Now That You Mention It...

This Weekend, I Watched Emo Gay Porn

Among the many glamorous things I did last weekend, like yell at the dog to stop eating cat food and fishing crayons out of the toilet, I finally saw New Moon with my friend.

And yes, the audience consisted of a couple teenagers and all the rest were...cougars. The fact that women of all ages can bond across generational lines to see teenage boys take their shirts off, well, is  slightly creepy.

Some of you might remember I recapped Twilight here when I first saw it. So let's have another go around, this time for New Moon, OK?

Another disclaimer--I have not read the book. My friend assured me that my viewing experience would've been greatly enhanced by reading it first, but I was all *huge eye roll* "I'm seeing the movie so I don't HAVE to read the book," a la my seventeen year old brother and pretty much any book assigned to him in English class.

Further disclaimer--I'm still not OMFGLUHVAMPIRESPARKLE or am I OMFGWEREWOLFJAKEABS. But like I said before, I'm not fourteen. (Or 31. Sorry Sheryl.)

--Once again, Edward looked like he was, while spending his hours watching Bella sleep, totally and completely doing meth. Skinny, pale, and looked like he had a headache all of the time. LADIES--do not assume that your man's jerky actions and paled complexion are the result of a hidden supernatural secret. And what was UP with those disturbed, porn star faces he kept making? I know he's supposed to be all tortured and shit, but Seriously. There was enough forehead wrinkling and lip pursing to implode the universe.

--I found half-naked Edward to be somewhat icky. Again, maybe it was the pale-whiteness, or possibly the weird chest chair around his nipples. Either way, I was all, "OMG did he just get out of a prison camp?" In his defense, he is from the past, so maybe he doesn't know about the fabulous new options us pale people have. Bella should totally introduce him to this awesome new invention called Mystic Tan. (But then tan Edward couldn't be all Emo Pale with her, so that might not work.)

--"You're sorta beautiful." Please, please tell me I wasn't the only person who laughed out loud at this snippet of dialog. In the theater, I totally was and had to cover it with muffled coughing due to all of the evil looks from said cougars. I don't mind cheesy movie lines...when done right. (See any Molly Ringwald movie from the 80s.) But, c'mon. I dare any of you to go home and say that line to your significant other with a straight face. I'm going to say it to my husband tonight, but only after he comes home with a few bottles of red wine. And then, I'll be mostly speaking to the Cabernet.

--Dude. Just DUDE. What was UP with all the half-naked boys? Not that they all weren't quite nice-looking and all that, but I started to feel like I was watching some bizarre socially-acceptable gay porn. And WHY wasn't Bella questioning Jake when his "friends" emerged from the woods, all shirtless together? My first question would've been, "So, all guy orgy in the woods, huh?"

--Inappropriate sexual chemistry. During the whole stitching Bella up scene, I sensed some weirdo sexual chemistry between her and Dr. Cullen. As if I needed to be skeeved out any more, thanks to all the middle-aged women around me sighing over a kid young enough to be their son.

--The "Marry me" line at the end. I turned to my friend and said, "Um? Maybe she should take the SATs first?" Yeah, yeah. I know they're true loves and all that. I just hope her judgment at seventeen is better than mine--when I thought using an entire bottle of Sun In and then sitting outside for like seven hours was a great idea.

Want Free Books?

Hey all! Come over tomorrow and hang out at the World's Largest Online Baby Shower, hosted by Parents Connect/Nickelodeon and register to win fabulous prizes--including copies of A Bump in the Road and FIVE advance copies of Not Ready for Mom Jeans!

Go here: http://tinyurl.com/yhvh2ny

I also wrote articles for the event, including What to Pack in Your Hospital Bag, Top 10 Must Haves for Working Moms and Top 10 Things I Wish I Knew Before I Was Pregnant.

May the prize-force be with you!

