Lara Zielin

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.

I loved the Super Bowl. The Packers won, and all was right with the world.

Mostly.

Of all the dud commercials that aired during the Super Bowl (and there was no shortage of them this year), the ads from Go Daddy were the ones that left the worst taste in my mouth. I had to stop and really think about why that was — what made these commercials so much worse to me than, say, the horrific Pepsi ads?

I finally figured out it was because they’d taken three empowered women — Danica Patrick, Jillian Michaels, and Joan Rivers — and stripped them down to, well, literally almost nothing. Which, look, I get it: sex sells. Fine. But these are some of the few women (and I mean few women) in the public eye today using their talents and skills for something other than fighting, drinking, and sexygoodtimes. Jillian and Joan especially, I really admire. I was bummed they’d been reduced to this.

I was pretty needled. So I wrote Go Daddy a letter yesterday. (For the record, I’m a customer and do business with them.) I’ve pasted it below in its entirety, word for word. Admittedly, it’s kinda harsh. But then again, so were those ads:

I just wanted to let you know that I thought your Super Bowl ads were sexist and ridiculous. Perhaps the bulk of your customers are male tech geeks with fat wallets for whom dressing up empowered women like sluts is a turn on and a sales-booster. Fine, but by targeting them, you thus forget your other customers — smart, tech savvy women like me, who are going to take their business elsewhere because you clearly don’t respect us. Epic fail to you, Go Daddy. #ick

I didn’t really expect a response. I had a friend who got a call from Go Daddy on Monday because her domain names were expiring, and when she said her relationship with them might be expiring because of the Super Bowl ads, the response was, “The commercials were meant to be controversial. Some people liked them, some didn’t.”

But I got a response. And to Go Daddy’s credit, it was both addressed to me and addressed my concerns. Or tried to anyway. Here’s what they sent:

Dear Lara,

We appreciate you taking the time to contact our staff to share your opinion about our television commercials. Although we wish your opinion of our commercials was a favorable one, please know your feedback is highly valued. At GoDaddy.com, we strongly believe that the freedom to express one’s opinions is one of the defining factors that makes the United States a great nation.

We hope you can appreciate the need to attract and please multiple customer demographics, and we invite you to view our other commercials on our site.

To view, please go to the following URL and then select the “Our Customers” option in the middle column under Archive:

http://videos.godaddy.com/ads.aspx?isc=biggame08&ci=11207

Once there, you’ll see that GoDaddy.com produces a wide variety of commercials, several of which feature testimonials from business men and women who have used our products to build and expand their online presence. We hope these examples will be of assistance to you in making your final determination about your relationship with GoDaddy.com.

Regards,

Dan F.
Online Support Lead

So, they definitely get props for writing back. I mean, they didn’t have to. Also? I’m greatly amused by their reference to the United States being a great nation because we all have the freedom to write letters to customer service representatives.

Ultimately, I’m glad they have other commercials that don’t feature women dressed like sluts. But I don’t have a sense that they want to change their  approach because I guess, to them, having one offensive commercial isn’t so bad when you have a few that aren’t. Except here’s the thing: I read recently that a brand isn’t a logo, or a corporate strategy — but rather a gut feeling that someone gets when they think about a product. And right now? I still get that icky feeling when I think about Go Daddy.

That doesn’t sit so well with me.

Part of female empowerment is being able to dress and act in whatever way reflects genuine self expression. But this doesn’t feel like it’s the women who end up in the driver’s seat, enjoying themselves. This just feels like they’ve been reduced to eye candy — again.

So here’s my final thought, and then I’ll step down off my soap box for a good long while. Part of the reason I write and love young-adult novels is because it features so very many girls and women who are just plain kickass. If you hated the Go Daddy commercials too, then I suggest clearing your palette with books that convey the opposite of those commercials: ladies who are smart, and know they have the power to make a difference in the world.

I suggest The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, or The Silver Phoenix by Cindy Pon. If you’re looking for more real-life adventures, then I say try The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (smart, capable girls who love and support each other — what a concept!) or The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott.

Let’s all turn off the television for a while, and dive into an awesome book.

When I was a kid, my parents would drag me to yard sales, flea markets, swap meets, antique stores — you name it — and the whole time, I’d be miserable. I’d pout, roll my eyes, fume, and vow never, never to do this when I had a choice in the matter.

(For the record, I also vowed to serve only the blueberry muffin batter when I was old enough to host my own Thanksgiving, because the batter was oh-so-much better than the baked version.)

