The Young Adult Novel Pitch

Pitch #1: Sixteen-year-old Kira Belle couldn't be more bored when she moves to a remote Irish fishing village to live with her estranged mother. But then she meets Seamus, a brooding young man with a dark secret . . .

. . . he's a leprechaun.



Wait. Not that kind of leprechaun.



There we go. Much better.

When Kira first resists his attentions, Seamus plies her with her one weakness: shoes, each pair lovingly cobbled with his own hands. She falls for Seamus -- hard. But can Seamus resist the urge to trick her? Will he jealously guard his pot o' gold? Or will he finally offer his treasure up to Kira . . . in more ways than one?

Verdict: Intriguing premise. However, Irish demographic too narrow. Additionally, leprechauns same as pixies, which have been done.

Pitch #2: Sixteen-year-old Anna Lovely couldn't be more bored when she moves to Cornhusk, Nebraska to live with her estranged father. But then she meets Demetrios, a brooding young exchange student with a dark secret . . .

. . . he's a satyr.



Oh, for God's sake, not that kind of satyr.



Yes. Thank you.

When Anna first resists his attentions, Demetrios plies her with her one weakness: gyros, each one lovingly rolled with his own hands. She falls for Demetrios -- hard. But can Anna love Demetrios without succumbing to his lusty satyr nature? Or will he seduce Anna into a drunken, violent, bacchanalian frenzy?

Verdict: I like the bestiality overtones. Edgy! But could be problematic with Middle America, not to mention PETA, ASPCA, etc.

Pitch #3: Sixteen-year-old Serena Babe couldn't be more bored when she moves to a truck stop out in the middle of nowhere to live with her estranged grandmother. But then she meets Beelzebub, a brooding young truck driver with a dark secret . . .

. . . he's Satan.



&^%$@!, people. Do we never learn???? Think Satan as in gorgeous fallen angel, okay?



Yes! Finally. Sheesh.

When Serena first resists his attentions, Beelzebub plies her with her one weakness: an insatiable lust for money, fame and power. She falls for Beelzebub -- hard. But will Beelzebub drag Anna to Hell and slow-roast her over a spit for all eternity? Or will their scorching love survive temptation?

Verdict: Love it! This one's a go! Look for Damned If I Do to hit bookshelves in late 2010!

Killer Buns

Satan's minion is living in my basement until the weather warms. Yes, you heard me. Satan's Minion, also known as Katy the Bunny.

She's my daughter's rabbit. Actually, he's my daughter's rabbit. We thought he was a she. He was sold to us as a she. But when I dropped him off at the vet's to get fixed, prepared for an overnight stay, the nursing staff called me within the hour, saying Katy was ready and waiting.

"That was fast!" I said.

"Castrations usually are," said the nurse.

My daughter is none the wiser, and continues to address him as Katy. Fine by me: trannies are hip now, are they not? But maybe not so fine by Katy - er, Kevin. Maybe that's why the rabbit is the most evil small mammal I've ever encountered.

Seriously. To paraphrase Tim the Enchanter, he's no ordinary rabbit. He's the most foul, cruel, and bad-tempered rodent you've ever set eyes on.

In a nutshell: he charges. He grunts. He bites. You barely set foot in the basement and he bullets out of nowhere and nips your ankle.

I have made sincere efforts to rehabilitate him. Truly. Just the other day, I spent a good ten minutes stroking his head, which he loves.

You're not so bad, little rabbit, I thought to myself. You're soft, at least. And there's no denying you're cute.

"Who's a good bunny?" I asked Katy. "Who's the best bunny in the whole wide world?"

I stopped stroking him. He lunged at my face and nipped me on the nose.

Ever since then, when I visit a French restaurant, I order rabbit. I'm a nice person, but once you break skin, all bets are off.

I compiled the following footage in Katy's honor. Take a gander. If you dare.

Offensive Hand Gestures

My 8-year-old son recently brought home his latest selection from the school library:



I could dedicate an entire post to the unconventional, inscrutable being that is my son. But not today.

Today, I'll share a few gems I discovered when I paged through this sign language treatise. Signing is tricky business. To express yourself clearly and quickly, using a minimum of manual effort, you sometimes rely a bit on stereotypes. It's like cultural shorthand, you see.

