Valerie Frankel's
Palace of Love

According to weather watchers, of the first 20 days of June in New York City, 17 of them were all wet. Including today. Soggy sigh. We're all sick of it. I've had ENOUGH! I'm OUT OF HERE. Tomorrow, I'm driving the kids to Vermont to drop them off at camp. I'll be back on Wednesday, and the sun had better be shining, or someone's head will ROLL! Steve will stay home and tend to the kitties.

Re: kitties, I have an Ed story. Our newest friend, Edward, a black Bombay mix, believes in his heart that he is a flying squirrel. Why else would he make a death-defying leap off of our deck, into the maple tree, miss, and then (gravity is a bitch) fall all the way down, three flights, to our neighbor's garden below? At least, that's the theory of what happened. That he went after a bird or squirrel. We'll never know exactly how/why he went over.

The saddest part: We didn't know he was missing for hours. We had a busy day. After dinner, Steve said, "Has anyone seen Ed?" Couldn't find him in our apartment. Lucy went down to our neighbors, who told us they thought they saw a black cat out there around noon. This news made all of our hearts clench, collectively. We started walking the street, knocking on doors, calling him, making deals with God and/or the Devil. After an hour of increasing dread and panic, Maggie and I began making "Lost Cat" flyers, and Steve went back on the deck to call for Ed. I was at the computer, near the window that overlooks the deck, and I heard Steve say simply, "I see him." His eyes, to be specific. Steve ran out of our the apartment, thundered down the stairs and back into the neighbor's garden. Ed had crawled into a hole in their fence, a neat little dry space where he might have been for hours, protected from the (mother fucking) rain, and the (also mother fucking) dog next door. I couldn't believe we'd miss the hole when we were searching near there before. Ed had a scratch on his nose and a hairless spot on his cheek. He was otherwise unscathed. Cats are miracles.

The next day, Steve went to Home Depot, and bought 75 feet of galvanized steel two-feet-high chicken wire, which we (all four of us) wrapped around our deck fence and secured with plastic fasteners. There is no possible way Ed—or the other cats—can fall, jump or slip off the deck again. Suicide missions have been blocked. Now all we need are a few chickens.

We never escalated to full blown panic and misery, since it was only an hour from realizing he was gone to recovering Ed unharmed, if dirty and scared. During that hour, though, I was afraid for how devastated I was going to be, if we couldn't find him, or he was seriously injured. Yuck.

Apropos of the above story, I've realized of late that the majority of my blog content is about (1) my container garden, (2) my cats, and (3) er, not much else. Sorry, peops! How about some media plugs?

Steve and I have been Netflicking all the movies we didn't get around to seeing last year. Including:

1. Doubt. Great movie. Meryl as a strict nun made me glad I'm a Jew.
2. Frost/Nixon. I was too young to remember this. Nixon was power mad and a crook, but his crimes don't hold a candle to the lies and corruption of GWB.
3. La Vie en Rose. French misery and depression. I loved it! Fun for the whole family. Speaking of which:

The kids and I went to see Constantine Maroulis (my long-lost love) in the Broadway show Rock of Ages. It was an absolute blast! Like Mamma Mia, the conceit is to built a story around great hair rock hits of the 1980s (Benatar, Foreigner, Journey, Whitesnake, etc.). Constantine looked as cute and sounded as soulful as I remembered from American Idol. If you were born between the years 1960 and 1970, this show will take you back, as the narrator described it, "to a sexier time, the Reagen years." The girls and I rocked in our seats and sang along (well, I did; they knew a few tunes, but got into the spirit). Go soon. In September, Constantine (my only heart!) leaves.

Green Day: The new album, 21st Century Breakdown, is GENIUS! Go forth and purchase! A must have for fans and non-fans alike! Seriously. I am piss-in-pants excited for July 27th, the date that Daryl Chen (one of my five blog readers), Maggie, Lucy and I will see Green Day live at MSG. Be still my beating!

Wilco's new album is out in a couple of weeks. I have convinced Steve, who only listens to classical and opera, to go with me to see the band on July 13th at the Cyclone's stadium in Coney Island. A trifecta for me: my beloved husband and favorite band together in Brooklyn, my sweet home. Ahhh. Can't FUCKING wait!

As promised: Here are some container garden pix and a vid. Of interest to approx. three of my five blog readers. The rest of you can ignore at your pleasure.

Very Twilight-y, isn't it? The Authors Guild (keepers of this, and many other websites) is offering dozens of new layouts. It's almost too much excitement to handle. A whole new world, really. I thought I'd try this creepy and vaguely menstrual theme for a while.

Sorry I haven't posted. Since our trip, I have been spending a lot of time in waiting rooms, docs offices and hospitals. Due to a situation that I am not at liberty to discuss, I was motivated to move a battery of lump and bump screenings to the top of my To Do list. I have been 'grammed and 'oscopied' in nearly all of my secret places, peops. Several bits of flesh have been 'ectopied. It was NOT fun, I can tell you that. I am beyond glad that, pending a couple of late breaking 'ology reports, my days of being probed are over for the time being. Not to worry! I am fine. If it turns out that I am less than fine, you, my five blog readers, will be the first to know.

Meanwhile, since I haven't been allowed to workout or have sex (post-probe protocol), I have put all my pent-up energy into my container garden. I probably say this every year: It has never looked better! I plan to put batteries in the camera this very day, take some pix and post here.

