The first stop on the Morning Neurosis book tour was a success! In fact, it was the most successful book signing Barnes & Noble Schaumburg has ever held!
Thanks so much to everyone who joined us that night! I’m overwhelmed by all the support and encouragement.
A new blog is in the works. Until then, here are a few pics from the signing and after party. And be sure to check www.morningneurosis.com for tour news and dates!
Click on thumbnail for larger image.
Hey all -
Hope to see you at tonight’s rock n roll book tour kick off! It’s at the Schaumburg Barnes & Noble from 6-8 p.m.
Today’s edition of the DuPage Daily Herald printed a great interview with me and story about the book. Check out the online version here: http://www.dailyherald.com/story/?id=334525
Hope to see y’all tonight, and thanks for supporting the book!
Juliette
Hey all,
Don’t miss out on the book tour kick off this Friday, November 6 from 6-8p.m. at the Schaumburg Barnes & Noble! A killer after party will follow at Entourage.
I got a great full write-up in the Trib – check it out here:
http://www.triblocal.com/Schaumburg/Detail_View/view.html?type=events&action=detail&sub_id=114546
Hope to see y’all there!
J
“I’M the author! You can lick the plate.”
This probably wasn’t the nicest exclamation I could make in Disney World, but the complimentary chocolate celebration cake a thoughtful waiter brought when he heard I’d just published my first book was simply too good to not fight for.
My guy understood, I think. He’d already witnessed me nearly trample several small children to get prime seating on the Monorail, swear unabashedly while panicking in line for the Rock N Roller Coaster at Disney’s Hollywood Studios, and boo the George W. Bush animatronic robot at the Hall of Presidents. Suffice it to say, our trip to Disney World was full of magical moments. Here’s just a few of my favorites (click on thumbnail for larger image):
Our hotel, Disney’s Grand Floridian – a sprawling manor with Victorian details, chocolates on the pillows, towel animals, and the best mai tais on the planet.
Proof.
The view from our balcony.
Sharing an outstanding dinner with my guy at Citricos.
Making new friends at Epcot.
From our food & wine tasting at Morocco – we learned the taste benefits of the Left Bank, and introduced the world to Kitty and Hugh.
At Disney’s Hollywood Studios, my guy is an idol.
Drinks at the Polynesian Resort. Aside from a morning cup of tea, I don’t think I drank anything that wasn’t laced with alcohol the entire trip.
Moments before being captured and held hostage by the Norway ride at Epcot.
We had the magical fortune of having dinner at the right place at the right time: Iron Chef Cat Cora happened to be visiting her restaurant on the Boardwalk and stopped by to talk. My guy was able to capture one of my rare moments of complete geek out.
A stunning picture taken during Illuminations.
The latest attraction at Disney’s Pleasure Island – there’s never been a better view of WDW. After beating my fear of roller coasters, this was the next step. My guy’s arm may never be the same.
Halloween at the Magic Kingdom – made even more “scary” when we were trapped in the Haunted Mansion when the ride broke down.
Of course, the best part of the trip was just being with my guy… who even let me finish all the cake.
See ya real soon, Disney!
My sense of humor has recently come into question by my guy.
This wouldn’t bother me so much if he hadn’t spent an entire Sunday afternoon attempting to school me in the merits of the Three Stooges, likely the most un-funny entity on the planet, right after the Blue Collar Comedy tour and that movie Nothing But Trouble.
I suppose I shouldn’t be writing this; I’m told there is a possibility of my guy being excommunicated – or whatever it is the Society of Guy Secrets does to a man who reveals too much.
It’s just that I wanted to understand the workings of one of the few remaining bastions of entertainment that has an audience almost exclusively comprised of men. Since, oh, I don’t know – birth – I’ve been shaking my head over it. Yet even after a bottle of booze, several DVDs, and an hour-plus discussion, I still couldn’t understand the Three Stooges, and deep down I suspect I’m better off for it.
“You have to watch for the reaction shots,” said my guy pointing out Larry or Curly, I forget which. “It’s the subtleties, not the slapstick that’s funny.”
Really? Because I fail to see the subtlety in yanking a toupee off someone, dropping it in Moe or Shemp’s (I forget who is who) lap, and the ensuing riot when someone yells “tarantula!”
