More Than This, by Margo Candela

I’ve written about my charming, witty, and always stylish friend (and writing partner) Margo Candela before, and I’ve even featured her book, More Than This, in the Galley Gossip post, Love on the Plane. Well I’ve got big news, people! Latino Literacy Now announced the winners of their 11th Annual International Latino Book Awards today during BookExpo America taking place in New York this weekend and More Than This came in second in the Best Novel-Romance category.

“I’m feeling quite chuffed!” Margo wrote on her blog.

Wait, don’t go anywhere just yet, because I’ll be looking that word up in a sec and I’ll share what I find with you. As for her book, it was book ended by Anjanette Delgado’s The Heartbreak Pill and Cecilia Samartin’s Tarnished Beauty.

“Good company, all around,” Margo wrote.

If you haven’t read the book, More Than This, you really should, because I’ll be playing the role of the flight attendant when the movie comes out. And for those of you still wondering what that word chuffed means, Urban dictionary describes it as…

Chuffed: To be very pleased, proud or happy with yourself. I just scored free tickets to the gig, I’m well chuffed!

Dear American Airlines

Why oh why didn’t I think of this! Or at least something like it? As most of you know, I’ve been working on my own novel, SKYDOLL: love and sex at 35,000 feet, for some time now, which, in case you hadn’t guessed, takes place on an airplane. So whenever I hear about other books taking place on, or even near, airplanes, I kind of start to have mild heart palpitations. But the book Dear American Airlines, from what I understand, actually takes place in the terminal. Oh sure, at first I was appalled when I began to read the New York Times review of Dear American Airlines , a book by Jonathan Miles, which is a book that’s really a letter, a 192 page letter addressed to American Airlines demanding a refund after missing a flight, which in turn results in the man missing his estranged daughter’s wedding. I mean when you work for an airline, and all you hear are complaints, the last thing you want to do is read 192 pages worth of complaining. But after I finished the New York Times review I became intrigued. I mean you have to admit, there is a lot of material to be had when you’re sitting around an airport for hours on end. I just pray he never made it on a flight, because honestly, I can’t take another bad flight attendant story. There are way too many of them out there. Which is a shame. Because there really are a lot of great flight attendants out there. There are. Really there are. (Like me!)

More Than This

Summer is here and you’re looking for a good beach read, or perhaps you’re looking for something to pass the time on your next flight, well I’ve got the book for you. Though it’s not your typical romance book, it is a quick romantic fun read.

Ever been at the airport, or on the subway, or at the grocery store, when you spot that hot guy (or girl) at the exact same time he (or she) looks at you, and you swear you can actually feel your heart beating just as he (or she) is boarding a flight, or walking off the train, or pushing a cart out the sliding glass doors, and you want to yell out WAIT! STOP! But you don’t. Because…well…normal people just don’t scream out in public at strangers, even if that stranger makes your heart go thump thump thump. Yet later you find yourself wishing you’d actually done just that. And you wonder what would have happened if you had done just that, yelled those two little words that may have changed your life forever.

Chances are, if you’ve ever been in a situation like the one mentioned above, you’re going to love Margo Candela’s new book, MORE THAN THIS. I know I did. Oh sure, she’s a friend, and one of the writers in my writing group, but this girl can write! Trust me. In fact, I’ve already offered to host the party when the movie deals start rolling in.

The Food You Crave

“Excuse me,” said the woman staring into my grocery cart. “What are you going to do with those?” She pointed at my squash. “I’m trying to eat healthy and well…I need some new ideas.”

“Believe it or not,” I said with a laugh. “I’m going to make Macaroni and Cheese with that there squash, and I’m going to serve it alongside peppercorn lamb and grilled romaine.”

