the underwear drawer

alert and oriented x 2

I am embarrassed to admit this, but I might as well just tell you, since it's the end of February already. When I was in New York this before Christmas and went to my publisher's office (my book is being published by Grand Central Publishing, which is part of the Hachette Book Group) they told me that my book was looking good, and on schedule for publication in March. Since it was December, I erroneously assumed that they meant this March, as in March 2010. Now, obviously, I know very little about publishing, and though I was under the impression that it took about a year from the time that a final manuscript is submitted to the time the book actually comes out, I thought--oh, I don't know what I thought. All I know is that they said March and I thought they meant this March but what they really meant (as would be obvious to anyone who has, you know, a calendar and some sense that Things take time to happen) they meant next March, as in March 2011. Which is a year from now. See, I told you it was embarrassing. Misunderstadings! Confusion! Cutely trying to cover for misunderstandings and confusion with excessive stammering and blinking! It's like a Hugh Grant movie!

Apparently we are still right on schedule, but I guess I was looking at...a different schedule. Which is why I'm still flogging through one final set of readability/clarification edits on the manuscript, after which point, hopefully I will just throw the book into the book-making machine, and I will never have to read it again. Until the copyedits.

"What's the deal with calendars?" (The preceding was to have been read in a Seinfeld voice.)


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(Mandatory aside about the olympics)

I think I am the only person in the world who has not watched any of the Olympics at all. I've tried--I usually love the Olympics--but every time I turn it on, it's like, Women's Curling or some such thing--so I haven't been following the games. Usually I can be counted on to at least suss out when the figure skating is (there's something about figure skating, not just the music and the jumping and the nude netting on the costumes but something about how smooth the ice looks is just mesmerizing) but this year, I just haven't had the urge to tune in. Maybe if I knew more about the athletes, and how they PERSEVERED and OVERCAME OBSTACLES and maybe if someone's mom was LEGALLY BLIND and had to sit all up close to the TV screen to watch them perform their long program. But I don't much follow sports either, so I guess I'll just look at the pictures on The New York Times and wish I were able to stay upright on a pair of skis.


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And finally, a picture of Mack playing in a patch of sun like a damn kitten:




His first word besides "Mama" and "Dada" (which, according to the Denver Developmental Chart, do not count as words, though any parent would beg to differ) is "STOP." This is what he shouts all day long, mostly when you're trying to remove him from grievous harm (chokey toy, step stool, open manhole cover, shark tank, etcetera.) "STOP." We are in big trouble with this one.