Upon viewing some of my past skinny pictures, someone recently commented, "Seeing how amazing you look at 118 pounds, what keeps you from going on an extreme diet to recapture that?" I have an answer.

Ignoring the wrongs of "extreme dieting" outright, I will say that the times in my life where I've been my thinnest, looking my best, I was, in fact, at my worst. I smiled pretty for the camera, but inside I weighed more than I ever had; I was heavy with anxiety, self-doubt, and felt the pangs of rejection. I was miserable, but damn did I look good. And you know what? I don't want that back, not even for a second.

Aside from hate-dieting my way to thin, there were times when I thought thin was the answer. We all have been victims of the "someday" mentality, believing that someday when (X) happens, all our "Y" eldest dreams will come true. But it doesn't work that way, and I can honestly say, I'm happy with where I am right now. Could I stand to lose 15 lbs., absolutely. But I'm at a normal weight, and I feel extraordinary. Do I like having a double chin? No. But do I want to work my ass off, keeping a food journal, and watching those around me feast while I abstain? No.

I have no desire to sustain the unsustainable weights of my past, a life lived in single servings of fat-free yogurt with grilled chicken dinners without carbs or dessert. A weight attainable only if I ate at home where I knew the exact measure of olive oil, the precise cut of the butter, or the seconds with the non-stick spray to the pan. I don't want a life of occasional indulgences. I want it to be filled with everything I love as often as possible without sacrificing my health. I want every last thing I can get away with. Life is too short to deny myself shortening, and I believe, above all else, life should be lived with gusto. Not excess, but gusto.

Thank you for going with me when he wouldn't.
For letting me be the over-the-top ham that I can be sometimes.
For driving me to drama class and sitting through every last swim practice.
For teaching me how to dress. Ahem.
For putting my hair in rag curls and playing beauty parlor with Lea and me.
For giving me a sister, even though, after the nightmare that was me, you didn't want any more babies.
For wrapping my presents with all-different loud wrapping papers, so each one looked as if it was sent by a different friend or elf.
For throwing birthday parties for me, lighting all the candles, and always encouraging me to sing.
For driving when the other mothers wouldn't, for helping me with all the school projects that involved food, especially when you taught me how to make fried spring rolls!
Thank you for letting me crawl into bed with you. Just hearing you breathe made me feel better.
Thank you for being mine. I love you Mommy.

This is not a redesign. Not even for a moment. It's called insomnia, my friends. Good old-fashioned insomnia. Please excuse this mess.

I felt myself holding back tears at dinner. We went out tonight with a couple whose child is in the NICU. I wanted to show them how much we understood without making it about us and what we'd been through. I wanted them to know we wouldn't say the dumb things people tend to say when you have a child in the NICU, horror stories by well-meaning parents. It didn't matter that we'd gone through it ourselves and understood the pity with which people greet you. Because it wasn't happening to us. And I wanted them to know that I knew that. That I wasn't the kind of mother to go on and on about what we'd gone through. I wanted to ease their minds, to let them know they weren't alone, that it gets easier. And that it gets harder... the way it does for any parent.

My father doesn't know how to use Google Maps. He didn't realize you could scroll the list of cities on the left of the screen. That said, I'm posting tour information here... with all new cities, and this just confirmed... at all of the events, there will be free chocolate (it's healthy because it makes you smile) from Miles of Chocolate! Seriously, what's a fat camp book party without that? YUM!

	AUSTIN LAUNCH PARTY at Bookpeople Book Store 7 PM, Tuesday, May 27, 2008 603 N Lamar Blvd Austin, TX 78703
	ARLINGTON TX, Moose at Torrid in Parks-Arlington Shopping Center 3 PM, Wed, May 28, 2008 TORRID STORE 3811 S Cooper St Arlington, TX 76015
	DALLAS Moose at Borders Books Music & Cafe: Main 7 PM, Wed, May 28, 2008 10720 Preston Rd # 1018 Dallas, TX 75230
	MIAMI Moose Tour: Books & Books Inc 8 PM, Friday, May 30, 2008 265 Aragon Ave Coral Gables, FL 33134
	BETHESDA, MD, Moose at Torrid/ Montgomery Mall 3 PM, Monday, June 2, 2008 7101 Democracy Blvd Bethesda, MD 20817
	WASHINGTON, DC, Olsson's Books & Records with Stephanie Klein 7 PM, Monday, June 2, 2008 1307 19th St NW Washington, DC 20036
	WEST NYACK, NY Stephanie Klein at Torrid Store Palisades Center 3 PM, Tuesday, June 3, 2008 1000 Palisades Center Dr West Nyack, NY 10994
	MANHASSET, NY Barnes & Noble Booksellers with Stephanie Klein 7 PM, Tuesday, June 3, 2008 1542 Old Northern Boulevard Manhasset, NY 11576
	NYC, COLUMBUS CIRCLE, MOOSE: Borders Books Music Movies & Cafe 7 PM, Wednesday, June 4, 2008--Inside the Time Warner Building (upstairs) 10 Columbus Circle New York, NY 10019
	PARAMUS, NEW JERSEY, Torrid w/ Stephanie Klein, author of Moose 3 PM, Thrs, June 5, 2008 Torrid Store 1 Garden State Plaza Paramus, NJ 07652
	CHICAGO: DePaul University: Loop Campus with Stephanie Klein speaking on BLURRED BOUNDARIES 11 AM, Friday, June 6, 2008--8th floor of the DePaul Center (Loop campus). The talk will be from 11-12, followed by the book signing and reception from 12-1. 1 E Jackson Blvd Chicago, IL 60604
	CHICAGO AREA: Stephanie Klein at Torrid in Woodfield Mall 3 pm, Friday, June 6, 2008 Woodfield Mall Schaumburg, IL 60173
	Printers Row Book Fair, CHICAGO 2 PM, Saturday, June 7, 2008 3806 N Alta Vista Terrace (not sure if this is the right address) Chicago, IL 60611 (312) 222-3986
	LOS ANGELES: Book Soup with Stephanie Klein & Moose 7 PM, Mon., June 9, 2008 8818 W Sunset Blvd Los Angeles, CA 90069
	PASADENA, CA: Vroman's Bookstore with Stephanie Klein 7 PM, Tues., June 10, 2008 695 E Colorado Blvd Pasadena, CA 91101
	AUSTIN, TX, Lakeline Mall Torrid w/ Stephanie Klein 3 PM, Saturday, June 14, 2008 11200 Lakeline Mall Dr Cedar Park, TX 78613
	AUSTIN, TX: Sleep-in Sunday, Barnes & Noble Booksellers Arboretum 3 PM, Sunday, June 29, 2008 10000 Research Blvd Austin, TX 78759
	SAN FRANCISCO, BlogHer 2008 Conference at Westin-St Francis Hotel 5:15 PM, Saturday, July 19, 2008 Closing Keynote: Living the Truman Show 335 Powell Street San Francisco, CA 94102

