Lara Zielin

Here is the pumpkin I carved this year for Halloween.

I call it “dismayed.”

Dismayed pumpkin is all like, wtf? for a lot of reasons. Here are five.

1.) Best-selling author and Jersey Shore star Snookie told Jimmy Kimmel she does not know who J.K. Rowling or Maya Angelou are. *facepalm*

2.) Dude, these creepy hands for your cell phones? They’re real. —->>

3.) Writer Caitlin Curran lost her job after she attended an Occupy Wall Street protest, even though it was on her own time and she carried a super-smart sign. Dear Caitlin, I love you and you are my hero. I hire freelancers. Call me.

4.) Gaaaah, this otter and goat being best friends is so cute, dismayed pumpkin nearly punched himself.

5.) Did you guys even watch the Project Runway season finale? Well, dismayed pumpkin did. And let me tell you, that was the saddest lot of clothing and designers ever. I think they just should have cleared the runway, brought in Chris March, turned the cameras on, and just let him talk for an hour. Now that would have been awesome.

Why else do you suppose dismayed pumpkin is dismayed?

It’s Halloween time and you know what that means, kids. I want to hear all about your bestest bestest or worstest worstest Halloween costumes! And yes, I’ll be going first.

So. Picture it: Sixth grade and I decide to dress up as the coolest person I can think of. My choice of trick or treating garb should tell you a lot about how seriously uncool I was because I chose … Albert Einstein.

I might have been the only sixth-grade girl in America that year to dress up as a famous physicist, but there you go.

Well. You can imagine how well this went over with the sexy witches, sexy fairies, sexy princesses, and sexy kitties who were my classmates. In a word: not.

But dude, you guys, I was a totally believable Albert Einstein. I rocked my nerddom. I embraced my relativity and rode my space-time continuum to awesomeness. When I look back on this picture, all I can think is, “I am SO glad I wasn’t a scarecrow or a pirate.”

So. Now, I want to hear all about your memorable Halloween garb. And if you tell me about it in the comments, you’ll be eligible to win Carrie Harris’s totally Halloween-appropriate book, Bad Taste in Boys. There’s zombies! And kissing! It’s awesome. Also awesome? Is Carrie. She lives in Michigan too, and I heart her.

Please comment away, and may the best costume story win!*

*Which I will totally decide because my name’s on the blog but I promise to try and be super fair.

Oh, that?

That’s because I’d rather write.

Overdue library books. Entire shopping lists in three categories: kinds of carbs, kinds of wine, and kinds of chocolate. Dust bunnies under every bed.

That’s because I’d rather write.

Thirsty flowerbeds choked by weeds. White trash bags piled like bodies in the garage because I keep forgetting to take them to the curb on Tuesdays. The dog hamster-wheel-whining for a walk. Half-scribbled notes everywhere about plot points. A fridge that I’m not sure I want to open because, dear God what is that smell?

All because I’d rather write.

Closet clutter I should probably organize. Except I'm writing.

Grass so long the city is about to fine us. Bleary-eyed coffee-making in the morning. Bleary-eyed coffee-making at night. Cat litter so turd-packed it could be the surface of a meteor.

Yep. Writing.
Dirty car in need of an oil change? Check.

Crumb-laden keyboard because I take all my meals with Word open? Check.

Piles and piles of laundry in the basement? Check.

Still writing? Check check.

Neighbors have seen me in my jammies at 4:00 because I can’t be bothered to change clothes when I’m on a tear. They’ve seen me 24 hours later in the exact same attire, only now my hair is super greasy and I’m starting to smell. Because I’m writing.

The same CDs have been on rotation in my car for a year because a.) I’m not fancy and I don’t have satellite radio, and b.) every time I think, Gosh, I should totally bring some CDs from the house to the car, it’s totally blocked out in the next 3.2 seconds by a different thought. About writing.

If there was a 12-step program for writing, I would probably be encouraged to join it. But in the end, I wouldn’t. Because that bulb might need changing, and I might just have tuned out what you said while thinking about a plot point, but baby, if this is a disease, I do not want to be cured.

Hey kids! I would like to show you some of the sites around my neighborhood.

Ready for the tour? Here goes!

Just down the street are not one but TWO dinosaur sculptures! They are these massive steel structures that could be kind of intimidating, except, I think these dinos are way super friendly. Like, they get dressed up all the time! Christmas, back to school, Easter, you name it. Here they are dressed up for Halloween.

T-rex has a cauldron and a skull in his mouth. Super fierce! Happy Halloween, T-rex!

