I was just browsing comments that I hadn't seen on old posts and I think someone put some kind of Japanese porn on my site. I'm dying. I have to go fix this little problem immediately, but in case you were wondering, none of those girls are me.
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Be Your Own Boss Make Billions
I’m only blogging because I lost my twitter password during a computer malfunction and also because something that takes more than 140 characters to explain finally happened.
A friend of mine from middle school was over last night and we got a tad inebriated, as old middle schoolers are known to do from time to time. While she was checking her email, I decided to check mine and there was a letter from some nice person who somehow found my blog and wanted to know how she could get my books in Canada. So I told her to check amazon.com or iuniverse.com for “She’s Got Issues.” I don’t remember what else I wrote. I could have said, “I love you,” for all I know. So then the girl sends me another email saying she has a bookstore called Chapters and how much would it cost for her to buy my books directly from me. So I read the email a few times not quite getting it and then I read it to my middle school friend who is a big time business person, but like I said she wasn’t operating with a full deck cause of the inebriation I spoke of earlier.
So my friend decides to google Charters or Chapters, or whatever, and it says it’s the largest bookstore chain in the universe. So we start thinking, and we get the idea that somehow this person wants to buy my books directly from me for her largest chain of bookstores in the entire universe. But at the same time I’m thinking that the email is a set up to see if I would break the law and sell my books on my own instead of through my publisher. That’s how not normal I am. I really thought that. So she starts looking at my contract to see if I’m allowed to sell my books, even though I tell her I know I can’t, and then we decide that I’ll just have to buy thousands and thousands of copies of my own books so I can legally sell them to the girl who emailed me(most likely from one of the offices in her large bookstore chain.)
And then we had a few more drinks and continued to think of ways we could become billionaires off of my old books. But then Dan came home and read the email and explained that it was just a girl who wanted to buy one copy, to read, and that she was simply mentioning the name of her local bookstore to let me know they don’t carry my books.
So, as it turns out, I won’t be needing my own printing press (we were considering that possibility as well, as part of our plan to become billionaires), nor will I need to reread my contract so see if I can store and sell my own books en masse. I just need a couple of stamps.
I punched Jerry Seinfeld in the chest
Lately I’ve been trying to create that air of mystery associated with women of a certain age. I’ve actually been trying for years but I can’t quite get it so I’ve decided the only way is to stop telling people embarrassing stuff about myself. No more blogging is number one on my list of New Year’s resolutions. Number two is stop telling people what I just ate and number three is stop reenacting my dreams in excruciating detail, particularly when they involve celebrities. But last night I dreamt I punched Jerry Seinfeld in the chest and I’m not about to keep that to myself.
Let me reenact it for you.
It’s late at night in some hotel lounge and I’m standing near the bar with a friend laughing hysterically while waiting for Jerry Seinfeld to come over to buy us each a drink. Since he doesn’t come over right away– because he doesn’t know us– I come up with a clever idea to get his attention—I’ll race around the room and accidentally crash right into him! I’ll apologize and he’ll say, “Oh, no, don’t be silly, it was my fault. Let’s have a drink together and forget about it.”
My friend likes my idea so I start running. As I’m going around in circles, trying to time it just right, suddenly there he is. But as soon as I come face-to-face with him, much to my surprise, I punch him. Not like a hard punch across the face or anything, it’s more like a playful, best-friendsy, punch on the chest.
It gets worse.
He yells out, “Do not touch me.”
You’d think that would bother me, but it doesn’t. I think it’s funny, and I look back at my friend to see if she thinks it’s funny too, and now we both can’t stop laughing because I hit someone.
At this point in the dream, I sort of realize I’m not acting right, but I’m in too deep to be embarrassed.So then, while I’m still laughing to the point that I’m making such ugly faces, it looks like I’m crying, I wait until I know Jerry Seinfeld is in the Jacuzzi so I can sneak up on him. While he’s in there quietly talking to his friends, I go and get a little handful of crushed cereal and sneakily put it in the water behind him. And then my friend and I nearly pass out laughing over it back at the bar.
