has graciously offered to drive her home from Haddigan's Pub after her precarious run-in with a liter of vodka. Will the night end in romance or disaster, the likes of which have never been seen? Find out!

Watch all the chapters here, and subscribe to the YouTube channel here.

See you when I get back from paradise! Hopefully in the next video, my skin will be a slightly darker shade than the "rice pudding with a dollop of Cool Whip" look I'm sporting here.

Obitchuary, Chapter 12

Simple life advice: Don't freak out all the time!

The bottom of my monitor has always been a graffiti wall for Post-Its, little stickers screaming militant bits of advice as to how to never mess up. "TENSION IN EVERY SCENE." "DETAIL." "NO SAP."

Along the top of the screen went the Chinese food fortunes, advising on personal habits. "TODAY, YOUR CHARM WILL HAVE THEM SINGING LIKE BIRDS." "ENHANCE YOUR KARMA BY BEING KIND TO EVERYONE YOU ENCOUNTER." "ATTEND TO BUSINESS TODAY. LEAVE THAT STREET-SIDE FLOWER ALONE."

I was content haranguing myself with motivational minutia until about May, I would say. A bunch of little things were going wrong, which set me on an extended period of tortured navel-gazing. And after the extended period of tortured navel-gazing, I hit a wall. I was seriously bumming myself out, dissecting all the things, whether each and every choice was the right one for my goals and life, whether my penchant for crap television was contributing to the downfall of society, whether I needed to go on a macrobiotic diet, so on, so on. I was feeling like Tracy Flick on a Quaalude.

Suddenly, I was bored with myself.

I thought back to past challenges. Invariably, things worked out best when I stayed open to learning but stopped over-analyzing, stopped trying to impress and stopped comparing myself to others. When I wasn't worried about what everyone else wrote, my writing sounded most natural. When I wasn't overbooking, my relationships were healthiest. When I wasn't neurotically insisting everyone try the Sparkling Cider Cinna-Skinny Cocktails, I threw the best parties.

Supporting Document One that we all worry too much about nothing is this astute New York Times story from Tim Kreider on the so-called "Busy Trap."

"Almost everyone I know is busy. They feel anxious and guilty when they aren’t either working or doing something to promote their work. They schedule in time with friends the way students with 4.0 G.P.A.’s  make sure to sign up for community service because it looks good on their college applications. I recently wrote a friend to ask if he wanted to do something this week, and he answered that he didn’t have a lot of time but if something was going on to let him know and maybe he could ditch work for a few hours. I wanted to clarify that my question had not been a preliminary heads-up to some future invitation; this was the invitation. But his busyness was like some vast churning noise through which he was shouting out at me, and I gave up trying to shout back over it."

There had to be a space somewhere between, "up and move to the Bahamas," and "be a total pill all the time." Some things, of course, you can't control. You cant control who dies or gets sick, what accidents occur, how the weather explodes. But you can control other things, possibly even the neurosis that comes while standing in the shower as your deep conditioner soaks in, brooding over imaginary things that haven't happened. Imperfection is totally entertaining and healthy. I was just hoping to LIGHTEN THE EFF UP.

My birthday was in June. To mark the occasion, I decided I would stop picking lint out of my belly button and go to a drag queen show in these subtle, understated shoes:

Then I would focus on writing some interesting things I enjoyed. I would eat what I wanted in moderate portions. If I messed up, that was fine. I'd correct without implementing a leather flog. I would let no person's judgey tweet dissuade me from watching My Big Fat Toddler Kardashian Wedding Makeover Palin Cookoff, if that is what I felt like watching.

I gave it a go.

One of the first results? I won a contest at work that I didn't even enter! I felt authentically great, less Tracy Flick and more Elle Woods. The rules of hair care really WERE simple and finite!

I took down the old Post-Its. It's not that they weren't valuable pieces of advice. It's just that I already knew all that stuff without having to scream it from little sheets of paper stuck on with dirty tape. Also, fortune cookies taste like butt.

I replaced them with a new note, somewhere between the bottle of Excedrin and the vial of White Diamonds.

OBITCHUARY, Chapter 11

This is the chapter you've all been waiting for. Penny gets DRIZUNNNNNK. In front of Mark!

A note on that:

It's easier to write drunk dialogue than it is to read it, at least for me, which is one of the 8,000 things I'm learning as I endeavor to read an original work of fiction one chapter at a time on YouTube. I think my fake-drunk voice might sound unconvincingly like Big Ang from Mob Wives. Can we all agree she's charming, though?

Watch, children. Catch up on your chapters and subscribe here. And remember to always use vodka in moderation. This means you, everyone in the world who has to go to work on Thursday after the Fourth of July.

Obitchuary, Chapter 11 



This chapter brought to you by Big Ang.

Look at other people reading without feeling creepy!

So far on this Sunday, I have washed one load of laundry because I had NO PANTS LEFT other than Pajama Jeans, which I came very close to wearing to work on Friday. I also made a grilled cheese sandwich, Googled "Florida Keys vacation" and gave some very serious thought to taking a shower. I'M ON A ROLL, Y'ALL.

It's a good day to get sucked down a blog rabbit hole, is what I'm saying, and I have just the one for you.

My agent, Rachel, posted this on the DGLM blog not too long ago. It's called Underground New York Public Library, and it's basically a blog full of pictures of people reading on the subway. If it sounds boring, it's not. It's the ultimate voyeuristic thing. Like, come on. You know you look at people in Target to see what's in their baskets, and you totally judge them and invent hilarious stories if they have, like, six sticks of butter, a pair of tube socks and a motorcycle magazine. This is the same thing, only fancier!

After looking at these pictures I feel inferior as usual, like I should probably be reading much more Murakami or something. I'd totally be that person they caught reading, "50 WAYS TO TURN YOUR OLD PANTYHOSE INTO LAMPSHADES."

 

Serial killers love this kind of decorating.

Which is why I read on a Kindle.

Happy Sunday, lazies!

OBITCHUARY, Chapter 10

May was a total fail.

I mean, there were no huge tragedies or dramas or home explosions, but there were just a series of first world concerns that kept evaporating or not working out or farting to disappointing conclusion. I. Am. Over. May.

June, though! June is very different. June is my birthday month (big 29 -- gotta start working on my pre-30 bucket list). I'm looking toward June with renewed vigor and verve, with an unfailing positive outlook on life, with a fresh commitment to my artistic endeavors. Watch out June, you're mine!

With that, I give you June's first installment of Obitchuary, Chapter 10.  It's a pretty short chapter, and in it, Penny stays up late like a madwoman Googling the guy she likes. NOT THAT ANY OF US HAVE EVER DONE THAT BEFORE, RIGHT LADIES? Watch to learn what she finds out about him. It ain't pretty, I'll just say that.

You might notice a tuft of brown fur wiggling occasionally in the background. That is Stuart, who apparently wanted to help me grab June by the horns. Thank you, Stu, for your assistance. Most kind.

Catch up on your chapters here and don't forget to subscribe on YouTube! And, ooh, hey, check out this screen grab. I call it, "Gag me with a spoon, cha."

Obitchuary, Chapter 10