My Agent Rules

So apparently today is Unofficial Express Your Undying Love For Your Agent Day. (Or something like that...) When I heard about this on Twitter, I couldn't NOT join in. Because, hello? My agent is the incomparable Holly Root of Waxman Literary. I'm pretty sure I speak for most of her clients when I say that she goes above and beyond in her job.

Here's why:

1. Dude! I'm an author thanks to her! The submission process for A Bump in the Road was a long one--or, at least, it felt neverending. We got a lot of interest at first, but thanks to the scary phrase, "too chick lit," we were left without an initial offer. Of course, it sold a few months later, but I have no doubt that another agent would've been all, "OK, too bad. Let me know when you write something else" rather than: "This book is awesome and it will sell. Mark my words."

2. She's a total slave driver. I mean this in the best sense of the word. She's not at all afraid to get her hands dirty and help rip apart a draft--offering suggestions to help fix plot problems, character motivations, whatever. While working on a recent book, I seriously think we went through like 5,678 drafts. I was so freaking sick of looking at the damn thing, and I can only imagine that she was as well. Yet, each time, she came back with some gem of a suggestion, something to make the book even stronger. So I would gnash my teeth for approximately ten seconds and then make the change. Seriously, though, she expects the personal best out of each of her clients, and totally lights a fire under my ass. Like I said, in the best possible way.

3 She knows her shiz. Whenever I email her random questions about the market, acquisitions, trends, etc. she responds with definites. Which is so helpful, because if I hear one more, "Just write a good book and it will sell," I'll scream. Publishing can be quirky at best, so it's great to be able to discuss new ideas and their viability in the market. It not only helps me to be strategic about which projects I start, but an awesome motivator when I get one of the !!!!! reactions from her about an idea. She's even helpful when it comes to snacking. Just yesterday, she told me the Baby Jesus wanted me to have a snickerdoodle.

4. She's a Crazy Writer Wrangler. I know that I'm guilty of more than one late-night, crazed email wherein I freak out about submissions, revisions or whatever. She has always responded almost immediately with a "Step back from the ledge" email. It's almost like writers need someone in their corner who they can freak out to, so they can appear totally normal in public. Much like how I have to clean up my toddler before I can take him outside.

Hopefully, this post made some sense. I apologize if it didn't. My son's obsessed with this new music box that plays "O Christmas Tree" so we listen to it approximately 567,456 times a day. In fact, while typing this post, I was thinking, "O Holly Root/O Holly Root/How lovely are thy emails..."

My Cover: Let Me Show It To You

Guess what? I can finally, finally publicly share the cover for Not Ready for Mom Jeans! The book is out on May 25, 2010 and is the follow up to A Bump in the Road. It details Clare's first year of being a working (and overworked) mom.

I absolutely LOVE the cover! The first time I saw it, I was grocery shopping and pulled it up on my BlackBerry. I totally started cracking up at the twelve inch zipper on the Mom Jeans. So, so true!

It's so lovely, I can't wait to pet it and take it on a date to Chipotle.

Finally Emerging from the Crack Den

Hey guess what? I finished another book! Tentatively titled In My Life, this is my Funky Women's Fiction Cruise Ship Book That is Awesome. I turned it into my agent last night, after generally ignoring housework, going outside, showering, eating things other than cookies and the holidays for the past few weeks. I started the book in August, finished it in October and now it's off my plate. And my SOUL. For now.

So, lots of fun things to talk about around here. The first is that my second book, Not Ready for Mom Jeans, the continuation of Clare's saga, is now available for pre-order on Amazon! It releases May 25, 2010, which sounds super far away, but I know will be here, like, tomorrow. Hopefully I'll get to share the cover soon, as it is ten kinds of hilarious.