I've also been writing a lot of articles. An essay on impatience for Self, an essay on being a mean mom for Good Housekeeping. And, currently, a reported trend story for Self on sex in the recession. On the off chance anyone feels a burning desire to tell me about how the recession has affected your bedroom antics, please e-me. We'll talk.

Once the decks are clear of articles, I will do minor revises on my novel (Dana Isaacson is an gifted editor), and then begin the ghost writing novel project, which is a done deal, minus an actual contract, which is taking for fucking ever to get read by all the appropriate agents and lawyers. It's incredible to me that anything EVER gets done, since every scrap of paper produced must be signed off on by half a dozen "representatives" who all feel the need to leave their mark for fear of not earning their fee.

I mean, SHIT!

Not that I'm grousing. I am grateful to have work, when so many don't. I heard a horrible rumor that, at a certain Conde Nast men's magazine, writers are being paid "on publication," as opposed to the usual "on acceptance." What this means: Since an article can sit in inventory for, literally, years, writers, who might put in a months on a story, are essentially working for free.

Of course, name writers have contracts and can make demands. The up-and-coming writers will suffer most during a downturn. Basically, it's tough out there for a pimple. I fear that a generation of writers will quit, give up or choose another profession. Young voices will be heard on the web, and that is a good thing. I wonder, if I were just out of college, looking for a job, whether there would be ANY print opportunities for me now.

Is print truly dead, or is it, like so many other businesses, just resting during the recession? The next five years will reveal all. Meanwhile, as ever, I'm writing as fast as I can.

Our trip was fab. My piece about it will be up on momlogic.com very shortly. Meanwhile, here's a vid of our room, and some pix.

Presenting below: The TITNH widget! Pretty cool, meh?

Three weeks since my last post?#*^&$#??? How did that happen? I guess I've been distracted by my emotionally consuming lack of work.

Since I turned in my novel to Dana (he loved it; still waiting to hear what his boss thinks), I've been in a holding pattern. One book project requires focusing, which will come in May when I have a lunch with Jen. The other had been in contract negotiation for weeks. Plus, I've been in full-lull, re: magazine work.

So, for the last few weeks, I've been working my ASS off to get work. What this means: Multiple times a day, I've emailed and called magazine editors, pitched ideas, written up said pitches in memo form, fretted, twiddled thumbs, pulled out hair, etc.

The emotional arc of freelancing is predictable, but no less trying. First, terror. Maybe this is it. Maybe I've had my last paying job as a writer. Of course, I'm grateful to have lived the dream. But how depressing would it be if it all came crashing down? I'd have to find an office job, as if anyone's hiring. Perhaps if I make more calls, send more emails. I WILL find something to work on, soon. Or else, sink into a state of bone-deep anxiety. Talk about moving to the country. Actually convince myself that country living is for me. A sliver of light (a half-assurance from an ed that a pitch was met well at an story idea meeting) breaks through the gloom. I rejoice at prolonging our lives in the city. Gain confidence that oodles of work are On The Way. A firm assignment, with contract. Relief (how do I spell it? J-O-B). Excitement about the article itself. Then, another assignment comes through. More relief, more joy, my mind starts working, thinking of the article's structure, some good jokes. Then another assignment. Start to feel concerned that, in my desperate frenzy of nagging/begging editors, I'd never planned for more than one of my dozen pitches to turning into an assignment.

Any freelancer will tell you: Feeling overwhelmed is the objective. Considering the alternative—three weeks of waiting for something to happen—I'll take pressure and a pile-up of deadlines in a heartbeat. The more work the better. The simple fact is: This very well could be the last year I manage to pull off the writing life. I'm secure again for a while. But a year from now? The end might seem upon me yet again.

Anyway, safe with three mag assignments and two book commitments (the ghostwriting job is, as of yesterday, a done deal; I'll reveal more when sanctioned to do so), my weeks of scrambling are over. My nose will be strapped to the grindstone for the entire spring and summer, and into the fall.

But, first, a jaunt! Tomorrow, Steve, the kids and I are going to Turks and Caicos on a press trip. Yay! Beaches is opening a new family resort, and I will be reporting on how fucking fabulous it is for momlogic.com. Four nights, five days. Makes my eyes moist just typing it.

I've decided to blog from T&C, get some extra publicity for Beaches right here. I'm not sure if my five blog readers are Beaches types. Mom and Dad? Tempted by an all-inclusive river of pina coladas and a new water park with five monster slides? No? Sounds FUCKING AWESOME to me. But I've always been a sucker for rum drinks and aquatic thrills. Ideally, at the same time.

Back tomorrow with some photos from paradise!

Greetings from Brooklyn! It has been twenty days since my last blog, which means, without question, that I totally suck and should be (1) boiled in oil, (2) hung by the armpits or (3) forced to watch five hours of Fox News. I hope, in my humbled heart, that my five blog readers can forgive the lapse. Spring break happened, and is (thank GOD) over. The kids are back in school. I can take care of business again, including posting a few graphs of nonsense right now.

So!

For the first week of break, the girls and I stayed in New Jersey, dog-sitting my parents' mangy mongrel pack of slobbering canine idiots. Forgive me, H&J, but your animals STINK! And they DROOL! They woke me up every morning at 5AM by jumping on the bed and licking my face. Torn from slumber by dog breath and mud-caked fur in the face. I shudder at the hideous memory.

