Yearly Archives: 2008

In between all the writing and re-writing of books and television pitching, the past week has been a flurry of Obama fundraisers. It seems me and you and everyone we know is throwing one. It’s been really fun seeing old friends and donating to all of their causes which all go to the same place. Mr. David Plouffe – I hear you! Everytime I get one of those e-mails from the Obama camp asking for as little as $5, my heart breaks a little and of course I donate. I mean, hello! It’s five bucks! You could have a latte a day or help get the President of Awesome elected.

I have not been blogging about politics because it’s a tricky thing to write about, politics is yucky and divisive and ruins dinner parties—always resulting in two seething sides thinking the other are complete and utter idiots. And this is a shopping diary after all. But then maybe I’m over-thinking it. Maybe this presidential election is just like shoe shopping. Like, would you buy a pair of old Ferragamos that are crusted and make your feet hurt so much they make you SO cranky which are paired with a pair of knockoff go-go boots that wouldn’t allow you read the books you want to read? The Shoe-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? I mean, shades of Dolores Umbridge, hello!

Or would you buy the shoes that you can BELIEVE IN!

Obama ‘08! Vote for six-inch crocodile-stamp YSL platforms! Because if Obama were a shoe, he would be an aerodynamic sleek, trim, Prada Sport loafer. But with the soul of the YSL pump—they’re so high they reach towards heaven! They lift you up in a spirit of change my wardrobe! Okay. I know. The metaphors are starting to fail me. And if Biden were a shoe I think he would be like one of those comfy Clark Wallabes they like so much back East.

But seriously. I know I can sound like a dumb fashion person. But why are people who like fashion automatically dumb? Is it because the unfashionable are scared that the fashionable are secretly judging them and deeming their wash-and-wear wardrobe inferior? Well yes, we are, but so what. SNARF! Anyway, I am making light of this because I do find screechy lecture-y political blogs to be off-putting from both sides. But this is a very important election, and it’s not a time to be cynical or indifferent or too-cool-for-school. Put that ironic hipster posture away.

I came from a country (god, don’t you hate when immigrants say that? It’s so cringe-worthy sometimes) but here goes—I came from a country that threw out our dictator by gathering in the streets, one by one, sent via text to cellphones, to meet and rally and stand up for change and be counted. My family moved here because America, as flawed as she is, is the last and best hope for the world. This is like the Luke Skywalker of countries, you know. Luke: he’s a bit brash, doesn’t think things through, but he has a good heart. This is all we got. You know what I like most about Americans? Idealism. Can-do-it-ness. The Hollywood blockbuster. This is the land of happy endings. And the land that created New York. A crazy cosmopolitan city where it really doesn’t matter where you’re from, because I came from nowhere, and I was able to be somebody in New York. The land that created Barack Obama is a pretty awesome place to be from, I think.

Anyway. I know. Leaning towards sentimental earnestness here.

And all that being said, some of the closest people in my life are Republicans. Like my mom. But we are able to love each other and disagree. Mike’s parents are Republicans too (or as I like to call them “the enemy”—Republicans – not my in-laws—until I remember my mom is one.) My mom is not the enemy. She is my mom and momsome. You know how some moms are just okay at being moms? Well, my mom is an awesome mom. Momsome. I remember in college, people were jealous of me because of my mom. My mom is stylish AND can cook. As Randy Pausch said, I won the parent lottery. My parents are awesome. So how can I hate Republicans—my mom is a Republican. Sigh.

And I was happily reading Jen Lancaster’s books until she came out as a Republican. I STRUGGLED with that one, my friends. How can this funny, gay-friendly gal be a red-state chick? Did I want to keep reading?? Or did I want to throw her book across the room?? And then I realized I was being RIDICULOUS. Everyone has a right to their opinion, and their vote, and Jen Lancaster is not the enemy either. And yes, I still like her books and I even read her blog. So that makes two Republicans who are not the enemy. Which means maybe Republicans are not the enemy? Maybe we’re just a big, sprawling country with dozens and dozens of differing opinions, which during election season is boiled down to only two choices, and well, you gotta choose one. And as Jen says, underneath it all, don’t we all like Sex and the City? So: Repubicans: Not the enemy. Sex and the City hatahs, however: I’ve got my eye on you.

