Lara Zielin

Can you list seven things in your life that are awesome right now? Doesn’t have to be overly complicated — just seven things that work, that make you happy, that are rad. If you have a list of seven, or heck even five or two, leave it in the comments. I’d love to know what makes your heart light up like a sparkler. Ready for mine? Here goes:

1.) This tiny tomato we picked from the garden. It is so small and perfect. I just love it. Every time I look at it, I’m like, What’s up little tomato? You are the coolest.

2.) Words with Friends. It’s like Scrabble only better because you can play multiple games at once! On your computer or mobile device! Here’s the link if you want to download it.

3.) Homg, Cedar Rapids! Have you guys SEEN this movie? It’s hi-larious, and full of heart, and has an astounding cast. Rob and I laughed so hard we both may have peed a little.

4.) How completely, unfailingly happy my dog is. All the time.

5.) Young adult books featuring werewolves and vampires that aren’t reductive, with vapid protagonists. I recommend Claire de Lune by Christine Johnson, or Bad Taste in Boys by Carrie Harris.

6.) Specific, detailed signs. They crack me up!

7.) 10k races! They’re hard, but not hard like a half marathon. And wish me luck, because I’m running one today!

The day that Aggie Winchester launched, I received a cake from Rob. This rules because a.) it’s cake and b.) my husband is the kind of guy who will buy me cake. For those of you who don’t believe that this actually happened, I present Exhibit A:

As you can see from the way my arms are straining in this picture, the cake was HUGE. Possibly too big for two people, one might think. Is this a good thing? In fancypants literary terms, we call these hints that all this cake may not be a good thing foreshadowing. In non-fancypants literary terms, it’s called buying waaaay too much delicious cake but then having Rob go all Goodfellas on the thing.

Because, let me just be clear, within hours of cake arriving, Rob had formed a special relationship with it. Rob and cake were tied together by a beautiful, frosting-covered string that only they could see.

Not that Rob didn’t share his beloved cake. During the Girls Taking Over the World tour, Rhonda, Christine, and Saundra all had cake. I don’t have a picture of it, so I will reenact the events here.

Soon, Rob started to change. His skin retained a greasy, pale look that Rhonda dubbed the “buttercream sweats.” All he could talk about was the cake. All he could think about was the cake.

Our friend Erica came over. She had a piece. That was the last time any of us remember it being shared.

We talked about taking the rest into work to distribute among colleagues, but in the end there was always an excuse: it’s sort of old now, we don’t want to bring in dried-out cake; there’s hardly that much left anyway, why bother?

And then, sometimes, there was just the look. Like, this Wuthering Heights kind of moment where Rob is Heathcliff and cake is Catherine and why, why can’t they just be together forever?

But in the end, cake did leave us. Rob announced, as we were getting ready to watch HGTV’s Design Star, that cake had passed into the gray havens and would remain there forevermore.

It was gone. I didn’t get to say goodbye. But then again, I didn’t have the relationship with it that Rob did. While it lasted, it was a beautiful thing.

Cake is dead. Long live cake.

Cake: August 4, 2011 – August 12, 2011

So, every writer needs fodder from their past to inspire them, right?

Well I have some fodder, let me tell you.

And this fodder has a name:

HUBCAPS.

When I was little, my parents decided to start collecting hubcaps. Like, the things that cover the wheel of a car? Yep. Those.

At the time, my ten-year-old’s instinct was telling me that this was very, very wrong. I mean, hubcaps are dirty. And from what I could tell, there wasn’t exactly a huge market for the used kind. What were they doing collecting them?

But it gets worse. My parents didn’t just go around buying choice hubcaps from reputable hubcap dealers. Oh, no. They liked to find hubcaps. And you know where you find hubcaps, don’t you?

The highway.

The roaring, screaming, busy highway of death.

We’d be driving along and wham, my mom’s hubcap antenna would go up. She’d think she’d spotted one in the median. On the shoulder. In a tree. It didn’t matter. She’d caught the whiff of hubcap and, like a tiger tracking its prey through the jungle, she was going to tirelessly pursue that shiny prize until she had it firmly in her claws.

My dad would cross lanes of traffic, weave in an out of cars, blast his horn, flip people off, gun it then brake — all to get to a hubcap that may or may not turn out to actually be a beer can.