And through all of this revision crap, I've had to deal with a Toddler of the Non-Sleeping variety. Specifically, a Houdini-esque toddler that was up from 1-4am on Sunday night, having busted through all of our attempts at containment. One of our solutions involved a baby gate, which he pulled into his crib and used as a ladder. He also laughed at our pathetic machinations with the box from our television, some duct tape and a Swiffer handle. So, crib tent it was. And Holy Shit, I want to make out with the inventor of that thing. My son naps, sleeps through the night again and generally is a helluva lot more pleasant.

Crib tent inventor? Call me. You don't even have to buy me dinner.

Our Thanksgiving was surprisingly quiet--which was great. And I didn't even eat any rib bones this year. Last year, my brother-in-law spazzed out while taking the stuffing out of the turkey and scraped a few bone chips into the dish. Now, if you know me in real life, you know that I am Afraid of bones. Like, won't eat wings or ribs afraid. So I was happily eating my dinner when I realized there was a huge bone chip in the stuffing, AND I COULDN'T EVEN SPIT IT OUT because it was at the dinner table. So I had to EAT it. And SWALLOW it. But no marrow eating this year, so Yay?

And finally, I would be remiss if I didn't remind everyone to watch the Best Cheesy Made for TV Holiday Movie ever: Holiday in Handcuffs. It stars Melissa Joan Hart and Mario Lopez, but everytime I try to describe what it's about to someone, they shoot me nervous looks since it sounds like an Adult Film. But let me assure you that Mario keeps his pants on. Thankfully.

Sorry for the radio silence around here, but I'm finishing up my next manuscript. Stay tuned for the end of week, when I'll talk about how I want to make out with the inventor of the crib tent, the Thanksgiving I ate a turkey's rib bone and my favorite Christmas movie that sounds like a porno.

30 Going on 17

Here lies: The Post in Which I Provide Evidence That I Am Actually Seventeen.

I've been getting carded a lot lately. A LOT. Now, before you all think I'm bragging, not only am I getting asked for ID, I'm getting asked for a second form. Sometimes I have one, sometimes I don't. Which equals the waitress refusing to serve me and I have to watch while my husband drinks his Guinness. So don't think I'm saying this is a fun thing for me.

What I find hilarious is that most of the times when this happens, I have my kid next to me. And my husband doesn't get carded. So, apparently, I look like I'm his seventeen year old girlfriend. Which would either mean that he's a single father who trolled the local high school for chicks, or that I'm a teenaged mother out with my creepy sex offender, thirty year old boyfriend.***

So, instead of becoming indignant about all of this, I decided to reflect on my True Mental Age. And, honestly, there's no way I'm actually thirty.

Here's why:

I use expressions like "fo' sho'" and "legit." Sentence: "I legit love my new Ugg boots, fo sho." I wish I could say this was an exaggeration.

I have recently embraced the high waisted skirt trend.

I shop at Forever 21. (While my husband covers his ears and mutters something about "loud music and kids today."

I admired the outfit of a fifteen year old yesterday and asked her where she bought her jeans.

When visiting my parents house, I wear my sister's old freshman-year-in-high-school Doug Bruno basketball t-shirts with no makeup on. Prepare yourself for the youngness:

  Yes, that cake really does say "30."

***Maybe I can parlay this attribute into a new job. I am so going to apply to be the bait on Dateline's: To Catch a Predator. Because I can totally say, "C'mon inside! I made cookies! I just need to put this laundry down." Like, fo sho. 

Festivalin'

A couple of weeks ago, I signed copies of my book for six hours at the Cincinnati Books by the Banks Festival. Which was fantastic, except Six.Hours. I honestly am not sure if I spelled my own name correctly toward the end. So, if you got a book and my name looks like this: Maurine Lapinsky, sorry. Like I said, Six.Hours.

I did get the wonderful chance to meet Jennifer Weiner, authoress extraordinaire. She was funny, cool and way more down-to-earth than she should be, considering her amazing career. She bought a copy of my book and had me sign it, which was one of my most surreal moments as an author to date. Also, she tweeted about one of the cons to appearing at a festival: people picking up your book, hearing your pitch, reading the back cover, discussing it, and then putting it down and walking away. But, it happens. And it was kind of nice to hear that it doesn't just happen to those of us not on the NYT bestseller list!