So while I am still a card-carrying, bleeding heart, SUV limousine liberal (although I still pause before putting the Obama 08 sticker on the back of the Mercedes. I mean, I don’t want to be that big a tool. Although I have outfitted the kid in Authors for Obamawear), I am not as bad as I used to be. These days, I don’t change seats at weddings when I find out the people next to me voted for the Decider. In fact, one of my very dear friends, to whom Revelations is dedicated, is a Republican. She and her husband (who is also a wonderful person) met while they were both working in the Bush pere campaign. I take our friendship to mean I am, indeed, an open-minded person. Hmmm. Or maybe just my sister is, because she met them first. Ha!

In this election, I think what matters most is that everyone is entitled to their own opinion and their own vote, so even if my mom gets hazed at the dinner table by her family of Democrats (my dad and mom are the Filipino James Carville and Mary Matalin), she has to suck it up, and we have to suck it up that we can’t change her mind either.

As Ali G. says, Res-pek!

And that’s it for me. I just got another email from Mr. Plouffe and have to dig out my trusty Mastercard. Is it Plooo-fay? Or is it Plooofff? Either way I kind of dig it.

xoxo
Mel

Hi all,

If you signed up for the newsletter but have not received the sneak-peek at the first four chapters of Revelations, please do not worry. We are doing our best to make sure everyone who wants them gets ‘em. We’re all about customer service here at Casa Blue Bloods. (Or Casa Sangre Azul.) If you signed up before Sept 5th and did not get them, your email server might have bounced it back. Our email server will try up to three times to send it to you.  And if you signed up after Sept 5th, we are shooting to send it to all the new subscribers by Monday. The best way to make sure you will receive one is to email .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address) with the subject heading. “SEND ME THE SNEAK PEEK!”

In other news, my birthday was wonderful, thank you for all your birthday vicious wishes. 🙂
Mike took the day off and we went to see a Vicky Christina Barcelona matinee, the new Woody Allen movie, which was entertaining and amusing and a lovely fantasy about bohemian life. I love how in Woody Allen movies all the artists and musicians and painters live in homes that only hedge fund managers could afford in this day and age. But that’s part of the charm—the poet who lives in a crumbling estate, the composer who lives in a Tribeca loft so expensive that even the star of the movie could not afford to live there. If only! After the movie we went jewelry shopping at our favorite Beverly Hills jeweler and bought my earrings. I went with these insanely heirloom-y amethyst and diamond drops instead of the diamond hoops. Somehow, the diamond hoops didn’t make me as swoony as the first time I saw them.

But the most lovely part of my birthday was that I got to celebrate it with my dad, who shares the same birthday as me. If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you know my dad has cancer. He’s had it for five years now, and he’s undergoing a pretty severe chemo treatment right now—nine months straight of chemo every week, the longest he’s ever had it. It’s been really really hard on him and us too, since the worst thing in the world is to see someone you love suffer so much. I think that’s why there’s been so much shopping going on in my life lately. As my mom says, we don’t go to therapy—we go to the mall. Working it out on the sales rack. Anyway, we had our usual double birthday with the two candles on our Baskin Robbins ice-cream cake. (We kick it old school ever since the kids came along—-ice cream cakes are the best! And thirty-one flavors makes the best ones. Coldstone’s sucks!!)

And there’s nothing nicer than old friends remembering your birthday, even if they were a day late (Jennie! who said, “I succcck!!!!” and Tom “I was in New Jersey!”) or a few days late (Garret, who said, “uh, it was Sept 9th wasn’t it?” No, but thanks for almost remembering!), and new friends taking you out to fabulous Italian dinner complete with candles on cupcakes for dessert. (Thanks Minty and Sofia!!)

It’s cold and rainy here in LA, which is is kind of nice.

xoxo
Mel

Some dear friends of mine put this show together and you should watch it!!! I’m soooo hooked on it because I love the cheekiness and the bitchiness. Always good things in a show, I believe. For us O.C. and 90210 fans! Click here to watch: Sorority Forever!

I have to admit, I was never much of a sorority girl. In fact, just the mere THOUGHT of it made my skin CRAWL when I was in college. I went to Columbia. Bohemian hippies were the ideal. We thought ourselves the proud descendants of beatnik, peacenik, anti-establishment types: the spiritual kids of Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac.