Not funny.
My guy turned to me with a sorry, you-were-THIS-close-to-being-perfect look when I failed to produce the expected side-splitting chuckles. It was as if he doubted my ability to appreciate comedy.
I’m perfectly capable of identifying good comedy. For example: watching my guy pull a flaming wooden plank from the gas grill and wave it around wildly before throwing it on a pile of wood chips and attempting to douse the flames with my more-Jack-than-Coke mixture? That’s funny.
Not so funny? My guy’s snorts of laughter upon discovering I’d Krazy Glued myself to the kitchen.
This was entirely his fault, of course. For starters, he was the one who let me think it was okay to use Krazy Glue on a weekday morning after a mere four hours of sleep.
Sure, he offered to fix the sculpture I’d managed to stumble into and knock down a flight of stairs as I saw him out the door to work. But I’m a big girl, I can superglue by myself.
It was 7:12 a.m. when I pulled the Krazy Glue from its little safety container. I positioned the tube between my thumb and index finger and attempted to squeeze a few drops onto the hunk of wood I held in my left hand.
By 7:18 I was still squeezing the tube, waiting for something, anything to come out. There was glue in the container, that much I knew, because I’d just peeled a portion of the label off to check the contents underneath.
Had it been later in the day, or had I ingested more caffeine that morning, I might have paid more attention to the hardened glue clumps on the one side of the tube that I had to scrape through to get past the label.
I smelled the glue before I saw it. It was a noxious, octane sort of smell that wafted from my fingers to my nose in a vile stream.
“It must be working,” I thought, squeezing the tube tighter. What exactly I thought was working is beyond me, particularly when the mechanics of a tube of glue are reasonably simple.
But I kept squeezing like a moron, letting my thoughts drift to other things, like shiny objects and bouncy balls and rainbows.
At 7:21, I realized my fingers were stuck to the Krazy Glue tube.
Glue oozed from a hole in the side of the tube, drizzling in fine web from my finger tips to a little pool on the counter top. Vague disbelief slowly washed over me as I attempted to pry my fingers loose. Any normal person would probably head to the nearest source of warm, soapy water in this instance, but I, being ultra clever and astute, had a better idea:
Paper towels.
I reached across the counter and pulled a few sheets from the roll. Never mind the glue still on my fingers, which were still glued to the tube. And funny thing, the glue that had spilled onto the counter really didn’t wipe up so well. In fact, it kind of congealed into a fuzzy, hardened mass that I was forced to rip from finger tips, that were, mind you, still glued to the Krazy Glue tube.
At 7:26 a.m., I panicked.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!” I danced around the kitchen in a blind frenzy, waving my hands around and trying desperately to figure out what to do next. My spa robe, which never really stays closed to begin with, fell open, and would have slid further from my shoulders, had chunks of my hair not been glued to it.
That was what did it, of course. Not the threat of going through life with a tube of glue cemented to my fingers, and certainly not the wad of paper towels that would need to be chiseled from the counter top. No, what finally cleared my head like a slap to the face was the thought of losing any of my precious hair to the Great Glue Slick.
Fortunately, it is easier to remove Krazy Glue from hair than it is from skin. Unfortunately, it took half a bottle of nail polish remover and a quick dip in isopropyl to finally unstick the tube of glue from my fingers. I can only pray that no one lights a match near me.
My guy meanwhile, was treated to a breathless and irritated phone call as I drove in to work, still reeking and flaking bits of glue from my hair.
“I’m SO not okay!” I wailed into the phone. My guy composed himself long enough to extract quick damage control:
No, I hadn’t eaten any glue.
No, I didn’t inhale any, either.
Yes, the cat was fine. (I think. I honestly couldn’t remember whether she’d been in the kitchen during my glue-soaked fit or not and said a silent prayer that she wasn’t currently stuck ass-down on the tile floor.)
And then, at 8:01 a.m., the laughter started. Small sorts came first, followed by hysterical peals as my guy pictured me half-naked, hair matted, and stuck to the kitchen counter top.
“I can just SEE your face!” he sputtered, tears likely streaming down his face as he struggled to control his giggles.