A few weeks ago I cared about my hair, obsessed about my hair. The rockstar who'd tamed my curls with the flick of a wrist had gone missing.  You all know the story and the happy ending. Blog readers scoured the internet and databases to find me her email address and phone number. She's no longer doing hair, I learned. Today, gasp, I did my own, despite a photoshoot with USA TODAY. I have two words for you: fr-izz. I will live, but if said rockstar changes her mind, I'm first in line. It actually turns out that her sister is a reader of my blog as well. Small world we say. Yesterday, I felt the world get much smaller. 

On Myspace I received an incredible note. Whatever stress I'm going through or drama I perceive or create, this blog is a gift for me, and I am thankful for the friends I have made through it.

"I am in Baghdad and working as an intelligence analyst. Your articles have had perfect timing for me, despite the long hours I check in once in a while to see what you are up to. As you have been busy stressing about your book readings I have been preparing a brief for General Petraeus. I have been so incredibly nervous. Yesterday I briefed him and it went well. Of course there are things I wish I could have done differently, but all in all I am content. It is really one of the pinnacle points for an analyst to get a chance to share what we think about a situation for about 10-15 minutes with him, and he is quite the gentlemen and extremely intelligent. I had to give myself a pep talk the night before and literally rehearsed the brief in my head while falling asleep, practicing a conversational tone and pretending it was like rehearsing lines for a play.

Something I told myself is I need to realize there are just as many people who have supported me to get me to this point and believe in me as there are negative detractors who look to tear me down, this helps me balance my perspective and keeps me on game without being defensive. And, at the end of the day it is my opinion that matters. So, best of luck to you in all you are currently involved in and thank you for putting yourself out there.

Haha - I know this is much more than you asked for, and maybe you stopped reading after the first line, but it feels great to write it out."

When journalists ask me why I blog, I wish I could point them to emails like this. I receive so many touching notes, so encouraging, heartfelt, human. It's a reminder, both in the writing and the reading, that we're not alone in the things we face and feel. Thank you for sharing all you do with me.

I have good intentions. In my mind I'm the type of mom who's sneaking in wheat germ, the kind of wife who's still buying sexy underthings, the kind of woman who finds time to read and return phone calls. But I'm not. I haven't written a real letter to a friend in ages. Everything is typed into little white boxes via IM, Facebook, and Flickr. And in truth, I don't even know what the latest trends are. I haven't picked up a magazine for just the pictures and matchy ensembles since Linus was in town. Still, I make an effort. I subscribe to fashion newsletters, receive updates on the new restaurant openings (both here in Austin and in New York), and each day an email arrives from Martha Stewart titled "Craft of the Day."

Here's what I've got to say: don't read craft magazines; they'll only make you feel inept. Unless of course you have the time to be constructing sake-box planters topped with plastic wrap, intended to be miniature greenhouses. I wish my adult life could be more like school, where my time was divided into blocks of subjects. I'd be able to make time each day for childrearing, grooming, writing, and making my own soaps and soups. When I received an email in celebration of Earth Day, urging me to create a shoulderbag with an "orphaned pillowcase," I realized I'd sooner raise chickens then use a pillowcase as my handbag. One day there will be time for pipecleaner art, for creating a wreath made of seashells, and for stamping envelopes with wax seals. In the meanwhile, I'll compose to-do lists I'll never get through and keep a good distance away from the craft glue.

