Television . . . television . . . wait! That’s right! Oh, my God, that’s Fatima from America’s Next Top Model!
My thoughts are spinning. Fatima! That’s so cool! I’m totally rooting for her! I love her even if she did make me do a terrible Google search when she discussed her ritual genital mutilation with Miss Tyra Banks.210
No, wait, that’s not Fatima. Can’t be. Her season is still running. I know this because I’ve got it loaded on my iTouch. Whether Fatima wins or loses, she’s probably not allowed to do any media yet. So, if she’s not Fatima, then how do I know this woman?
Wait a second . . . holy crap! That’s Iman! As in CEO of Iman Cosmetics! As in global ambassador for Keep a Child Alive! As in Mrs. David Bowie! I’m here standing face-to-face with a world-famous supermodel!211 And I’m about to sit in the very seat Iman just vacated.
I wonder if she thinks my dress is cute?
Does she notice my tape hickeys?
I wave good-bye to Iman. (At least this celebrity can see me wave.) And now it’s showtime. I steel myself and pretend to be calm when I enter the studio. Come on, Jen. This is the big time, I tell myself. Save the squealing fangirl stuff for when you get back into the car. No one wants to be BFF with someone screamy.
I say hello and am warmly welcomed by Candace and her producers. Then someone offers me a glass of wine in a paper cup.
Oh, thank God there’s liquor here.
I sip my wine and adjust my headphones and, just like that, we begin to chat. We speak naturally and normally, even though I sort of blank out on the first ten minutes while we’re discussing my book. I’m totally overwhelmed that Candace Bushnell has actually read it. That’s like the Pope mentioning he saw you give mass. Or Frank Lloyd Wright remarking on the clean lines on the doghouse you built.
As our conversation progresses and I snap out of my haze, I ask Candace if she’s got anything coming out soon. She says yes, and I accidentally squeal. So much for my cool, collected demeanor.
“What else are you reading?” I ask. My hopes are she’ll say Bringing Home the Birkin, which I just read, and we’ll both agree on how much we loved it and we’ll have our first (of many) bonding moment(s).
Candace tells me she’s been all wrapped up in Baudelaire lately. I nod in agreement, vowing to Google “Baudelaire” on my BlackBerry the second this thing is over. Seriously, should I know this? Is Baudelaire a book? Is it a guy? Is he on The Hills? I have no idea. When she asks what I read, I agree that classics are best. I fail to elaborate that I consider anything by Helen Fielding to be a classic.212
Somehow our conversation turns to wedding rings and Candace mentions she hasn’t been wearing hers because she’s having a missing diamond replaced. She tells me it’s okay since her husband still wears his. “After all,” she says, “my husband’s ten years younger than me, he’s a principal dancer with the American Ballet Theatre, and everyone wants to sleep with him.”
My response?
“Really? My husband’s thirty-nine, he works for the phone company, and no one wants to sleep with him.” Candace laughs for the first time during our interview.
We chat and drink more wine and before I can even catch my breath, we’re done. Candace graciously allows photos (and hugs!) and then I’m back in the car, headed for the train station so I can take the Amtrak to Philly.
I take big gulps of air as I digest the whole interview. How am I this lucky? I just spent an hour with the real Carrie Bradshaw, the one who’s ten thousand times more colorful in person. And she was wonderful.
I realize we probably won’t become best friends. There likely will be no trips to her beach house and she’ll never snuggle my pit bull. We live in entirely different universes. She’s never going to shop at Lane Bryant, and I’m never going to go on a spree at Hermès. But you know what? I made my idol snicker a couple of times and that feels like a little miracle.
I can’t manage to get the goofy grin off my face even as I board the train. I arrange my luggage next to me and settle into my seat for the short trip to Philadelphia. The lights on the train are all the way up for boarding so I can’t really see out the window. I can, however, see my own reflection.
And I realize if we were truly destined to be BFF, she’d have told me I had lipstick on my teeth.
The tour has gone on for what seems like months, but I’m only in the second week. I’m exhausted from the travel and have taken to turning my ringer off during downtimes, which is why I miss Fletch’s urgent call stating, “The cat barfed in the cleaning lady’s shoe. What do I do?”
My phone starts to vibrate again and again. I ignore it because if he can’t figure out to tip her extra, I can’t help him. My room phone rings and I’m aggravated when I pick up. Seriously, can I not nap without being disturbed? Except it’s not Fletch. It’s my agent, editor and publicist. And they’re calling because I just made the New York Times bestseller list.
How can this be? I can’t have made the list. Obviously the New York Times screwed up its reporting. Yes, my events are going well and the tour audience has been great, but I can’t be on the NYT best-seller list. I don’t write those kinds of books. I write stories about my dogs and about my husband’s unfortunate attempts at cooking. I write about fighting with my mother and shopping at Trader Joe’s.