Honestly, I couldn’t even believe this was coming out of MY mouth. I don’t say things like this. At least I never did until last month. If you didn’t know me, like if you didn’t know that I can’t place a first class meal into the oven for 20 minutes at 275 degrees (the way our manual instructs) without burning it, and you came to my house for dinner tonight, you’d think I was a master chef. Especially if I happened to be preparing Miso Glazed Cod, which I can now cook better than Chef Miyoda who serves the same dish at my favorite local Japanese restaurant. It’s true. I’m not lying.

After I finished telling the woman who had peeked into my grocery cart a few other healthy food ideas, I then told her about the book Cady, my best friend, gave to me for my birthday this year. The book is called THE FOOD YOU CRAVE, by Ellie Krieger, and yes, you really and truly should buy it right this second! It’s the best book I’ve ever owned. Seriously, I’m not exaggerating. What I like about it is how the recipes are healthy and simple, but unique and flavorful, made with ingredients that are fresh AND easy to find at the grocery store. Before this recipe book came into my life, I was lost in the kitchen. I felt handicapped. I was the only person I knew who’d go to the grocery store and couldn’t find a thing to eat. Now I feel confident and creative in the kitchen. And I actually enjoy cooking, which is something I never thought I’d say. Ever. THE FOOD YOU CRAVE should be an Oprah book, if it’s not already, because simply put, the book is life changing. I mean when your husband goes from begging you to NEVER cook again, to eating seconds and moaning the word excellent after each bite…well that says it all, does it not? And did I happen to mention I’ve lost five pounds in the last month? Oh yeah. Trust me when I tell you this is a book you must own.

Check out Ellie Krieger’s website http://www.healthylivingwithellie.com/

17 THINGS TO DO WHEN TRAPPED AT THE AIRPORT

In case you haven’t read a newspaper in the last few days, or seen the news, or spoken to a displaced friend or relative sleeping on a cot inside an airport terminal in a strange city next to an even stranger stranger, things are a mess. American Airlines cancelled 595 MORE flights today. CNN.com is reporting that passengers on those cancelled flights may not even receive a refund. All I can say is yikes. Thank god I’m not an agent at American. Luckily I’m not flying (but then who IS flying?) until the 25th. So what do you do if you find yourself trapped at the airport? I’ve got a few ideas…

1. People watch. Better yet, get to know one of the people you’ve been watching. Then, if you’re feeling kinda ballsy, go for it! Get a date. Seriously, what better place to meet the person of your dreams than at the airport. Walk around, linger at the gate, and when you find that perfect someone, use the flight cancellation as an ice breaker, and then head on over to the food court for a coffee date. Take it a step further and try speed dating.

2. Eat. Don’t you know that calories don’t count at the airport. What do you mean there’s no place to sit? Have a picnic. Find a place on the floor and enjoy. Make it romantic by bringing along a date, the one you picked up at the gate.

3. Call your mother. You’ve FINALLY got the time. Or better yet, call someone else’s mother, like my mother. Why not go through your entire phone list and call every single person you know. Make a few prank calls while you’re at it. Feel funny calling a certain someone, delete that number! Seriously, it’s time.

4. Read. Buy a magazine (Or two. Or three) and catch up on celebrity gossip, new recipes, ways to organize your life, the latest international news, or what about discovering something entirely new? Or how about a book? May I suggest Eat Pray Love? Not only will it pass the time, it may even inspire you to change your life. Pillars of the Earth is not only a good read, but a long one, which will keep you busy for days and days and days, and let’s face it, it could be days until you’re finally out of there, so go ahead, prop those feet up on the luggage and get lost in a book.

5. Just buy it already! That pricey electronic device you’ve always wanted, but weren’t quite sure if it was really worth it. You know exactly what I’m talking about – those Bose noise cancellation headsets (so you don’t have to talk to the one lingering around the gate, checking you out), or an electronic book reader like the Kindle (so you don’t have to buy all those magazines and that big heavy book), or how about the ipod that plays movies (so you can stop looking over your neighbor’s shoulder). I mean don’t you wish you had it now? There’s a Brookstone, I’m sure, just around the corner.

