On Thursday, November 19th at 7.30p.m. I will be appearing at Words Bookstore in Maplewood, NJ. I will be reading from my memoir, I THOUGHT I GREW UP, an Award-Winning Finalist of the National Best Books 2009 Awards.
If you're coming from NYC, it's 30 minutes from Penn Station on NJ Transit! Just take the train to Maplewood, NJ. Two blocks from the train station you'll find Words at 179 Maplewood Avenue. As easy as pie ;-)
Come on down and pick up a copy for the fabulous person stuffing your bird next week ;-)
I'll be reading from the book and signing copies. Spread the word and invite your friends!
Words is an amazing bookstore with a big heart. Whether you can make it to the reading or not, you must stop by Words and support this great independent bookstore.
I hope to see your shining faces there.
Michelle xxx
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
How Do You Decide Whom To Marry?
OK… I admit that these kid quotes have been ‘borrowed’ ;-)
A friend sent these sage words in an e-mail this evening. As I read it a flood of memories raced through my mind ranging from my own recent dating exploits to Art Linkletter’s Kids Say the Darndest Things. If you’re too young to remember Mr. Linkletter’s House Party, take a moment to watch this fabulous YouTube clip. You won’t regret giving up the seven minutes and thirteen seconds of your life.
These kids are hysterical…
How do you decide whom to marry?
You got to find somebody who likes the same stuff. Like, if you like sports, she should like it that you like sports, and she should keep the chips and dip coming.
-- Alan, age 10
No person really decides before they grow up who they're going to marry. God decides it all way before, and you get to find out later who you're stuck with....
-- Kristen, age 10
What is the right age to get married?
Twenty-three is the best age because you know the person FOREVER by then.
-- Camille, age 10
How can a stranger tell if two people are married?
You might have to guess, based on whether they seem to be yelling at the same kids.
-- Derrick, age 8
What do you think your mom and dad have in common?
Both don't want any more kids.
-- Lori, age 8
What do most people do on a date?
Dates are for having fun, and people should use them to get to know each other. Even boys have something to say if you listen long enough...
-- Lynnette, age 8
On the first date, they just tell each other lies and that usually gets them interested enough to go for a second date.
-- Martin, age 10
What would you do on a first date that was turning sour?
I'd run home and play dead. The next day I would call all the newspapers and make sure they wrote about me in all the dead columns.
-- Craig, age 9
When is it okay to kiss someone?
When they're rich.
-- Pam, age 7
The law says you have to be eighteen, so I wouldn't want to mess with that.
-- Curt, age 7
The rule goes like this: If you kiss someone, then you should marry them and have kids with them... It's the right thing to do.
-- Howard, age 8
Is it better to be single or married?
It's better for girls to be single but not for boys. Boys need someone to clean up after them.
-- Anita, age 9
How would the world be different if people didn’t get married?
There sure would be a lot of kids to explain, wouldn't there?
-- Kelvin, age 8
And the #1 Favorite is ...
How would you make a marriage work?
Tell your wife that she looks pretty, even if she looks like a truck.
-- Ricky, age 10
I wonder if Ricky’s dad is single.
A friend sent these sage words in an e-mail this evening. As I read it a flood of memories raced through my mind ranging from my own recent dating exploits to Art Linkletter’s Kids Say the Darndest Things. If you’re too young to remember Mr. Linkletter’s House Party, take a moment to watch this fabulous YouTube clip. You won’t regret giving up the seven minutes and thirteen seconds of your life.
These kids are hysterical…
How do you decide whom to marry?
You got to find somebody who likes the same stuff. Like, if you like sports, she should like it that you like sports, and she should keep the chips and dip coming.
-- Alan, age 10
No person really decides before they grow up who they're going to marry. God decides it all way before, and you get to find out later who you're stuck with....
-- Kristen, age 10
What is the right age to get married?
Twenty-three is the best age because you know the person FOREVER by then.
-- Camille, age 10
How can a stranger tell if two people are married?
You might have to guess, based on whether they seem to be yelling at the same kids.
-- Derrick, age 8
What do you think your mom and dad have in common?
Both don't want any more kids.
-- Lori, age 8
What do most people do on a date?
Dates are for having fun, and people should use them to get to know each other. Even boys have something to say if you listen long enough...
-- Lynnette, age 8
On the first date, they just tell each other lies and that usually gets them interested enough to go for a second date.
-- Martin, age 10
What would you do on a first date that was turning sour?