I know.
The thing is in real life if I did run into Jerry Seinfeld in a hotel, I’m more the type to turn my head and pretend I didn’t see him. That’s what I did when I found myself sitting next to Ashton Kutcher at Kim’s summer camp. Kim was there the same year as Rumor, so Demi and Ashton were visiting and they got into the same van that Dan and I were sitting in. When I first realized it was them, I pinched Dan’s thigh and then I looked right at Ashton, put my nose in the air and turned my head. No reason. I just wanted him to think I didn’t like him. And the funny thing is I love him. So much so that I would put a poster of him on my wall right now.
That’s why the dream confused me at first, but I soon realized that my subconscious is simply making up for the fact that I’m trying to be more reserved during my wakeful hours. It makes perfect sense. Eventually it will all balance out and I will emerge into a woman of serious intrigue with little need to reveal things about herself simply because she can’t keep a secret. Until then I will simply have to ignore my impulses.
Okay, fine. One more. . .I once wrote a letter to David Sedaris.
All the world’s a twitter
I have much more to say when I'm limited to 140 characters. At least for now. So meet me on twitter xo.
Sun Spot
A few weeks ago, I was at the beach, soaking up the sun, loving life when a spider bit me on the leg. I didn’t see it bite me, but I knew. It swelled up and looked like a blistery burn. I’m a big believer that the sun and ocean heals all so I tried to angle my leg so the sun would fire its rays directly into the wound. A few days later it looked sort of like a little bubble so I laid in the pool with my leg up in the air. I soon realized my sun therapy wasn’t working, so I poked the little bubble with a pin. I don’t recommend this.
I showed my husband, who said,
“That’s not a spider bite, and I think you should stay out of the sun.”
“Dammit,” I said.
“What do we have here?” my dermatologist asked me.
“Spider bite,” I said, definitively.
“It looks like it has a tiny pin hole in it,” she said.
“Weird,” I said.
“Well, it’s probably nothing, but let’s biopsy it,” she said, “Oh, and stay out of the sun.”
“Dammit,” I mumbled.
About ten days later I got a phone call saying the biopsy came back, “And there are cells.”
“Cells? You mean bad cells?” I asked.
“It’s nothing to worry about, they’re squamous cells. But you’ll have to come back so we can remove a little more skin.”
I hung up the phone and looked at my leg. My leg had always been there for me, but suddenly it had turned dark and evil. It had turned squamous.
I needed to calm down so I went to the beach and called my husband.
“Hi,” I sighed.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing. I’m just at the beach.”
“Why’d you call me then?”
“Just to say hi.”
“Well you sound terrible. Something must have happened.”
“I’m pretty sure I have lung cancer.”
“Oh really?”
“It started with my leg. The dermatologist called. I have squamous.”
“Wow. That sounds sort of bad.”
“It’s not bad. The dermatologist said it’s not bad! But still. I know this is just the beginning. I think we should start traveling more. And I need breast reduction. I don’t want to die buxom. And we need to explore other cultures, and eat more fiber, and I want to have another baby….”
Long pause.
“Okay, perhaps not another baby, but we should at least get a treadmill and maybe we could talk Kim into having a baby.”
“She’s still in school.”
“I want a baby!”
“Hold on, I’m looking up squamous,” he said.
Another long pause.
“You’re going to live,” he said calmly, “But you should stay out of the sun.”
“Dammit,” I said.
“I’m serious, Steph. Are you wearing sunscreen at least?”
“Of course,” I said, fumbling around to see if there was any three-year-old Coppertone left in the bottom of my bag.
I spent the rest of the day researching skin cancer.
I’m not going to die, but as it turns out, I really need to get out of the sun.
Dammit.
Nevermind
You can't see Lyle, can you? Well, rest assured it's not because he was made into a handbag. Hold on though, I'm working on it.