In any movie where the guy is contemplating reconnecting with his high school crush, there's always the balding friend who likes to scratch his nuts and drink the milk from the carton warning him that she's probably put on a few duffel bags of fat. Had Cameron Diaz indeed been a plus-size gal in Something About Mary, our buddy Ted probably wouldn't have bothered to unload his gun pre-date. The worst thing, it seems, even in some of the greatest films, with the greatest actors, is to curse someone to a future of fat, as if that is the greatest "worst" you could do.

While in bed the other night, just as we were turning off the lights and going through our move the pillows, untuck the sheets, and move so I can give you the hockey leg routine, I turned to Philip and sighed. It was a sigh of relief after a long day, the kind that eases out. "You know," I said to him in the dark, "Norma is the best thing to ever happen to us." Then we both kinda laughed.

We fight much less now. "Nanny" isn't the right word, as it sounds so... twentyager demanding her own shelf in the fridge with paid vacation and weekly appointments with an aesthetician and masseuse. It's one of those words that sounds like "personal-trainer" or "agent". All might be necessities in one's career, but the words never convey need and seem to scream WANT WANT WANT GET GET GET. She might be our childcare provider, technically, but genuinely, she is our lifesaver.

Upon leaving each day, she comes running up to me for a hug and kiss goodbye. Even my mother-in-law, when she came here, said, "You two love her so much, it's as if you love her more than me!" While I do, indeed love my mother-in-law, we love Norma like family, and we feel very lucky.

The other day, for her birthday, we got a Boston Cream cake, her name in icing, sparkler candles. We snapped party hats on ourselves and on the beans. We came out singing, and she began to cry. I love that she's part of my life.

1. btothel.jpg, 2. horseplay.jpg, 3. girls.jpg, 4. timeforhaircut.jpg, 5. ball.jpg, 6. cheer.jpg, 7. familia.jpg, 8. wish.jpg

We wanted to invite her and her family over for dinner, but I was hesitant... mostly because when you work all week the very LAST thing you want to do is spend time with your boss during your free time. Even when bosses think they're being thoughtful, inviting you to that weekend bbq at their house, etc. It's always kinda torture, and you wonder how long you have to stay. As much as I love her and want to get to know her family, I didn't want to put her through the hell of obligations.

But when Phil mentioned it, she lit up, and said she couldn't wait, that she talks about the ninos all the time, and that her husband and son just look at her and laugh. "I want so much for them to know you all as I do." We are blessed.

Tonight we're having the perfect summer dinner. Filet Mignon, lobster tails, grilled asparagus, corn on the cob, garlic bread. Strawberry shortcake, fresh watermelon, chocolate chip cookies with vanilla swiss almond ice cream. I'm also making celery root puree because the taters love it. A vanilla bean drawn butter for the lobster. I love days like today, family days, with the smell of charcoal, the sunset, wiffle ball, and cold white wine. Toasts to life, raised glasses, smiles and ¡Salud!

It’s May 1^st, Lei Day. Also known as May Day, which kinda makes me want to switch on a Jane Austen film and watch the wealthy toss their polished coins in the air as stainless children dressed like puffs frolic about like sprites. May Day poles, wide ribbons, top hats, and wedding bells. Or, perhaps an overelaborate drink that tastes a bit like suntan lotion. May Day sounds like a holiday for women who wear hats. And knee highs. And who prefer potato salad to pretty much everything.

I'm celebrating with a pineapple garnish and paper umbrella. It's not just that's it's Lei Day. Within four weeks, Moose will be hitting shelves, and dammit, I've waited a long time for this moment. So I'm going to enjoy every little moment of it. Moose is the story I've wanted to tell my entire adult life. It's about a part of my life I really wanted to explore, and to forget, all at once. In it I tried to show how being an overweight adolescent shaped my adulthood. How many of the things I believed growing up turned out to be my own insecurities. My own untruths. I explore my relationship with my mother, first loves and what type of friend I was. Sitting on the floor next to boxes of journals and letters from that time brought back memories of stories and dramas. Moose is the telling of those memories.

In the coming month I’ll be making announcements about great companies and people I’ve partnered with for the launch of Moose. Each partnership was chosen for its positive message and devotion to community. There are retailers, product manufacturers, camp companies, websites, magazines, and even a game developer. A new stephanieklein.com is in the works with very cool features and content being developed in partnership with one of the largest, most respected web authoring companies. In addition, we’ve produced some really fun videos I’ll be going live with. All I can say is the support has been incredible, and I can’t wait to introduce everyone.

In Austin on the May 27^th release of Moose, I ’ll be at BookPeople. The people at BookPeople brought their Texas hospitality out for me and suggested making it a MOOSE RELEASE PARTY! So on that night we’ve brought together--through the generosity of some local companies--a camp-themed party. Tito’s Handmade Vodka will be supplying the bug juice. Miles Of Chocolate the decadent chocolate desserts, and of course, there will be giveaways and possibly a raffle. The night should be so much fun, and I can’t wait to meet everyone.

I’m hoping we can do something like this at all of my events. If I’ll be in your area, let me know of any local companies you think might want to take part, or if you work for such a company as well, shoot me an email. Let’s make each event a party! If all else fails I’m bringing cupcakes... or s'mores...

"Stephanie, I think we have mice." My feet were up on the chair before I could compose a response. "Yeah, I really think we must have mice. There's no other explanation for this." Phil then shows me a half-full pint of rocky road ice cream.

