VaginaCon

Due to a falling out with a friend, the wind was taken out of my sails in writing about the New York trip any further. In short, just know that I had a fabulous time with Emily, Niles, Tracey and Sam on Saturday night – I still can’t believe I turned down the chance to see an actual TARDIS – I made some new friends at the Indie Book Event and learned a lot, and I had a wonderful time with the bestest of best friends, Sophie.

Which brings me to…

I’m used to having one good girlfriend. The same girlfriend since I was about 12.

Sophie is the type of person who sends thank you cards. For everything. I’m talking handwritten, on cute stationery thank you cards. She also sends homemade cookies in pretty packaging. Just because.

The day before the Book Event, when I woke up in my hotel room, my feet covered in blisters, I called Sophie. She was two hours away and wasn’t scheduled to come to NYC until the next morning. When she heard me crying on the phone, in pain, homesick, and put off by a conversation with another friend, she offered to come to New York that day just to bring me comfortable shoes.

As tempting as it was to just sit on the pity pot, order room service, and wait for the shoes, I hobbled across the street to a Payless shoe store, bought a cheap, comfortable pair of flats and then wore those to the Duane Reade on the next corner to buy blister pads. Later that day, when I met up with the other authors in the room where the event was to be held, I was the only one without items to set up. Sophie, to make it so that I didn’t have to check a bunch of boxes and bags at the airport, was bringing all of my books and table decorations. On Sunday, we hung out in her kitchen while her husband, Scott made dinner. He told me that Friday night Sophie could barely sleep and woke him up around 3am to ask if he thought the table cloth she’d purchased would be big enough for the book table.

That’s a friend.

Especially since I am positive that at the same time, I was sleeping soundly, drooling on my hotel pillow, and dreaming about the fabulous Hawaiian-inspired meal and cocktails I’d had hours earlier with Emily, Niles and Tracey.

It’s not that I’m not used to being treated well by a friend, I’m just not used to having more than one good girlfriend. Over the past few years, I’ve opened up my life to strangers, never once thinking that I’d gain friends from it. I have. I now have a small circle of girlfriends who make me laugh, make me think, and (as you’ll see in a moment) make me cry in a good way.

Today I was surprised to find a package at my door. Yesterday was my birthday, but I was still surprised. It was a very thoughtful package from one of two new friends. Nanea sent the goodies below with a note warning that Meghan’s gift would be arriving shortly.

A cup to enjoy my very own, named-after-me cocktail (Nanea is the mixologist of our bunch) and a tin decorated with something from one of our favorite shows, Misfts.

Inside the tin, more Misfits love in the form of magnets:

As I opened the package and read the card, Kali, who is home sick from school today, asked, “What’s that?”

“Presents,” I said, then started to cry.

Here’s my very public thank you to Nanea and Meghan, who, I’m sure, would put Iwan Rheon in a box for me if they could, and the rest of the girlfriends who have come into my life recently. You’ve shown me that Sophie is not an anomaly. And I’m sure at this point Sophie would like me to add, “Don’t get it twisted; I’m still the bestie.” But it’s nice to discover, at the ripe old age of 37, that there’s room in my heart for more girlfriends.

I very much look forward to laughing, drinking, watching Misfits, and going to see The Hunger Games with you ladies next March. VaginaCon 2012: Shit Just Got Real.

It’s on like Donkey Kong, bitches!

Flying Again

Last week I flew on an airplane for the first time since 9/11. I used to fly a lot in my late teens and 20’s, and while I was always a nervous flyer, I enjoyed the experience. After 9/11 – and up until a few nights before my flight – I’d have nightmares about shiny, bulbous aircrafts, sitting at a gate, waiting for me to board and soar me to certain death. I had horrible dreams about being in Manhattan (I’d also not been there since a month before the attacks), looking up at skyscrapers that disappeared into the clouds, casting dark shadows over the streets below before crumbling on top of me.

