Married? Yes. Dead? No.

You can call me many things. Organized. A bargain huntress. A purveyor of fine coffee. But a smug married, a la Bridget Jones's Diary? 

Never.

Indeed, I am lucky to be partnered up with an outstanding husband. The type of guy I think everyone should hold out for. He's supportive. A wonderful communicator. He challenges me to dream big and be a better person. And, did I mention he cooks?!

Sure, Andre's a great catch. But I'm not waving him over my head like some sort of trophy only awarded to those who get to Love. You know, that exclusive place where the sun always shines, the birds are always singing and all you need is each other. 

Apparently, I missed the memo that being a wife means I give up all life outside of the homestead. My college roommate's ex-boyfriend (who famously made my freshman dorm room a quadruple) remarked, after spying my husband and I at a nightclub, "What are you doing here? You're married."

Married? Yes. Dead? No.

And then there's you, the so called Sex and the City inspired Meetup group, who, as far as I can guess, used my wedded status to deny me admission. Pl-ease. You're not the first, and probably not the last, who pathetically thought I couldn't relate to the single girl perspective, because I'm not one myself. 

(And by the way, cocktails and fashion are far from the only things needed to recreate  any Sex and the City vibe. That sisterhood, unlike yours, was carpeted in compassion. No one booted Carrie because she was exclusive with Aidan. Or married to Mr. Big.)

Can't we just say enough to domestication discrimination?

Just because I'm not actively dating, does not mean I can't relate to the trials that come along with it. Phew. All my experiences, still a bit too close. The dude with the foot fetish. The one who stood me up. The one that HAD a girlfriend. Really, I haven't traveled that far from my seat in the 'therapy chairs', two odd Native American inspired seats, at a URI beach rental, where my cousin and I analyzed it all. 

And even though I'm married, I'm still looking out.

I know that BJ's Wholesale Club on a Sunday morn is prime 'stalking' ground for single men on the prowl. (I'm still pondering the why.) I also know that an intro salsa class is not only an outstanding place for men to meet women, but one of the best I've seen to be statistically outnumbered by them. You're welcome.

The funny thing about dating is that it's probably the most popular activity, that no one wants to do. I also know that being married, or at least being exclusive, is pretty much the goal everyone's working towards. So instead of writing me off, maybe you should hit me up for some tips. (Obsessively driving past his house won't make that cut.) 

I may be married, but I haven't forgotten where I came from. 

Believe me. I've tried.

The Business of Writing

Every Sunday, you'll find me curled up on my IKEA chaise lounge, coffee in hand, perusing the Providence Journal. 

Naturally, as I hail from the smallest state, there's a fair chance I'll spy someone I know. And for some reason lately, the familiar faces have been popping up in the Business section. This is where I discover fun facts like:  a kid who rode my school bus is now running a nursing home.

No envy here. 

In fact, I'm eternally grateful I've picked a career where headshots in sensible navy suits are not a requirement. I'm a writer. You know, a creative. Free of all stuffy constraints.

Or so I thought. Until I realized not only am I courting the business world, I am, gulp, at the mercy of it. 

Blame Settling Down. My finished, unagented manuscript.

The background, in case you're joining the story already in progress. I wrote a book. A good book. A funny, smart, intelligent, accessible read that I KNOW would entertain a woman or two, as well as make a difference in their lives.

When I first shopped it around in 2006, it wasn't a good book. Sure, it was a great first attempt. An okay book. But oddly enough, not only did I have a fair amount of interest in this okay book. I was actually offered representation. (Until the agent changed her mind. Note: She's no longer in the business.) 

Soul crushing? Yes. But also an amazing gift. Because the book needed work. And sending that out as my final product into the world would have reflected poorly on me. My literary career would have been one and done.

Round one of the agent search also left me with offers from multiple agents willing to take a second look at this okay book, if I opted for professional editing. So I did, eventually rewriting the book, then beginning round two of operation agent query. 

You know, because it's such an amazing way to pass the time.

So far, I've got a full and a partial out in the world. Not bad for the percentage of query letters I sent out, but my much improved book has not garnered anywhere near the amount of attention as the unedited version. 

In other words: Better product. Less interest.

Logically, it doesn't make a bit of sense. Today, I also have more writing clips. I've got a website. I tweet! So what gives?

I'm thinking it's just business, baby.

My latest epiphany came from this paragraph of a recently received rejection letter:

I'm sorry to say that the project just isn't a perfect fit with my current needs. This has less to do with your strengths as a writer and more to do with my goals as an agent and the trends of the current literary marketplace.

So, basically, if writing wasn't hard enough, now you've got to consider the market. Because while agents are certainly lovers of books and promoters of the written word, they're also fans of eating. And paying their bills.

