Carolyn Online

Query letter follow-up.

2010-03-17T12:55:22Z

Dear Ms. Agent (to whom I mailed my movel because you looked so nice in your firm’s bio picture):

I just wanted to follow-up with you regarding my novel (which I know you thought was AWEsome!) that I sent to you some weeks ago. Frankly, I’ve been so busy I forgot to follow-up with you properly (or stalk you via the Internet which had been my plan initially.)

Last week I had a house-full of puking people (I know - too much information – but I hear that adding a lot of detail is a good thing and something that I have been told to work on since I prefer a more raw and bare style of writing) and if there had been a competitive Shitting For Distance Contest one of my kids would have won for sure. (Do you see how I’ve improved on my detail-adding-ability right here in this very paragraph? You’re welcome.)

So anyway, last week was overrun by the flu (which I never got because I’m strong-like-bull so when I get booked on that twenty city book tour I will not fail you Ms. Agent Lady) and this week I’m afraid I’ve been a tad busy with various volunteer activities (that I totally got roped into) because I’m a giver.

And so my follow-up with you (stalking) is a few days late. Which I am just now realizing is unfortunate. I’m not sure if I feel worse for me (totally) for spending so much time finding you and researching you and mailing you a thoughtful query letter with my first thirty pages as instructed. Or if I feel worse for you (not at all) for disappearing. Because you have. Disappeared I mean. Completely wiped from the Internet. You’re not on your company’s website, or that list of agents, or even that other blog forum where I had diligently followed you.

You. Have. Vanished.

It’s as if Bill Gates himself swooped down from on high and touched the Internet with his hand thereby erasing your existence. Which sucks for you. (And selfishly I’m wondering why you weren’t able to just shoot out a quick rejection letter to me before you disapparated.)

So technically I guess I feel worse for you for evaporating than I do for myself for not getting a proper rejection letter from you. (That’s a total lie but Bill Gates might be reading this and I don’t want him to think less of me…morally.)

So I guess this is where we part ways Ms. Agent Lady. I hope you have only disappeared electronically and not in reality (what? I’m not a monster.)

Sincerely, Carolyn

Prophylactic Blogging.

2010-03-08T13:57:38Z

Instead of giving my kids the “sex talk” when the time comes, I’m just going to give them this list. It’s a list of some of the places they’ve thrown up. Because sex = children = puke. They should know right up front what they would be getting into and they should keep their pants on.

In my hair.

Down the back of my shirt.

Down the front of my shirt.

Down the cast on your arm while sitting in the food court at the mall.

In the kitchen sink.

In the bathroom sink.

In the bathtub.

On the back of my head while driving down Interstate 95.

In that one big plastic bowl.

In my cupped hands.

On my face in the middle of the night.

In my bed.

In your bed.

In the Emergency Room.

In the bathroom at Chick-fil-A.

On every carpet we have ever owned.

In the parking lot at Target.

In my folded coat.

In my lap in the middle of the night in the airplane over the Atlantic Ocean.

Just when I thought I would have time to be a diligent blogger again.

2010-03-04T14:42:13Z

I have either set myself up for a very fun year or for a bleeding ulcer. My friend Becky and I have agreed to chair the school auction for next year. Everyone who has found out that we’re chairing the auction has either laughed or gasped. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Right now we’re trying to think of a theme. Any ideas? I mean anything other than: Puttin’ on the Ritz, Under a Starry Sky, Casino Night, Fiesa Night, or any other cheesy theme stolen from the rejected list of prom ideas. Um . . . sorry if you just used one of those themes for your school auction and I’m sure it was super fabulous and everything.

It’s kind of like Becky and I are planning our own theme wedding. Which is what I told Scott when he asked how bad this year would be with me running this thing.

ME: Becky and I have to go see some hotels and venues to see if they’ll work for our wedding.

SCOTT: Are you two going on a honeymoon? Can I video tape it?

Men.

Do you have any ideas for me? Anything at all? And no Circus or Clown themes either. They kind of freak me out.

A better you through humiliation.

2010-03-01T21:10:05Z

We took the kids to the Rec Center again. Because (it’s fucking cold and if we don’t get out of the house we will end up giving the children “swooshies” where we put their heads in the toilet just for kicks) we’re all active like that.