“Oh, yeah?” I asked. “It’s just all in the reaction shot for you, isn’t it? Those fucking Three Stooges can SUCK IT!”
That just made my guy laugh even harder, and I knew I was officially doomed to a lifetime of ridicule.
So. Not. Funny.
Just a quick note all …
We’re working closely with Barnes & Noble to make the book tour kick off at their flagship store in Schaumburg a huge rock n’ roll event! I’ll have details soon about how you can get your very on ALL ACCESS backstage pass to this can’t miss event. We are going to ROCK this place!
Until then, save the date!
Friday, November 6, 2009
6:00 – 8:00 p.m.
Barnes & Noble Schaumburg
Woodfield Plaza Shopping Plaza
590 East Golf Road
It’s safe to say, I think, that I have calmed down somewhat in the past hour. Although considering a recent debate with my guy about the versatility of our potato peeler, it might be a good idea to keep me away from sharp or otherwise bladed objects. You just never know. (Really though, could anyone take a chick serious when she blurts out “Don’t make me peel you, dude!” while brandishing a rather flimsy and dull peeler?)
Anger rarely makes an appearance on my mood spectrum, at least in a form that doesn’t require my guy to play twenty questions to determine that I am, in fact, annoyed, when the immobility of emotion in my face would otherwise suggest an over-Botoxed pageant contestant.
This is why he was likely shocked to receive a lengthy text from me today that was laced with a staggering amount of “fuckos” and “suck its”. My bile definitely wasn’t directed at my guy, though he, being an extremely tolerant man, was nice enough to let me rant like a deranged beaver until my chomping eventually sputtered to a halt.
He’s even graciously offered to make a few phone calls as my “representation” to resolve my issue, which is a relief, one, because I’m too aggravated to make much sense to anyone and two, his skills in problem solving are so acute he’ll likely have the offending company renamed in my honor by the end of the week. Reason #9,278,875,102 Why I Love My Guy.
Anger definitely does not suit me. When it rears, I do my best to shove it aside, but it sits on my face like a wet cat, wretched and stinking and unpredictable at best. And despite the potential issue resolution in my future, I still froth and revel in my misanthropy, letting the otherwise mundane and ridiculous take new and angry life in my head.
I admit, considering my current mood, I should have known better than to use the bathroom in my current location. It’s a horrid place, roughly the size of two upright coffins, and meant to accommodate the needs of approximately 30 women.
There’s barely enough room for my misogyny, but I make the appropriate adjustments. I’m considerate like that. The same consideration is hardly paid by anyone else, a shocking testament to the general cleanliness of the bathroom users in that particular vicinity.
But really, what should I care? It’s a bathroom only, not a lounge or a fainting room. It’s not even a place to do much else than can be done behind a closed stall door, though plenty seem to find it suitable for lunch container rinsing (I once witnessed a woman attempt to crush a half-eaten burrito down the drain), tooth brushing, zit popping, and the occasional session with a curling iron.
While it is mildly annoying to squeeze between makeup bags and salad bowls to use the one sink for hand washing, I do it quietly because I realize that where there is a mirror, sink, and door, there will also be women considering it some sort of private sanctuary impervious to the laws of common courtesy.
Things like changing the roll of toilet paper in the dispenser become far less important than removing an errant hair from one’s chin. And that’s fine, really, except when I’m in the stall next to your preening, and you are oblivious to my requests for help.
In the defense of whomever was in the stall before me, a roll of toilet paper had been placed in the dispenser. This in itself was something of a shocker; most often the single roll dispenser is left empty, and the roll of toilet paper is perched precariously on the back of the toilet to collect whatever splashes out during a flush.
My practice has been to carry my own tissue in with me; but my mood today left me forgetful, and I was forced to test the Bathroom Fates. I thought I lucked out upon seeing the roll in place, and eagerly pulled my single ply, stiff-enough-to-write-this-blog-on “tissue” from the roll.
Perhaps I pulled with too much force, or perhaps the nitwit who put the roll in place ahead of me didn’t actually put the holder in its slots, but instead rested the roll on the base of the dispenser. In either case, the result was my pulling the entire roll of toilet paper out of the dispenser, dropping it to the floor, and watching it roll right under and out of the stall to the sink area.