These everyday, practical Midwesterners were transformed into aggressive hunters at the prospect of that sweet, sweet metal. My brother and I would be in the backseat, holding on to the headrests in front of us (because you didn’t wear seatbelts back then) praying just to make it out alive. This was a fight, and we knew our prospects were grim. Hubcaps were our ‘Nam.

In the end, my parents amassed quite a collection. I mean it wasn’t this,

but it was close. I remember we’d have garage sales and those shiny hubcaps would be out there glinting in the sun like they weren’t nearly paid for with blood. In fact, bloodcaps is what we should have started calling them.

I still don’t know what the crap my parents were doing collecting those things.

Rob and I love antiquing. We also love flea markets and garage sales.

But we do not love one thing that comes with the browsing-through-people’s-old-stuff territory.

All the creepy crap.

Especially dolls.

Because everyone knows dolls (and clowns) are evil and will hide under your bed until you have to get up for that 2 A.M. pee and then — whaCHA! Suddenly your head is rolling down the hallway.

You know I’m right.

Antique stores are rife with crazy, murdering dolls. I mean, check out Angry Mary Tinylips here. She’s all like, “We lost the farm! But Pa still makes me wear these overalls! And now I want to kiiiiiillllll yoouuu!”

*shudders*

And then there’s Crazy Brittney Shakespeare. She’ll tip her fine velvet hat at you, saying, “Lo! Thou art awesome but not as awesome as my EYE SPARKLE! Dost thou seeth how my eyes are AMAZING STARS of dazzle? It makes me laugheth! I feel all jittery about it! Like I can’t control myself and now my tiny hands are reaching outeth and KILLETHING YOU!!”

And this? God, this is some Slingblade shizzle right here. Like he’s been locked up in the shed sleeping in a hole. “Yepm. Mmherm. I shure do like them french-fried pertaters. I recon I’ll kill you now. Mmherm.”

And of course let’s not forget Botox McSteamypants here. Except she won’t kill you because some guy in Santa Fe just ordered her and she’s about to become Mrs. Edward Havenhurst and get taken out to Applebee’s where people will stare but their love is real, people. It’s real.

Finally, I leave you with Crazy Wendy Nolashes. You approach her, thinking maybe she’s just zoned out, but things quickly turn for the worse: “Hey little girl. Are you lost?” [silence] “Can I help you with something?” [silence] “Is there something wrong?” [silence] “Like with your face? Your eyes — they don’t move. You — you won’t stop STARING at me. [silence] Why are you doing that? Why won’t you stop?! GOD JUST STOP IT ALREADY! I can’t look away, and you won’t blink, and AAAARRRGGG!” <– eventually, her stare takes your soul and that’s it. You’re finished.

So please, exercise caution — and maybe take a flask of holy water — next time you hit an antique store. Because they’re out there. And they want to feed on your innards.

Just saying.

[All photos taken by Rob. Who is awesome.]

When I was growing up in the shoulder-padded 1980s, we didn’t eat much unless it was either a.) on sale or b.) my mom had clipped a coupon from the paper to save $0.15 on it. This was especially true of breakfast cereals. When General Mills or Post or Quaker wanted to push a new product, they’d put a coupon in the Sunday paper, my mom would find it, and blammo — my morning meal was born.

Did I mention this wasn’t exactly a … discerning process? The logic went a little like this: Saving money = good. Nutrition = meh, they’ll be fine.

Which means I ate some crazy crap. No, really. Like, Sunflakes for example.

Dude, they substituted sugar with Sweet & Low. Which causes cancer in rats. I shoveled those sweet, sweet flakes into my face like I couldn’t wait to grow a third ovary.

Another special treat was Gremlins cereal. As if the movie wasn’t totally and completely horrifying enough (dude, dead dad in the chimney for Christmas, wth?!), I somehow now want to put Gizmo in mah belly?

But I did. I ate him. Because it was either that or an apple and fresh fruit was way stranger.

Also in the commercial vein of things was Smurfberry Crunch. Again, the eating with the little creatures!

I can still sing the song from the commercial. “Smurfberry crunch is fun to eat, a something, mmphf breakfast treat…” Here’s a link to it on YouTube if you want to hear it for yourself (with the correct lyrics).