Every minute I spent with those four dogs (about 350 combined pounds of stench), I longed for the cute, clean cuddley companionship of my wonderful cats. Dogs = dependency, like caring for infants. Cats = partnership, like a healthy, happy marriage. Dog people, apparently, crave dependency. They need to be needed. Cat people, on the other paw, are independent, cooperative, highly attractive and of a superior intelligence.

Of course, that's just a theory. I could be wrong.

Our second week of break was spent in Florida, visiting my first husband's parents. They do not have dogs. The weather was lovely. I jogged every single day, the kids swam and chased lizards.

We're home now, with the darling kitties, and Steve, my husband, who'd been on tour, on and off, for the last six weeks. He'd spend a grand total of six day in Brooklyn since February—including a few days the girls and I were in New Jersey and Steve stayed home with the cats.

I'm sure some people (I know) would be thrilled to get rid of their spouses for a month. I hated being apart. I curse Steve's opera company for lining up all those paying gigs. I spit on Wisconsin and South Carolina for taking him away from me. Incredibly, Steve has more shows to do in April and May, including trips to California and Virginia. Don't Gilbert and Sullivan fans realize there's a recession on? Why are they buying tickets? Oh, well. It makes Steve happy to sing, dance, mince and gambol on stage in wig and a costume. Can't say I blame him.

Breaking Biz Update! I have a new book deal! Yippee! It's another self-help cum memoir for St. Martin's, called "It's Hard Not To Hate You." The basic idea: unleash the power of negative thinking by embracing your inner Hater. Otherwise, the can of worms inside will stay locked there forever. You've got to open the can, pore that shit OUT. We've been spoon-fed positivity to the point of projectile vomiting by now, haven't we? Women have to think and feel their a full range of emotion—for the sake of our psychic and physical health. "Everything nice," we're not. Let's stop forcing ourselves to pretend otherwise.

I was inspired to write about the power of negativity by some of the material in TITNH, in particular, the junior high years chapter. I'd willfully suppressed those memories for decades. When I uncorked them, I felt a surge of energy and happiness. Instead of feeling shame about my experiences or guilt (for any number of reasons), I reveled in righteous anger. Let me tell you: reveling in anger is a hell of lot better than drowning in shame and guilt.

Anyway, I'll get started in May. A zippy book about female emotions, power, redemption and moving from point A to point ARRRRH. Can't wait.

In other book news: I can't say for sure until the deal is done, but I will most likely be taking on another co-author writing gig this year. A novel. It'll be a total ghost job (no shared cover credit), conceived by two very interesting women in the garment biz. I'll say more when contractually sanctioned to do so.

Last, since at least one of my five blog readers has asked, my new novel is DONE. Just yesterday, I sent it to my pal Dana Isaacson, the brilliant editor who worked on my mystery series a million years ago. It was his broad-strokes concept, which he kindly asked me to flesh out. He'll spare no feelings at all when he give me the verdict. I think the book is pretty damn good, but I would say that, wouldn't I?

Hamm lovers, here's chunk to chew while you wait for Mad Men season three. Tina Fey said he "looks like a cartoon pilot." She might be the funniest woman alive.

Check this out! My first boyfriend Eric Lebersfeld (sixth grade) posted this movie from 1976 on youtube. I'm in it a lot. Kind of camera piggy, actually. My camera shyness hadn't yet been established. What's fascinating, for me anyway, is how not fat I am in the videos. Sixth grade, as fans of TITNH know, was the year of my first diet. I'm not sure of the timing, but considering my size, I'd say the movies were shot post-first-diet, or pre-second-diet. Hard to tell. I gained back all the weight I dropped almost immediately anyway, so it doesn't really matter. The point: I wasn't fat, and if I hadn't started dieting at age 11, I wouldn't've struggled with weight control and bad body image for the next thirty years. Thanks, Eric, for sending! Also, I look just like Lucy. Freaky!

Sorry so lame. Really. I have only one excuse: I was told (by someone who loves me) to finish my new novel by April 1st, or else. I've been a crazed, writing fiend. Reminds me of last year around this time, when I was Joaning. Anyhoo, I saw this vid and had to share. All of my five blog readers are fans of Mad Men, and most are Hebes (except for Daryl Chen, an honorary Hebe, and half of Laura Lippman). So, blog faithful (hi, Mom and Dad!), this ones's for Jew.

Not to sound like a drooling teenager, but the Killers show was AWESOME! Maggie and I screamed, danced, sang along to every song (yes, we are true fans), and wrung every last fabulous drop of fun out of the 90-minute set. Maggie is a damned lucky kid to have seen her favorite band, in their prime, playing their best tunes. Brandon Flowers is adorable! What a cute little tush he's got. The downside of all that excitement: Two days later, the songs will NOT leave my head. I've lost sleep, replaying the concert over and over again. To quote "This Is Your Life," an excellent song on the new album (which they performed), "This feeling won't GO."

On other news, Tulip the cat is on special allergy food, as of this weekend. After extensive testing to determine the cause of her sudden weight loss, we learned she has inflammatory bowel disease (!). Her new diet? She dines on venison, duck and lamb. The other cats? They'll continue to chow low-rent chicken, beef and fish. Greedy bastards, they all clamor to steal sickly Tulip's cuisine. We've had to fight them back with sticks (not really). I do like to kick them away with my bare feet. They're furry.