Little did I know in both cases that my tastes would change. Dramatically.

Now, other people’s junk is my treasure. Things I love to find at a yard sale include:

Art and art-related stuffs. We have an old frame we found at a sale last summer and hung it on the wall with a decal (acquired on Etsy) behind it. LOVE.

Things I can rehab. This candelabra was a junky mess that I got for $4. I polished up the wood and painted the metal gold, then added some hanging crystals. Booyah.

Little things. I love little things. Tiny bowls. Bitty animals. The littler the better. Here is a tiny Noritake salt bowl, a little hand-painted plate, and a wee iron pig — all from garage sales or Treasure Mart. Cuuuute!

Lord knows Rob and I don’t need more stuff, but a good, old find is a treasure indeed.

It is not January anymore!

You probably already know this. But you might not know how excited I am that January is gone, bang a gong, because it also means a huge, HUGE (did I mention it was huge?) revision to my book, The Vortex Game, is now over.

Commence much cheering and rejoicing.

As you can see, I didn’t really blog much in January. Sorry! But I have a really good reason. Er, reasons. See, in addition to editing, I was also traveling. With Rob! We went to Destin, Florida, to hang out with my parents. Here, look! It’s proof! It’s me by the beach!

And here’s Rob, too. Look how sporty his new hat is!

Speaking of sporty, I kind of snorted diet Coke out my nose when I saw there was a store in Destin called SPORTY LADY. Here, I took a picture of it:

I really wanted to go inside it, but we ran out of time. We had margaritas to drink, people.

The other thing that happened in Florida? The NFL playoffs. And the Packers made it! They’re going to the Superbowl! Here is the Packer shrine I have in my office at work.

That Brett Favre mug you see? I sort of defaced it after he “retired,” then went to the Jets. Then the Vikings. But defacing in my world usually involves sparkle. So, take that, Brett. Now you’re bedazzled.

Anyway, things have calmed down these days so I’ll get back to more regular updates. Also, feel free to send me anything you want bedazzled. I can handle it.

FAVE LINKEY-POO RIGHT THIS SECOND: The only attire appropriate for reading this post is the Forever Lazy. (Yes, it’s real.)

The older I get, the less tolerant I am of the cold. Every winter as I’m scraping off the car or crossing snowdrifts just to get to work I think, “This is too hard. People weren’t actually meant to live like this.”

In the late-spring, summer and fall, the Midwest is the best place in the world. But winter? For those months, I’d much rather be elsewhere.

When I fantasize about where to live during those months, several options come to mind. Savannah, for example, with its amazing food (Paula Deen!), rich history, and ample haunted walks. Or Surfside Beach, South Carolina, very near the gorgeous and inspiring Brookgreen Gardens, not to mention lovely sandy beaches. There are a thousand places I’d adore living in California (Santa Barbara or Napa would be amazing), but I’m completely petrified of earthquakes. So, count me out of the “Eureka” state. I love the desert and Arizona used to have lots of appeal before all the crazy started down there. Zomg, nuts much?

So, the jury is still out as to where I’d “winter” if I had the opportunity, but I definitely am looking forward to spending January through May somewhere besides the Midwest. No salting the driveway; no scraping windshields; no hats that ruin hair; no walking the dog with bitter wind biting my face; no changing from shoes to boots to shoes to boots again.

Of course, no roaring fires and no steaming hot tubs, but I’ll take sunshine and palm trees over that any day.

If you had the chance, where would you winter and why?

I love that Katy Perry song “Firework” as much as the next person.

But omg, Katy, you are mixing up your metaphors like you just got a KitchenAid. Your song is a jumbled mess of descriptors.

Some favorites? Don’t mind if I do:

Do you ever feel so paper thin, like a house of cards? 

(They’re SO hard to stack when they’re that thin! Only Mel Gibson in Maverick can do it.)

Do you ever feel like a plastic bag … wanting to start again?

(Yeah. Those plastic bags I get at the grocery store are just crying out for a second chance.)

Own the night like the Fourth of July.

(Vampires own the night. Werewolves and drunk people too. But a holiday? Really?)

After a hurricane comes a rainbow.

(After Katrina, those levees broke right next to pots of gold.)

 Like a lightning bolt, your heart will glow.

(Some worms glow. A good face wash can make your skin glow. But if lightning glows, I’m missing something.)

Sorry, Katy. You are eight shades of cute. But your lyrics? Not so much.