the pieces of my life

I need to blog about last night’s HBS Section Dinner, because I told Ivy if she checked today, it would be there (Hi Ivy!). Ivy’s my new best friend because she told me she liked my Web site. I’m easy that way.

But, I need to up my word count, so instead, I’ll leave you with a piece of my getting-closer-to-the-end novel, which may not be your favorite piece, but then, you didn’t grow up with my father (and see, it really isn’t about me, because everyone knows that we don’t celebrate Christmas!). Simon, I hope you appreciate this one (Simon who saved me much grief with his sane advice that went contrary to everyone else’s not-so-wise advice. That made the novel, too. Thanks, Simon):

“Hey, Dad?” Jessica’s weekly phone calls with her father were getting shorter and shorter. She’d taken to calling when she woke up at 6 a.m., as by the time she got home at night, it was too late in Miami to call. “I have a question for you.”

Silence on the other end. “Dad, are you there?”

“I was waiting for your question.”

After all these years she should be used to this, but still it annoyed her. “I need verbal assurances of your continued existence on the other end of the phone.”

“Okay. What, Jessica, is your question?”

“Actually there are two. The first is, how about we skip Christmas this year?”

“Skip Christmas?”

“Yeah. I don’t have time to shop and no time to ship and I certainly don’t have the energy to come home. Let’s just skip Christmas.”

“You love Christmas. And more importantly, your mother loves Christmas. Can’t you make a token effort?”

Jessica sighed deeply and flipped over, putting her feet on the futon, while lying on the floor. “Okay, token effort. Really!”

“Really. Second question.”

“I want to buy and hold. How do I do that?”

“I’m going to assume you mean buy and hold a puppy dog. Because you can’t sanely be referring to anything else. Although I have to ask, if you don’t have time for Christmas, do you really think you’ll have the time necessary to care for a puppy dog.”

“Dad! You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t know what you mean, because I know I raised a sane and smart daughter, and not one who would spout nonsense, so no, I have no idea what you mean.”

“I. Want. To. Buy. And. Hold. My. Stock. Options.” Jessica used her very patient, very enunciated voice.

“Let’s talk about skipping Christmas again.”

I’m not sure what to say about this one. And I’m not going to make any wisecracks here about my mother being an artist. Don’t you either.

How come I can’t put this on my wishlist? And how will this help the fattening of America? I wonder how much weight it can hold.

I am dreaming of Paris. I am dreaming of a café on the Rue de Quelque Chose (and why did I bother even trying to click on that when Word told me I got the wrong spelling. As if Word was as monoandhalflingual as I am!), where I drink Beaujolais Nouveau and smoke Gauloises (no, Mom, I really don’t smoke anymore, and if you say what you’re actually thinking, then I’m not going to let you read my blog anymore). I’m working on my forty-second novel, but instead of the laborious, miserable task of nanowrimo, words of beauty and wisdom flow from my pen with ease, and surprisingly, my hand never tires and my writing remains legible. My french is fluent (“Plus du vin, s’il vous plait“), and handsome waiters keep my glass full and my ashtray empty. When I am finished writing, I return home to my gorgeous appartement, where the chef has created a six-course dinner of rich buttery cheeses and bread that are actually fat-free (and yes, you can have six different courses all made up of cheese and bread) for me and my darling husband, Adam, who is the CEO of Hachette, which hired him because I refused to allow them to publish my books unless they did so. After dinner, we will sip Dom Perignon on the balcony overlooking the Seine, before heading out to the opera in our [fill in name of fashionable French designer whom I’ve probably never heard of here] gown and tux. Aprés opera, we will have drinks and witty conversation in a small bistro with our dearest friends, Eric Rohmer, Milan Kundera, and Isabelle Adjani, as we listen to a jazz string trio. At the end of the night, we shall return to our gorgeous maison, sneak in to kiss les enfants–whom the au pair has cleaned, fed, and read to–good night, and retreat for a night’s sleep on our 600-thread count sheets.

(A side note, when I went to check on the spelling of Gauloises, I was rudely told by their Web site: “Sorry! Access to our site is not authorized by the legislation in your country.” Even posing as a Brit, I couldn’t get in. The key is to act Dutch. The Dutch are completely legit on the Gauloises Web site. Totally worth the lie, because you can graffiti a subway car there! Didn’t you know? Smoking leads not just to death, but to tagging.)

Number 184: Take a picture of my novel.

I need more MBA-speak for my novel. These are the terms I’m already using: attriting; issues around; incent (v.); enthused (v.); granular; get big fast; work long, hard, and smart; raising the bar; grasp the low-hanging fruit; day one; literally; fewer vs. less; synergy; learnings on; drive this project; quarterbacking a project; learnings; monetizing; opening the kimono; first mover advantage; bleeding edge.

I know, I’ve got some good stuff already. But 50,000 words is a lot of novel, and you know how it is: if you don’t use a foreign language you lose it. My MBA-speak has deterioriated since I left Amazon. Throw me some more good words to use! And if you’re very nice, I may even put you in my novel (of course, some of you who weren’t very nice already made my novel, but let’s not dwell on that).

The best thing about moving to a cold weather place? Hot cocoa with marshmallows.

An article in yesterday’s New York Times magazine about children being prescribed Ritalin at younger and younger ages made me wonder: Is it really that children are more hyperactive than they used to be? Or is it that people are waiting longer to have kids, and therefore don’t have the same energy at 47 to handle a five year old that they may have had when they were 23, so the kids just seem more active?

Things I’ve been doing instead of not working on my novel this weekend:

1) Wrote in two answers to the New York Times crossword puzzle before falling asleep on the couch in a sitting position, leaning on Adam’s neck.

2) Removed the skeleton that was hanging from out front door.

3) Contemplated hanging a turkey by our front door.

4) Nixed the idea of a turkey by the front door

4) Completely caught up in my blog reading (and my new favorite blog out there? Mimi Smartypants. She’d have no problems writing a witty novel in a month.)

5) Checked my belly button for lint.

6) Considered paying bills

7) Realized there was nothing to pay bills with

7) Made cocoa.

8) Raked part of the front yard until my hands were too numb to continue.

9) Proved to myself once again that I am not double jointed.

10) Formulated my plot for infiltrating HBS and forcing students to watch Norma Rae, Matewan, and Sullivan’s Travels, while I secretly burn all their khaki pants and blue shirts, replacing them with the fetching wear of Kmart’s Jaclyn Smith collection.

Hey, when did “clothing” become “apparel”? Is this like no one eating “spaghetti” anymore, just “pasta”?

And I still have no ideas for what to do next in my novel (word count: 32,042, although it looks like it will stay there for a while if I don’t come up with something brilliant for my character to do).

But who’s going to save my mom, dad, and baby sister?