So, when I won an author’s table at the first annual Indie Book Event in NYC, and friends suggested I fly, I was all, fuck that. Then I noticed that all the people I admire, all of my friends doing big things, flew constantly. You can’t really expect to promote yourself via social media and make the right connections if you’re afraid to travel. Yes, most of the interactions take place online, but conferences and other events are crucial and you need to show your face.

I put on my big girl panties and boarded a flight to NYC last Thursday. I kid. We all know I don’t wear panties, which would have made the full body scan very interesting if I’d received one. My flight left at 7:30am, which meant I had to arrive at the airport by 6am. Donny and the kids dropped me off at the curb. I kissed them all goodbye like it would be the last time we ever saw each other (I even left my wedding band with Donny and only wore my engagement ring. I figured if the plane crashed, there wouldn’t be much of me left so he should have something to remember me by) and was off.

Going through security went surprisingly well and I was probably a tad over-prepared. I was a bit disappointed there wasn’t cause to open my suitcase and show off how well-packed I was. I just knew my curling rods would set off alarms.

 

Once I got to the gate, I posted this pic:

 

I tried not to look as terrified as I felt as I boarded the plane and noticed how fucking tiny it was. Holy crap. It was like, one step above a propeller plane. And the seats were super small. My Amazonian ass was not happy or comfortable. My knees were touching the back of the seat in front of me. Are plane seats made for women without hips? Thankfully, my seat mate, a guy who looked like Jean-Claude Van Damme, sat next to the window and quietly played on his phone. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I was scared, pissed, and uncomfortable.

Once the plane started taxing to the runway, I started making deals with God.

Please, don’t let me die like this. I promise to be nicer to people. Even the douchebags.

I hoped that was enough. It didn’t help matters that there were NO babies on the flight. I like babies on flights. I want babies on my flight – loud, new-to-the-world, milk-breath babies with big, soulful eyes. I want God to think twice before he gets in a smiting mood.

Take-off is the worst: it’s all rumbling and loud and the moment the plane is no longer touching the ground you marvel that something so heavy can stay in the air. Once we reached our cruising altitude and the fasten seat belt light went off, Jean-Claude Van Damme leaned over and whispered in a heavy Brazilian accent, “I’m sorry. I hate to do this, but I’ve been holding it for an hour.”

It sounded like a I’m-about-to-piss-on-you warning, but then I realized he was looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to move so he could scoot into the aisle. Grrrr. When you’re 5’11 and weigh approximately none of your fucking business pounds, the last thing you want to do is move around on a tiny plane. I got up so he could go to the bathroom and as soon as I sat back down, the man in front of me reclined his seat. And then his wife reclined hers. Now, I didn’t catch their names, but for the duration of the flight I dubbed them Mr. and Mrs. Inconsiderate Motherfuckers.

How you just gonna lean your shit back like you home watching TV?

I considered accidentally on purpose standing up and hitting Mr. I.M. on the head with my laptop bag, but I just made those God promises, and you don’t want to go fucking with your karma 32,000 feet in the air.

By the time Jean-Claude got back, I was relieved to stand just to get my knees off my tits. He sits down and as I awkwardly lower myself into my seat, I say the first thing that pops into my head.

“I thought it’d be bigger.”

Then I bit the inside of my mouth to resist the urge to add, “That’s what she said.”

He sighs and nods his head towards business class, just two rows ahead of us. “They wanted $70 more for business class…”

I nod vigorously. I know what he’s going to say. Seventy bucks is a small price to pay for comfort, I think. It has to be cheaper than knee surgery.

“… but I couldn’t see paying that for an hour and a half flight. Three hours, maybe, but not ninety minutes.”

I stop nodding. We are NOT on the same page. He is clearly insane.

Turns out he’s an aircraft mechanic for the military and he starts telling me all about the plane we’re in – how it operates, how it came to be and how and when they changed the cockpit from analog to digital.

“Although, I cannot call it that any more. It’s now the flight deck. People got offended by the old name.” He smiles a super Van Damme smile and adds, “Like, these…” He holds up a package of salted nuts. “… I probably can’t call these nuts any more.”

I snort. “We should start calling them balls.”