For instance, the sign for IRISH is also the sign for POTATO since, as we all know, that humble vegetable is the foundation of all Irish cuisine.



Likewise, the sign for ARGENTINA is the same as the sign for GUITAR, because . . .



. . . because?

Huh. Just because.

Moving on, the sign for JEWISH or HEBREW requires the speaker to run his fingers over his chin as if stroking an imaginary beard. Which I guess makes sense, as many Jewish men are bearded and quite . . . uhh . . . contemplative, studying the Torah and all. I guess.



See how this works? Cultural shorthand! Which is why the sign for JAPANESE or ASIAN requires the speaker to pull his eyelids lengthwise and -



Wait. That can't be right. Really - THAT. CAN'T. BE. RIGHT. Let's take another example.

To sign the word HOMOSEXUAL, you simply pinch your fingers together into "ballet hands" and mince your shoulders back and forth as you emulate an effeminate walk . . .



Oh, COME ON, deaf people. That's just not nice. Can't you substitute another word for 'homosexual'? Like "Broadway", for example? Or "Barry Manilow?"

Wait. Hold the phone. It appears that there IS a sign-language substitute for "homosexual". Based on this definition, the sign for "homosexual" is nearly identical and virtually indistinguishable from the sign for . . .



HOLLYWOOD???

Oy vey, as my gay, potato-eating, guitar-strumming, squinty-eyed, Jewish friend Herschel might say.

I give up, deaf people. I give up.

The Suspicious Advertisement

Saw this on the bulletin board at the market this morning. Alas, I prefer my housework to be done by immature Lithuanians. Although the quotation marks make me question whether this person is indeed "mature", or "Polish". Or, for that matter, a "woman".

If My Neuroses Were Pokemon

Ash: Hi! I'm Ash Ketchum! Welcome to the Sinnoh Region!



Me: Oh . . . right. Hey, Ash. Nice to meet you here in Pokemon World. Or whatever. I'm thrilled to be here.



(under my breath) Thank God there's still alcohol in this animated, parallel universe.

Ash: What did you say?!

Me: Nothing. Could you lower your voice, please? This isn't pep squad.

Ash: Right!! Are you a fellow Pokemon Trainer? What is your Pokemon?

Me: I have an Anxietor.

Ash: Anxietor! But I have never seen or heard of such a Pokemon!

Me: She's agoraphobic. She pretty much stays inside the Pokeball.

Ash: Let my Pikachu do battle with your Anxietor!

Me: Yeah . . . not a good idea.

Ash: But I insist!

Me: (sigh) All right. Anxietor, it's time to do battle. Come out, please. No, you don't look fat. I swear. Yes, I promise no one will laugh at you. That's right. Step outside.



Ash: What a peculiar pocket monster you possess! Let me emphasize my mirth with loud and frantic laughter! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!



Me: (to Anxietor). Ignore him. He sounds like a girl.

Ash: Let us begin! Pikachu! Use Thunderbolt!




Me: Anxietor! Use Panic Attack!

Ash: How strange! Your Pokemon appears to have turned blue!

Me: Yeah, she does that when she hyperventilates. (slapping Anxietor) Breathe, dammit! Get ahold of yourself, bitch!

Ash: She's recovered! Pikachu, use Volt Tackle!

Me: Anxietor, use Meltdown!



Ash: Your Pokemon is defeated! I'm afraid this Meltdown Attack was completely ineffective!

Me: It always is, Ash. It always is. Come, Anxietor. Time for your Valium.

Shameless

Meet my shame spiral. His name is Floyd.



Floyd’s job is to guilt me out over my various and sundry failings. This causes me to engage in all manner of unhealthy and self-destructive behavior, such as eating Nutella straight from the jar with my fingers. Or blowing off dinner to watch consecutive showings of The Real Housewives of Atlanta (a little take-out never hurt nobody). All of which, in turn, brings on another visit from Floyd.

See how this shame spiral thing works? Good. Let’s watch Floyd in action.



Here’s Floyd passing judgment on me as I eat the last Skittles from my daughter’s Halloween candy. Skittles happen to be my daughter’s favorite – and why not? It’s the Original Fruit Bite-Sized Candy!