"THAT'S NOT FUNNY! Don't do that! Did you see how fast my feet just went up?"
"Well, there's no way I ate all that."
"Don't do that! Why would you do that? If I opened the freezer and found that you'd had some ice cream do you really think I'd come to you and ask you why you'd been eating it?!"
"Yeah, but this was my ice cream, Stephanie. Yours is that one with the fruit in it." I might as well be living in office space. I want to stab him. I tell him so. "Leave me alone! I'm a total stress case and I don't need you giving me shit about how much ice cream I've eaten. Do you know how surprisingly easy it is to work my way through a pint in one sitting? Now seriously, go away because you stress me out, and there's not enough ice cream in our freezer to deal with you right now."

The fact of the matter is, I am ridiculously depressed. I am stressed out. The muscles in my neck feel like shells. I am miserable. I am stressed, so stressed, worried about so many things. Things I haven't had the strength to write about. Things I've shared with only three of my friends and my father. The rest of my family, my friends, everyone... no one knows because I haven't had the ability, the composure, the strength to speak, or write about it even. I feel like I'm failing at everything. And the last thing I need is another goddamn to-do list. Phil goes over things with me, things I cannot let slip. Have you paid this bill? Have you written this email? Have you contacted this one? Have you written that yet? I have way too much on my plate right now, and I need help. It's not the kids, it's all the work. It's magazine articles, interviews, marketing, pitches, updates, and it's all very taxing. I KNOW these are good problems to have. I definitely know. But I'm overwhelmed, and I don't know how to get away, to take a break, to start over. I'm so frightened that my book sales won't be what they should be, that no one will come to my readings, that I could have done more. That I won't know what to do next. I realize this is the fear of almost all authors, even the best of them. Still, it all weighs on you. It's self-imposed pressure, and in the meanwhile, there are more speeches to give, more interviews, more articles, more appearances, and less balance (whatever the hell that is). Ice cream isn't the answer, but neither is hearing "ice cream isn't the answer." I swear when someone says that, I want to pull out one of my childhood moves.

When my parents were away on vacation, and our housekeeper was staying with us, I took this clear baby bottle that belonged to one of my sister's dolls, and I took a shit into the bottle. I crammed it in there. And to make matters all the more appalling, I then twisted the cap back on. I don't know why I did this, other than wanting so badly to see Lea's face when she realized her baby's bottle was filled with human feces. It's absolutely grotesque... and that's how I feel right now... like I need my sister, like I need someone to help me laugh through all this and get to the other side.

I have every cookbook ever sold. Or so Phil tells me every time I inch my way through our door with a new one. "What's in the bag?" he asks, "And can you still return it?" Cookbooks impart a great sense of comfort to my otherwise unruly life. They soothe my nerves and make me feel as if any task in my life, any worry, can all be annihilated by whipping up a tray of this or a pan of that. Comfort food, indeed. Mind you, I don't even need to compose the dish or blend the drink to feel better. Just knowing that I'd know exactly how to go about assembling a lemon crostada is salve enough.

Our kitchen is chockablock with everything from Nigel Slater, Alfred Portale, and Charlie Trotter, to Chef Interrupted and Barefoot Contessa, to Canyon Ranch and The French Culinary Institute's Salute to Healthy Cooking. Having them around makes my house feel like a home. Oh, but I do admit, I feel the same way about art supplies and a loaded pantry. It's not that I plan to make anything with five boxes of cake mix, but to open the cabinet and see the boxes there, all aligned and waiting for the day when I'll be the type to bake, makes me feel like I've got my shit together.

Today a book comes out that I'm over the moon about--HUNGRY GIRL: RECIPES AND SURVIVAL STRATEGIES FOR GUILT-FREE EATING IN THE REAL WORLD. Lisa Lillien has managed to take her insanely popular free daily email www.hungry-girl.com and create the definitive recipe book.  Her Frozen Margarita is my fave. I only wish I were in New York for her book signing at Borders in Columbus Circle tonight, Tuesday, at 7pm (same place I'll be reading from MOOSE on June 4th) and meet Hungry Girl. She's someone I call friend, as will you once you meet her.

The man had it coming. I mean, come on. Who marries a woman known not only to say things like, "I am the author of the only dictionary that defines me," but who actually added italics and pinned it up as her web site tag line? Of course none of us know what goes on behind closed doors, or separate apartments, but when it comes to the filing of divorce papers, we all tend to impulsively choose a side.

Sides are always taken, and blame is handed out like napkins, despite the fact that it's never clean. Even the most amicable of divorces leave someone questioning where they went wrong--how they'd come to this, this ending. Because the sad truth is we always look at the parting of ways between two people as an ending instead of a beginning, "it's over" instead of "it's all about to start." And we dwell. We go shopping to cheer ourselves, then we panic about money. And as friends, we apologize for their loss instead of celebrating their gain--a chance at a whole new life that can be so frightening and delicious all at once.

I am neither pro- nor anti-Jones, but when I heard that Star Jones Reynolds was unwrapping things with her husband of three years, I made an audible gasp. Normally, I'd have rolled my eyes all the way back to 2004, back to the elaborate details she splashed about on "The View." Over. And over. And so, so over. But I couldn't help but be alarmed, saddened really, by the news. "Oh, no!" I thought about her book cover, how an entire line spread across it, with  only his surname. "You never should have changed your name." How ridiculously cynical, some might say of my hindsight advice, but I believe we compromise enough in our marriages and relationships, lose things, gain things, but the thing we should keep is who we've been our whole lives, the name we were given when we began it.