So anyway, I’m sportin’ my black sweatpants from 1992. These things are one generation away from the elastic at the ankle kind of sweat pants. I do not look MILFy. Or Mrs. Robinson-y. And I figured it wouldn’t really matter because let’s face it, this Rec Center is at Georgia Tech. One of the best engineering schools in the country. You know what that means, right? A student body absolutely overrun with geeks and dorks. That’s kind of what I was counting on.

I was wrong.

As far as the eye can see there are hot, sweaty, half naked man-boys doing sit-ups and pull-ups and oh-my-God-what-is-that-thing-he’s-doing-on-that-rowing-machine?! Suddenly I felt very old.

Scott and Parker were going to run on the indoor track while Tempel and I played racquetball. Tempel’s pretty good at racket sports. She’s got fifth degree Ninja eye-hand coordination. (Fist bump Nintendo!) But the courts were full. So we decided to walk around the track while Scott and Parker were running.

Sidenote: Parker is eight. Her legs are half the height of Scott’s. So she’s like a midget. But she can run with him. I mean he says he slows down for her but I think he’s just saying that to protect his manhood so I call bullshit. She’s speedy is what I’m saying. And she just completely randomly decided to run 20 laps. Which is about 3 miles. And before you send me ten bajillion emails, let me just say that, Yes. Yes, I have already made a note about it in my “I swear she’s not from my loins” dossier so that when the aliens come back to look for her I can say to everyone, “See! I told you she wasn’t like me.”

So anyway, Tempel and I wander up to the track and start walking and every few minutes Parker zooms by us in a flash which is getting really freaking annoying but not nearly as annoying as trying to walk on an elevated track with She-Who-Must-Touch-It. OCD is a constant delight let me tell you. Tempel, stop touching that. Stop touching that. Stop touching that.

Stop. Touching. That.

But once she had put her hand on the rail there was nothing anyone could to about it. She would need to rub the nasty thing all the way around without taking her hand up or the universe would collapse on itself compressing time and space into one blink and then boom we’d all be dead. So she basically saved your life. You’re welcome.

Now if you don’t think I looked super-hot-mamma cool walking around the track yelling StopTouchingThat at one kid while the other one kept zooming by and goosing me while I hiked up my sweatpants from the last millennium then you’d be wrong. I’m sure I was catching the eye of the hot sweaty man-boys stretching on the mat next to the track. They were right there. Clinging to the edge of the track. You could almost reach out and… Stop. Touching. That.

I dragged Tempel along a bit faster. I thought maybe this would be our last lap. If I can just get the two of us off this track without her putting that dirty hand to her face or me tripping over these enormous sweatpants then we’ll be fine. I’ll be cool. I’ll be the cool super-hot-mamma the guys saw at the Rec Center that time.

Ok, last lap. Here comes Dash, I mean Parker. See you at the water fountain when you’re done you little freak. ( I say it with love so it’s ok.) Tempel! Stop. Touching. That. Last lap. Ok, we’re good. Oh look, man-boy on the right is doing push-ups. Oh. Ok, I’m cool. Wait, there are two girls coming up behind us, they’re distracting Tempel! They’re speaking in Chinese. Or Korean? Or Japanese? Shit I don’t know but she’s trying to walk backwards to listen to the fascinating language. No! Eyes front. We’re almost there! Oh geez, now he’s lifting his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face. For the love of Pete…

Then it happens. Tempel is weaving back to the rail so she can keep touching it and the Asian girls are trying to cut over to the water fountain but they can’t steer! they’re cutting me off! they verge right in front of me! And then trip! smack! boom!

I’m down.

I have tripped. And I didn’t have the good luck to have just fallen gracefully, instead I have done this awful sort of lunging thing to catch myself right on the mat with the hot sweaty man-boys. And now I am the old lady that almost fell on them that one time at the gym.

After the quick, embarrassing, I’m fine, no no, fine crap that you do when you make an ass out of yourself I grabbed Tempel and made a run for it.

Huh. I guess that’s what it took to get me to go running at the gym.

Conversations with my mother #9.

2010-02-25T13:42:07Z

These are conversations via email with my mother. This little exchange happened while she was at work (she works for the governor) eating way too many sweets.

MY MOM: I am very very sick – you need to come get me and drive me home. Someone brought cookies and someone brought spice nuts. There is groaning and whimpering as I type.

ME: By the way, I meant to thank you for passing on ZERO self control to me where sweets are concerned. Appreciate it. Now go eat your bottle of Tums.

MOM: That is soooo mean. I don’t have any Tums and the Doctor of the Day doesn’t start till the Legislative Session.