I'm doing my pal Jane Greer's radio show today to talk about body image. Last night, I went to the book club of 8th grade moms, all of whom I've known for years, to talk about TITNH. A hearty thanks to Lynn Douglas, for hosting and being such a great supporter. Lynn also hosted a teen book club for her daughter when Fringe Girl came out years ago. You are amazing, Lynn! And your house is breathtaking.

Pre-inaugural thoughts while I watch Stephen King's The Stand on the Chiller Channel:

1. I have a GREAT idea for a "shovel-ready" infrastructure project that would be a fantastic symbol for Obama's administration's accomplishment. How about filling in the giant hole in the ground on the southern tip of Manhattan? It's been eight years, and Ground Zero is still a ghastly scar on the face of this city. I went down to the World Financial Center last week to buy Craigslist Killers tix from a lovely woman who (incredibly) still has a job at Merrill Lynch. A half an hour in that part of town was enough to depress the hell out of me. How that woman can stand it, day-in-day-out, I have no idea. My message to you, Mr. President: If you do nothing else, get the friggin' Freedom Tower built.

2. My kids' school has made arrangements to put large screen TVs in the auditorium and theater, so that every student from 4th grade through 12th, can watch the inauguration in real time. I have to send them to school with bag lunches, so they won't miss a minute going to the cafeteria. Isn't that awesome? I love this school! They sure didn't do this for BUSH. I'm telling you, Brooklyn Heights is so blue, it's almost black. Actually, tomorrow, we're all black.

3. As I mentioned before, I am in possession of 2 (two) tickets to see the Killers, my favorite band right now (forgive me, Jeff Tweedy!) at MSG. Maggie is also a huge fan, maybe even more than I am. We're going together. A mother-daughter slice of rock & roll heaven. In our nose-bleed seats, we'll be as close to heaven you can get in the Garden. If you're wondering, Are we human, or are we dancer? If I find out on Sunday night, I'll let you know. Can't wait!

4. My birthday happened last week. I'm 44. I spend the day—big excitement coming—napping, reading, accepting unconditional sexy love from my husband, and doing a bookstore reading for Paula's anthology. Steve had a cabaret gig, and couldn't come. I got my revenge by reading a section of my essay about our sex life. Ha! That'll show him! His b-day in next Friday. I'm taking him to a surprise lunch on Wednesday at the Palm Tribeca, to savor the $25 three-course restaurant week menu. (Thanks, Howie, for putting my mind on the Palm.) Steve has no idea, and since he is not one of my five blog readers, the surprise should be satisfying.

5. Lucy got me a great gift: a pair of garnet earrings ("the cheapest ones they had!") to match the necklace she gave me last year. She loves to give gifts, and I love her! Thanks, Luce! You rule. Please check out Lucy's blog (link below).

6. Workwise: I'm noveling. It's fun after (can it be?) two years of non-fiction. I should have a draft by March. New memoir proposal is in draft two. I aim to have that in decent shape in a week.

7. My appearance on the Tyra Banks Show is on Wednesday, January 21. The show is called "Bizarre Eating Habits," and I go on to say that the most bizarre and predominant eating habit in America is dieting. Check it out!

That is all for now. Tomorrow is going to be a great day, and I'm sure I'll have some remarks later. Until then!

Some Monday morning treats. Two new videos by my kids. Maggie made the first, the Mrs. Claus one. Lucy made the tribute to kitten Ed. Also, a link to the Sunday Magazine interview with Joan about the book/plastic surgery/Bernie Madoff.

Hello! Back from Vermont, and ready to spend my New Year's Eve like it was 1991. That was the last time I was without-a-man on Dec 31. Before anyone gets annoyed by that, let me just say that I was without-a-man for nearly every New Year's before then. I put in PLENTY of time scrounging for something/someone to do on the big night. There was the one New Year's between Glenn and Steve, which I spend in Vermont with my parents. That was only two months after Glenn died, so no one was in a partying mood.

The plan for tonight: Steve has his usual gig at Symphony Space, which I've dutifully attended for five years in a row. This year, I am FREE to do WHATEVER I WANT! So I'm going to bar hop in the nabe with chums Ann and Nancy. We'll be a trio of hot middle-aged women, roaming the streets of Brooklyn Heights, looking for AC-TION!

Steve has no intention of meeting up with us, the lazy ass. He is highly cynical about NYE, and sees no reason to force himself to socialize after a gig just because it's a "bullshit holiday." Of course, he's right. This will be our first NYE apart since we got together. Oh, well. First time for everything.

The holidays have been fun. Lots of cooking, drinking, etc. The kids are in Vermont with Howie and Judy until Friday. Perhaps my excitement about tonight is a freedom high. No kids, no worries.

I read in the Post that 75% of Americas had a worse year in 2008 than 2007. I have to say, although my finances have taken a deep hit, that 2008 was, for me personally, a great year. My family was happy and healthy. I had two books come out, both of which I'm quite proud. Actually, make that three. The Joan Rivers book is officially out, as of today. I did some solid magazine work. My marriage had its ups and downs, but we're finishing the year strong. I met my work-out goal of 208 (4x/wk). Yes, I counted. I have a work-out calendar. Maybe I did trade one obsession for another, but, as obsessions go, exercise is a lot healthier than dieting.

