Monthly Archives: January 2011

I don’t write notes by hand any more. I have beautiful stationery, but my hand gets wiggly and jiggly about four words in. It’s too much work to hand write, and emotionally it’s taxing.

I also wear flip flops a lot. Tying my shoes in the morning is extraordinary difficult.

I fear that the Simponi has done most of the work it’s bound to do, and this is pretty much as good as it’s going to get. I’m mostly grateful that we caught things early on, and I’m mostly grateful that I have access to a good team. Today someone did something unbelievably kind for me, and after three failed attempts I threw out the chicken scratch thank you note and sent an email.

This week I was joined by Trisha Haas and Jennifer Levinson at Momversation.

We talked about getting your pre-baby body back.

As always my best stuff hits the cutting room floor. I’d add “More Sex” to my tips.

What would you add? Also, if you check out Momverstion they’re giving away a P90X which my friend Jeff happened to use to get extra hawt.

I did not cook dinner for my family this evening. Instead I called Versailles and ordered the following:

• One lemon chicken
• One steak sandwich
• One side of rice

I then hopped in the Jaguar and made the drive to Encino to fetch our supper. As is typical at 7 pm on a Saturday night the parking lot was jammed. Since I was going to be in the store for three minutes or less I did what many take out customers do. I double parked blocking just two cars. Since the whole front of the restaurant is glass this inconveniences no one, it’s easy to see if someone is making their way to one of the two blocked cars, and it takes seconds to move from the cashier to your car in order to make way for them.

Here is a diagram. You might be shocked to see that I drew it myself.

This is the parking lot layout

Unfortunately when I got to the cashier they had the order wrong. Waiting for me was:

• One lemon chicken
• One steak chicken
• One side of rice

Instead of a minute, I’d be there ten. I went and stood by the door so I could be extra watchful when one of the two cars I was blocking wanted to leave. I’m considerate.

So when a very angry little man walked up to me and said, “Is that your Jaguar?” I smiled at him and said, “Yes”.

“I need you to move it.” He said.

“Oh, okay, which one is yours? The car or the truck?” I asked. You see, I wanted to back up in a way that would let his car out and then I’d (naturally) take the spot he was to vacate.

“The minivan.” He said.

And then I turned and looked. There was a minivan just waiting in the lot, stopping traffic and clearly waiting for a parking spot that didn’t exist.

I just stared at him, not at all comprehending this.

“You’re parked wrong.” He started angrily. “If you turn your car sideways then that’s a real parking spot and you’ve taken it and you’re not even eating here.”

“I’m getting takeout.” I smiled at him. I was getting bugged but determined to stay nice.

“You should make room for the people who are actually eating here….” He started.

“Listen,” I stared smiling all the while, “you’re about to have a heavy meal. The walk to the car afterwards will be refreshing.”

Incredibly he swaggered out to the lot, had a conversation with the driver of the minivan (his wife I assume) and then he sat at the bar with his friends drinking a beer and pointing at me while the minivan circled the block looking for the perfect parking spot.

A bit later while sitting at the dining room table with my family I recounted the tale. When I told them that Napoleon had wanted me to move my car to make way for his, my husband and daughter’s jaws fell simultaneously. They knew there wouldn’t be a happy ending for Napoleon.

The moral of the story, we explained to the kids, is to never ever, under any circumstances drive a minivan. That in an of itself is a sure sign of defeat.

Last night was the middle school science fair. It was very impressive. Jane and her friend worked hard and it showed.

The 6th grade had a lot of cupcakes, Jelly Bellys and sweet drinks. The experiments were good with only one variable, and the kids were all able to explain their methodology.

The moms, however, congregated in the hallway and wondered which moms helped their kids along while we all said, “Not me but…” It seems impossible that we’d have a class of 24 kids and not one mom who whipped out her crafting kit to perfect a science experiment. I know these kids well, and I’m pretty sure they all did their own work. All of it.

But I know there was at least one mom who said, “Don’t you think you need to add a graph to that?”

Which is kinda awesome.

A few weeks ago I got an email from a publisher who had a book project for me. It was a good project, and I really wanted to do it. I took the phone calls, I saw the other works they’d published, and I really wanted to jump on board. The publisher talked to my agent, and then I talked to my agent.

I passed on the book, not because there’s anything wrong with That Book, but because it’s not My Book. My Book is 16 chapters and the first three have been written. By the end of the day the fourth will be done, and I hope that my roughest draft will be complete before the springtime.

I had to pass on the book project because I have a book in me. In fact I have two that come flying from my fingers. They’re my best stories, my funniest stuff, my most humiliating moments. They’re everything I’ve withheld from this blog knowing that they were just too good, too long, and too involved to give to cyberspace. They are stories that deserve paper to hold them up.

I am incredibly grateful to the editor who approached me. I’ve looked at her emails a number of times and simply grinned thinking, “Lady, you changed my life and you’ll never know it.”

So I’m writing and it’s a new feeling, because I’m writing and I’m not sharing. I get no feedback. None. I’ll just write and wait.

Recently I was at an event for PBS. I was sitting at a table with some friends, and my friend Ana Flores came to join us. Ana is a Latina woman whose husband I have never met.

Trust me, this detail matters.

Anna came to the table with a man who was a bit older than she, somewhat paunchy, but also clearly Latino. They both greeted my friends as old friends and I assumed this was her husband. He introduced himself as Jose. I shook his hand and maintained total disinterest. I was tired and I just wanted to be with my girlfriends, I didn’t want to meet anyone. I wasn’t in the mood to meet Ana’s husband Jose.

Jose then left our table and took his place at the podium. Chef Jose Andres. Nice.