The fact is, I'm not cynical at all. I need to believe in love. To know somewhere deep down that it will work out for all of us, that we'll get our playground love. The kind we sorta wished for on summer nights. Everyone should get that, find that, be able to sustain that. To grow up and do things the way grownups "should."

They're the words and wishes of a little girl, estranged from reality, still casting a wish on a star. I think I'm both of them, the unguarded, wide-eyed girl and the insightful woman who thinks I spent too much time wishing for the wrong things.

I haven't followed their story closely, but just hearing that anyone is splitting up makes me feel empty and sad for them. And then I want to smack myself because, uh, hello... all the best things in life begin with a breakup! Or rather, they're beginnings, not endings. Hmmm. I wonder how that'll look in italics under my name. StephanieKlein.com: there are no happy endings here. Nah, people will think it's a site about massage.

I've become the chick that screams at the TV. I now hate the name Rose. I hate flowers and boxes of chocolate. I hate his eyes. I hate the phrase "I love him." I hate how attached I've become, how I want so much to stop watching but I can't pull myself away. It's like Miles of Chocolate. All because of anticipation and hope. Hoping so so much that Derek and our girl Grey will find their way back to each other. I cannot deal. I don't want to think of the possibilities of them not being together because, in the end, all any of us want is a happy ending.

And yet. If Derek and Meredith were together now, I'd never watch the show. It's all I'm rooting for. And I suppose anticipation really is better than the getting. Because once Rose goes away--which she will--we're meant to see how much Meredith can change, how much they can each improve without each other, so they're finally ready to be together. Which, I suspect, will leave us all a little annoyed. Like, that's it? We suffered through all of that for this?

So as much as I throw a fit, there wouldn't be much to look forward to if they were happily ever after. You know, aside from baby pictures and seeing how Meredith would juggle being a mother and a surgeon. At least the Sex & The City movie is coming. Another thing that'll turn me into a psycho screaming at the screen.

It was bound to happen. So now it's out of the way. I grabbed a handful of your hair and chopped it off. Better now than when you're eight and on the verge of a bratfest. It's hideous, and I'm sorry. You wouldn't sit still, and, um, all I had handy were eyebrow trimming scissors. Had your father done this, and I'd come home to see your hair the way it is now--basically a mullet--I'd have shrieked, and quite possibly, mentioned a trailer park or Dairy Queen. You've got bangs where you shouldn't have bangs. It's horrendously uneven, but if I try to even it out.. well, we all know what happens when mama tries to even things out, don't we? She gains five pounds and finishes the whole damn pie. So I'm walking away. At least you're still smiling, even if you do have summer teeth (sum'er here and sum'er there).

I get quite a bit of mail asking for advice. Sometimes it's restaurant reco's, other times it's itinerary questions about New York. Hair products or my favorite brand of bedding. How to lose weight. Mostly, it's about the heart. I know a lot of you have emailed and I haven't had a chance, dammit, to write you back yet. Perhaps this will help.

I received an email from a woman I'll call Claire, about my age, living in Los Angeles. She broke off her engagement in January. She just didn't think it was right. He then moved on, and by March, he was engaged to someone else, a model (of course!), and proposed using the same ring he'd chosen for Claire. Not only this, said model knew the ring had been worn by Claire, but didn't care. Knew he'd just broken off an engagement, but again, didn't care. Claire knew she shouldn't feel upset, that she did, after all, end things... but still.

Now, I know we're all quick to call him an asslick, but sit tight. I also get emails from people in HIS position, though they're mostly women. Their boyfriends, fiancees, husbands leave them, and they email to tell me it was a blessing in disguise because they've just met the love of their life, and a month later they're engaged. "You always said 'what can take a lifetime to find with one person you can find in a moment with someone else!'" Yes, that's true, but that doesn't mean you should rebound, headfirst, just so you don't lose your place.

That's what happened to me. I didn't want to lose my place. I'd gotten to a point in my relationship where I was ready for marriage, and if it didn't work out, I'd find someone else to marry, and I'd do so, full speed ahead... because I wanted what I wanted... needed what I needed... and that was to be married.

Whether it's a guy or girl who's dumped or doing the dumping, it doesn't all that much matter (aside from the feelings of rejection). I said as much to Claire, who admitted she was going to nab up my book straight away as her "heart-salve."

I know this is hard to see, Claire, but if he could, that quickly, jump (plummet, really) into another serious relationship like that, that's very very telling about his character. He sounds very needy and unsure of himself. To race into a relationship like that, means you NEED it, need it so badly, need to believe that you won't be alone, need to feel loved, need to know that you won't die alone. And NEED is not a good mental state when entering a relationship. Why? Because with all that wanting, and need, you don't even really know what you want in a partner. You just know what you need and grab something to get those needs met. It sounds like he has a lot of fear in his life.

You made a decision from your heart, and you can never go wrong as long as you follow that. I know it sounds so damn cheesy, but it's very true. You knew in your gut that it wasn't going to work out. I know you feel weak right now, but the great thing is this: when we're in pain, we do the most growing.

