Posted at 12:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)
A few weeks ago, I was at the beach, soaking up the sun, loving life when a spider bit me on the leg. I didn't see it bite me, but I knew. It swelled up and looked like a blistery burn. I'm a big believer that the sun and ocean heals all so I tried to angle my leg so the sun would fire its rays directly into the wound. A few days later it looked sort of like a little bubble so I laid in the pool with my leg up in the air. I soon realized my sun therapy wasn't working, so I poked the little bubble with a pin. I don't recommend this.
Posted at 11:45 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
You can't see Lyle, can you? Well, rest assured it's not because he was made into a handbag. Hold on though, I'm working on it.
Posted at 05:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

Posted at 10:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
So far it's overwhelmingly number three and we're pretty much at the finish line, but I'm still interested in those of you who liked number two, because I have a little surprise.
Posted at 07:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
I mean, who would go out and buy an ugly book just because someone recommended it?
Which brings me to "She's Got Issues," which is soon to be back in print, with a whole new look, thanks to the Author's Guild, Alex Davis (book cover designer xo) and Kevin Robinson (photographer xo) and a very cute model xoxox. But here's the thing, Alex gave me a bunch of covers to choose from and I want all of them. Turns out you can only have one, which is so unfair.
But that's why I'm leaving it up to you. I really can't choose. Below are the three finalists. The cover that gets the most votes will be the one! And the first 50 people to respond will get a free autographed copy just for voting.
How's that for a reason to kick up your heels?
(click on a cover to see a larger version)
| Cover 1 | Cover 2 | Cover 3 |

Posted at 06:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (17) | TrackBack (0)
I have this little vein on my thigh and all I can do is stare at it and try to imagine where it came from. All those years my family thought I was upstairs in my office writing, I was actually just sitting in my chair thinking about my vein.
So I finally decided to go to a doctor.
“Yes, hello? This is
Stephanie Lessing and I’d like to make an appointment to have a little vein
removed.”
“Where is the vein located?”
“On my right thigh. It’s very tiny. Like an inch long but it takes up most of my day.”
“Okay, and is there anything else you’d like the doctor to take care of?”
I hesitated.
Well, I could use a
face lift. . .and a whole new set of breasts that stand still might be fun.
“Just a couple of freckles,” I said, hating myself for not asking for things that would actually make a difference in my life.
“Absolutely, we do freckles all the time!”
So I made the appointment and got there a half hour early. Unfortunately I’d forgotten my wallet so I asked the receptionist if I could call my husband with my insurance and credit card information, or if she’d rather I go home and get some form of payment and identification.
She looked me up and down. I could tell she was thinking I looked like everyone else who walked in there and that I probably wasn’t going to try to steal the freckle removal procedure.
I waited about ten minutes and then a young, pretty girl called me into the office.
I knew she wasn’t the doctor but she was sort of touching all the machines in the office like she was planning to use them on me. She asked me a bunch of questions about my skin. Does it burn? Am I allergic to anything? Do I have regular full body checks ?
“No, no and yes,” I lied.
“Wait, are you going to remove my vein?” I asked her, wondering why she cared so much about me.
“No, I’m just the laser technician. I’m going to remove your freckle.”
“OH! Right! My freckle. But what about my vein?”
“The doctor will see you after I’m done. So which freckle did you want to remove?”
For those of you who don’t know me, I have at least ten, maybe twenty, billion freckles on my body.
“This one!” I said, pointing to a particularly dark one on my shoulder. “And this one!” I said pointing to an old favorite on my knee. “Oh and this one on my cheek. Or you could do the one next to it. I guess any of them would be fine. You pick.”
“Well, there must have been one in particular that bothered you when you made the appointment.”
“Actually I just pulled the world freckle out of a hat. You can take them all off for all I care. I don’t need any of them.”
“Well, how about if I laser your whole face and then you can just point to the ones you don’t like on your body and I’ll laser them right off.”
“Seriously, my whole face?”