ME: You need to go back to Crazy Barbara who ALWAYS had Tums on her person.

MOM: I don’t think you have to worry, there are other criteria for “crazy” besides Tums addiction.

ME: Oh I know Crazy. I’ve got the whole Crazy Handbook memorized.

MOM: Let’s make up a story where I am the sane sensible one. I can bribe the children to go along.

ME: I was referring to my vast knowledge of Crazy because of my in-laws. In that context you are the sane one. Also, when do you get your numbers back for your failing liver? (My mother has no vices, aside from sweets. She doesn’t drink or smoke or eat much red meat. She’s active and thin. So for no apparent reason she has high blood pressure and the medicine they put her on to lower the blood pressure was causing liver failure. Awesome.)

MOM: Friday morning.

ME: When do I have to lay off the hootch? Cus you know you want mine… my liver likes to party. (My sister and I are in a custody battle over the whole thing. We both want to be the one to donate our liver if it comes to a transplant. It’s like crazy medical sibling rivalry.)

MOM: I think there are many things we have to try first so you don’t have to dry out for a few months.

ME: Ok, but I don’t want you setting your sites on Julie’s liver. You’ll have such a better shot if you go with mine. It’s combat hardened.

MOM: I have rethought this. Maybe I should just pick out something flattering, put it on, and lay down with my arms crossed.

ME: Don’t be silly. We have big plans to pull your plug as soon as your earning potential has ceased and then bury you in that jumper. And once you have my innards you’ll be just fine til that day comes.

MOM: So sad to say the Jumper didn’t make it. I may find another before my your innards give out.

I’m having my business cards printed right now. They read: I’m Carolyn and I do almost all the work in this house.

2010-02-23T14:39:08Z

Doesn’t the mind reel? I won’t even bother telling the tale of why I wouldn’t tuck her in. Or why she envisions me wearing gaucho pants and Tammy Fay Baker’s make-up. I think it’s just enough to share the truth with you people. And the truth is: I do almost all the work in this house. And when they’re bad I punish them by withholding my tucking services.

The way a query letter should be.

2010-02-19T17:44:26Z

**** Stupid novel. I think I need a whole new kind of query letter. I need to shake things up in that staid literary world. Cut through the bullshit. Something more like this:

Dear Ms. Agent (who looked totally nice in her firm’s bio picture):

I am querying you because you’re obviously young (or that’s an old picture) and I think you’ll appreciate the tone of my writing (more than those old fogies that run your firm.) I noticed that your super fancy, big shot firm represents one very successful author in particular that has a very similar writing style to mine. (We both write in the English language and we both primarily use the New Times Roman font.) So I think I’ll just merge right in there with you people from the get go (you may send my retainer check to my home address.)

My novel is written in a completely new voice (totally unpublished author) and deals with tragedy, love, humor… pretty much everything but the undead (shame, because I hear vampires really move product) in a story that is dialogue-driven and tension filled. I know this is where I should be writing the synopsis of the novel (but I can’t seem to boil it down nicely.) Frankly, I think that old school way of pigeonholing a book (I’m a cop-out) is what you and I are trying to get away from (look, I just made us a couple – we’re in this thing together now) and you probably just want to go ahead and dig right in (you never got to this part anyway because I lost you at the first paragraph.)

According to my extensive market research with local focus groups (my girlfriends) my novel (which I would feel more comfortable calling ‘chick-lit’ or ‘fluff’ instead of ‘novel’) will be well received by 95% of the female population between the ages of twenty-eight and sixty-four. (I just made that up.) Everyone who has had the honor (been forced) to read it thoroughly enjoyed the page turner of a story (and my mom says I’m pretty) so you can just trust them on that (what are they supposed to say?) So its looking like this runaway hit could be a windfall for you as my new agent. Go ahead and get that timeshare in the Hampton’s. (Hampton Inn.)

As for my writing credits and accomplishments, let me tell you, I have a little thing called a ‘blog’. That’s right. Have you heard of them? The blogs? (Literary equivalent of taking your sister to prom.) Well, not just anyone can have a blog (yes they can.) My blog happens to be big in Japan, and for some reason the upper left part of Ohio (I’ve had hits from there – for reals.) My numerous (dozens) of internet fans will surely be the driving force of my social media tour de force (I log into Facebook at least twice a year) and will push this novel (chick-fluff) to the top of the list (of books written by people you’ve never heard of.) In addition to my blog, I have co-authored a book with Darcy from Post Picket Fence (who’s an actual writer) which we very successfully self-published (literary equivalent to banging your sister after prom and fathering her child) last summer.