Intellectually, I know you know all this. Emotionally you feel kinda battered. It's normal. Just know that the universe is taking care of you and will present you with a whole dumptruck of love when you're ready for it--and the only way you'll be ready for it is if you respond to this hurt with grace. It's not the events themselves that matter... it's how we respond to them.

You're no "woe is me!" girl. So pick yourself up, put on some lipstick or gloss or whatever makes you feel like tap dancing, and remember that every stranger we meet in life can turn out to be a person who can change our lives forever. There's sooooo much out there. Today, when you look out the window or walk around the block, even to clear your head, look at all the strangers. They each have their own little dramas, and you realize how many other possibilities there are out there for you... adventures, really. And it's what makes life so tasty. Well, that and cheese. This will be behind you when you bury it and decide you're ready for adventure.

We became "just friends" in that way where "friends" seemed to fit like a condom. As my we're-just-friends-now ex, Turner veiled his jealousy behind a scrim of concern when he said things like,"So what's the deal with this Ashton guy you're dating, anyway? What kind of name is that, even?" You don't know him, and it's Oliver, not Ashton. And you're one to talk, Turner.

I liked when Turner played the big brother, overprotective guy. "That's not a good restaurant," he'd pout. "Why are you letting him take you there? See, now that just upsets me." If the old woman who lived in a shoe opened a bed & breakfast in her heel, Turner would have eaten there and asked for seconds. He was no food snob. He was a dating snob, believing that where a man took his date was a reflection of his taste and upbringing. "It's just rude to take a date to Irving Plaza. I don't care who's performing." His warped rules made me like him more, not less. "Cancel on him, and let's go get the tasting menu at Blue Hill."

Turner became jealous in a light cream sauce way. He certainly wasn't controlling, but he gave good pout and could mope like it was his day job. It was a cute jealous, the kind he never really was when we were a we. It made me feel wanted, and I felt myself smile when he begged me to stay for another drink. "Call him and tell him you've changed your mind." But I haven't, I'd say. "Tell him," he'd push. No, I'm looking forward to dinner. "No, you tell him you've changed your mind about him." Silly. You're being silly.

Despite his pleas, Turner still managed to come off soft. His body was too loose to ever be intimidating. He was always relaxed, even pushed up against a deadline with partners phoning and emailing on a Sunday. He was a total type-B. And for a long time, I believed he was the perfect type for me. But then I reminded myself what a great guy I'd found in Oliver. I'd never jeopardize what we had by being reckless with Turner, a guy who only seemed to want what he couldn't have.

Going back would just be going backwards, I reminded myself. And if you turned to Turner, and suddenly said, OKAY. I'm totally on board. I want you. Let's make this work! He'd put his tail between his legs and limp off like a wounded dragon. It was all smoke. He was fine with expressing how much he wanted me because he knew he couldn't have me, and it was a game, one he really didn't want to win. I shared this with him, and he, naturally, repudiated my theory, insisting I let him prove it. I already knew he was all talk. He was the kind of guy who'd lean across the table and touch my face, only because he assumed I'd shoo his hand away, maybe playing coy. But I'd let him touch me as long as he liked, which turned out to be too long for Turner.

I'm officially stalking an ex. There. I've said it. The fact is, I genuinely believe, that stalking is well within the realm of acceptable behavior when it comes to a good hairdresser. We'd only been out twice, but they were two unforgettable dates. First, the woman gives good scalp. Really gets in there and massages with minty oils. Then she works you up into a lather. She cools you off with a shot of cold water after the cream rinse to close the hair cuticle.  Second, she gives a blow like I've never ever had before. She half-dries my entire head before spraying the roots with Aveda volumizing tonic, then she goes in for the kill, working her magic with a big round brush, one section at a time. The key is, she dries from the roots, all smooth, but then she winds my hair around the barrel of the brush, only to twirl the brush free, leaving angelic curls of mass destruction. I've never, in all my time in New York City--from Frederic FakeGuy to Bumble and Stumble--had such a perfect blowout.The key really is that Breck bounce. Without the curls at the ends, your hair just hangs on for dear life.

Last time I made my appointment at Kisma Hair Co. & Spa, I was told, "Stacey no longer works here, but we can schedule you with Laura. She's very good." I hate you. I seriously hate you. Still, I go, hoping... in vain.Everyone was tight-lipped about her departure, and I'm guessing she didn't leave on the best of terms. Oh, how I wish they'd just give up her info.No one can replace Miss Stacey Glynn.

Mind you, I only know her last name because when we first met she gave me her card. In the past few days, I've torn the house apart looking for it. Rummaged through the handbags, leafed through papers, peeked in bedside table drawers. I finally discovered her card in my closet. Aha! A last name! I'll find her online.

I tried many combinations in that trusty google window, only to turn up... incorrect matches. "Stacey Glynn," "Stacey Glynn Hair," "Stacey Glynn Kisma," "Stacey Glynn God." Now, here is where I reveal the depths of my desperation. I didn't only search for her on Facebook and Myspace. I found one in Michigan on a MeetUp page, had to log in to contact her. It gets worse. I then came across a Stacey Glynn, whose photo and profile I couldn't see unless I "joined." Dammit, I joined some bebo service, I'll never use, just to see if it was her. It wasn't. When all this failed, I went old school and picked up the phone for some 411 action. Nada.