My girlfriends and I opted to dress DOWN because we were worried we would be MISTAKEN for some ditzy sorority chicks. Of which they were few and far between at Columbia. (See: Jack Keroac, descendants of). We believed in natural beauty, in not combing our hair, in wearing ripped jeans and flannel.

Well you can imagine HOW FAR that took us. My mom took one look at me when I got home after one semester at Columbia and shrieked, “WHERE DID MY PRETTY GIRL GO???”

So I had to dial-down the Sofie B. Hawkins look a bit. We were still grungy. But now we were glungy. Glamorous and grungy. More Talitha Getty than Janis Joplin. We wore lipgloss with our battered suede jackets.

And now that I am older, and wiser, and not so knee-jerk to everything and have met and become friends with a wide range of people…I’ve mellowed. One of my best girlfriends, Minty, was the PRESIDENT of HER sorority. I probably would never even have thought someone like Minty, who always looks perfect and perfectly patrician, could be a friend back in my fist-raised-in-protest college days, and yet, we are so close and I love her to death. So I know keep a more open mind about these things.

Some girls want to join sororities, some girls don’t, and that is all perfectly fine. Since at that age we are all alike underneath the mascara (or no mascara) anyway: we are all completely obsessed with boys.

Right? 😉

xoxo
Mel

Stumbled upon this on YouTube: Fans dream-casting the Blue Bloods series! So cool! Go here to see and join!

Also, I wanted to personally invite you to JOIN THE COMMITTEE!!

We are taking applications to join the Masquerade Ball planning committee. The Ball is scheduled for 7:30 PM on November 7, 2008 at the beautiful Scottsdale Civic Center Library in Scottsdale, Arizona. Join us in planning the party!

To join, email .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address) with the subject heading: “COMMITTEE APPLICATION”.

To join the committee, you must be based in Scottsdale or Phoenix, or able to travel to Scottsdale for the event.
Please include your full name, age, snail mail address, and the reason why you would like to join.

Can’t wait to meet you at the Ball!

xoxo
Mel

We’ve finally formatted the sneak-peeks for email. (All those pesky ASCII characters that come in like ?this? have been cleaned up.) And I’m happy to report that the highly anticipated sneak-peek at the first four chapters of REVELATIONS has finally been sent to my newsletter subscribers. Thanks to everyone for subscribing and I hope you enjoy the read!!

I can’t believe it’s already September, which means the book is only a month away from publication. Wow. Which means I am now writing the next one. And the cycle will resume again.

It’s been busy here at casa Blue Bloods, we’ve been working on lots of fun new stuff for the Blue Bloods faithful (that’s you, I hope) and hopefully we will have lots of very exciting news to report very soon.

As for me, as my twenty-seventh year approaches…actually, it’s my thirty-seventh year. Acccck. I thought I was *fine* with 37 until I actually looked at that cold, hard, number which means I am THREE FRACKING YEARS AWAY FROM FORTY. Bury me already! But enough of the I’m soooooo old moaning. I’m still young! I’m still cute! I’m still sexy!
Right? Riiiiiiight.

It’s weird. It’s actually just this year that I realized, I CAN NO LONGER WEAR SOME OF MY OUTFITS. Like, for the longest time, I used to do this camisole, under a cardigan or shawl-wrap or lacey sweater thing, over tight jeans and high heels. I never needed to wear like, a BRA or anything. And it was my go-to going-out sexy-sexy outfit. But I tried this outfit on the other day and….urgggh. Somehow it just doesn’t look right anymore. I need more coverage. There’s just too much SKIN revealing going on. I just didn’t feel comfortable in it like I used to.

Camisoles-as-outerwear: good-bye!

Oh girls, ENJOY it while you can… it’s crazy to realize one DOES age. Like…LUCKY. I have aged past LUCKY. I used to LOVE LUCKY Magazine. It was my favorite magazine because it was all about shopping and all the outfits were cute but still kind of funky. But now, the last three issues…I have not found ONE thing I want to buy from it. Everything just looks too….(arggggh) young!

So, Lucky: Adios!