“Um, a little help here?” I meekly called out. I figured the woman at the sink would surely have heard the sound of the metal dispenser tube hitting the tile floor, or at least felt the roll of paper hitting her foot.
It’s possible, of course, that there was a def and blind mute with an artificial leg outside my stall, in which case, I do apologize for all the things rotten things I am thinking right now. Obviously, she’d have no way of knowing about my incident, and I actually would have put her at risk with my carelessness. Lord knows no one wants to trip over an errant roll of toilet paper.
But if that is not the case, and if this particular woman in question actually stepped OVER the roll of paper to exit the bathroom and deliberately leave me stranded and dripping, then you deserve every one of the fire ants that I wish would infest your closet.
Were my mood better, and had I not earlier been forced to deal with an unrelated company whose levels of incompetency make a box of hair look smart, then perhaps I’d be able to laugh the incident off.
As it is though, today is not the day to get in my way, and I remain volatile, angry, and oddly amazed things that can be purchased online. Just how many fire ants are in a pound, anyway?
Surreal as it may still be, I’ve officially got a book tour!
First stop: Barnes & Noble in Schaumburg, Illinois.
Friday, November 6
6:00 p.m. – 8:00 p.m.
Woodfield Plaza Shopping Center
590 East Golf Road
Schaumburg, IL 60173
So, I’ll be speaking, reading excepts from the book, and signing purchased copies. And not on the street corner, but in the store. Go figure. I’m excited beyond belief, and hope y’all will join me for the first of many stops on my rock n’ roll book tour.
“It’s all happening…”
It seems I’ve elevated in status. Although I’m nowhere near the “famous author who forgets her friends” level people have been teasing me about, I’ve actually surpassed the expected “chick who wrote that book” moniker.
And I couldn’t be more excited about it, because I’ve just received word that I’ll be taping an interview with WBEZ (91.5 FM, Chicago Public Radio) in October to promote my book!
Better yet, Chicago-area readers will have their choice of Barnes & Noble bookstores to come visit me, because I’m working on a reading/signing tour now!
More details soon, folks. Be sure to check out www.morningneurosis.com for book info, etc. Thanks for reading!
Juliette
“It’s a coming of age story about lesbian vampires.”
Somehow, I doubt it’s wise this early in my career as an author to resort to lying to generate book interest. But five years writing the book and another two struggling to get it published seem to have culminated in one publicity campaign where I find myself at a nervous loss for words.
I blame my editor, really. In a recent exchange, she felt the need to warn me that my book is filled with “incendiary passages” that might “alienate readers” and that I should, in my final round of edits, consider reversing some of the “sexist and biased” language.
Were I with a larger publisher, I might have refrained from responding with, “Go reread my book, and ask me that again.” If my book has any point to it at all, it’s to not compromise on what matters most.
My editor was only doing her job, I know, and she probably knew that the likelihood of my heeding her suggestion was slim. Still, my guess is that she’s on the streets now spreading the word that I’m more difficult to work with than Bukowski, which leaves me feeling both pleased and terrified.
The pleasure comes from knowing that my book will be released without any compromise – that it is, unequivocally, my words and my story. That kind of creative control was exactly what made me sign with a smaller agency: I could use their editorial expertise to better my book without losing my voice.
The terror comes from wondering if I’m too stubborn in my convictions. Will my “incendiary passages” doom the success of my book? Should I have toned them down in order to gain a broader audience?
History proves that homogenation has never particularly suited me, even in the most desperate situations. During one of my last-ditch attempts to survive in Los Angeles, I broke my cardinal rule to never, ever seek work in the most homogeneous field ever … retail.
It’s not that I had anything against retail, really. Enough people seemed to make ends meet off it. I just viewed it the same way I did my then-boyfriend passing out band flyers at that ridiculous Valley bar Paladino’s: a ton of work for very little reward, and just a little pathetic.
Had my lot of freelance work not been so sparse for so long, I could have avoided that trip to the mall. As it was, my only other work option was Bob’s Classy Ladies, and let me tell you, it was a toss up.
Both jobs would force me to hawk wares to a clientele who would most likely be unruly and demanding. At least at Bob’s I had the added benefit of security backup, whom I’d seen first hand toss obnoxious patrons out the back door head first.