6. Get your shoes shined. It’ll not only make you look better, but it will also make you feel better.

7. Be a perv. Get frisked. A couple times. Go back and forth through security and when they look at you funny, grin mischievously, and say they missed a spot.

8. When someone is paged over the airport intercom, drop everything, put your hands over you ears, and cry out, “I’m hearing voices again!” Or try pretending you’re the someone they paged, every single time someone is paged. See if they notice.

9. Bother the Agent. Get up and mimic the agent when he/she makes an announcement. Constantly ask “When are we going to leave? Can’t we just get a new airplane?” Make sure to use the word ridiculous when asking a question.

10. Play a game. How about what’s in your bag? Try and guess what people pack. Winner gets a free snack at the food court.

11. Work Out. Use the moving sidewalk like a treadmill, or the escalator as a stair stepper. Put on your shorts, wear a sweatband, and listen to your ipod. No shorts? Go borrow some. Rifle through a couple of those bags nearby . No ipod? Go back and read number 5!

12. Bored? See if you can steal your neighbor’s food when they’re not looking. Bonus points if you can snag their drink too.

13. Take a ride. Find a wheelchair and get rolling. Wrap a luggage tag around your arm and ride the baggage claim conveyor belt for a few minutes, then have your travel companion arrive with a luggage cart, pick you up, load you on, and roll you away. Don’t come back. Take the bus.

14. Get to know the bartender. REAL WELL.

15. Stare blankly into space. See how long you can go without blinking. Have a staring contest with your neighbor. Don’t tell the neighbor. Practice breathing. Swallowing. Sleeping.

16. Plan Your Life. Get out a notebook and make lists of things you want to do. Or not do. Add travel to your list of what not to do.

17. Hug a flight attendant. Why? Because they’ve been wearing the same damn polyester uniform for days, they’re not getting paid, they didn’t do it, they don’t know anything you don’t, and they’ve already heard it, several times – that story about your worst flight. So if you see one sitting around the terminal, don’t be scared, give em a big fat hug. Hey, we need love too.

BLACK IS BACK, MORE THAN THIS, & SKYDOLL (chapter 4)

Did you know that Albert Einstein wore the same thread bare suit for ten years? It’s true. I just looked it up. And while I was online looking that up, I stumbled across another interesting fact. Steve Jobs is just like Einstein, because he, too, wears the same damn outfit every single day – blue jeans, a black shirt, and sneakers. (Which is almost the exact same outfit I wear on my layovers). The craziness doesn’t stop there, because I, too, only wear one outfit…well…color. That’s right, I’ve finally decided to embrace my lack of color in the closet. From this point on you’ll (probably) only see me wearing black. Or white. Or navy blue polyester of course, but only when I’m working. And no longer will I feel bad about it.

The Einstein search started at the writer’s meeting this weekend when Anne (The Dream Killer) noticed that we (Anne, Margo, and I) were all wearing black. That’s when I made the announcement that this is going to be the year of black, I’m only wearing black, that’s it, so get used it. Though they didn’t look at me funny, I went on to tell them that I tried, not sure why, but I really did try to add a little color to the wardrobe over the last few years, but the only thing that little bit of color did was either make me feel insecure, or hang in the closet. After the announcement, Anne, The Dreamkiller, did not kill my dream. In fact, she did just the opposite when she told me about Einstein.

“Apparently,” Anne said. “Clothes weren’t on his mind. The man had other things to think about.”

So while we all sat around the dining room table eating cheese and crackers, drinking Italian soda, and talking about the advantages of wearing only one outfit, the always stylish MARGO CANDELA stood up and disappeared.

“I’ve got something for you,” said Margo, walking back into the room, smiling mischievously. She placed a book, a book titled MORE THAN THIS on the table in front of each of us.

“Oh my god your book!” I exclaimed, grabbing the book and admiring the cover. “It’s beautiful!”

Margo blushed. “Thanks. I like it, too.”