So now, I am appealing to the masses in this woeful time. If by six degrees, you happen to know a Stacey Glynn who once worked at Kisma Hair Co. & Salon, please let her know the redhead is stalking her. Please have her put me out of my misery with an email. A text. Anything. I'm desperate.

"Heyyyy! So you landed? You're all safe?"
"Yup. What did your message say? I haven't listened to it."
"Nothing. Just, I love you. Work is on the other line... I have to go. See you soon."

Normally, this would be, well, normal. But there was a hesitation in his voice, as if he were planning something at home. Maybe some kind of celebration with cake or streamers that needed to be taped to the ceiling. I listened to his message. It was just as he'd said. Short. But it said, "Call me when you can." So that meant he had something to tell me. Usually, if he just called to say he loved me, wanted to make sure I landed, all that, he'd just say so. This wasn't that message. I pulled into a gas station and put the car in park. I checked my email. Nothing unusual. My editor letting me know the cover for Moose should have arrived. Maybe Phil saw it and thought I'd hate it or something. Maybe that's why he was being so short with me. He'd called to warn me, perhaps, but then figured, I'd just see for myself.

I picked up the phone and called him back. "Why did you leave that message?"
"What, I can't just call--"
"You said to call you back. Did my book cover come?"
"Yeah..."
"And it's awful?!"
"No, what could be awful?"
"Then what?! What the hell is going on?"

He paused, as if he were about to release something heavy. And then he did.
"I had to take Lucas to the hospital."

That's how long it took for me to feel sick, just that word: hospital. I felt it in my stomach in three syllables. I wasn't there. I was on an airplane. What happened? Is he still there? I don't understand. Talk already!

Then Phil explained that he'd been playing with Abigail, flipping her around over his head as he usually does. She giggled, he said. Then he did the same with Lucas. But when he put him down, Lucas fell onto his side. "Come on Lucas, buddy, sit up." But he wouldn't. "So I put him into a seated position, but he just fell back down again. Something wasn't right." Oh my God. "Everything is fine," he says.

"What do you mean 'everything's fine?' It's not fine!" I was shouting I think. I don't know.
"He was absolutely fine by the time I got to the hospital. He was crawling around, smiling at people, pointing at things. Normal. They ran tests--"
"What kind of tests?"
"They took his temperature and checked his oxygen levels, but there was nothing else to do. He was acting totally normal."
"It doesn't sound normal. What did the doctor say?"
"Well, I decided he didn't need to see a doctor, or to get a shunt series taken."
"I don't understand."
"It was an equilibrium thing. You know, like when you play Dizzy Lizzy, and you can't walk straight."

Had it happened to Abigail, had she been the one who couldn't sit up, we'd have thought this right away. But with Lucas, we're always on high alert. May 12, he goes for another MRI to check the progress of things, and until then, I'm going to focus on the upside of down.

Nothing says relaxing more than the hotel channel. It doesn't matter which city I'm in, the thing I want to watch most as soon as I flip on the television in my hotel room is the confirmation of sale video. That loop of an information channel showcasing local restaurants and hotel amenities. How my nerves unfold with the musak, as uniformed staffers smile while answering phones. I get a peek at the exciting business center, where the woman behind the counter is overjoyed to offer you paper. Without leaving my room, I've already toured the neighborhood districts and restaurants (along with their hearty displays of surf and turf). I've weaved through the gift shop, and taken a turn about the conference center. All this, plus beauty shots of all the room service possibilities. Ah, and lest I forget the mandatory shot of a fountain.

Comfort at my fingertips, and yet, all I could do was bite my nails. In less than an hour, I'd be whisked away to give a speech to 300 librarians. I'm sorry to report that the closer I came to blast off, the less prepared I was.I suddenly understood why men could lose their erections.

My sexy date to the event texted that she was on her way to pick me up. NO! You don't understand, I'm still figuring out what to say! I was writing, then rewriting, deciding that I'd need to write the buzzwords bigger in case I forgot what I was saying. Oh, the nerves. I needed to relax. If only the hotel offered complimentary speeches.

There's always that awkward moment when someone has read your book and they don't know quite what to say to you. My sister-in-law, I remember, was on the phone with me, saying she'd just begun to read Straight Up and Dirty. "I warned you that it was dirty," I said, detecting restraint in her voice.
"I mean, well, I guess I just didn't expect the book to start with a blowjob."
"What?!"
"Yeah, you're in the closet giving your wasband a blowjob."
"I am not! Are you reading the right book?"
"Yes, you've got your head in the hem of his pants." I think for a moment that she's misread something, but then I fear that I'd written it in this unintentional, ambiguous way.
"Wait a minute," I say. "You cannot give a blowjob with your head in the hem of his pants, no matter how creative you are."
"Oh," she said. 

I've since revisited said opening paragraph of the book, and I kinda like that people (albeit very few people) thought I was performing a género chico.