Please don’t give me that look, Floyd. It’s not as if she’ll ever know. Besides, no eight year old girl should eat her weight in sugar. I’m just looking out for her health, right? RIGHT????

Whatever. Where’s that Nutella?

Here’s me borrowing from my son’s change jar so that I can tip the pizza guy.



Floyd does not approve.



Oh, COME ON Floyd. I said borrowing! I’ll pay it back . . . PROMISE! What’s the kid done to earn twenty-three bucks, anyway? Aside from losing a few lousy teeth?

Know what, Floyd? You’re starting to get on my nerves. A woman can’t live in this kind of a pressure-cooker. Besides, Showgirls is on, and I want to watch it guilt-free. With my Nutella. And a bottle of good white.

Floyd, meet my kids.



That’s right. Spend some quality time together.



Now pardon me, but I’ve got to go catch that psychotic, ginger-haired choreographer Hitler-scream at Elizabeth Berkeley. Thrust it, THRUST IT!!!

Apocalypse (Kill Me) Now

One day this past summer, I was stricken with an acute case of MID -- known to the psychiatric community as Mommy Inferiority Disorder. Unlike most mental illnesses, MID is communicable; I myself contracted it after visiting a friend whose child flawlessly performed a piano sonatina for my benefit. Said child is also tri-lingual, gorgeous, and unfailingly polite.

I returned home from this visit to find my own spawn sitting slack-jawed in front of the TV, playing Nintendo.

"Hi guys!" I said. They didn't bother to look up, although my son did flick his wrist like he was brushing away a fly.

"Hello!" I repeated. "Not now," said my daughter. "Sonic just reached level 5 and we don't want to blow it."

This marked the precise onset of MID. I yanked the Nintendo power cord from it's player. After the kids finally stopped crying, they confronted me.

"Whatdja do that for?" asked my son.

"Because playing too many video games turns your brain into mashed potatoes."

"Really?" asked my daughter."Seriously?"

"Oh, yeah. Totally." I sniffed her head. "Smells like gravy."

After the second round of crying subsided, I announced that we were going to do something fun. Something productive. Something creative. "Let's make a movie!" I said.

It got off to a good start. We created a plot, although I had to nix my son's suggestion for an alien ambush. We created the characters out of play-doh. We grabbed some props.

And then it got ugly. First off, my idea to make a stop-animation movie proved to be over-ambitious and totally deranged. I thought it would be "fun" and "educational" for the kids to move their clay figures increments of an inch and shoot pictures of them. Over and over again. Hundreds of times.

Yes, I am batshit.

Secondly, never entrust your children with doing set work. NEVER. Props were moved before I yelled "SHOOT!" A pivotal scene where the car backs over a character and flattens him had to be shot -- and the character re-molded -- twice, as my son couldn't figure out how to press the "ON" button for the video.

Another scene required my daughter to drop a basketball onto a character. She dropped it from a standing position and missed by a good two feet. I told her to crouch, and she missed again. I told her to squat and hold the ball directly above the character, AND SO HELP ME GOD THE GIRL STILL MISSED, EVEN THOUGH THE TARGET WAS A SCANT TWELVE INCHES AWAY.

I admit, I said some inexcusable things to my children. Along the lines of: "A monkey could press that button. And I'm not talking about one of those smart Rhesus monkeys. I'm talking about a regular chimp, straight out of the jungle."

They were outraged, of course, and rightfully so. My son told me "you have a problem with your attitude" -- words I usually direct at him. Man, that karma's a bitch.

I apologized to both of them and assured them that one day I would burn in hell for my words. This seem to satisfy them. They scooted away -- literally, on their Razor scooters. Meanwhile, I got down to the business of editing the footage.

It was like slogging through wet cement in hip-boots. I called for my son and tried to convince him that dragging and clicking with software is a damn good time. He pointed, he clicked, and then he left to go play Pokemon.

By the time I was done, I was unhinged. My husband returned home to find me in my underwear doing martial arts moves in front of the mirror. Luckily I didn't punch it, like Martin Sheen did in Apocalypse Now. I just punched my husband instead.

And so here's the end result. It turned out decent, except for the fact that I seem to have the voice of an 80-year-old hillbilly woman.

Now my kids call themselves auteurs. They also run like hell whenever I suggest turning off the TV to do something "fun".