Then, there’s his friend, the kinder, gentler brachiosaurus. Disclaimer for the dino nerds, I don’t know if it’s actually a brachiosaurus. It might be an apatosaurus or something. Just, work with me here. It’s art.

Super sweet brachiosaurus is a witch for halloween! How big would that broom have to be? A Nimbus Eight Billion, I think.

One thing I know about the people who own these dinosaurs? They have a dog — named LARA. I love her.

Down the road there is a fairy door. Now, if you’re anything like me, you loved pretending you were a magical fairy when you were a kid. So much so that you taped two pieces of paper to your back so they’d flutter like wings. Only you didn’t have tape so you used Band-Aids. And sort of wound up taping the paper to your hair because it was extra fluttery that way. And then you couldn’t get the Band-Aids out because, hello, how sticky are those little suckers? So you grabbed a scissors and cut them out. Which got you in huge, major trouble with your mom, who, even though it was the 80s, did NOT want you to have a mullet. Which you kind of did.

Anyway. Fairy door. It’s a little busted here. I don’t know what happened. Maybe a goblin? But how cute are all the little offerings around it? This makes me smile every time I see it.

Yo, fairies. I know you're magical and all, but you might want to install an alarm to deter break-ins.

And down the road is one of my favorite examples of how much people care about Mother Nature around here. The women who live here help run the Ypsilanti farmers market. And they are always growing things. They let their yard be a place for butterflies to catch their breath on the way to/from Mexico.

The bees are all like, heck yeah. We totally hang here.

I hope you enjoyed this glimpse into our fab hood. Now, I’ve gotta put on a cardigan, some sneakers, and catch a trolly somewhere. Bye!

Armfulls of cheese! Grade school teachers! Contrived prom poses! Leinenkugels!

You know a book tour is going to be awesome when it combines all of those things.

Last Thursday, Rob and I left Michigan bound for Minnesota and then Wisconsin — ostensibly to talk about Aggie Winchester with some folks.

Our first stop was to see my college roommate, Elena. She is awesome and is not afraid to share pictures of prom. Like this one:

Elena might have posted that picture because when I visited her book club to discuss Aggie, she asked people to bring prom photos. Excited, I totally brought an album of mine. (There may or may not have been cats on the album cover.)

Elena got about three pictures in and started laughing hysterically. I mean, really hard.

And I was all like, what? I didn’t have big hair on my prom night. My dress wasn’t obnoxious. My date was cute and not wearing a powder-blue tuxedo. So WHAT?

Turns out it was this.

Elena about died when she saw me propping up the china cabinet like that. It was worse than those senior picture photos with people leaning against trees. It was worse than the grade school photos with the crooked teeth. It was — well, I think she might have cried a little, she was laughing so hard. So, needless to say, it was sweet of her to share her own photos after she guffawed at mine. But that’s Elena. She rules that way.

Elena also shared (with her book club) pictures of when she and I and some other girls crashed a high school prom. When we were in college. That’s a whole different blog post, so I’ll just share a picture from that night here:

For our next stop, Rob and I headed to the Land of 10,000 Lakes — a.k.a. Minnesota — and we hung out at my friend Erica’s house. With another book club! This time filled with all kinds of awesome women from high school. Which, let me tell you, was both HILARIOUS and fabulous. Unfortunately, I don’t have pics from that event yet, so as a placeholder, here is a photo of me and Erica:

And then I went to my hometown of Eau Claire! Which is in Wisconsin, the very best state there is!

And you know who showed up at my book club there? LOTS of people! Including … brace for it … my fifth- and third-grade teachers! Here is me and Mrs. S., who I credit with helping me become a writer:

Words really can’t express how much this meant to me. There was also an English teacher from high school there, and lots of wonderful high school friends who showed up just because. It was amazing, and I’m so grateful for the chance to reconnect with so many of the people there. And during a Packer Game no less!

No trip to Wisconsin is complete without a visit to the Leinenkugel’s Brewery and without loading up on cheese. Which we did.

Okay, which I did.

Not long thereafter, my mom showed her her new gun. Which, if you know my mom, is both horrifying and completely out of character. She sort of shrugged it off and said, “Well, look how small it is.”

Weapons aside, I loved every minute of this trip.

I loved talking about Aggie with people who were excited about the book. And I loved the excuse to post more prom and cheese photos.

My bags aren’t unpacked yet. I think because part of me is hoping Rob and I will jump in the car and do it all over again.

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.