Seriously, I'd like some breakfast. Anyone? [Update! See bottom of post!]

I'm up at 5:30 am writing this, which is not something I'm doing for fun, because the only thing I do at 5:30 for fun is sleep or sleep-eat. But I happened to wake up at 4 in a mild panic about All The Things, my ever-growing list of work obligations, and I'm pretty sure I'm forgetting something important I said I'd do. And now everyone is mad at me. (If I ever write a memoir I'm going to title it "Everyone is Mad at Me." Don't steal that! That's mine!)

It's great to have a huge work load, I know. I've had plenty of early-morning panics about not having enough work. This is better. I am okay with all the work; it's the NUMBER of different projects that I can't seem to wrap my head around. It's giving me a temporary case of ADD, an obsessive need to write list after list, and a strong yearning for a butler, or a chef. A chef-butler. At least someone to make me breakfast.

In the middle of all of this I'm trying to get off a Big Project off the ground, which I hope to unveil in a couple of weeks. Forgive me for being so secretive. I will remain alive for a while so that I may shortly reveal all. That is my pledge to you. ("I Will Remain Alive" is my second memoir title, written when I am frighteningly old. The cover will be a close-up of one of my eyes. When I die all the copies of the book will burst into flame. I've thought this through.)

In the meantime, here's a watercolor I did recently.


And another!

I could do nothing but paint all the time. I love it so much. I think I'm an art nerd. Is that a thing? I'm walking around with the dog and I see a gnarled, stumpy tree and all I want to do is draw it. All the dog wants to do is pee on it. And then I want to draw the dog peeing. And then I do. I need help. Or art supplies! That shit is pricey.

Update on February 18, 2012 by Alice

Oh, you people are too good to me.

I took your advice/requests and created a Zazzle store. You can now purchase prints of the tree picture--in poster, card, or wrapped-canvas format, if you're fancy. I'll add more paintings, when I clean up some other scans I have. Thank you!

This, since 2004!

Bluuuuuuuf. I feel horrible. I feel the worst anyone has ever felt.

I'm whining. I admit it, at least. This is happening. It's in my head, and if I were to speak, you would clap your hands over your ears and flee. I would not blame you! Flee! Flee while you still have the chance!

I'm not even sick. I am merely having Monthly Issues. Wherein my Girl Parts are causing Full-Body Malaise, Troubles, Low Moods, and So Forth.

I am typically only mildly troubled by such matters, so this is unusual, which is a good thing (for everyone else) because I really cannot take much more of this. My ARMS ache. How did my ARMS enter into this? Also my skin has exploded, which is especially fantastic seeing as how I have to do a video tomorrow and I will have to wear a shroud over my face, lest I terrify the viewers. A face shroud. Or I'll just have the editor (Scott) pixelate me. Can/will he smear petroleum jelly all over the digital-camera lens? We're going to find out!

It occurred to me today that as of the end of January, I have been writing this blog for (drumroll, please) (…no? No one has a drum handy? Fine) eight years. I should be celebrating this with some groundbreaking post that shows you how far I've come in all these years but all I can muster is this. This low-grade moaning. Booooooooooooarpg.

No, but really. I'm glad I'm still here, and that you're still reading! Who's the best? You are! [Imagine me shuffling toward you with my animal-fur-covered chenille throw wrapped around me, arms wide, wincing a little with each shuffle. Come here. Let me embrace you. I showered today!]

Here are two scraps of conversations that I was going to incorporate into posts but never could figure out how. But they make me laugh whenever I re-read them.

Me: [blah blah something something using the word "coterie"]
Jenny: I love it when people use that word, because then I can say, I know what coterie means, and I know how to spell it.
Me: It's important for people to know that you know how there's no "coat" in "coterie."
Jenny: There's not a y, neither. And I know that.

We went on like this for a while. Jenny saved me from the self-loathing that immediately kicked in after I used the word "coterie" in conversation. Thank God for her.

And also:

Me, talking about a certain reality TV show personality I may or may not have done a video with: She kept saying, "It's hot as balls in here."
Scott: Was it?
Me: It was definitely warm. But what does that mean, anyway? Are balls notoriously hot?
Henry: Of course they are. LOOK IT UP.

Thank you, Henry. I do not think I will look that up.

May I Gently Suggest, #3

Welcome to Gentle Suggestions.


Joshilyn Jackson is a master. I didn't know this for far too long. I've enjoyed her blog for a while, I figured she was an entertaining writer and I should check out her novels--and then I did and then I read them all and I was so tired and hungry and amazed. This one may be her best yet.  I have to warn you, if you think you can read a couple of chapters before you go to bed, you are incorrect. You'll get sucked in and then it will be dawn.