What a croc
I can't get this picture of Lyle out of my head (or off this post. I tried. But I literally can't get it off for some reason). I was going to post this horrible thing I read about Hermes raising crocodiles so they can speed up production of their hideous Birkin bags and sell them for $45,000. But then I remembered that I eat farm raised salmon, Whole Food's Black Bean Chicken and that I have like eight million leather belts and so I thought it best not to call attention to the fact that although I am disgusted by the idea of raising animals to wear them as pocketbooks, I'm not one to talk. Still…look at little Lyle standing there with his tiny arms and three little fingers. How could anyone hurt him? And who would want a green pocketbook?
Thank You!
So far it's overwhelmingly number three and we're pretty much at the finish line, but I'm still interested in those of you who liked number two, because I have a little surprise.
Those of you who voted in the COMMENT section, don't forget to email me an address where I can send your copy.
In the meantime I'd just like to tell you what I dreamt last night.
I got a haircut.
But that's not all.
It came out exactly like Patty Duke. I kept trying to act like I liked it and that Patty Duke was the look I was going for, but no one believed me. Everyone kept saying it looked good but I knew they were laughing behind my back because my head looked huge.
In other news here's a review of "Funny People."
Adam Sandler doesn't die.
Who the hell doesn’t judge a book by its cover?
I mean, who would go out and buy an ugly book just because someone recommended it?
Which brings me to "She's Got Issues," which is soon to be back in print, with a whole new look, thanks to the Author's Guild, Alex Davis (book cover designer xo) and Kevin Robinson (photographer xo) and a very cute model xoxox. But here's the thing, Alex gave me a bunch of covers to choose from and I want all of them. Turns out you can only have one, which is so unfair.
But that's why I'm leaving it up to you. I really can't choose. Below are the three finalists. The cover that gets the most votes will be the one! And the first 50 people to respond will get a free autographed copy just for voting.
How's that for a reason to kick up your heels?
(click on a cover to see a larger version)
| Cover 1 | Cover 2 | Cover 3 |
Laser
I have this little vein on my thigh and all I can do is
stare at it and try to imagine where it came from. All those years my family thought I was
upstairs in my office writing, I was actually just sitting in my chair thinking
about my vein.
So I finally decided to go to a doctor.
“Yes, hello? This is
Stephanie Lessing and I’d like to make an appointment to have a little vein
removed.”
“Where is the vein located?”
“On my right thigh. It’s very tiny. Like an inch long but it takes up most of my
day.”
“Okay, and is there anything else you’d like the doctor to
take care of?”
I hesitated.
Well, I could use a
face lift. . .and a whole new set of breasts that stand still might be fun.
“Just a couple of freckles,” I said, hating myself for not
asking for things that would actually make a difference in my life.
“Absolutely, we do freckles all the time!”
So I made the appointment and got there a half hour early.
Unfortunately I’d forgotten my wallet so I asked the receptionist if I could
call my husband with my insurance and credit card information, or if she’d
rather I go home and get some form of payment and identification.
She looked me up and down. I could tell she was thinking I
looked like everyone else who walked in there and that I probably wasn’t going
to try to steal the freckle removal procedure.
I waited about ten minutes and then a young, pretty girl
called me into the office.
I knew she wasn’t the doctor but she was sort of touching
all the machines in the office like she was planning to use them on me. She
asked me a bunch of questions about my skin.
Does it burn? Am I allergic to anything?
Do I have regular full body checks ?
“No, no and yes,” I lied.
“Wait, are you going to remove my vein?” I asked her,
wondering why she cared so much about me.
“No, I’m just the laser technician. I’m going to remove your
freckle.”
“OH! Right! My
freckle. But what about my vein?”
“The doctor will see you after I’m done. So which freckle did you want to remove?”
For those of you who don’t know me, I have at least ten,
maybe twenty, billion freckles on my body.
“This one!” I said, pointing to a particularly dark one on
my shoulder. “And this one!” I said
pointing to an old favorite on my knee.
“Oh and this one on my cheek. Or
you could do the one next to it. I guess
any of them would be fine. You pick.”