Sure it may start with a book, but I believe their primary role lines up closer to sales, where they carefully try to balance their own passions with what the publishing houses think the public is going to buy next. My genre? Popularly thought to have peaked ten years ago, even though I respectfully, and vehemently, disagree.

Duh. And why did it take me so long to figure this out?

Also: IT IS NOT MY TALENT!! (Sorry. Little pep talk here that you walked into.)

I know this little ah-ha moment is going to power me through this marathon. I don't give up easily. Okay. At all.

And in the short run, I've ordered this, to aid with my focus. 

What I'll be drinking from it? My secret. Just know that eventually, I WILL use it to toast my publishing contract.

There Ain't No Fear Here: Boston Strong

Boston. My heart bleeds for you. 

And for all of us.

I'm from Providence. The Northeast. A bustling, busy part of the the country where the pace is fast. People are tough. Traditions are strong. And history runs deep.

Like Patriots Day. And the Boston Marathon. And neighborhoods like the Back Bay where people celebrate by lining Boyleston on the regular, waiting patiently for something wonderful to pass. Like the entire Red Sox team after winning the World Series or the Patriots after taking the Super Bowl.

I've been there.

Shouting congrats to Jacoby Ellsbury, with the Old South Church at Dartmouth and Boylston, to my back, only feet from the first blast site. I still remember the clock striking noon, with my most pressing concern being where to get lunch after the Duck boats had rolled by and hoping not to get caught in traffic on the ride home.

My heart bleeds. For so many reasons.

Because while life as we know it surely changed on September 11, 2001, clearly, this was not the end, but merely the beginning. And as Americans, we've been sadly naive, clinging to our innocence, freedoms and independence, while sickos continue to plot from the shadows.

I don't believe that we've forgotten. But it's easy to let our guard down. To believe our city isn't a target. That these things happen in more dangerous urban centers. Places we don't call home.

This, I am guilty.

Until Monday, I naively believed, or maybe hoped is the better word, there was some uniform, countrywide standard of safety. A mandate by Homeland security to remove all trash cans during large scale events. And mailboxes. And ban large bags. And create a zone where people had to pass through security to get close to the action.

Even though I walked directly to the barricade for the Sox parade in 2007. 

Even though my city's signature Waterfire has never functioned under such high security, and I can't even imagine how it could.

Even though I act like this has been my experience in New York City all of the time, but that's far from true. In 2011, when my girlfriend, casually rolled her carry-on, into a high profile, live televised event in NYC, I expected, "Sorry, miss. You can't bring that it in here". But those words never came. 

I realize that I've been lying to myself, holding onto this smallest sense of security to allow myself not just to continue functioning, but to explore. To live. Without being afraid.

The day of the Boston bombings, someone told me that it was better to stay small. As in keep close to home. And I can't stop thinking about that. Because there's absolutely no richness in fear.

And that's not the kind of life I want to lead.

Or leave. 

I know life comes with no guarantees, even close to home. I got that lesson loud and clear when I was ten, and my older cousin Billy was in a horrible car crash that killed five of his high school buddies, and his West Point dreams. And while he technically survived for many years afterwards, he never was able to live. 

It was again reinforced for me on September 11, as I watched the towers fall on a perfect late summer day from Providence. Two weeks before, in a hotel room in Tribeca, with the tips of the towers in view, I was regretful we couldn't squeeze in a visit before heading home. My husband replied, "Don't worry. They'll always be there."

No guarantees.

These moments have defined me.

The truth is just being alive is a risk. With or without terrorists. My neighborhood? Historic. Funky. Beautiful. Artsy. A-ma-zing. But the reality is that it borders gang territory. And if I'm completely honestly, the probability of getting taken out by a stray bullet in a drive-by, is statistically higher than getting wiped out by a bomber.

But still, I love it here. And I'm not quite ready to pull the covers up over my head or watch the world go by on TV, from my recliner.

The only thing that I know with a fair amount of certainty is that no one who came out to watch the true ritual of human endurance that is the Boston Marathon, on a Monday afternoon, considered for a second that their own bodies could be attacked, while simply cheering on the sidelines. 

They were not afraid.

And I vow not to be either.

Please. Just drop me an F-bomb already.

Last weekend, the wallpapering experts arrived to officially wrap the home-decorating saga, years in the making.

Those grossly elevated prices of wallpaper? Apparently, not my imagination. Our new pal explained how the industry had hurt consumers, as well as his small business of thirty-five years, by increasing the price of paper AND shortening the rolls. 

Understandably, he was irritated. Mid-rant, the unthinkable happened. He slipped in a word for emphasis that, apparently, he normally wouldn't have used in the presence of a lady.

 (Um, that would be me.) 

I wasn't recording the conversation, but I'm thinking it was along the lines 'screwed'. 