When I flipped it open to the acknowledgment page, I gasped, because right there in black ink for all the world to read was my name. All of our names! Speechless, I just looked at her.

Margo smiled.

I almost cried. Why? Because I’ve known Margo since I was five months pregnant. That was over two years ago! Which means that while she’s written and published four books, I’ve reworked the same four damn chapters of a book that’s already been written to completion AT LEAST six times already! As I stared at the glossy cover of Margo’s book in my hands I realized it was time to get my shit together.

Which brings me back to black. Back to yesterday. I was on the elliptical machine at the gym watching The Tyra Banks Show, when Tyra, dressed in a stunning black and white dress, turned to the camera, not the sad looking woman sitting beside her on stage, and said, “It’s time to make a clean break – and don’t look back!”

I ALMOST stopped moving my feet right then and there. Because, as usual, Tyra was right! It was time for me to make a clean break and stop looking back – at old manuscripts of SKYDOLL. I grabbed my towel, drove home, and sat in front of the computer, which is where I’m sitting right now, dressed in black, not looking back, writing away. I plan to finish SKYDOLL this year.

Here’s an excerpt of what I’m working on now…

4.

Michael winks and then says something I can not believe, something normal guys who avoid relationships would never say, something that sounds a lot like, “It must be fate, meeting the way we did.”

I gulp. “Do you actually believe in…”

I can’t say it. I mean I can’t believe we’re even talking about it. Nervously I rip my napkins into tiny shreds.

“Don’t you?” he asks.

“I guess I’m kind of starting to.” My napkin is no longer a napkin. It’s confetti. “Ya know, it’s weird we’re talking about this because I recently met a woman. She told me things. Things about my future. And my past. And she got it right. She was very specific, too. It kind of freaked me out.”

He downs his drink and holds up his glass as Fabian passes by. “Don’t tell me you believe in psychics.”

“I never believed in them before, but after hearing all she had to say, it’s kind of hard not to believe. She told me things she couldn’t have known by just looking at me. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think they’re all real. Most of them, I’m sure, are fakes. But if we do have this predetermined fate, like you seem to think, is it really so strange that someone can see it, feel it, even predict it!” I scream, because all of a sudden the music just got really loud. “Oh wow!” I point to the ceiling. “I love this song!” And then I hold up my glass. “And I love these martinis!”

The drinks aren’t the only things I love. Fabian is filling a martini shaker with ice. Man I wish he’d turn around and shake it harder.

“Don’t let that psychic affect your life,” says Michael, reaching for the pack of cigarettes. “I worked with this man who went to see a psychic. A Japanese guy. Very superstitious. She told him not to make any life altering events for twenty years. The guy just bought his first car last year. He’s forty. That’s what I am talking about. Crazy.”

Fabian holds the silver shaker high and pours a drink with such grace, such precision, such amazing pouring talent, he has to be a Martini making God from heaven. He places the drink on the bar in front of me and winks. At me – Me!

“Thanks” I say, smiling sweetly, because my drink, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Michael twirls an unlit cigarette. “What exactly did that psychic tell you?”

“Not much. Just that I’m going to do something special and that we’re going to get married and have babies.” I hold up my glass. “Cheers!”

The cigarette instantly stops twirling. “We are?”

I gulp. “No. Not we. I mean me. Me are.”

He laughs. “You’re drunk.”

“No I’m not!” I say, placing my drink on the bar and pushing it away.

He pushes the drink back in front me. “So what makes you think I’m the one she was talking about?”

“Because she said I’ve already met The One, and we had just met, and since we’d already met…” I laugh. “Well I had to believe it was you. At least I hope it’s you.” Sheepishly I smile.

He taps his cigarette on the bar. “You never know.”

What? He’s not fighting it? I stare at him in disbelief. He’s not even denying it! He’s actually cool with it. This can’t be happening. I look at him square in the eye. “So you mean to tell me-”

“Everything happens for a reason,” he murmurs, placing his warm soft lips on the back of my hand.