Let's not forget the universally exhilarating part of 2008, what made it special, one-of-a-kind, what kept us engaged and excited all year long: The historic, inspiring, thrilling and ultimately soul-healing and satisfying presidential election. New Year's 2007, who could have believed we'd be poised for the new great era in American history? Despite all the bad news of today, we DO and SHOULD have hope for our future—immediate and long term. That'll be my mindset tonight. Hope! Change! A better future.

Have a Great One, peops!

Holy Christ, it's been two weeks since I last posted! Curses, and drat, double. I've been trying to get organized in my thoughts about my new book proposal for my ed at St. Martin's. The lying-on-the-bed formulation stage is taking up quite a lot of time. More time than the sitting-at-the-desk, actually. But that's good! The more sorting out that goes on before typing, the better the proposal. And then, I find, the typing brings on better thinking. The mental work has to be done, no matter where it happens.

I never got to make the turducken, I'm sad to say. That weekend got eaten up with kids' activities and sleepovers. No time to shop, let alone STUFF and roast. I plan on making my cherry popping turducken on Xmas eve for my sister and her fam. I hope it works! On the actual Xmas day, Steve and I are taking the girls to Peter Lugar's steakhouse in Williamsburg. It's a once a year delicacy. Cash only. Yum.

But in the meantime, Thanksgiving in Maine. We leave tonight. Steve's mom has been sick, so we're going to be caretakers and house guests at the same time. We're bringing up two HUGE bags of clothes and toys to give to Steve's younger nieces, including the newest Quint, Macy, a baby Nancy and Kelly just adopted from Vietnam. She's been an American for less than a month now, and will be pleased (or confused) by Lucy's gift of about thirty old Barbies, many with missing limbs and asymmetrical hair cuts, that is, if they still have heads.

We'll be boarding Ollie (bad cat) for the first time this week. The other three cats can be relied on to use the Cat Genies in our absence. Ollie? Not so much. He get upset to be left alone, and then takes his revenge on our rugs. I didn't spend four hours, hunting through hundreds of rugs at ABC Carpet's clearance sale so that my cat could, in a fit of spite, shit all over them when I wasn't looking. So. He will be taken to a pet "resort" called Woofs & Whiskers, over by the Fairway, and spend a relaxing several days in his own little "apartment." I just hope he doesn't hate me too much when we pick him up.

General note to all of you who have send me emails about TITNH: Thanks you so so sososososo much for taking the time to write. I still hope to send personal responses to everyone, but I've been kinda of amazed by the volume and can't catch up in my correspondence. I am reading every word of every letter (including the bitchy ones; you know who you are!) and I love them all! This holiday, I'll be giving thanks to all the woman who have written to me, thereby validating my work and ideas. There's no deeper gratification for me than knowing I've made a positive impact on your lives!

HAPPY Thanksgiving!

We voted. District 108, Brooklyn, New York. The lines for our neighboring districts were about 30 to 60 minutes, but 108 was free and clear. We walked right up. Maggie went into the booth with me, and we pulled the lever together. A historic moment. Lucy went in with Steve, and he let her pulled the lever all by herself. In the primary, Maggie and Lucy got to vote for an amazing woman. In the election, they voted for an inspirational (not white) man. These girls are so fortunate to be old enough to remember this moment, and to register the seismic transitional shift away from the past into the future. This election is all about them, and they know it.

At Obama rallies, we get Bill Clinton.
At McCain rallies, we get . . . Joe the Plumber?

A good idea (you read it here first): William Jefferson Clinton, Secretary of State.

I've received many fantastic emails from TITNH readers. Got one today that perplexed me. The fan said she enjoyed the book, and, BTW, voted Republican. Attn: Republican readers. I have always said that bad body image is nonpartisan. Chronic dieting isn't red or blue. It's bleak! From coast to coast! Just because I think Sarah Palin is a vapid meglomanic and a disgrace to women everywhere doesn't mean that her sympathizers have healthy body images. I'm sure they don't! I welcome readers from all political stripe. Bring on the Republicans. The Libertarians. Even (yes) the SOCIALISTS! If we, as women, can unify under our common hatred of bad body image, we'll be stronger for it!

Just wanted to clear that up...

Okay, very much looking forward to Tuesday, and the end of this all consuming election. I'll be able to focus on more important things, like my slavish worship and lust for Daniel Craig! I am drooling in anticipation for the next Bond, despite the kooky title. I have always thought Steve looks a lot like Daniel. See for yourself.

A couple of things:

1. The $150,000 Sarah Palin wardrobe scandal. Isn't this the ultimate (meaning LAST) clue that Ms. Palin was always along for the ride, that she never really thought she had a shot in hell of winning, that she figured, "Might as well milk these suckers for every last drop of fame and CLOTHES I can get." I mean, Anna Wintour's annual clothing budget is only $40,000! Pay-lin has taken advantage of the Republican Party—and taken them to the cleaners! I wonder if she'll submit her dry cleaning bill as a campaign expense. It's probably the same amount as the annual income of "pro-America" small town folk. I wonder how all those plumbers will react to her seven-week spending spree. Somehow I doubt her red leather jacket and knee-high boots were what they had in mind when they donated their hard earned cash to the campaign. The McCain people are saying her "strategic" wardrobe decisions are besides the point. But this flagrant indulgence is EXACTLY the point. Does she support reform, or retail? Ms. Pay-lin's judgment is no better than Blinky McCain's. Is this how she demonstrates her Alaskan values? Nieman-Marcus? Louis Vuitton? Couldn't she go to the frigging Gap?