Our expert, clearly embarrassed, began apologizing profusely, before my husband swiftly stepped in, responding, "Oh, that's okay. She's a sailor."

Thanks, honey. 

But once again, Andre does speak the truth. As well, as inadvertently revealing the fastest way to my heart. 

Yup. Swear. In front of me.

Naturally, there are some guidelines. I'm not hip with a casual FU, or anything else tossed off the cuff in the heat of the moment, for the sole purpose of getting a rise. 

Pfft. Way too unimaginative. 

Nope. I'm way more into the thinking kind of profanity. Those stream of conscious tirades where unspeakables flow from impassioned conversation, eventually getting thrown down as an overenthusiastic adverb, instead of a verb. 

That. I dig.

But let's be clear. It's not the dirty words that gets me fired up; it's the animated devotion to whatever cause that inspired it in the first place. And major bonus points for the fact that the speaker is comfortable enough with me--AND themselves--to engage in this taboo-est of talk in the first place. 

So go ahead. Drop me an F-bomb or two.

There's plenty of room in the boat.

Guest Post: Twenty Answers

I asked. You answered. 

Well, one person did. I'm not sure what's up with the rest of you.

Meet my friend Merry from the great land of Oz. (That's Australia. Not Wizard of.) She's got spunk, and a shared love of books, New York City and Lenny Kravitz. What else could you possibly need in a friendship spawned on Twitter?

From her outstandingly beautiful balcony-garden in Perth, she's brought her international perspective. Interesting stuff, especially the fact that apparently Alex and Ani haven't reached global domination. 

Yet.

Read on...

1. Why do airline rates change ever 3.4 seconds?  A: Same reason banks get away with so much.
2. Why is the Bachelor still on the air?  A:  Never watched it <pride>. 
3. And related: Why are the Bachelors ALWAYS white?  A: Well, we know one who isn't.
4. Why is there so much salt added to ALL processed foods?  A:  Because it would taste like crap otherwise.
5. What's the appeal of cats? Or CATS for that matter?  A: Uh-oh! Agree to disgree? I love cats :-). Never seen CATS.
6. Why do women of a certain age give into the hairstyle fondly known as the 'senior afro'?  A: Well, I haven't! The worth of a person shouldn't be measured by their age. It's society's fault.
7. Why is high school pumped as the best of times?  A: I can debunk that ridiculous myth comprehensively right now.
8. Why do the people who need counseling the most, never get it?  A: The world we live in...<sigh>. We're a throw-away society, and not just material things. And no matter what anyone says these days, stigmas still stick.
9. Why are so many Americans hating on immigrants, while eating pizza?  A: Ironic, since many Americans either are immigrants or have immigrant roots. Through ignorance, they feel threatened by something, therefore irrationally hate it (a la KKK)?
10. Why are we acting like the social structure of families has no impact on education?  A: No experience with "family", but strong role models are critical and they've been dwindling alarmingly over the last 30 years.
11. Where do babies come from? (Just checking if you're still with me.)  A:  Still here :-)
12. Why do talented artists like, say Lenny Kravitz and Jose James, have to go to Europe to sell out shows?  A: So did Jimi Hendrix. Fed too much superficial crap, which has totally negated appreciation of the finer things in life?
13. What is the fascination with Alex and Ani bangles?  A: Had to look that one up. They look very...heavy. I prefer my silver chains.
14. How does gay marriage negatively impact you? No. Really.  A: It doesn't. Gay marriage has no more impact, negative or otherwise, on anyone else than conventional marriage. 'Tis the same.
15. Why are people that are the most religious often the least holy?  A: It's rare for human beings not to be hypocritical, but misguided beliefs make for a dangerous playground.
16. Why did the Patriots let Wes Welker go?  A: Sports. Blech! <sorry>.
17. Why do Americans NEVER DRESS UP?  A: Well, according to all the media, they do...oh, of course, they're "celebrities". There are actually regular folks living in the U.S. as well, then? Maybe due to the effort required to survive, they just don't have the strength or inclination to compete.
18. Where does the weight go when you lose it?  A: Burn, baby, burn.
19. Why do some people assume your life experience is exactly like theirs?  A: Self-interest is a funny thing. Being of an "older" generation, it saddens me just how much young people expect and take for granted now. I don't know whether to be insanely envious, pity their lack of individuality and character or, horror, be happy for them.
20. What are you wondering about? Go on. Comment below.  A: What made you decide on these particular questions? Are there more?

The final answer:  Well, sometimes, my dear mate, a crazy week will sneak up on a girl. And rather than ruin a perfectly good streak of weeks of consecutive posts--holla 89 weeks and counting--desperate, I mean, creative measures are taken. This post? Really the equivalent doing a 25 page research paper the day before it is due. 

And yes, oh, yes, there are always more questions.

And usually more questions than answers.

Thank you for playing!