Julia's Child is, simply, a delightful romp. In fact I used the phrase "delightful romp" in the blurb I was asked to write for it, but then the author was all maybe you should read it first? And I was like, what? I haven't blurbed before, I mean, shut up, fine. And guess what I WAS RIGHT it was. DELIGHTFUL. ROMPY. I didn't put that in the blurb, though, because really. I did add that I missed my subway stop because I was so absorbed in reading the book, because I DID. Truth in blurbing!



Suggested by a reader! Who was correct! This was very fun. Boy, am I an advanced reviewer. "Very fun." Note the use of the word "very." That means the reviewer found the book more than simply fun--she found it super-duper fun! Oof.

I don't think I should have read this right after the Magician's King, though--I've now had enough surly teenaged boys encountering magical lands filled with mystery and danger, thank you.

“Polymath” doesn’t even begin to describe Silverstein. His creativity extended in so many directions that his archivists must be versed not just in turn-of-the-century world children’s literature, but Waylon Jennings’s deep cuts; not just in reel-to-reel tape preservation, but how to keep an old restaurant napkin scribbled with lyrics from falling apart. And you also learn that Silverstein seemed to have a terrific time drawing, rhyming, and singing his way through life.

Finally, I haven't grabbed a copy of the new Shel Silverstein collection Every Thing On It, but I'm going to--if not for Henry, then for ME. I loved this piece about Silverstein's life, and the amazing body of work he left behind. Except it made me cry at the end. Damn it.

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Open letter to our downstairs neighbors, in anticipation of the Super Bowl

Dear neighbors:

By and large you are a lovely couple to live above. I remain grateful that you tolerate my child's occasional bouts of "dancing" (repeatedly throwing himself on the floor) and that you seem to be happy, well-adjusted, and not abusing each other. Sure, you like throwing parties, but as long as the racket is celebratory and does not leave us wondering if we should call the police, we say: carry on with your crazy young lives!  

But once football season fell upon us, I have grown increasingly puzzled by your behavior during games. (Matches? Bouts? What are these things called, again?) I must admit that my husband and I, as well as our son, are not exactly "les amateurs de sports," as the French would say. Oh, sure, we enjoy the occasional game of catch-the-ball, and sometimes we play toss-the-frisbee-and-then-CRINGE-AND- DUCK-when-it-is-returned-because-those-things-hurt. But when it comes to watching any activities wherein people fling themselves into other people and try to make their way in one direction or another on a given field, we know little or nothing. Oh, sure, we've attended Super Bowl parties, but that was only for the queso dip. Who can say no when queso dip is involved? And then we've fallen asleep near the queso dip until the host has asked us to leave. Which we have. (After we got the rest of the queso dip into the tupperware container we brought with us in case there was any queso dip left.)

At any rate, as I said, we have some questions, and as we are anticipating that our puzzlement will only increase this Sunday, we'd like to approach the day with some measure of understanding.

First of all, you're going to scream a lot, aren't you. Don't answer that. I didn't even put a question mark on it. We both know the answer is yes. You're going to scream a whooole bunch. Is "bunch" a unit of screams? Don't answer that either. Conserve your energy for the real questions.

Now: While I'm sure it feels good to cheer on your team, you know the players cannot hear you, yes? I'm just making sure. Do you think that if you yell loudly enough you might be helping in some way? This worries me. I'm worried for you.

Also: you do realize it's not you who's playing, right? Because I must tell you, the waves of euphoria shimmering up through our floorboards while you whoop it up seems to indicate that you believe that you are somehow responsible for your team's goal-making. Do you believe that you're remotely projecting yourself onto the field and invisibly whisking your heroes toward their objective? Again: just curious. Also concerned.

And if you're so happy, why is there so much cursing? I can understand the hooting and hollering (sort of), I even get why maybe you might feel the need to stomp on the floorboards until the building shakes (not really), but why must you then cry out "HOLY FUCKING FUCK THE MOTHERFUCKING BITCH FUCK ME OH MY FUCK"?! (I am paraphrasing.) You seem to be fairly even-keeled otherwise, so what is it about SPORTS! that makes you lose your mind and also educate my child even more than he gets educated around here whenever I step on the cat?

Hey, did you hear during that last game, how I was upstairs shouting, "Sports! SPOOOORTS!"? Scott was annoyed me for doing that, but I was highly amused by my joke and wanted you to be as well. I really don't mind that you love your sporting things. I am pretty sure you're insane, but whatever. You're not murdering each other, and this is all I care about.

Finally: will there be queso dip?

Love,
Alice