“But…I…always…believed…” I can’t talk. I can’t concentrate. Not when his mouth is slowly moving up my arm. I take a deep breath. “That a person can change their destiny.”

“If you can change your destiny it only means that the change was meant to be in the first place.”

“So is that why I met you, because we’re supposed to fall madly in love-”

“And have babies,” he interrupts. “Lots and lots of babies,” he says, smiling mischievously.

Babies? Did he just say… My god the psychic was right. Thank god she’s right! Not only is he The One and we’re going to get married and have babies, lots and lots of babies, but he’s back at it again with those butterfly kisses and it’s intoxicating…or am I intoxicated? It’s so hard to tell.

“You really weren’t supposed to agree,” I say, giving him a chance to back out, because they always need an easy out if they’re going to stick around.

“What do you say we get out of here and start working on those babies?”

Giggling, I pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. Who would have thunk The One would end up being this good! I mean not only is he gorgeous and successful, a fantastic combination, but he wants to get married, and he wants to get married to me! Oh my god we’re going to do it! Tonight. And we’re going to do it a lot. Tonight! Where’s my drink? I look around and wonder how the hell it got way over there. That’s when it hits me, there’s a drink stealer on the loose! Someone really should report this, but instead of reporting the crime someone takes another big swig and asks the teeny tiny question that’s been on her mind all night.

“Are there any sexual fetishes you might want to tell me about? Like any foot fetishes or anything weird like that?”

Michael chokes on his drink. “What kind of questions is that?”

I shrug innocently.

He leans back laughing. “You’re insane! Absolutely nuts!”

“So that means there’s nothing? Not one weird thing?” I ask, relief sweeping over me.

A thumb begins massaging my hand, pressing harder and harder, going straight to my core. “There is one thing I like. I’m very oral. And I like oral women. You?”

“I hate smoke,” I mumble, staring at the cigarette resting between those sexy lips, wondering when I’d find my turn between them.

“Yeah.” Inhale. Exhale. “I like that.” Wink. “A girl who doesn’t smoke.”

And I like it too, the way he does it, the way he holds it, and the way his hand is gently moving up my thigh. “Are you looking for love, Michael?”

“Isn’t everyone?”

“Some people just want sex.”

“I want that, too. I’m not going to lie. If I meet a woman and like her, and we both want to be in an intimate relationship, we’re in a relationship, whether it’s for a day, a year, or fifty years. But if it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. It’s over. Women are always trying to turn love into a game. I don’t play games. I do want to fall and love and get married someday, but I’m not going to settle. I want someone special. Someone like you.”

Like me? But wait a minute…I’m like me! I reach out and touch his hair. It’s soft and nice and black and soft and beautiful. Just like him.

“I’ve had really bad luck with men. And I’m drunk,” I admit, staring into those deep brown eyes.

“Let’s get out of here.” He jabs his cigarette in the ashtray and stands.

“But we just got here.” Eagerly I take his hand and hop off the stool. “We can’t go now, not when we have such great seats,” I say when I spot a nearby couple ready to pounce on our stools. And steal our drinks. I grab my glass and down it. “Where are we going?”

He runs his fingers through that thick black hair. “You’re going home.”

Eat Pray Love

Last month I found myself sitting at gate 5, waiting for the flight to Dallas, eating a cheese sandwich (from Cosi of course), while simultaneously reading a book, when an older woman sat down on the tan pleather seat beside me. And I mean right beside me. Which, at first, I found rather annoying, considering there were many open seats scattered about. She took a bite of cheese pizza. I took a bite of my cheese sandwich. She smiled at me, eyeing the book resting on my lap. Then she leaned over one of those giant plastic zipper bags from China and pulled out the exact same book, and asked the question everyone asks whenever they spot someone reading Eat Pray Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert.

“Which part are you on?”

“I just got to India. Where are you?”

“Still in Rome.” She flipped the book over and looked at me. “Enjoying it?”

I thought about that for a second, and then said, “I am, actually. Are you?”