I tell you, it's just too easy to ridicule this woman. Like shooting wolves from a helicopter.

2. I like this vid comp, of fake McCain ads in the style of famous directors. The John Woo drags, but I love the Kevin Smith, and especially the Wes Anderson.

Quick post re: the vp debate. Maggie and I counted how many times Palin said "nucular." TEN TIMES. How many times did she wink and say "maverick?" EIGHT TIMES. She's like a wind up doll. Pull a string and she spews "maverick. . . Wall Street greed . . . tax cuts . . ." Biden was masterful, on the other hand. He sounded like a populist, but a super smart, informed one.

More reactions tomorrow.

I haven't posted since before the debate (and you better believe I'll post after tomorrow night's Palin pile-up), and so much has happened. I know, understatement of the year. Barack is now safely ahead in Florida, Ohio and Pennsylvania, so we can all breathe a big sigh of relief. That is, when we're not fretting about the Dow. I have to say, these are difficult times to be a freelance writer. I cannot stop reading the blogs and news updates! It's a fever! A sickness! News junkyitis. If I could tear myself away for, like, an hour, I might be able to get some work done. Er, Good Housekeeping? My article is going to be a little bit late...

"Thin Is the New Happy" or TITNH (pronounced "tit 'n' heysh") has enjoyed a lot of attention this week thanks to an item on Page Six in the NYPost (the hed: "Mag Editor Dopes to Stay Thin"), about my first two years at Mademoiselle in the early 1990s. Ancient history to some; breaking news to others. The Page Six nugget has been recycled on dozens of websites, including HuffPo, New York mag's The Cut, and jossip. Proof of how far Page Six reaches: I got an email today from a reporter in CHILE, asking me to comment.

Naturally, since we're talking about trickle-down coverage of an item on a tabloid gossip page, the point I was trying to make in the book was completely lost on those who regurgitated the Page Six material (but didn't, natch, read the book). Not to say I haven't enjoyed the attention. I so have! I figure, people might buy the book looking for a Devil Wears Prada-ish expose on fashion mags—and they'll get some of that, but a lot more, too, which they'll be pleasantly surprised by.

Greetings to all who are here because of Page Six and other gossip outlets! Yes, I did snort coke and smoke cigarettes in 1991 in order to stay thin. I admit it!

Also, greetings to visitors who saw me on CBS's "The Insider" tonight. I hope it went well. I missed it (they told me the segment would appear on Entertainment Tonight; I was confused; Steve is furious because he sent an email telling his peops to watch ET; oops). Please email me and let me know if I embarrassed myself. My friend Nancy says I didn't. But I'm suppose to take her word for it???

This week has also brought other endorsements from people who have read the whole book, not only the juicy parts about sex and drugs. Some links below.

The Great Schlep from The Great Schlep on Vimeo.

Thanks a mil to all the people who came to my reading on Monday! It was about as much fun as I've ever had with my hair blown dry. So many great surprises: my psychic friend Mary T. Browne showed up and predicted big things for the book. Mary, I love your bag/shoe combo! My old friend Bonnie came by, and laughed in the back row. Judy McGuire came—AND SO DID HER FATHER and step-mother! That was super cool. Perhaps the most shocking thing about the event: I didn't know some of the people! Yes, some bona fide, actual fans took time out of their evening to listen to me read. Incredible. Anyway, I told Maggie I'd buy her boots if she converted the recording of the reading into an actual movie for youtube. I'll embed when that happens.

More fun TITNH news:

1. The New York Daily News named Thin Is the New Happy their Thersday section must-have book of the week! Here's the reviews:

"Valerie Frankel is a prolific writer who lives in Brooklyn Heights, is in a loving marriage and has two lovely daughters. But she also had an issue that chased her throughout her life: her stomach.

She was 11, living in Short Hills, N.J., when her fat-phobic mother forced her on the scales and then burst into tears when it registered 100 pounds. The family was going on a Club Med vacation, and her mother wasn't about to be embarrassed by a chubby daughter in a two-piece.

So a six-week diet was instituted, and at the end there were tears again. Valerie was down to only 88 pounds.

After the trip, she starting eating again, gained some weight and figured it out pretty quickly. "I could have food. Or I could have approval. I couldn't have both."

That's when she became a diet addict. "I'm not an emotional eater, per se. I'm an emotional dieter."

In the end, every diet took her further from her goal weight (at 5-feet-5, she was aiming for 135 pounds). She realized that she would be dieting until she was too old to feed herself. Even when her beloved husband was dying of lung cancer and she was awash in fear and sorrow, she took "supreme joy" at the weight she was losing.

She festered for five years until a lovely man, who would later become her second husband, told her "I adore every inch of your body. And it would be even better if you could get rid of the stomach."

In her early 40s, Valerie decided it was time to go cold turkey on dieting. She took unusual steps to exercise her malevolent body image. For instance, she posed nude for Self, the magazine where she worked. And, yes, she had a little talk with her mother.

Valerie reports that as a committed nondieter, she has come down two dress sizes and continues to eat well and exercise for the right reasons.

Or, as she puts it: "You have to love your body as a living organism, not hate it as a flawed decorative statue."