He blinks.

And just like that I’m a fucking idiot.

I spend the remainder of the flight trying not to look at him.

 

When we landed at LaGuardia, I got a slew of text messages sent while my service was down. One was from Donny letting me know that our AC repair had turned into a full blown AC replacement. I tried calling him for details as I headed to the exit. Just as I was about to leave a voicemail for him, I approached the exit where a short, olive-skinned man stood. He was wearing a dress shirt and slacks and I thought he worked at the airport.

“Exit?”

“Um… yes.”

He gestures towards a door, leading outside, and asks, “Where are you going?”

“Manhattan.”

“Can I take that?” He nods towards my suitcase.

“No, I got it.”

I don’t mind tipping, but I’m not going to pay for some guy to pull my suitcase 12 feet to the curb. I figured he was going to hail a cab for me, or at least show me to the taxi queue.

He walks ahead, reaching the curb and then crossing the street, all three lanes of traffic. I stop at the curb because the ‘Don’t Walk’ light was on. Also, I’m dealing with some very important shit. Unable to reach Donny, I’d moved on to checking into Foursquare. Hey, don’t judge me! I want to be the mayor of something besides my neighborhood Kroger.

The whole time little dude was crossing the street he never turned back to see if I was with him, so I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be following him. Once he reached the other side, in front of the parking garage, he turned and signaled for me to follow. The light changes and I meet him on the other side and this time, I let him take my suitcase. I try calling Donny again as we approach a Town Car with the trunk open. He puts my suitcase in the trunk and it’s not until I’m in the backseat that it hits me.

“Hey, how much is this going to cost?”

“Sixty dollars.”

“Uh, no. I’d rather have a real cab. With a meter.”

He starts backing out the parking space.

“OK. Fifty.”

“No. Let me out.”

He locks the doors.

“Fifty is very good price.”

“No. Really. Let me out.”

He whips back into the spot and this time it’s up to me to get my own shit; he was done caring about my luggage.

I take a legit yellow taxi to my hotel.

It cost $31.

Motherfucker.

Next time: Being a better NY walker and blisters on my feet.

Sharing Space: The End?

Hello loyal readers,

I’ve decided to no longer post chapters of Sharing Space online. As I prepare to send off the manuscript to a few literary agents, and pitch it at the writers conference in May, it seems it’s in my best interest not to give away the whole cow for free.

I hope you’ve enjoyed the time you’ve spent with the cow thus far. Should someone decide to distribute the cow’s milk for a small fee, I hope you’d be so inclined to pay for a cup. Ok, I gotta stop the cow metaphor. Or is it an analogy? And I call myself a writer.

For those of you that enjoy my fiction, I have stuff that is solely for the internet and that will be posted on various Saturdays. As for Wednesdays, another day that was previously dedicated to Sharing Space chapters, beginning next week I’ll be posting a new feature, “Nina’s Top Ten.” I think you’ll like it.

Don’t worry. This is not the end of Patrick and Chloe. God willing, it’s just the end of Patrick and Chloe for free. Hopefully, one day in the near future, you’ll have your very own copy on your bookshelf. And I’ll sign it. And you can say, “I knew her when… her shit was free.”

Love,

n.

Sharing Space: Q & A

Hello, loyal readers,

I am preparing a query, synopsis, and pitch for Sharing Space. My plan is to submit it for publishing consideration over the next two months. I’m also attending a writing conference where I’ll be pitching it to several literary agents. Eek!

For those of you who have been reading, and enjoying, I need your help.

1. Please post below any questions you have about the story. Want to know if a character was inspired by anyone in real life? Ask. If you have questions about the direction of the story, feel free to ask that as well.

2. What are you favorite chapters/scenes? Why? What didn’t you like? No bullshit. Just be honest.

3. If you’ve enjoyed the story, a quick blurb as to what you like in particular and why, would be appreciated. It doesn’t have to be terribly long. Just a few lines.

If you’ve been reading and not commenting, now is the perfect time to start. I could use all the feedback.

More news later.

Thanks,

n.