“Eh,” she said, making a face. “It’s okay. I guess.”

The agent made an announcement that group 3 could now board, so I gathered my things, got to my feet, and was just about to say goodbye, when the woman with the short clipped grey hair zipped up her bag and stood. Together we walked to the boarding door and joined the end of a long line. “I’m in the process of planning a trip to Italy, so I guess I can kind of relate to the book,” I told the woman.

“Have you ever been to Bali?” she asked, handing her boarding pass to the agent manning the gate.

“No,” I said, slowing my pace so she could join me on the jetbridge. “Is it a place I should go?”

“Oh definitely. It’s lovely. In fact, I’m just now coming back from Bali. I used to live there. That’s why my daughter-in-law gave me this book. She thought I might relate.”

At row 14, I lifted my bag into the overhead bin, and asked, “Where are you seated?”

The woman hoisted her large plastic bag into the bin next to mine. “14 C,” she said, looking down at her ticket. “You?”

“14A!” I exclaimed. “Wow, that’s weird,” I said, because it was weird. First the cheese sandwich, then the book, and now the row. Could it get any weirder?

Yes, it could, I was soon to find out, because Millie had met a man in Bali who claimed to have found The Medicine man, as in the actual medicine man the character in the book is based on. Supposedly this man Millie had met while eating breakfast with her book resting on the table noticed her book and then told her he had found himself crammed in a room full of nothing but American women while waiting to meet the spiritual advisor. And that was just the beginning of my four hour long conversation with Millie, a sweet woman who ended up giving me her telephone number, along with all kinds of information on Bali, just in case I ever decided to go. After the flight, I couldn’t wait to tell my husband our plans had changed. No longer were we traveling to Italy. Instead we were going to Indonesia, via Hong Kong, and staying in a tiny hotel near Monkey Forest, a place also mentioned in the book.

“Are you kidding me!” my husband exclaimed when I told him the news. “You can visit Bali with your next husband. I’m going to Italy.”

“But Millie said Bali is relaxing and peaceful and tranquil, full of spirituality. Isn’t that what we want, that kind of experience. She said all you have to do is sit on your porch and Bali comes to you.”

“The only thing I want coming to me is bowl of macaroni and perhaps a little gelato. I’ll be in Italy whether you’re with me or not.”

So that’s kind of how we, the husband and I – not Millie and I – came to pick Venice and Positano over Rome. Everyone thinks we’re crazy for not spending more time in Rome. Maybe we are. But if it weren’t for the book Eat Pray Love, I wouldn’t have met Millie, and if I hadn’t met Millie, I wouldn’t have realized what I really needed was a relaxing vacation, not an action packed week and a half in Rome, and if I hadn’t realized that, I probably wouldn’t find myself overlooking the magical canals of Venice or the beautiful coastline of the Amalfi Coast in May. God I can’t wait.

“I read your blog,” said my friend Cady over the phone. “You know I read that book you mentioned, Eat Pray Love.”

No, I did not know that, and I wondered why she hadn’t told me sooner. So I asked Cady the second question people ask whenever they see someone reading the book, which is a question I ask often at work while pouring drinks in coach. “Did you like it?”

“Eh,” said Cady, and then she laughed. “You know there’s a website called Eat Pray Loathe.”

I laughed, because I could kind of understand why.

Cady continued, “There are times when the author just goes on and on and on…”

Cady and Millie aren’t the only ones who feel “eh” about the book, because half the people who reviewed it on Amazon.com felt the exact same way. You either love it or hate it. I found it humorous and insightful and I also found myself cooking a lot more pasta than ususal, which made the husband, a born and bred New Yorker, very happy, and when he’s happy, I’m happy.

HOW TO MAKE LOVE LIKE A PORN STAR

A few weeks ago, after a long day at work, my husband walked into the kitchen and dropped his briefcase on the floor, his tired eyes zeroing in on the book lying oh so innocently on the counter. He looked at me. He looked back at the book. He looked at me again. “How to make love like a porn star?” he said, making a face like something smelled.