I'd run home and play dead. The next day I would call all the newspapers and make sure they wrote about me in all the dead columns.
-- Craig, age 9
When is it okay to kiss someone?
When they're rich.
-- Pam, age 7
The law says you have to be eighteen, so I wouldn't want to mess with that.
-- Curt, age 7
The rule goes like this: If you kiss someone, then you should marry them and have kids with them... It's the right thing to do.
-- Howard, age 8
Is it better to be single or married?
It's better for girls to be single but not for boys. Boys need someone to clean up after them.
-- Anita, age 9
How would the world be different if people didn’t get married?
There sure would be a lot of kids to explain, wouldn't there?
-- Kelvin, age 8
And the #1 Favorite is ...
How would you make a marriage work?
Tell your wife that she looks pretty, even if she looks like a truck.
-- Ricky, age 10
I wonder if Ricky’s dad is single.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Reinvention
How many chances do we get?
Are there a finite number of times for a do-over or do we get as many chances as we make for ourselves?
An endless cycle of failing, trying and succeeding constantly swirls around me. Each new turn surprises me even though there can be nothing more certain than this cycle of change.
Fail; try; succeed.
Fail; try; succeed.
Fail; try; succeed.
As I’ve gotten a bit older I’ve become more Zen about the cycles. The one thing I feel sure of is that each one is no better than the other. Each cycle offers its lesson.
I’ve struggled these past few years to be more open – telling my story; exposing the mysteries of hot flashes and my tears; bearing my heart on the pages of my book. In spite of my efforts, I have not been completely honest with myself. I’ve been spinning out of control. No one knew, not even me, and so the spinning continued.
Finally, realizing I was dizzy, I discovered that all I had to do was to reach out my hand and everyone that loves me grabbed hold to try and stop the spinning.
Putting out my hand.
It’s the easiest and the hardest thing I have ever done.
I am reaching out and friends are grabbing hold. With their support I feel myself moving forward rather than spinning in place.
And so, the process of reinvention begins again.
Are there a finite number of times for a do-over or do we get as many chances as we make for ourselves?
An endless cycle of failing, trying and succeeding constantly swirls around me. Each new turn surprises me even though there can be nothing more certain than this cycle of change.
Fail; try; succeed.
Fail; try; succeed.
Fail; try; succeed.
As I’ve gotten a bit older I’ve become more Zen about the cycles. The one thing I feel sure of is that each one is no better than the other. Each cycle offers its lesson.
I’ve struggled these past few years to be more open – telling my story; exposing the mysteries of hot flashes and my tears; bearing my heart on the pages of my book. In spite of my efforts, I have not been completely honest with myself. I’ve been spinning out of control. No one knew, not even me, and so the spinning continued.
Finally, realizing I was dizzy, I discovered that all I had to do was to reach out my hand and everyone that loves me grabbed hold to try and stop the spinning.
Putting out my hand.
It’s the easiest and the hardest thing I have ever done.
I am reaching out and friends are grabbing hold. With their support I feel myself moving forward rather than spinning in place.
And so, the process of reinvention begins again.
Monday, October 05, 2009
World Menopause Day
I'm not sure what's more surprising, that there is a World Menopause Day or that it's something I seem to be paying attention at this point in my life. In any event, what's really important is raising awareness and opening the dialogue about menopause and how it effects all of us. That's right, I said all of us -- pre- peri- or just plain old menopausal women AND the people who love them.
So, here we go....
HOT Sales FLASH!
Help boost sales of I THOUGHT I GREW UP on October 18th for World Menopause Day.
Have you been waiting to get your copy or perhaps been thinking about sharing I THOUGHT I GREW UP with a friend?
You've waited this long, so here's what I'd like for you to do to help me on my path to Oprah ;-). Let's try to direct our heat with a laser-like focus on the goal at hand. SALES!!!
Buy it on Barnes & Noble
Buy it on Amazon
Of course you're always welcome to buy a book whenever you are moved to do so (God bless you), but I say lets try to hold off for a moment! Buy your new book or that gift you've been thinking about on October 18th. Any time on the 18th is fine, but...
What would happen if everyone bought at noon? Noon on October 18th.
I'd love to hear from you when you buy a copy ;-) xxx
Monday, August 24, 2009
Thanksgiving
I've been sitting here editing pages from THANKSGIVING (the novel I'm working on) and thought I'd share the first couple of pages.... Just a little tease and perhaps a little inspiration for contributions to the Starving Artist Fund so I can finish it ;-)
November 26, 2009
Rita was at a complete loss. Thanksgiving had always been her favorite day of the year and with three short syllables her daughter had driven a stake through its heart and killed the holiday forever.