“Well, there must have been one in particular that bothered
you when you made the appointment.”
“Actually I just pulled the world freckle out of a hat. You can take them all off for all I
care. I don’t need any of them.”
“Well, how about if I laser your whole face and then
you can just point to the ones you don’t
like on your body and I’ll laser them
right off.”
“Seriously, my whole face?”
“I do it all the time. It will even out your complexion.”
“I guess that would be good.
An even complexion.”
“I’m just going to put this gel on your face and we can get
started.”
“Is it going to hurt?”
“A little. Like a pinch. And a very bright light.”
“Okay, I guess that’s fine.”
After she did my entire face, I couldn’t help noticing that
it was on fire. I asked for a little ice
pack or something and she handed me one, but I could tell she thought I was
overreacting.
“The stinging only lasts a few minutes on the face, so….”
I handed her back the ice pack and said I was fine, but the
truth was I was afraid my face was actually missing.
“Can I have a mirror?” I asked.
“Sure! You see all
those darker areas?”
“Yes.”
“Well that’s what happens when you get a great result. Your freckles turn dark and then they fall
off.”
“Like in my hand or my lap or what?”
“No, they slough off.”
“So I don’t have to worry about them suddenly dropping to
the floor or anything?”
“Nope, they sort of just flake away.”
The hotness was starting to subside and I was beginning to
love the idea that I could live a freckle free life.
“Well in that case, let’s do my legs, shoulders, chest and
arms.”
“Okay,” she said, as though I suggested we split a soda.
And then she started with my legs.
For some reason, the legs hurt way more than the face.
And then I stood up and she did my shoulders. And then I lay
down and she did my chest. The heat was
flaring up everywhere but it was so confusing, I couldn’t tell what part of my
body hurt more.
“I think we need to stop,” I finally said.
“Are you sure? You
only signed up for six sessions. The more we do today, the less we have to do
next time.”
“Six sessions? I’ll
be cremated after six sessions. When did I sign up for six sessions?”
“It’s a package price. Does your face still hurt?”
“Surprisingly, no.”
“Well, then, trust me, the rest of the pain will subside
too. The doctor will see you now.”
I was switching feet the whole time I was talking to him and
telling him I didn’t feel very well and that I thought perhaps we’d overdone
the laser just a tad and that I might be better off coming back another day to
look at my vein because I need to lie down somewhere immediately.
“No, you’re fine. Let
me see your vein.”
parts of my body with one of his brochures, and said, “It’s this one.”
sight of my tiny vein while my entire body was slowly being taken over by
gigantic purple welts—except the sound of his voice saying,
Lee’s number. He’ll see you. But there’s a three month wait.”
I didn’t have any money and the pain was by now excruciating.
call my husband to get my insurance information.
door.
“Call information,” I said. “His name is Dan. I can’t talk
anymore. I have to go.”
in the car and did the tricky bra removal under the shirt trick, turned the a/c
on full blast and called Dan.
I’m severely burned and I can’t drive.”
“What? Why?”
“It’s a long story but you have to help me. I lasered my whole body and now I’m freezing
and burning up and I think I might die.”
another call.”
It’s just the receptionist of the doctor who tried to kill me.”
spoke to the doctor who explained that I was probably just panicking, but that the pain will be
gone in a few hours. He gave him a
prescription for me for Zanax and Pergoset.
the medication and a bottle of water. As
soon as I put the pill in my mouth I felt better. Either that or seeing my husband made me feel
better. But it was definitely one of the
two. I pulled my shirt to the side to
see my shoulder. My skin was completely
raw with brown stripes everywhere.
“I feel better, “ I said.
“Why did you do this to yourself?” he asked me, trying not to look at my shoulder.
thing led to another and I suddenly could no longer live with my freckles for
another second.”
would never!! This was hell.”
seen before. Somehow she missed it. I can’t imagine how she didn’t see it. It’s right next to the one she did on my
knee. I slip out of bed and find a red
magic marker and circle it.
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