She really does have a point."—Sherryl Connelly

Thank you, Sherryl! I love the review so much, I won't quibble about being called "prolific." (aka, sausage maker).

2. Even more exciting, I got covered by the Brooklyn Heights Blog! Yippee! See link below.

For those of you who are just tuning in, recently, I was called a "potty mouthed narcissist" by Pamela Miller of the Minneapolis Star Tribune. For any number of reasons, the phrase made me think (fondly) of memoirist Jen Lancaster. I told her as much in an email. She wrote back: "Seriously? I'd probably put that blurb on the cover." Jen's book "Such a Pretty Fat" is a hoot, BTW. Highly recommended.

Last, I am finally on facebook, which my daughter tells me is so much cooler than myspace.

More attention for Thin Is the New Happy, this time from the NY TIMES! My memoir is featured in the ever-popular Sunday Styles section, in the "Books of Style" column. Here's a bit of it:

"For the novelist and writer Valerie Frankel, thinness originated as her mother’s obsession, not hers. As a plumpish child in Short Hills, N. J., Ms. Frankel was badgered by her mother to lose weight and bullied with cries of “Put down that Twinkie” and “Give me that Ring Ding,” while her skinny sister and brother snacked to their hearts’ content.

Children at school showed even less mercy, oinking and mooing at her in the hallway.

At age 11, she was put on a diet, and she remained on one diet or another for the next 30 years.

In her memoir, “Thin Is the New Happy,” she writes: “I could have food. Or I could have approval. I couldn’t have both.”

The rueful, zestful, surprisingly funny story of Ms. Frankel’s battle reads like a sequel to the adventures of the chubby heroine of Judy Blume’s young-adult novel “Blubber.” Ms. Frankel openly shares her adolescent rebellions, her confidence-building sexual escapades and her career at Mademoiselle, where she was “the biggest girl in the articles department” at Size 8. “The Devil Eats Nada?” she asks.

Her colleagues had a smorgasbord of eating disorders: one ate only a bunch of grapes and six jelly beans each day; another dosed herself on laxative teas; another “had full-blown anorexia” (and wrote about it in the magazine); still another was “a full-blown binger” (and wrote about it in the magazine). Ms. Frankel writes, “I thought, ‘If only I could have full-blown anorexia for, like, a month.’ ”

Despite the humor she brings to her struggle, Ms. Frankel doesn’t make light of the weight fixation that plagues so many lives.

While writing this memoir, she confronted her mother and asked if she was sorry she had criticized her so relentlessly as a child. Her mother responded that she herself had been treated much more cruelly by her own mother.

But she also said that if she had it to do over, she would have acted just the same. “Relentlessness is a part of my personality,” her mother said. “I wanted you to be thin — I fought for it — because I loved you.”

Ms. Frankel has accepted her mother’s limitations, understanding that she was helpless to change them. “We’re bonded like war buddies,” she writes. It’s a war, she adds, that the combatants wage upon themselves, to fight the menace of becoming “one of those happy, self-accepting fat people.”

Ms. Frankel has gained the insight to see that “putting ‘cupcake’ in the same category as ‘Osama bin Laden’ is just wrong.” But that doesn’t mean she’s going to eat one unadvisedly."—Liesl Schillinger

Thank you, Liesl! Wow! Comparing me to Judy Blume! How 'bout that? No higher compliment, as far as I'm concerned (and I don't say that only because Ms. Blume is like a God in our native state of New Jersey). This represents my first ever NYT review, after nineteen books. I love "rueful, zestful and surprisingly funny." Paging St. Martin's: I think we have a new blurb for the paperback edition!

Gentle reminder about that Tribeca B&N reading on MONDAY night. Here's the info again.

Monday, September 15th, 7:00 PM
Barnes & Noble Booksellers - Tribeca
97 Warren Street
New York, NY 10007
212-587-5389

UPDATE: This just in from the Star Tribune of Minneapolis St.-Paul.

"Instead of insight or satire, we get potty-mouthed narcissism, confusing narratives that fly back and forth in time, a weird lack of emotion (or maybe simply the inability to convey it), no mention of anything truly important related to obesity and eating disorders in modern America, and no sense of irony that someone might spend every waking moment obsessed with gaining a pound or two as much of the world goes hungry. We'll pass on this dry dish."—Pamela Miller

Well! Wasn't Minneapolis where the Republican National Convention was held?? Yeah, not my peops (not counting Laura Billings and Nick Coleman! You guys are the coolest!). For years, I'd tried to come up with a cute epithet for myself, and now I've finally got one. Henceforth, please address all emails to me "Dear Potty-Mouthed Narcissist." Thank you, Pamela Miller!

What a week! A review in People, and then an A- review in Entertainment Weekly. Here's the gist:

"Considering her mother screamed and even cried when her daughter overate, it's no wonder Frankel struggle for decades with various body-image issues. But to her credit, this memoir is not an indictment of her mother nor a gushfest on learning to love one's belly bulge. Rather, it's a gritty, funny tale about one woman's quest to jettison a lifetime's worth of hang-ups, not to mention a closet full of Old Navy duds. A-"—Jessica Shaw

Thank you a million times, Jessica! A blessing on your head and the heads of everyone you know! This review, I feel, totally gets the concept of the memoir. I love the "not a gushfest." Anyone who knows my stuff can tell you: I don't do gushfest. Unless it's about Wilco, Johnny Depp or Ryan Adams.