Apparently, they frown on that kind of thing in retail.
If it wasn’t for the clothing discount that I hoped a mall job would afford me, I probably would have wound up dancing for dollars in a cage. Instead, I packed up what was left of my dignity and hit the stores.
My preferred choices were all a bust: Victoria’s Secret wasn’t hiring, the bookstore was closed for remodeling, and the music store was going out of business (it figured). I half heartedly filled out applications at the mall’s department stores and my favorite clothing shops, but knew that my applications would be buried under those of all the out of work actors and models who got there before me.
Two hours of desperation finally led me to The Gap. A vivid shudder rolled through me as I eyed the window display: crew neck sweaters, the dreaded khaki, and more poorly made, low slung jeans than you could fill a sweatshop with.
Bob’s Classy Ladies was suddenly looking very appealing.
Every fiber of my being screamed that working at The Gap would be a miserable fit for me. I could hear the promise I’d made during my trek from Chicago to Los Angeles – that I would, no matter what, always stay true to my goals.
That certainly didn’t include working for The Gap, but really, how bad could it be? Never mind my general distaste for customer service. Never mind my hatred of authority. Never mind that in high school, the only summer job I could get was working for my dad. I put on my biggest smile and went inside the store.
The drone working the floor informed me that the store was, in fact, hiring, and called the manager up front to speak with me. The excitement at actually having a lead rippled through me like a parasite. Suddenly, the t-shirts started to look less hideous and I almost thought I could, with the motivation of a paycheck, be persuaded to don one of the white button-front blouses on the wall. What was happened to the self I knew and loved?
A very short girl approached me with an application in hand.
“I’m Betsie, the manager here,” she said. “Come into the back and we can talk.” Judging by the height of her ponytail and bounce to her walk, I was certain she dotted the letter “I” with little open circles. It was also a safe guess that she was only recently able to legally buy liquor.
I followed her anyway, and took the seat she offered in the hallway between the dressing rooms and stock room.
“You can fill out the application in a few, but let’s talk first. Why do you want to work at The Gap?”
Is there a right answer to that question?
“Well, I’m looking for a flexible position. I’m available nights and weekends especially, and wanted to find something close to home.”
She pressed me to answer further. “But why The Gap? Do you shop here a lot?”
My skin began to crawl very slightly. I could only assume it was my integrity taking leave.
“Sure,” I found myself burbling. “I come here all the time.” I just neglected to mention my typical eye rolling and quick sprint to Lucky, which was next door.
“Well, that’s super!” Betsie cheered. “I always like it when people come in who are familiar with our line. Now, can you tell me what the last retail job you held was?”
I prayed she didn’t notice my eye starting to twitch. “Well, my last job was for a post production facility. And before that I managed tour publicity for a band. But I have a lot of experience working registers, I’ve worked in extremely high pressure environments, and I’m really adept at problem solving on the fly.”
“Wait a minute,” she said. “So, you’ve never worked in retail?”
I shook my head.
“Well, I’m super sorry, but I’m afraid we need to stop here. You’re more than welcome to fill out the application, but I try to only hire people who have experience.”
“But I can do this kind of job in my sleep! I’ve coordinated seminars on cruise ships and run credit cards at giant industry trade shows and managed an entire crew on a video shoot. What makes you think I can’t do this?”
The words poured out of my mouth, and I couldn’t believe I was actually fighting for employment at a shitty retail store run by a fascist munchkin.
“It’s been swell meeting you,” she said. “But you just don’t have any retail experience. Sorry!”
I was officially a Gap reject. Once the stung wore off, I re-promised myself that I would never do anything that compromised my professional instincts. Sure two weeks later I wound up accepting a job collecting shopping carts at a local grocery store – a girl’s gotta eat, after all – but I’m proud to say that to this day, approximately seven years later, I still do not have any retail experience.
What I do have is a book that’s about to be published. And for all the “incendiary” language in it, it’s being published without compromise. Whether or not this is a good thing remains to be seen.
And just in case it isn’t, I’m working on the outline of my next book. Everyone likes a good coming of age story about lesbian vampires, right? Read the rest of this entry »