“Oh yeah,” I said, trying not to laugh as I stirred a pot of enchilada soup, which, I must inform you, smelled delish, because it was delish. “I’m going to make love to you like a porn star. All. Night. Long.”

He just looked at me. He looked back at the book. “Seriously, what is this?” he asked, flipping through the pages. Suddenly the pages stopped flipping and slowly a smile began to form on his face.

It was the same sly smile that had formed on my own face that very morning after I FINALLY found the courage to pick it up, walk it to the teenage cashier girl, and purchase the damn book already! HOW TO MAKE LOVE LIKE A PORN STAR by Jenna Jameson had caught my eye the moment I first saw it sitting seductively on the shelf over a year ago. Trust me when I tell you it’s worth the walk of shame to the cash register.

On the jumpseat, that’s where I wanted to read this book, but I didn’t dare pull it out of my tote bag for fear of what the crew and passengers might think, so I saved it for the privacy of my layover hotel room where I devoured it page by page, staying up much too late for a flight attendant with an early morning pick up. It’s an interesting book, but don’t let the title fool you. This is not a book full of crazy sex tips. Nor is it a Pretty Woman type of memoir. What it is, however, is a story about the trials and tribulations of one woman’s journey through the porno industry. It’s not always a pretty tale. But what I love about the book, besides the absolutely amazing photographs, is Jenna’s honesty. She’s real. She’s raw. She’s fierce. What more could you ask for from a porn star? And that’s not all. What I truly admire about this woman is the way she takes responsibility for the choices she’s made in her life. She is not a victim. Clearly she’s taken control of her life and has achieved exactly what she set out to do. As the most famous porn star in the industry, she’s living the life she always dreamed of. You go, girl!

UP NEXT….

(I love when passengers leave things behind! Especially books. Particularly Oprah books. )

Lunar Park II

Like most flight attendants, I enjoy reading a good book. On the jumpseat. After the meal service of course! And one of the books I read on a jumpseat years ago flying back and forth from New York to whatever west coast city I was flying to that particular month – Seattle, San Diego, Los Angeles, San Francisco, you pick – was a disturbing novel by Bret Easton Ellis called LUNAR PARK. It’s been quite a few years since I read the book, but what I remember most, besides almost not being able to finish it, were the scenes involving a possessed bird doll that at one point grows real fangs and bites Bret in the crotch. The bird doll was so scary, so over the top, I remember thinking to myself, Where the heck does this guy come up with these crazy ideas. Well now I know. And what they say is true, writers really do write about what they know. But we’ll get to that in a moment. First I’d like to share with you what was printed in the Village Voice in 2005. Brandon Stosuy wrote …

Lunar Park could be interpreted as retrospective, but Ellis insists the decision was the result of a “technical problem”: “I had done this very long outline while I was working on other stuff and it was pretty much the book as it is now, but [the main character] wasn’t Bret Easton Ellis.” Blocked, realizing that it was already autobiographical, he keyed his name into the text. “When I decided to make that choice everything opened up,” he says. “The book then became much more driven and much more personal to me.” Of course, scoop-craving critics have remained too concerned with discerning fact/fiction. “Yes, I was attacked by a bird doll. It bit my leg open. I was on a cane for a year. I don’t like to talk about it. I don’t want to go there,” he says sarcastically.

Meet Pete, the talking parrot, the talking parrot, who repeats EVERYTHING I say, everything I say, twice. Pete came to live with us on Christmas Day. He was a present to my son, bought by yours truly. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. Of course Pete was a hit with my son, who’d pet the bird gently and give it kisses with a big, mmmwhaw!

Mmmmwhaw, mmmmwhaw, Pete repeated, flapping his colorful wings.

Good bird, I said, smiling at my son.

Good bird good bird, went Pete.

Pete wasn’t always a good bird. My husband and I soon became very disturbed when in the middle of the night Pete began to squawk. “What the hell!” my husband growled.

