Juliette Miranda

I’d slap my wrists for being a lazy blogger if I wasn’t currently swamped with book release preparations. And here I thought writing the sucker was the hard part. From revisions, and cover art design, to release party planning, web site development, and lecture series scheduling, I’m finding that it is impossible to just be a writer – I’m also a speaker, a brand, and possibly a monkey who will dance on command.
Still, I would be remiss if I didn’t exercise my non-book related writing fingers in some way. So, a quick summer photo essay follows below. As usual, click the thumbnail for larger images.

An ultra painful, but oh-so-worth-it new tattoo. Those who know me well will wonder what happened to the unfortunate “hockey stick” that was once on my ankle. And I’ll never tell.

The Bugaboo, aka The Bastion of All Things Evil. We’ll never know exactly what she does when we’re not looking, but after she mysteriously hobbled out from under the bathroom sink one day with a nasty limp, we can only assume she’s waging some sort of private war with all the invisible things in our house. My guy has been calling her Tripod ever since, a name which seems to have stuck even now that her gimpy, sprained paw has healed.

Our new favorite debauchery: absinthe. Sure the herbs contribute to its appeal, but the fascination really comes from absinthe’s history and ritual. We’ve been experimenting with brands from Switzerland, Germany and elsewhere and love it for the amazement of watching the oils and cold water mix into a complex drink that is as romantic as it is misunderstood… And absolutely delicious.

I would never have thought I’d enjoy golf, but the second my guy put a glove on me and gave me a club, I knew I’d found my new favorite sport. There is no running, no over zealous team mates screaming “Get the ball! Get the ball!”, and no need to rely on anyone but yourself. Plus, you can drink beer while you play and you get to hit things with clubs. I’m still learning of course, and I look forward to enhancing my ability to aim. I see improvements I can make to the game that include bonus points for hitting things other than the ball.

Few things taste better than a meal off the grill. My guy and I lack an actual backyard, but we cart the grill out to the driveway, set up some lawn chairs, and consider purchasing a banjo and jug to complete our hillbilly picture. I’ve never had more fun.

My guy can I spent a weekend in Chicago’s Loop recently. There was a unicorn sighting, breakfast in bed, a giant stuffed dragon, an attempt to take over Macy’s Culinary Academy, plus two amazing meals, boxes of chocolate, and an endless amount of laughter and fun. I love it and my guy “THIS MUCH!”

I forgave Bon Jovi for their Lost Highway album not too long ago and was thrilled when my guy presented me with 16th row seats to their one-off show at Milwaukee’s Summerfest. As they performed songs that have impacted my life in more ways than I can ever describe, I couldn’t help but smile. The concert marked almost to the day the 20th anniversary of the first time I ever saw the band. I’ve come a long way since, and couldn’t be more proud or happy with where my life is now.

More details coming soon about the release of my book, signings, and lecture tour!

Inexplicably, and despite being in my 30s, I have become a tween. Again.

Being a tween was a miserable state at 10. If I didn’t have Judy Blume for comfort, I probably would have found solace yanking the heads off the Cabbage Patch Kids that I still sort of liked, but kept out of sight of the Madonna poster I loved yet didn’t quite understand. All the jelly bracelets and neon shoelaces in the world couldn’t ease the discomfort of transition, and I’m unnerved to find myself in a similar position now.

My current tweener state has nothing to do with confusion over boys or the development of boobs. (Although really, Mother Nature should be ashamed of herself. Is an A cup ALL you could muster up for me? Really?)

It’s more a social limbo that’s got me frustrated: I seem to have graduated from Judy Blume to Jim Beam in the same time it’s taken other women my age to become parents or morph into one of the characters from Sex in the City.

If there’s a middle ground in any of that, I have yet to find another person standing on it. Even people whom I admired – several well known female writers and bloggers come to mind – have crossed over to the pink side.

It’s as though they’ve let Sex and the City become the grown up equivalent of a Barbie – only instead of dressing the doll, these women are dressing themselves as a “Charlotte” or a “Carrie”.

I refuse to take on the role of Skipper in that crowd – the slightly less put-together acquaintance no one really wants to play with – which is where I’d inevitably wind up. I don’t need them eyeballing my lack of stilettos and they don’t need me eyerolling at their petty dialogue. Besides, I hate cosmos. Get a new drink already, would you? The froth is turning as rancid as the copy of Bridget Jones’s Diary that I haven’t opened in nearly 10 years.

Of course, I feel equally awkward and socially retarded in a room full of pregnant women and mothers. Believe me, it is not a battle of life choices – I respect the decision to have children just as much as I hope people respect my decision to not.

It’s just that there’s so little common ground. No matter how much mutual respect we all may have for each other, there’s no denying the disquiet of conversations like the one I had with a coworker:

Me: “How was your weekend?”

Her: “Eh – okay. We took the kids for haircuts and went to the park. What about you?”

Me: “Well, my guy and I got new tattoos and drove to Indiana to see John Fogerty in concert.”

Her: “Oh.”

That leaves me in a no woman’s land of sorts, stuck ‘tween two worlds that just aren’t for me, and staring down the far less populated path I’ve chosen for myself.

My guy, bless his male heart, has suggested I seek out some new female friends who are in my same position. If only it were that easy.

I can’t just place a personal ad that says, “Child-free, acrid Tina Fey-type seeks same to join me in tossing back a few drinks, snickering self righteously, and discussing the finer points of Bukowski, music and Rob Zombie movies. Bonus if you’re a part of a couple who likes the occasional excursion to rock clubs and sushi restaurants.”

I know, I’m a winner.

Making new friends when you’re a woman is almost as hard as finding a good boyfriend. I’m fortunate in that I’ve got one half of that equation locked. Until I figure out the other half, I’ll just fill in the blanks with my good pal Jim. Beam, that is.