I was in my closet hanging up my clothes for the day. Straightening. I wondered what I'd do with your clothes if you died. That big closet next to mine filled of your crumpled days and ironed events. Which ones would I keep just for myself, which would I save for Lucas? Last night you went to pick up dinner, and I cautioned you to drive safely, at least three times. I was on my knees when I heard you walk in from the garage, back safe. I was picking peas off the floor just under Lucas's highchair. "Poppa's home," I sang. But all that time you were gone, I imagined the police ringing the bell, the officer with his hat in his hand, as if I were your mother and you were away at war. They were delivering the news, I imagined. I'd be in shock. I wouldn't know what to do. I don't know your passwords. I'd need to get something off your computer and I wouldn't be able to. I imagine all these small details, the way I'd probably start cleaning. I wouldn't know what to do. I don't know how people move on after such news. Someone goes in for liposuction, or some other elective surgery, and they don't come out. I think of things. Not all the time, and when I do, I find I hold onto you longer and am more clingy. Last night I sat on your lap. I'd been thinking death thoughts, which always seem to bring me closer to you.

See all the photos of the kids, of Phil, of the grandparents, and yes, of me too. Or three. Or forty.

"Between The Sheets" is coming. I'll be including deleted material and additional material, things like excerpts from my actual proposals, emails where I quizzed my friends, asking them to name their fears and contents of their handbags. Here's a quick excerpt from my book proposal for Straight Up and Dirty:

Each chapter chronicles the exploits of a pre-30 divorcee.  Dating changes drastically once your winged arm has a thick stack of red flags under it.  It’s no longer, “is he Jewish, wealthy, and good looking?”  Now it’s, “is he a momma’s boy, workaholic, or people-pleaser?”  Suddenly your list of musts and mustn’ts is rearranged, and the emphasis becomes what you don’t want.  So, now you’re more cautious (read: gun-shy).  “Well you aren’t marrying his parents, now are you?” is a pill you’ll hide under your tongue and spit out later.  You’ve learned not to swallow advice from anyone who has never had a nightmare-in-law.  But the “never-beens” in your life don’t know from any of this; they’re still looking for little boys to control.  And that’s why I’m here, to hopefully help them steer clear of the same pitfalls I plummeted into.  I try to clue them in every step of the way, as though they’re dwarfs, with reminders and tales of caution on how this Snow White finds and makes her own happiness in the face of poisoned apples, mirror obsessed witches, and a prince who didn’t know the first thing about honor.

May 27 Austin • May 28 Dallas • May 30 Miami • June 2 Washington DC • June 3 Manhasset NY • June 4 New York City • June 6 DePaul University Chicago • June 7 Printers Row Book Fair Chicago • June 9 Los Angeles • June 10 Pasadena CA • June 29 Sleep-in Sunday at Austin B&N

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Usually dibs implies a gentleman's agreement. Two ascot clad men shaking hands, one vowing to stand aside as the other puts forth his most gallant efforts to woo a dame. Or it's to secure a spot in the front seat near the air-conditioning vents on a crotch-hot day by screaming "shotgun" like one of those grown men who should've outgrown calling shotgun. The kind that still race down the aisles of the supermarket riding the back of the cart as if it were a scooter. The point is, the whole need to call "first dibs" implies that there's something of value at hand.

When I think back to my relationship with Turner, it's hard not to also think of Oliver. Turner had dibs because we'd met first.He didn't call dibs or anything. I mean, not that it should work that way with dating, but when that first guy comes along that you actually want to call you (and who actually does call), you start to hope things might work out. And you kinda favor him because it had just been so damn long since you were that damn happy. I saw the red flags but waved my hand at them, thinking maybe they're really white flags--urging me to surrender-- that somehow got thrown in with that one red sock. I didn't want to see what I should've be seeing. Just let me have this, damn universe!

In the end, I told him I couldn't see him anymore. I stuck to it. I felt sick. I called Poppa and cried. Why can't I just meet someone already?! So fucking annoying. I'd kept thinking it might go somewhere, bought the new bra and fun top, those cute earrings. I cooked him things. Assembled salads. Composed a grapefruit brulee (basically just wanted to show off my blowtorch). But all the hair blowouts and new pairs of "they make you look soooo skinny" jeans couldn't make us work. My friends thought he was a drip. "Actually, Stephanie, we didn't say 'drip'. We said 'dud'." Yeah, but I like duds. "Yeah, milkduds. In your popcorn! Not in the man you're rolling around with." Who says "rolling around with" anymore?

I told him not to contact me, that it made it too hard, that we couldn't be friends. I mean it! Then I hit refresh waiting for the emails. Had the cell on vibrate, waiting. And waiting. Then I stopped waiting and started dating Oliver. Started liking Oliver. Wow, maybe this can work. And that's exactly when the emails and phone calls came. When I was finally over it. Typical.

And that's when the seep happens. When you think it's safe to let the past back in because you're finally composed and happy, and let's be honest, totally the one in control with the upper hand. You make him eat it. "Sure," I said over the phone, checking out my reflection in a makeup compact, "I'll meet you for a drink after work, but just one because I'm meeting Oliver for dinner." Salt, meet wound.

Except guys don't think this at all. All he really hears when I agree to meet him is: she still wants me. Maybe I'll get laid.

Half your age plus seven. How do people not know about this rule? Men can date women half their age, plus seven, and it's all good. So a 33 yr old bartender cannot under any circumstances date a 21 year old. Even if she doesn't giggle. No.