“I do it all the time. It will even out your complexion.”
“I guess that would be good. An even complexion.”
“I’m just going to put this gel on your face and we can get started.”
“Is it going to hurt?”
“A little. Like a pinch. And a very bright light.”
“Okay, I guess that’s fine.”
After she did my entire face, I couldn’t help noticing that it was on fire. I asked for a little ice pack or something and she handed me one, but I could tell she thought I was overreacting.
“The stinging only lasts a few minutes on the face, so….”
I handed her back the ice pack and said I was fine, but the truth was I was afraid my face was actually missing.
“Can I have a mirror?” I asked.
“Sure! You see all those darker areas?”
“Yes.”
“Well that’s what happens when you get a great result. Your freckles turn dark and then they fall off.”
“Like in my hand or my lap or what?”
“No, they slough off.”
“So I don’t have to worry about them suddenly dropping to the floor or anything?”
“Nope, they sort of just flake away.”
The hotness was starting to subside and I was beginning to love the idea that I could live a freckle free life.
“Well in that case, let’s do my legs, shoulders, chest and arms.”
“Okay,” she said, as though I suggested we split a soda.
And then she started with my legs.
For some reason, the legs hurt way more than the face.
And then I stood up and she did my shoulders. And then I lay down and she did my chest. The heat was flaring up everywhere but it was so confusing, I couldn’t tell what part of my body hurt more.
“I think we need to stop,” I finally said.
“Are you sure? You only signed up for six sessions. The more we do today, the less we have to do next time.”
“Six sessions? I’ll be cremated after six sessions. When did I sign up for six sessions?”
“It’s a package price. Does your face still hurt?”
“Surprisingly, no.”
“Well, then, trust me, the rest of the pain will subside too. The doctor will see you now.”
I was switching feet the whole time I was talking to him and telling him I didn’t feel very well and that I thought perhaps we’d overdone the laser just a tad and that I might be better off coming back another day to look at my vein because I need to lie down somewhere immediately.
“No, you’re fine. Let me see your vein.”
“Call information,” I said. “His name is Dan. I can’t talk anymore. I have to go.”
“What? Why?”
“It’s a long story but you have to help me. I lasered my whole body and now I’m freezing and burning up and I think I might die.”
“I feel better, “ I said.
“Why did you do this to yourself?” he asked me, trying not to look at my shoulder.
Posted at 11:36 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)
So I’m
standing on line at the Whole Foods prepared foods counter asking for one faux
chicken breast when the man standing next to me asks me, “Have you had those
before?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“How are
they?” he asks.
“Good,” I answer. I would have said more but I already don’t
like him.
“I guess you’re the only one in your family who likes them,” he says, “Seeing
as how you’re only buying one.”
“My husband is out of town and my son is
eating out with his friends tonight,” I answer.
I want to punch myself for giving him so much information, but I knew
he would have squeezed it out of me sooner or later anyway. I always end up
telling everyone everything.
He smiles as
though he thinks I’m lying, which makes me even madder at myself because now I
know I’m going to continue talking.
But I don’t
start spewing right away.
I wait until
I’m sure he’s following me all around the store.
Just as I’m
taking some Organic Homestyle Tortillas out of the freezer case, he asks me, “You
think those are really organic?”
“I do, yes,” I say. “I don’t think they
can write organic unless it’s actually organic.”
“Organic what though? They’re tortillas.”
“I guess the flour is organic,” I say. “I’m
the only one in my family who really cares about that sort of thing. There are four people in my family. Altogether.
I also have a daughter. She’s in college. And we have a dog. Yellow Lab.
She’s on a raw diet. “
Dammit.
A few
minutes later, he’s at the checkout line with me and I’m very tempted to switch
lines, even though it’s almost my turn.
The more questions he asks me, the more I think he thinks I made up my
whole family and the more I defend myself, the more I hate him. I keep looking all around me as though I find
everything in the store fascinating.