I look forward to hearing from you (by your robot-written rejection letter) and will be happy to furnish you with my manuscript which is complete (I understand that if I don’t tell you I’m finished you get all pissy) at 67,00o words (come on, that’s a shitload of words but not so many that you’d have to kill a bunch of trees.)

Sincerely, Carolyn

Snippets from the week.

2010-02-17T16:37:27Z

I said out loud to my husband, “You can NOT have Suck my dick as your ringtone on your cell.”

When all was said and done I had removed seven pairs of my kids underwear from the dining room table. Why?

I was sick with a fierce cold/sinus infection situation. And you know you’re supposed to feed a cold… Convo via email:

ME: Can one “chug” solid food? Because I don’t know another word to describe the manner in which I just ate that piece of cake.
DARCY: Oddly, I just shotgunned some leftover lasagna.

I’m halfway through The Book Thief and I’m worried that Max isn’t going to make it.

It snowed.

It snowed a lot. Not as much as it did in the Northeast but Atlanta managed to freak the eff out anyway. It’s kind of what we do.

Yeah, that pretty much covers it.

I am at my most emotionally clumsy when it comes to: Difficult and Cumbersome.

2010-02-08T14:35:23Z

My children are Difficult and Cumbersome.

Wait. I have to tell this from the beginning. It’s been a long cold wet winter. I mean not-normal kind of cold. Climate change, get the eff out of my backyard and go melt Antarctica already. So as a way to get the kids out of the house and moving in this bleak environment we have joined the Georgia Tech Rec Center.

First, I don’t know why they call it a “Rec Center.” I think it should be called the Super Galactic Engineering Marvel that dropped out of the sky during the Olympics as a gift from the gods. SGEM for short. Well, maybe Rec Center is a better name. It’s an amazing facility. Three indoor pools (one with a Disney-like waterslide), a running track, all manner of ball courts, indoor rock climbing wall, glassed-in rooms for pilates and tai chi and kickboxing, etc., a sea of every conceivable piece of exercise equipment ever manufactured. It is more or less my own personal hell. I don’t do work out stuff.

Second, this is an exclusive Super Galactic Engineering Marvel. Not just anyone can join. But Scott, being an alumni, has the mark of the beast that allowed us access. We had to go to some Student Center building and get our pictures taken for Georgia Tech Buzz Cards. Buzz. Cards. Could they have a gayer mascot than a bumblebee? I mean Yellow Jacket? I feel like I’m cheating on my tribe. It’s shameful. I’m sorry Clemson. I know, I never even set foot inside the Athletic Center, or Exercise Building, or whatever it was called when I was there and now I’m off to the shiny bumblebee seductress every day. Hangs head in shame.

So anyway it’s cold. And we’ve been taking the kids to the pool to swim. It is difficult and cumbersome.

This is a college campus so of course there’s nowhere to park. So we trod to the Rec Center through the cold and then work our way through the building to the über fun indoor pool with the Disney-like waterslide. As we enter the hot humid room the girls rush to dump their coats, scarves, Uggs, socks, pants, and shirts then they dive in. No, first they dump out my meticulously packed pool bag to find their goggles, then they dive in.

I refold and meticulously repack their coats, scarves, Uggs, socks, pants, and shirts into the bag. Then I sit in the tropical air in my jeans and sweater and read. That part is good. I need to remember to wear shorts next time, but the reading alone while the kids play is good. Scott swims laps, plays with the kids in the water, goes down the slide while they clap for him. I have already put in enough man hours in the pool with the kids and will never ever again in my life have to get in the pool with them. Ever.

When it’s time to go Scott gives the girls a stern talking-to in his daddy voice about taking responsibility for themselves. Getting themselves dried and dressed. Remembering all of their stuff. They nod. He winks at me over their heads as if to say, See? All you have to do is parent them into remembering to be responsible. Then he walks off to the men’s locker room forgetting his own coat and scarf. The girls run to the women’s locker room forgetting everything else.

Sigh. . .

I pick up the bag, the towels, the coats and scarves, the shoes. The shoes. The shoes.

It is cumbersome.