My thought are drifting to my e-friend Meg Cabot lately. She lives in the Florida Keys, and is bracing for one or another hurricane every day. I have little doubt that it would take more than a hurricane to stop Meg for even an hour. Hope you're staying dry, Meg!

ANNOUNCEMENT: I have an appearance coming up. And, no, it's not me doing Q&A in the produce aisle at Fairway. I'm reading at the Tribeca Barnes & Noble on September 15, that's next Monday at 7 PM.
Barnes & Noble Booksellers
Tribeca
97 Warren Street
New York, NY 10007
212-587-5389
I will read. I will wear a nice dress. I think I'll bring some individually wrapped packages of chips and mini cans of diet Coke. Maybe Pez dispensers. If you have any interest in attending, I beg you, PLEASE DO! Events can be hideous if no one shows up. A damn good waste of makeup and hours of anxiety. Not that the anxiety is lessened by having a lot of people. Not that I would know...

So, yeah, Tribeca BN. 7 PM.

The People magazine review is out. Three stars, peops.

The blurbable line: "Funny and brutally frank ('the smaller my pants, the bigger the number of men who got into them'), she depicts a life defined by by the scale—until she embarks on the Not-Diet: eating what she wants (in moderation), exercising and silencing her inner critic. A satisfying account of the long road to self-acceptance."—Rennie Dyball

A blessing on your head, Rennie Dyball! And a million thanks.

Since the People mention, a horde of new readers have swung by. Greetings first-time visitors! My usual crowd of blog readers (all five of them) know to expect a lot of cursing and offensive language here. Just sending up a gentle warning. You can read with one hand over your eyes if needed.

Here's the complete Kirkus review:

"Novelist and self-help journalist Frankel (I Take This Man, 2007, etc.) chronicles her 30-year addiction to dieting and subsequent "journey out of the waistland."After trying 150 different diets, the author made a pact with herself to go on a "Not Diet," a decidedly forgiving approach to eating based on the theory that she would achieve her goals via moderation and exercise, as long as it involved getting rid of the negative emotions and self-flagellation that characterized her relationship to food. With the aid of a stopwatch, she spent a day counting 263 specific instances of negative thoughts. These thoughts far exceeded those about family, sex or money (which she also tallied), which convinced her of the need for a complete overhaul. Before the Not Diet could work, however, she had to confront the sources of her negative emotions. She started with her "fatphobic" mother, followed by her bully tormentors in junior high school. She explored how a weight-obsessed culture at Mademoiselle, where she worked for years, validated and enhanced her own preoccupations. As part of her self-acceptance process, she posed nude for Self magazine and got a wardrobe makeover from friend Stacy London (of What Not to Wear fame), who helped the author make the connection between looking good and feeling good. Frankel's attempts to shift her focus toward love, personal success and even the pleasure of food prove galvanizing, and the journey is relevant and even inspiring. Infused with humor and refreshing candor, the book will resonate with anyone who's counted carbs or tried to subsist on rice cakes and grapefruit. A self-aware, witty exploration of a woman's body issues."

Thank you, anonymous reviewer! I like the moniker "self-help journalist." BTW Kirkus, in the future, please make that AWARD-WINNING self-help journalist, thank you very much. The Publisher's Weekly review, upholding a long-standing tradition, called me "prolific." Hate. It's like calling an author "sausage maker" or "she who cranks."

A quick response to the choice of Sarah Palin: The idea that this (or any) anti-choice, pro-gun, anti-enviro female thing would even TEMPT Hillary supporters to go to the dark side is risible! Laughable! Up-chuckable! We don't love Hillary because she is a woman. We love her because she is OUR VOICE! I can tell you right now that Hillary supporters do not speak Palin. Every time PAlin opens her mouth, she might as well be saying, "Vote for Barack." How do Republicans spell BACKFIRE? P-A-L-I-N.

A word to Republican book buyers: No offense! Don't let my love of Hillary sway you from reading "Thin Is the New Happy." Truly, any woman, even Sarah Palin, will enjoy and appreciate this memoir. It's decidedly non-partisan. Once, I talked about having bad sex with a Republican. But I wrote about having bad sex with Democrats, too! The book is about body image, not politics! The body politik, if I may.

So!

Happy Labor Day, peops!

Much to report.

Maggie, daughter number 1, turned 13 years old yesterday. Happy birthday, Maggie! We were in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean for her day, returning to a port in Bayonne, NJ, having spent the last four days on a cruise to Bermuda. Thanks again, Maxine and Lee Rosenberg, my in-laws from my first marriage, for taking us! The trip was excellent. Much snorkeling, swimming, mouthfuls of salt water and pina coladas. The most exciting moment for me was on our afternoon of reef fishing. I caught this African pompano (twelve pounds)! Biggest catch of the day.

Re: memoir, it comes out on Sept. 2nd. Already, lots of advanced coverage, including an excerpt in Self, and a give-away contest in Complete Woman, and a nice plug in Parenting. I got a fantastic Kirkus review (first in five years). Upcoming notices have been confirmed in People (tomorrow's issue) and Entertainment Weekly (Sept 5th issue). I haven't seen the People or EW reviews yet, but St. Martin's spies tell me that they are both friendly to the book.

I'll post more tomorrow. We're only just back, and I'm v. tired.