What now? The good news is, you DO get better with age. You do stop buying things that don’t flatter you. I have learned the hard way that I look best in shift dresses and flats or long skinny trousers and heels. So I don’t tend to buy lots of things that don’t flatter me anymore. There’s this certain Boudicca jacket I bought at Barneys a few years ago that haunts me to this day. It was $1500 and I *had* to have it. But I have not worn it even ONCE. Why? Because it has these ENORMOUS puffed sleeves and all this fancy zippers and piping and when I put it on I look like I am part of a Star Trek/Ren Faire outing. It’s a total “WHAT WAS I THINKING?” outfit. In my youth when I was a fashion editor who specialized in the tres avant-garde, I could wear the most ridiculous and yet fabulous things and it would look, well, FAAHHBULOUS. I mean, c’mon I used to wear Bernhard Wilhelm! Bjork’s favorite designer! Need I say more.

But not anymore.

I have to dress preppier as I age. Because you really don’t want to look like an aging tomato. You want to aspire to Jackie O. gracefulness. Timeless instead of trendy. Sigh.

But still, it’s a good day. Sneak-peeks are out. And we’re off to buy my earrings today.

Toodles.

xoxo
Mel

So – we have gotten the green-light FINALMENT! (That is “finally” to us Francophones. Yup me and my 1 on my AP French exam!) to release the first chapter on my blog.  As you can tell, I’m a bit giddy over here. First off, the blog has now gotten over one million hits! That is so coooool. I love big numbers. Supersize THIS, mo’fos! And it’s my birthday week. Just like Ashley Spencer, I think MY birthday is the most important thing in the…it’s just the most important thing period.

I’m not one of those people who WAIT to see if people will remember, let alone celebrate my birthday. Oh no. If I left it up to the gods, or my husband’s slightly dim memory, my birthday would go something like this. Finger-poke to husband’s side. “Um. It was my birthday yesterday.” Mike: “FRACK! It’s your birthday! Now I have to run out and get flowers, make reservations, buy jewelry! FRACK! I forgot! FRACK!” And he wouldn’t even apologize for forgetting. He’d just be mad that he now had to do all this running around and not even get credit for it because it’s a day late.

So to save us the marital heartache, three weeks before the day, I do a countdown. MY BIRTHDAY IS COMING UP. BEEP! BEEP! And so he is so well-trained that by now he’s gotten it down. Flowers? A spectacular bouquet from an avant-garde florist. (Red roses and babies breath are just SO dreary aren’t they?) Jewelry? This year I want diamond hoops, you know, the ones that are a carat and a half’s worth of bling on each lovely circular glittering band. I kind of also wanted just huge diamond rocks, because it’s so LA to wear a t-shirt, cargo pants and ROCKS. Like, yes, I am cas (casshh for casual) but I got it goin’ on: check out the five-figure earrings. But I saw this lovely pair of sizable diamond hoops which make me queasy with infatuation. You know you really have to have something if it gives you butterflies.

Anyway, why am I prattling on when the real reason you are all tuned in is for the sneak peeks. In the Filipino culture, when it’s your birthday you have to treat YOUR friends, not the other way around. So, herewith as my birthday gift to all of YOU is the first chapter of REVELATIONS. And I will be emailing the FIRST FOUR CHAPTERS to my email subscriber list. So if you’d like to read further: sign up here. The book is on sale October 28, 2008!

ONE

—————

Enjoy!

xoxo
Mel

It was a really relackssssing week. No nanny, no housekeeper, just me, my husband, our kid in the beach house. We were lookin’ grotty. The kid’s hair was wild and unkempt as was the husband’s. I am trying to keep it together but the other day we trooped into the beachside diner we love (Mrs. Olson’s Coffee Hut which we have named Mrs. Olson’s Coffee The Hutt because we are cool like that) and Mike and I looked at each other and laughed. Mike was wearing raggedy surfshorts and a bleached-out t-shirt, the kid was wearing a stained elephant pajama top and undies, not even pants or shorts, over her diaper, and I was in a too-short minidress, no make-up and Crocs. We looked proto-homeless.

And who did we see at the diner? A bonafide celeb – at least in my book – and to those other Flipping Out fans out there- Ryan! Jeff’s Business Partner! With his partner, Dale and their daughter Chloe! (I recognized Chloe first.) I was SO excited. It took all of my former NYC cool to not jump over there and gush and say “Ohmahgawd, Ohmahgawd, I’m such a huge fan!” Because Ryan is SO NICE. I have a huge fag-hag crush on him. Swoon. Okay, I know, it’s a reality show. But it’s MY reality show.