It was raining sideways in New York and the wind whipped between the buildings. Rain and sleet mixed with the hot tears streaming down Rita’s face. She knew where she was going and she was determined to get there before she lost her anger, but she wasn’t exactly sure what she would do when she got there.
The adrenaline racing through her body was making her dizzy. Stopping to catch her breath beneath an awning at 181st Street, Rita realized she had run out of the house with her handbag but without her coat. There wasn’t a cab in sight. Despite her hated of traveling underground, taking the subway was her only option. The subway would be faster than a cab in this weather anyway.
Rita ran across the street and ducked into the subway station. She slid a crisp holiday twenty into the vending machine to buy a MetroCard then went into the bowels of the city to wait for the next train.
After a miserable fifteen-minute wait, she stepped on to the A Train and collapsed in a heap, her body shuddering against the cold plastic seat. Catching her reflection in the train windows, Rita was shocked: her clothing was nearly transparent and her mane of red curly hair was a stringy mess.
Taking a compact from her handbag she examined herself in the small mirror and saw that, with the exception of the mascara streaming down her face, her makeup was virtually gone.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said to herself. “Nothing matters.”
Rita sobbed the entire twenty-minute subway ride to Columbus Circle.
Too angry to wait for the next train, she emerged from under ground determined to walk the final twelve blocks. Rita nearly ran up Broadway, lungs stinging from the cold. Manolo Blaniks weren’t the best shoes for running around in the freezing rain, but for the last twenty-five years she had never worn the right shoes for walking around the city.
Passing Lincoln Center, Rita saw men at work on the unlit Christmas tree and was struck by its dark beauty. Realizing how beautiful New York would be over the holidays, she burst into tears again, her body heaving with each sob. Strangers passed cautiously and she clutched her handbag in front of her now transparent blouse. She was still looking back at the strangers when she stepped out on to 65th Street.
Rita didn’t see the yellow cab that hit her and knocked her off her feet. She didn’t feel it when her head hit the pavement. The last thing Rita saw was the golden statue on top of the Church of Latter Day Saints across the street. It was as close as she had ever been to God.
November 26, 2009
Rita was at a complete loss. Thanksgiving had always been her favorite day of the year and with three short syllables her daughter had driven a stake through its heart and killed the holiday forever.
It was raining sideways in New York and the wind whipped between the buildings. Rain and sleet mixed with the hot tears streaming down Rita’s face. She knew where she was going and she was determined to get there before she lost her anger, but she wasn’t exactly sure what she would do when she got there.
The adrenaline racing through her body was making her dizzy. Stopping to catch her breath beneath an awning at 181st Street, Rita realized she had run out of the house with her handbag but without her coat. There wasn’t a cab in sight. Despite her hated of traveling underground, taking the subway was her only option. The subway would be faster than a cab in this weather anyway.
Rita ran across the street and ducked into the subway station. She slid a crisp holiday twenty into the vending machine to buy a MetroCard then went into the bowels of the city to wait for the next train.
After a miserable fifteen-minute wait, she stepped on to the A Train and collapsed in a heap, her body shuddering against the cold plastic seat. Catching her reflection in the train windows, Rita was shocked: her clothing was nearly transparent and her mane of red curly hair was a stringy mess.
Taking a compact from her handbag she examined herself in the small mirror and saw that, with the exception of the mascara streaming down her face, her makeup was virtually gone.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said to herself. “Nothing matters.”
Rita sobbed the entire twenty-minute subway ride to Columbus Circle.
Too angry to wait for the next train, she emerged from under ground determined to walk the final twelve blocks. Rita nearly ran up Broadway, lungs stinging from the cold. Manolo Blaniks weren’t the best shoes for running around in the freezing rain, but for the last twenty-five years she had never worn the right shoes for walking around the city.
Passing Lincoln Center, Rita saw men at work on the unlit Christmas tree and was struck by its dark beauty. Realizing how beautiful New York would be over the holidays, she burst into tears again, her body heaving with each sob. Strangers passed cautiously and she clutched her handbag in front of her now transparent blouse. She was still looking back at the strangers when she stepped out on to 65th Street.
Rita didn’t see the yellow cab that hit her and knocked her off her feet. She didn’t feel it when her head hit the pavement. The last thing Rita saw was the golden statue on top of the Church of Latter Day Saints across the street. It was as close as she had ever been to God.
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