Nothing, though, bastardized breakfast as much as Donutz cereal. Spelled with a Z. Now, I love me some donuts. But this was literally like mixing powdered sugar and cornbread together and pouring whole milk over top of it.

I was so high from all the sugar that I could barley walk straight to the bus. Five minutes into the ride and I’d already crashed hard — asleep, mouth open, getting spitballs pelted at my molars while I napped off the buzz. At school, I could barely register whether Mr. Popper had penguins or prostitutes. The capital of Wisconsin is orange.

I guess this was the era of cocaine love, so a white powdery cereal that made you high might have been par for the course. But to this day, if I see the word donuts spelled with a Z, I shudder a little bit inside. Deep, deep inside where the Sweet & Low still resides and Gizmo is blinking in the dark, wondering what in the world happened after the movie wrapped.

For the love of all that is holy, please no one put on a bikini.

It loves bikinis.

I have to type quickly. We have an incident I can’t qu—

Wait, did you hear that? The sound of … tentacles and teeth? I might not have much time.

Look, the gist is that I won a Sharktopus from this awesome blog, Freddy in Space. Well, I mean, I thought it was awesome until Sharktopus showed up, all hey, I’m a super-easy-to-control secret weapon, your pad is sweet, how do I work the remote? and them promptly went rogue.

Why does science always do that?

We’re now pilfering items from the kitchen sporadically, when we think it’s safe. Rations are low, and we’re definitely staying away from any sandy surfaces or boats. But, I’m so dirty. It’s been hours already. I need a bath. I think … I think it’s time to chance it.

I’ll be safe.

What could happen, right?

CHOMP!

Thanks, Freddy in Space, for the vaar best prize ever created. I’ve never been happier to be fleshy pickings. My heart, she sings. Even as I’m torn, limb from limb.

As a writer, there have been many dark moments when I’ve despaired of ever being picked up by an agent, of ever seeing my work published, of ever finding any kind of writerly success. It was during one of these dark periods, when I was writing an early draft of Donut Days, that my mom and I went shopping and I spotted a necklace with pink sparkles. It had one word written on it: Hope.

My mom bought it for me that day and it was instantly a fixture around my neck. I told myself that until I was published, I was going to wear the necklace.

I wore the necklace until the pink sparkles became dull, until the chain broke and I had to buy a new one, until the silver tarnished and sort of made my skin itchy.

But then, one day, I got a call from my agent. And my writing life was never the same. I retired the necklace (er, at least the “Hope” part of it; the chain is long gone) to a dusty drawer of a jewelry box. Until today. (Sorry in advance for the craptastic camera work.)

Because something happened today.

My friend Ang (who you may remember from such posts as A Valentine’s Day Story That Has Nothing to Do With Valentine’s Day) bought me a new necklace. And it has one word on it: Balance.

As I struggle to juggle a full-time job, a blooming book career for which I’m enormously thankful, and a side job helping other authors out there, balance is what it’s all about. I need balance right now like Rebecca Black needs auto-tune. Which is to say, a lot.

I don’t know if I’ll wear the necklace every day like I did “Hope,” but I don’t think it’s coincidence that these messages come into my life when I need them.

And, Universe: I’m totally listening.

I would like to talk to you about frenching. You know, when you kiss with your mouth open and your tongue touching someone else’s. That description probably makes you go eewww, even though frenching is firework-inducing when done right.

Therein lies the problem.

Doing it right.

Let me tell you, I was not the world’s greatest frencher as a teen. Which, by the way, that’s why I’m blogging about this. Because I’m a young-adult writer and I guess I’m supposed to be in touch with stuff teens care about and experience.

Except, honestly, if I actually wrote about my first few experiences frenching, like how they really happened, no one would read my books. Ever.

Because the first time I frenched? Well, that was just plain weird. A neighbor girl and I took a Barbie table cloth (the one that went with the Barbie camper — you know the one I mean), put it between our mouths, and tried to kiss like we saw Bo and Hope doing on Days of Our Lives. But mostly we wound up biting each other. It hurt. We put the table cloth away and never spoke of it again.