Right now, if the list is right—which it isn’t—I’m on the same list with two books by Barack Obama. He’s going to be the president come November. I can’t be on a list with the president. That’s insanity. And I can’t be on the same list as Elizabeth Gilbert and her spiritual awakening. She crossed the globe to discover a true relationship with God. I crossed the kitchen to discover the TwinkWich.213
Seriously, I’m just a big girl with a big mouth, cute shoes, and positive self-esteem who wrote a book about being a big girl with a big mouth, cute shoes, and positive self-esteem. The book ends with me being slightly less big, slightly more healthy, with the same amount of self-esteem . . . and maybe a few more pair of shoes.
I’ve always considered myself the sum of all my parts. I’m not just a manifestation of my mental and physical self. Personal style and proper wardrobe have been a part of making me who I am ever since I can remember. I’ve spent my whole life trying to accessorize in a way that would help me gain acceptance, so the idea of an entire audience liking me for my words alone is almost too much to comprehend.
Therefore the Times is wrong.
Obviously.
On the list that comes out a week later I’m no longer at number twenty.
Now I’m at number fourteen.
Seriously, your readers are not going to put up with these constant errors, New York Times. Get your shit together already. Same goes for you, USA Today.
I’m on the plane coming home from the West Coast leg of my tour. I’ve still got half a dozen more places to go in the next few weeks and the added pressure of writing an entirely new book214 in the next two months. I feel like I’m at the end of my rope. I’m craving a couple of days where I can be home and make spaghetti and sit and watch TV with my husband, dogs curled up on either side of me, and not have to worry about repacking my suitcase.
It’s beginning to look like the New York Times and USA Today aren’t going to have to print retractions. Making these lists is the real deal, but at the same time celebrating these victories alone in strange cities feels hollow and fake. I want to be there to hug my husband when I get good news and not just get cursory congratulations from the cabdriver who happens to hear me when I take the call.
I want to share a pink champagne toast with Stacey, rather than have a glass (or four) of minibar wine in a sterile hotel room.
I want to run on the treadmill while yelling at my trainer Barbie, as opposed to doing nothing. Success doesn’t mean nearly as much without anyone around to share it with me.
I was in such a haze this morning that I don’t even remember showering or leaving the hotel. I just want to be home. I’m so tired. Even though I’ve b
een upgraded, I still have to sit here on this stupid plane for the next four hours next to a snoring jackass before I can kiss my husband and hug my dogs and pet my cats. I want to shut my eyes, so I decide to play some music rather than watch the Survivor finale.
The first song that comes on is Eminem’s “Lose Yourself.” I had this on constant rotation when I was in the throes of training. When Eminem sang about having one shot to seize everything he ever wanted, I’d get enough of a boost to run an extra quarter mile or to lift a few more pounds. I want to capture this moment, I’d think. I won’t just let it slip away.
What always choked me up was where he sings about how success is his only (motherfucking) option, failure’s not. More than anything, this is what drove me to work harder, live better, and put my entire self on the page in the third book.
Striving to be my personal best has always been a constant in my life, way before I ever heard the song. It’s what kept me sane when Fletch and I were almost evicted and nearly had to move home with my parents. This quest taught me to fight to have my writing read and gave me the strength to plug along through a series of degrading and ridiculous jobs while trying desperately to get a tiny bit of notice in the publishing world.
So why am I feeling sorry for myself because I’m tired and I miss my dogs?
Here I am, on the New York Times bestsellers list, practically the greatest barometer for success an author could ever hope to achieve. And I got here by telling my story my way.
Me. A nobody from Indiana. A random girl with a bunch of sorority dance T-shirts and old Jordache jeans stored in her mom’s attic. Nothing remarkable about her except an unvarying yearning to be better . . . and maybe an unhealthy fascination with cupcakes.
I did it.
I made it.
That’s my name on the list.
But I recognize that I’m here right now living my dream because my audience connects with me, not because I’m carrying a Prada bag, but because we all have the same fears, insecurities, and joys. Thus, they’re the ones who motivate me to be better. And the notion of having an audience pull for me because I’m one of them is far more daunting than making a list ever could be.
As I listen to the lyrics, I come to realize I have the ability to work toward other successes in my life. Maybe there’ll be a screen-play or a sitcom or some kind of award in my future. Provided I try hard enough, there will be other shining moments in my career . . . and I won’t always be alone when I get the good news about them.
This right here, this tour, this book, this very second . . . this is unique. Finally accepting that I earned a spot on the New York Times list for the very first time will never happen again.
When I look back on today years from now, I’ll forever remember as the tipping point the second when everything I’ve ever worked for came together, and exactly when I realized my life had been permanently changed for the better.
But I might not remember what I was wearing.
A·C·K·N·O·W·L·E·D·G·M·E·N·T·S
First, much love and thanks to Fletch, who totally deserves better but sticks around anyway. You make me smile about the past and look forward to the future.
Extra-special thanks and recognition go to my editor and friend (frienditor? edifriend?) Kara Cesare of NAL, along with Kara Welsh, Claire Zion, Craig Burke, Sharon Gamboa, Lindsay Nouis, sales and marketing, art, and production. Y’all are the Cadillac of publishers.
Big fat thanks to Kate Garrick for always having my back. (And to Brian DeFiore and Melissa Moy for having hers.) Four more years! Four more years! (I don’t actually know what this means, but I just made myself laugh and that’s key.)