Right then and there, I knew we were in the hottest place on the beach. Our beach is the “un-Malibu” according to the New York Times, even though the beach we’re on is called Hollywood Beach. But hey, Malibu can have the A-listers, I’m happy with my Bravo-listers.

For my vacation, I did the laundry. It was heaven. Yes, it’s part of my spoiled life that I do not cook, clean, or do the laundry. The first (cooking) I would like to do, but I found it was one of those things that just “had to go” when the baby and the big-ass deadlines started happening at the same time. Now I cook maybe once a week if we’re lucky. I like cooking, but I can’t do it regularly. I got used to just walking by the Gourmet Garage in New York, picking up the freshest things they had, and the best cheeses and meats and mustards (I mean, how precious is it that we were obsessed with our mustard? Ugh. We are such yuppies sometimes.), and then making dinner.

I just can’t get used to stocking the freezer and the pantry and then cooking from that. It’s way too suburban! And driving to the Bristol Farms (the only place we can find our fancy French mustard, and no it’s not Grey Poupon!) is not quite as convenient as walking down to the G. Garage. Sigh. Anyway, that is my long-winded excuse for why I do not cook anymore.

As for cleaning. Pffffft. I hate cleaning. The minute we could afford a housekeeper Mike and I stopped fighting (because he’s a cleaner. He’s a GREAT cleaner like my dad,  which is a lesson my mom (who also hates cleaning and yet has an immaculate house) taught me. When in doubt, marry a man WHO CAN CLEAN. Anyway, it would be great if Mike could clean the house—he actually enjoys it. But whatever time he has out of work is spent with the kid so the cleaning had to be out-sourced. Because there was no way *I* was going to do it.

But laundry—I actually enjoy doing laundry. I tried to hold on to that chore but a book would be due, and everything would start piling up, and we would run out of essentials, so I just gave up. So I was looking forward to doing the laundry on my vacation. I particularly love folding clothes. I think I should have worked at Benetton in my former life.

Anyway, hope everyone had a great Labor Day. Now it’s back to work!

xoxo
Mel

The other day we were at the beach, just a few steps away from the house, and everyone on the shore started going wild. We turned to look to see where everyone was pointing, and we saw it. DOLPHINS!

In the wild!

Jumping up and down on the waves!

Just twenty feet off the shore!

A few feet from our house!

We started yelling and waving and laughing, and picking up the kid and pointing and yelling some more.

DOLPHINS!

All of us had these huge, silly, ridiculously HAPPY grins on our faces. My husband, my kid, my sister, her family, a couple of friends who were visiting that weekend.

It was really, really cool. And we’re not even in Hawaii. I always used to think you had to travel all the way to the Aloha state, pay a couple hundred bucks to go on one of those private catamaran tours, to go see dolphins in the wild.

Turns out you can see them just off the California coast an hour away from the Hollywood Hills.

How awesome is that?

It’s been a mellow vacation. Today we took the kid to the Santa Barbara zoo. You know what’s the complete opposite of seeing dolphins in the wild? Elephants at the zoo. I have never seen a sadder animal. Sigh. It’s the Discovery Channel vacation over here.

xoxo
Mel

As reported here earlier, we are having a Masquerade Ball to celebrate the release of Revelations. The Scottsdale Public Library in beautiful sunny Arizona (I told you, I always sound like the Price is Right Host) is hosting it at the Civic Center location in downtown Scottsdale. The Ball is set for 7:30 PM on November 7th (Saturday). Come dressed as your favorite character from the series, meet me, and there will be music, dancing, and lots of fun treats. More information to come soon!

I’m also going on tour this October/November to promote Blue Bloods 3: Revelations and The Ashleys 4: Lipgloss Jungle. Tour schedule up soon!

It’s the dog days of summer, which is funny because here in SoCal (the birthplace of beach volleyball—and hello, how awesome is it to see Karch Kiraly back on TV? In high school, my sister and I had huge crushes on Karch and the men’s beach volleyball team, which I blame on our all-girls-school myopia. Boys were such exotic creatures back then), anyway, as I was saying, here in SoCal, it just feels like any other week… I miss the East Coast sometimes, I miss how intensely we held on to summer, knowing it was going to be gone soon and in a few months’ time we would be bundled up in our big sweaters and huge coats and throwing parties meant a mountain of coats and hats and scarves thrown over the bed to slink around in tank tops for a drink or two (or five to be perfectly honest) and then having to put it all back on again.