“I’ll take care of it,” I said, flinging back the covers, and then running as fast as I could down the dark hall to my son’s room where Pete sat on the dresser flapping his wings. I grabbed Pete, smothered his damn beak, and ran into the guest room, all the while struggling to find the switch to turn the bird off. Let’s just say most nights Pete somehow ended up under the guest room bed. Only to be rescued by my son the next morning.

“That bird freaks me out,” my husband once remarked.

Yeah well he wasn’t the only one freaked out. Because Pete had begun to remind me of a very scary character in a book I’d once read, a book I’d forgotten all about, LUNAR PARK.

For obvious reasons, I didn’t really like that book.

Yesterday I was at the park with my son when I got a call from my friend Cady. “I know this probably sounds crazy,” said Cady, “But I seriously think my daughters stuffed puppy has been possessed by the ghost of my aunt.”

Cady was right. I thought she was crazy. “What!” I shrieked into the phone as I helped my son down the slide.

“Ever since my aunt died the talking dog has been randomly talking on it’s own. Last night it got so creepy, I had to throw it in the garage.”

“Oh my god,” I exclaimed, “I’ve got a talking parrot buried in a closet!” And then I went on to tell her all about Pete.

“Wanna hear something funny?” Cady said, and she giggled, and wouldn’t stop giggling. “I put the dog in the husband’s car, strapped in the backseat.”

I laughed so hard my own husband came running into the living room saying, “What what? Tell me, tell me!”

“Nothing,” I said, a sly smile on my face.

And so, in the spirit of Cady, Pete, the talking parrot who talks when he’s not supposed to talk, now sits in the backseat of my husband’s car waiting to go for a ride, waiting for a ride.

Books, Boots, Buckles and Uniforms

Originally I sat down to begin working on my novel SKYDOLL, a story about love and sex at 35,000 feet, but then somehow I sort of ended up on the Zappos.com website. Still not sure how that happened. But it happened. And boy am I glad it did, because now two pairs of boots (including the pair pictured) will soon be headed my way. I can’t wait! After placing the boot order, I pulled up my manuscript, and while I scrolled down to chapter four, I began wondering whether or not I should have ordered a new pair of in-flight shoes to replace my scuffed up Mary Janes I’ve been wearing for the last few months flying back back and forth across the country while working in business class. I love my Mary Janes. I really do. But it’s time for a new pair. While I skimmed over chapter three, the chapter about the podiatrist with the foot fetish, I started imagining what I needed (something practical like a pair of Dansko clogs) versus what I wanted (Something sexy I say!) Which led me back to the boot search (Yes, I’m obsessed) and right to these babies…Now that’s what I call a boot. Not that I’d ever wear something like that to work, but if I did, it would be good for keeping warm in the winter while waiting outside the airport for the hotel limo. And notice the pointy toe, which is always a plus when kicking something out of your way, like a bag out of the aisle. Buckles, unfortunately, are not regulation where I work, which means this boot would make a great boot for someone else. Like someone who doesn’t have to work on their feet for a living.

But that boot got me thinking about work, not my book, and what it’s like, REALLY LIKE, to work these days wearing a flammable polyester tent flying back and forth across the not-so-friendly skies. Flying has drastically changed. That’s a fact. And that fact, somehow, had me googling “the top ten flight attendant uniforms,” which led me to The Uniform Freak. Now I’ve mentioned Cliff before on my blog (his website is over there on the right), the KLM flight attendant who has an amazing website of airline uniforms from all around the world (Cliff, if you’re reading this, email me, let’s do lunch.), and it was on Cliff’s website that I found my dream uniform, The Air France uniform, a classic navy blue suit with style. No boots for this uniform. I say heels. Hmm…wonder if Zappos carries a pair of conservative navy blue heels? And I also wonder if I’ll ever get back to writing my book, SKYDOLL, a novel about love and sex at 35,000 feet?