Stacey Ballis, Angie Felton, Carol Kohrs, Wendy, Poppy, Jen, and Blackbird, the next hundred rounds are on me. Kristin “Kristabella” Johnson, Gina Bee, Shayla, Jolene Siana, Caprice Crane, Stephanie Klein, Kristi Reasons and the rest of the Avanti girls, Jess Riley, Eileen Cook, Stephanie Elliot, Melissa C. Morris and Allison Winn Scotch, you’re invited, too. (Don’t worry. Fletch will drive us. He’s good like that.)
Finally, thanks to Shannon, Karen, Karl, Dave and Dave, Marnie, and Dean. I’m a better me for having known you.
1
With almonds.
2
Possibly because they were circa 1966.
3
A too-tight pink parka from Lands’ End that I couldn’t zip over my green wool crew-neck sweater.
4
A scratchy purple V-neck.
5
Okay, fine, I’ll be driving in eight more years. Math is not my strong suit.
6
Although I do kind of dig Zoom, which is on right afterward. That’s Boston, Mass—0-2-1-3-4!
7
Annoyingly, I have to, at least ’til September, when school starts.
8
You know, the one where she’s smuggling pencil erasers? Frankly, she makes what should be a tasteful one-piece suit look too racy and I don’t care for it.
9
Made from lumpy buckwheat and served with but a single drop of faux maple syrup and no butter whatsoever.
10
Fine, just starve me.
11
Unlike Maisy, the dog I have now. She’s so accommodating she’ll even eat the napkin.
12
Other activities included taking the Pepsi Challenge (I preferred neither) and writing “Happy Birthday, America” on each other’s backs in suntan lotion.
13
Personally, I was rooting for Ford, having had the opportunity to meet him at a rally in the parking lot of Bloomingdale’s. Something about seeing armed guards on top of the mall coupled with the opportunity to skip school for the afternoon seemed so very right to me.
14
It’s the batwings.
15
Did you know package stores don’t sell packages? Deceptive advertising if you ask me.
16
However, I’m a fan of our refreshment break since it’s the only time I’m ever allowed to drink Hawaiian Punch. I’m open to allowing that part to continue.
17
The correct answer is no.
18
I have a delightful Pucci-inspired bikini but I simply cannot execute a perfect swan dive in it without losing my bottoms.
19
Got a Barbie Dream House, woo!
20
I’m a tremendous fan of Patrick Duffy’s entire body of work.
21
Unfortunately, the director rejected my suggestion he put a charming little brown-haired girl in the shot. Their loss. I could move some property and casualty insurance, yo.
22
You can’t name a boy Jodi! It’s simply not done!
23
I kick so much ass at Mystery Date!
24
Is it just me or is that a funny word?
25
On my last school field trip we toured the CBS studios in New York and screened a television pilot. You need to incorporate a little more Hollywood if you want to impress me.
26
Years later he told me he had no intention of ever buying me a horse. He simply refused to negotiate with a ten-year-old.
27
Diagnosed by the same physician who later treated me for hepatitis when actually I just had mono.
28
No one tells me I’ve got a real pretty mouth, though. So there’s that.
29
I admit my pulse quickened a bit when I saw a whole paddock full of horses.
30
A youth organization created by the Department of Agriculture.
31
To this day, my accent will creep back in when I’m excited. (Or drinking.)
32
Except for Auntie Virginia and a couple of my mom’s sisters’ husbands. I suspect this is why he’s taken every opportunity to move farther and farther away from them. I bet we live in Alaska by the time I graduate.
33
> I’d ask who the genius was that thought carpet in the bathroom was a good idea. But I imagine it’s the same person who put it there to match the gold butterflies in the wallpaper.
34
Or possibly into an abutment.
35
I am in college before someone finally strings a cable line from town onto our street. By the time I got my MTV, I was ready for VH1.
36
And smell the horse glue that he keeps in pots at the edge of his workbench.
37
Todd, a couple of cousins, and I finally ventured down there after my grandfather’s funeral in the late eighties. We formed a human daisy chain and made it four feet into the underbelly of the house before we got spooked and ran back upstairs.
38
He swore a lot!
39
Auntie Virginia gave me a lot of Avon products as presents. Mom wouldn’t let me throw the boxes away because she told me they were valuable, so I spent my entire adolescence with only one usable bathroom drawer because the rest were filled with old packaging.
40
A few years later when their dog Edwina finally passed away, there was a lot of speculation as to whatever happened to her body. I kind of don’t want to know.
41
Lady, after two kids? No.
42
Wavy, brown, parted in the middle, just like every other girl on the bus.
43
Summer of My German Solider starring Kristy McNichol—entertaining and educational!
44
This is neither the first nor last time someone will have this conversation with me.
45
Or it would, if I had a boyfriend . . . and if that boyfriend enjoyed viscous cotton candy flavor.
46
Then again, I don’t have her childbearing hips, so I don’t need to overcompensate with, like, utterly flawless hair.
47
They’re so tight around the crotch region that I technically may not be a virgin anymore.
48
Like, it’s my fault her grody boyfriend asked me to dance?
Pretty in Plaid: A Life, A Witch, and a Wardrobe Page 26