Once in the locker room I tell the girls, You’re already wet. Just jump in the shower and wash your hair and we’ll check off “Bath Night.” Ew, this shower has a hair in it! This one has a towel in it! How does the handle work? I can’t turn it on. It’s on too hard. It’s too cold. It’s too hot. Move Parker! Move Tempel! Mooooommmmm! I need a new towel. Not that towel. I’ll just drip dry. Don’t brush my hair. My hair is dripping. My clothes will get wet. She touched my towel. This shirt feels funny. I don’t want socks. I can’t get my shoes on. I’m hot! I’m cold! Carry this. Carry this. Carry this.

The locker room is difficult. And cumbersome. There is a lot to carry.

We run to the car in the dark with our cold girls and their wet hair while they complain about the cold and the wet. I’m trying to figure out how to get them fed and in bed in the next thirty minutes. It’s a school night. I have wrenched my bad wrist carrying the overstuffed pool bag. I am sitting in the car with the whole load of coats and scarves that they won’t wear because they don’t want them to get wet on my lap. I look over at Scott (who strolled out of the men’s locker room alone looking refreshed and happy) he is smiling in the dim light of the car, “Isn’t this the greatest idea I ever had?”

I readjust the pool bag at my feet, ignore the kids groaning about being hungry in the backseat, shift the coats in my lap and look at that big smile on his face. It’s wonderful that he sees all of the good and warm and fuzzy stuff. Why can’t I do that? Oh yeah, because I am at my most emotionally clumsy when it comes to difficult and cumbersome. But I should take a deep breath and enjoy the moment with him.

I look over at his happy smiling face. Then I smack him on the back of the head. “No, dumbass! It is difficult and cumbersome! And next time? Next time, all of our children will be male and they’ll go to your locker room and you’ll have to carry all the shit!”

What? I said I was clumsy.

If it weren’t for my love of deodorant and the occasional sip of beer I would totally become Amish.

2010-02-04T00:58:29Z

I don’t want to go to the Amish. They aren’t allowed to have electric lights or drink alcohol or use deodorant. Is that the Quakers? No I’ve been to the Amish villages, I’m pretty sure it’s the Amish that don’t use deodorant. I wonder if deodorant is the work of the devil too. Just like zippers.

Anyway, I think I might have to sequester myself in one of their villages. Why, you ask? Because I’m pretty sure my brain has started emmitting its own EMP.

EMP aka Electromagnetic Pulse: A burst of electromagnetic radiation that results from an explosion (especially a nuclear explosion) or a suddenly fluctuating magnetic field. The resulting electric and magnetic fields may couple with electrical/electronic systems to produce damaging current and voltage surges.

You know what that means? It means that my brain has gone nuclear and is effing with all of the electronics in my house. It started with the phones. Our phones can’t hold a charge, they drop calls, sometimes they go into full static for no reason.

Then two days ago my laptop just imploded. Poof. One second I’m typing and then there was a pop sound and now . . . nothing. It’s dead. Go-at-it-with-a-sledgehammer kind of dead. So I’m trying to work on the desktop because it’s all I have left as a gateway to the internet but now it’s gone wonky. It hates it when I try to click on any links. It just locks up and then throws me a, “Fuck you, human.” error message. Really.

And now? It’s the Blackberry. Et tu, berry? It has some kind of spinning hour glass thing going all the time. What’s with the hour glass ‘berry? What!? Is it trying to teach me patience? It’s not working, it’s just teaching me to be pissed off.

So, I’ve come to the conclusion that it must be me. I am the common denominator to all of the electronic malfunctions. That’s how I came up with the EMP theory. You should know I get most of my information from the show Paranormal State on A&E.

EMP’s can mess with their little ghost detecting devices. Huh. I wonder if only dead restless spirits emit EMP’s. Maybe that’s what they’re trying to tell me: that I’m dead. I’m Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense. No, that can’t be right. People can see me. Maybe I’m the undead. That would explain everything. I am the undead emitting EMP’s which are destroying all of the electronic devices in the house. I need to make a run for it before something bad happens to Parker’s iPod.

So that’s why I think I need to sacrifice my own happiness, mental health, and personal hygiene and go live amongst the Amish. They reject technology you know so I can’t be of any harm there. Unless as soon as I get to the village the barn burns down or the butter churners stop working. Great. Then they’d run me out of town with their horse drawn carriages shouting, “blasphemy!” like some kind of crazed Tom Cruise going after a postpartum mom on Prozac.

Maybe I could just wear a metal helmet or something.