I miss Shelter Island, and how we used to take that Jitney for three hours, get to the end of the line, and then hop on a ferry. The ferry always made it so special, like we were being transported to a magical place, and how the island was so small and our house so close to the ferry we could walk there—our rolling suitcases going donk donk donk over the cobblestones.

But when I think about how LONG it used to take to get to the Hamptons—three hours?? Or more?? Pfffft. It takes us less than an hour to get to our beach house now. And it’s summer here for six months. It never rains from July to December. The other day it rained by the beach and we all went outside to look at it in wonder.

So even though I do miss the East Coast a lot, maybe I just miss my friends and colleagues, although I do think I just missed the sense of the place—of I don’t know how to put it more elegantly—OLDNESS. Here in LA, everything is so sparkly and new. There’s no sense of history, I guess, is what I’m missing.

But the other day I was driving down Santa Monica Boulevard in the luxury SUV and the sky was a clear, robins-egg blue and the palm trees were so pretty lined up against the boulevard, and I felt…happy. I felt that same feeling I used to get when I used to walk across Columbia’s campus and read the names on the buildings: Socrates, Aristotle, Homer, Herodotus—a feeling of being inspired and grateful to be in the right place at the right time. It’s that same feeling I used to get when I would walk on West End Avenue, at the very top of the hill, and the Hudson River framed between the buildings, just so beautiful. Well, it’s taken four LONG years in LA to feel that way, but I do feel that way now…

I love LA. I love how brash and vulgar and tacky it is, but also how mellow and easy it can be (because hey, it’s all good, it’s sunny, right?) and yet underlying it is that thrum of desperate ambition and social anxiety that fuels the whole scene. I love that we’re a bit outside of it enough not to be consumed by it, and yet close enough that Mike and I can laugh about all the inside things and feel smug like we know a little bit about how the town is run.

Right now I am obsessed with Desperate Housewives of the O.C., I think mostly because it shows a subject that I (and a lot of people) find inherently fascinating. Like: how far can your beauty take you? It’s so interesting to me that so many of those ladies were Playboy Playmates. And are doing well for themselves. This is just the opposite of what I and Mike know, since we come from families that stressed academic achievement (Mike’s brother is a rocket scientist at NASA) and all our friends are snooty intellectual Ivy League types. Of course, there’s always the beautiful socialite or beautiful girl from a good family who marries very high up into a, well, very very very good family, like some of the girls from my high school who went on to marry assorted heirs to brand-name fortunes. So I am well familiar with that type of beauty success story.

But I always thought that girls who doffed it all for skin mags ended up dead of an overdose or homeless and eating out of garbage cans and all those other tragic, lurid stories we hear so much about. But there’s Jeana, (one of the real housewives) who was like Miss November 1980, and god, she was GORRRRGEOUS back then. And her daughter is STUNNING. (All her kids are great-looking although the firstborn son, Shayne, is a total asshat.) And Jeana’s now Miss Real Estate Makes Her Own Money Lady, and she was going on the Playmate reunion with the other girls, and they were talking about how being Playmates was such a great experience for them, and how it was like being in a sorority and how it never hurt them at all.

And how about Laurie (another housewife) who was also some sort of Playmate and after some rough financial years is now marrying some nice, dorky, super-rich guy who has some sort of ranch and is generous with gifts of sportscars and Rolex watches.

It’s weird, you know? Because coasting on one’s looks is not an option for a lot of us, as cute as all of us are. And c’mon, we’re cute, we’re pretty. But there’s something about beauty—that whole—hair, eyes, figure, height, package that can get you things easily without having to sweat out that MBA. But I still think it’s luck and timing, you could so easily still end up in the garbage can since you have nothing to fall back on.

And beauty is just a genetic lottery. No matter how some people strive for it—no amount of plastic surgery is going to turn anyone into a supermodel. (I just heard they are finding Botox in people’s brains now. Ewww! And also: Dang. I’ve never ruled out the poison shot because hello, furrows! But now that news gives me pause.) Anyway, you are either born with it or not. And since a lot of us are not born to be 5’10” and 34D, then we might as well just hit the books. Because it’s a surer thing.