Every FEED bag, every magazine, everything and anything but him. It’s almost like I’m seeing for the first
time, that’s how much my head is moving.
“Jesus this
place is expensive,” he says, looking at a container of nuts that I’m
holding.
I want to
tell him that it’s wrong to talk to strangers and that no one likes it, but
instead, I sneeze, pee in my pants, and then drop everything I’m holding.
I can’t even
bend down to pick anything up because I’m wearing thin, cotton, drawstring
shorts that show everything. And I’ve
peed quite a bit.
I don’t know
what to do so I sort of turn my back to the checkout counter and slide down to
pick everything up, but of course he bends down with me and there we are, face
to face, him delighted that we’re forced to continue our relationship and me
mortified that this horribly annoying person, whom I detest, will judge me for
having just peed in my pants out of the blue.
“I can pick up everything myself,” I say.
“It’s no
problem,” he says.
“No seriously,”
I say, a little firmer.
He puts his
hands up and backs away as I fling everything back on the counter facing
sideways. I manage to check out without turning around and try to tuck my hips
under as I glide toward the door at an astonishing pace.
As soon as I
reach the door it starts pouring, and once again I thank Helen Todd for forcing
me to believe in Jesus Christ. Clearly,
he’s watching over me. If I can get
myself outside, without anyone seeing what I’ve done, I can just stand out
there for a few seconds until I’m totally soaked and the whole thing will just
blend in. I walk in front of my cart
pulling it behind me and rush out into the rain, which, of course, stops almost
immediately. So I sit down on a soaking
wet bench and say, out loud to no one, “Oh, God, I sat on this wet bench!”
As I’m running
to my car, I pee a tiny bit more (one day you’ll understand) and then take a
beach towel from the trunk of my car and sit down on it. As I’m pulling out of my spot, the man I hate
walks by. He doesn’t acknowledge me or anything. He just walks on looking straight ahead. At first I don’t think he sees me, but then I
realize he definitely looked right in my window. He’s just acting like he doesn’t see me.
And then,
just like that, I don’t hate him anymore.
I like him. I think it’s because he
knows what I did, but he’s purposely ignoring me so I won’t feel ashamed. He’s
a good, good man and I never should have treated him the way I did. After all, the only thing he was looking for
was some pleasant food shopping conversation, a food buddy, if you will. And I
treated him like a bum. And then, when I
was down on my luck, he had the decency to walk by my car without laughing, or
pointing, or calling me a baby, or anything.
I never
realized how different the world is once you’ve peed in your shorts. It’s a very humbling experience. Of course I wouldn't want to do it everyday, but perhaps every time I leave the house I should
imagine that my whole entire ass is showing or something. I think I’d come
across as a much friendlier person.
Posted at 11:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
I wasn't going to write anything until my make-believe trip around the world was offically over (I'm thinking sometime in September) but I'm in the midst of reading, "How It Ended," by Jay McInerney.
I'm on page 216 knowing I only have 115 pages left. I've already read the note on the author and the note on the type -five or six times -to stop myself from finishing the book.
I'm so afraid for it to end, I've been dragging it around the house like an old doll. I keep imagining the moment when there's nothing but that one blank page left for me to stare at. And then I quickly run my fingers over the remaining fat 115. Thank heaven. And while I hover there, three quarters of the way through this masterpiece, I am a genius who sees the world from the inside out. I'm a virtual master of the human condition. A lucid, calculating, hardened orchestrator. I'm able to manipulate my tiny characters, dress them and undress them, exposing their spoiled egos, until there's nothing at all left to the imagination. I can even rearrange them on the page, making them appear and reappear at a moment's notice until my audience is so pliable I can almost taste their longing to be released from my skillful grip. And yet I can also smell the fear that I'll abandon them, sending them back to the deafening, blinding abyss that is their real life.
And then I remember that I didn't actually write the book, I'm only reading it.
Oh well.
See you in September.
Posted at 04:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
Okay, fine, I'm not really going anywhere.
Posted at 10:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)