And then, on Friday, I finally finished the rough draft of Maureen's Super Seekrit Book About Traveling and...Stuff. Obviously, there is no title yet. And let me just say this: this draft is very, very rough. But I'm hoping to have it done and polished up sometime around Thanksgiving.

Oh, and overtheweekendIturned30butwe'renotgoingtotalkaboutthat,ok?

Two Years

Two years ago, a new mom sat on her couch, typing away at a laptop. She could barely keep her eyes open, as her three month old still woke up every two hours to eat. But, now, thankfully, her newborn was fast asleep in his cradle swing, pumped with so much milk, he could’ve floated away to Aruba. She keeps herself plied with cups and cups of chocolate roast coffee. She has to, she’s writing her second book. Her first one hasn’t sold yet, and she won’t admit it, but she still desperately believes in it. Yet, she forges ahead, knowing that the only thing she can control is her own output. She loves her new book and can’t wait to finish it.

Today, a mom with a toddler sits on her couch, typing on a laptop. Exhausted from chasing her two-year-old around during the day, she’s grateful that her son sleeps for twelve hours at night. He’s asleep in his crib, napping for the next two hours. She keeps herself plied with Diet Coke, herbal tea and Dunkin’ Donuts coffee—none of the flavored stuff, thanks—that’s for amateurs. She has to stay alert, she’s writing her third book. Her first two sold. One’s been released already and she just saw the cover for the second. She’s not sure yet if she’ll be able to continue writing full-time for the near future. Yet, she forges ahead, knowing that the only thing she can control is her own words. She loves her new book and can’t wait to finish it.

From then to now, October is still cold and rainy, the leaves still change. My son still makes me want to inject coffee directly into my veins, but he also makes me laugh at the most unexpected moments. Book publishing is still a scary world, plagued with much uncertainty.

But most importantly, what hasn’t changed is my will to write books, and my knowledge that I was meant to do this.

So I sit here, in front of my laptop and push out words. And every now and then, I swear I can still smell chocolate roast coffee.

Lorenzo Lamas Drilled a Hole in My Brain and All I Got Was This Blog Post

I'm baack!

Back home and back to writing hard-core. See, this week my life took a bit of a Wisconsin-related detour. My family and I decided to head up to Lake Geneva for a little mid-week vacay amongst the cold, choppy lake water and yellow-tinged leaves.

I wore a sweatshirt for like three days straight. I drank apple cider wine from a farm. I sighed and looked out the window while contemplating plot twists. I bribed my kid with about 4,567,654 sugar cookies.

Basically, a good time was had by all.

But, now, it's time to get back to work. I'm about halfway done with my next book, the book that entails a cruise ship and...other stuff. Seekrit Stuff. From here on out, we can refer to it as Maureen's Super Seekrit Effed Up Cruise Book, m'kay?

I've been able to write a good amount today, despite having accidentally lowered my IQ by watching "Leave it to Lamas" this morning. That's Lamas with one "l." (Side note: a show about llamas would be awesome, no?) It's about Lorenzo Lamas and his weird family, including his daughter who was on The Bachelor or something. And a crazy ex-wife who walks around topless and ices her chest with frozen chicken cutlets.

Or something.

Anyway, it came on, and much like a junkie to heroin, I couldn't stop. It's bad enough that my husband forces me to watch My Antonio, but now my poor brain has the knowledge of the existence of these people in my brain.

I'm assuming that's why I called MTV's Fat Camp "riveting" without a hint of sarcasm. Followed by True Life: I Like Being Fat.

At this rate, next week I'm going to be watching Maury Povich episodes for social etiquette. So, if you hear me shouting "Ya'll don't know me!" and "Don't hate! Don't hate!" in public, it's time for an intervention.