Then there was my first seventh-grade boyfriend. I went over to his house one day when his parents weren’t home. We sat on his couch and watched sports. That right there should have told me the frenching wouldn’t be great. And it wasn’t. But it was my first time so I didn’t know any better. I thought having spit all over your chin was part of the fun. And also, because of the Barbie table cloth, or maybe not because of it, I don’t know, I think I thought you were supposed to open your mouth reeeeaaallly wide. Like can-I-fit-a-can-of-Coke-in-here wide. Like Sharktopus wide.

We broke up shortly thereafter. I totally blame the frenching.

The whole huge-mouth thing was an issue. The boy I frenched after that was like, “Crap, you look like you’re going to swallow my head.”

But—that’s how I thought it was supposed to go. All wide-mouthed and passionate and stuff. Like in the movies. I guess I was taking it too far. I needed to be a goldfish but I was being Big Mouth Billy Bass instead.

Well, then I was saved. A new and exceptionally nice boy gently told me — as we were frenching behind the movie theater, waiting for our respective rides — to close my mouth a little more when we kissed. He wasn’t mean about it. He was just … constructive.

So I did. And it was better.

And then we dated Three. Whole. Weeks. Which, in seventh grade, is like being married.

For Valentine’s day, he gave me a card. It said, and I quote:

Lara, Happy Valentine [sic] day.

You are a good kisser (frencher).

People, I cannot make this stuff up.

Earlier today, I sat in an airport wearing jeans, a white shirt, and a black Eddie Bauer zip-up vest. It might not have been fancy, but it was clean, not to mention I took the time to shower, put on makeup, and do my hair. I don’t know why, but I value looking nice for a flight. Not, like, Mad Men nice (Omg, the one where they fly to Italy and step off the plane looking like Ken and Barbie? Wow.) but at least reasonably put together. No Juicy sweatpants. No tousled hair. No still-fresh pillow marks on my face.

I get that there’s tons of value in being comfy during travel. I do. And the process of getting from Point A to Point B has certainly been democratized — just about anyone can go anywhere, so it’s not like only it’s just the very wealthy traveling about in Gucci.

But I still like the notion of looking presentable when I get to an airport. I think it’s because I can remember flying as a kid, and how we’d actually pick our outfits in advance for the plane. My mom usually wore a skirt and jacket. I know my dad wore a collared shirt—maybe even a tie. I never wore jeans. Never. I’m not sure when travel attire changed, but I think I’ll stay old-school for a while. I want to always step into a different city with my best foot forward.

Here’s what you missed on Glee, the Very Special Oscar Episode.

Rachel gets her big break, the one she’s dreamed of since her two dads bought her her first Babs album: to host the Academy Awards. ZOMG!

Except, small problem. Sue Sylvester has planted a foil on the stage. And by plant I mean cannabis. She’s led Rachel’s co-host deep into Reefer Madness territory, and it doesn’t look like he’ll get out anytime soon. He’s higher than the platforms Keith Urban should wear to not look like a Hobbit next to Nicole.

Show ruined, right?

Nuh-uh. Not so fast. Never underestimate a girl with years of community theater training.

Rachel has enough energy for BOTH of them! She is going to tap and sing and open-mouth laugh enough for TWO people! Take that, Sue Sylvester!

Meanwhile, Gwyneth is back, and she’s singing again! Yay?

The words “double wide” really should never come out of her mouth. But, well, at least she’s not talking about Goop.

Then, Coach Beiste’s long-lost twin, Ed Beiste, shows up from Cincinnati! How crazy is that.

And you sort of expect him to be all beer-drinking and lame, but he’s nice! And charming! And he kind of steals the show! And you’re all like, you’re better than Rachel and Sue Sylvester’s stoned foil! You should TAKE OVER RIGHT NOW! Except he totally has to go back to Cincinnati and he really just came to tell his sister, Coach Beiste, that their parents are fine, just fine, and he’s taking care of things back home.

And then, just when you think that Special Guest Star Oprah Winfrey will never stop talking about adversity and overcoming, when really she should just stop already because having six houses in Hawaii kind of negates her platform, the King’s Speech wins and we remember that rich people — like kings and queens! — really can overcome obstacles. Thank God.

Then a kid’s choir sings and Rachel high-fives them and we remember that music really can make a difference.

The end.