Real Housewives of the O.C. – as complex as a Flaubert novel! Not!! But still, great fun.

xoxo
Mel

They went like the wind. There are no more samplers. But we should have e-mail sneak peeks at least a month before Revelations is out. I still don’t have clearance to send them which is why you haven’t received them. I’m so sorry. But hopefully hopefully hopefully we will get the greenlight soon.

Not much to report: it’s summer, things are lazy even though I look at my TO-DO List and there are so many things on it. Like filling out applications for nursery school. The private-school smackdown begins for us this year. We’re already upset that we can’t even TOUR one of the schools on our list because we don’t know anyone whose kids go to that school. It’s all about who you know, even at twenty-one months. But that’s okay, that school is just strictly nursery. And the only reason we like that school is because the architecture and design is really fab. One of the parents is a well-known designer (hint: a judge on Top Design). But now we have our sights on bigger fish.

I’ve been going on studio meetings and all we talk about is the private school dance. It’s like a bonding experience, like surviving boot camp. Apparently a lot of people apply to fifteen FIFTEEN!! kindergartens. Which should give me nightmares but actually isn’t at all. Because I applied to TWENTY-ONE colleges. So I’ve been there. Yeah. TWENTY-ONE. My dad was really worried I wouldn’t get into one because I had this ridiculous math score. Okay, so the first time I took the math test, I got like, 300. Yup. 300. I think they give you 200 points for just dotting in your name, right? My dad was HORRIFIED. My dad is a math genius, so he just couldn’t understand how I could do that badly. Can I add that I got a perfect verbal score? 800? But that didn’t count. He thought schools would just dismiss me because of the total: 1100. They wouldn’t see the high verbal score, they’d just think I was totally average.

So I took the SATs SEVEN times, and my dad re-taught me algebra, and finally, finally, I pulled up my math score to 550. And with the perfect verbal score of 800, I got a decent 1350, which meant at least the Ivy colleges wouldn’t vomit all over my application when they got it.

But Pop was still worried, so he had me apply to all these schools that I had no intention of ever attending, and which were all—sorry to be so rude—safeties. I think I had FIFTEEN safety schools. I got into every one, with major scholarships. I think there was one school where if I went, my parents would not have to pay anything, and the school would even pay ME, a $5000 stipend every semester. And it was by the beach and super-laid back. My dad said, “Beach house, beach house, beach house.”

I was like, IN YOUR DREAMS, POP! I didn’t put nose-to-grindstone and have an awful time in high school just so I could graduate from Beach House U.

When I was a senior in high school, my dream school was Stanford. Because I grew up in San Francisco, Stanford was the ne plus ultra of schools. In California, it’s the most desired school. And I wanted an IN YOUR FACE school. Like, I got into Stanford, IN YOUR FACE, biatches!

But I didn’t get into Stanford. That was a really sad day.

And I didn’t get into Brown either. My second choice. Because um, no grades??? I was UP for that.

But I did get into Columbia, which was my other second choice because it’s in New York. And my college counselor said they would love me at Columbia and I would love it just as much. And hello: New York! Nightclubs! The Palladium! Andy Warhol! Hello! And they gave me an almost full-ride too. In fact, Columbia was the most generous of the Ivies my family has attended.

At Yale, when my dad’s check would be late or bounce, they would not give my sister her dorm keys or let her register. There was no such B.S. at Columbia, a friend of mine whose parents were going through a tough time financially was able to go three full years before the school finally said um, you have to pay us something. It probably came from how disorganized the financial aid office was, but I also like to think it was from the school’s deep-seated understanding of how not all of its students were swanning in with major trustfunds, which I think comes from the people who ran those offices, who mostly lived in Harlem and the Bronx. You know? New York is a tough town but it’s got a great heart.

At Columbia if you were a financial aid student, you could even get short-term CASH loans from the school to cover food and stuff. You would just fill out a form and they would give you cash!

Like manna from heaven.

I did love Columbia, and so many of the wonderful people in my life are from that school, my husband for one. And I probably would have hated Stanford since I loved Columbia so much. At Columbia there was the Art Suite and the Prose Kitchen and Hot Jazz and Champagne and if we didn’t want to do that we had all of New York at our feet. Meet you at the Sound Factory at 2AM! Every time I visited friends who went to Stanford they were playing Scrabble. Need I say more.

So you know, people: if you don’t get into your first choice, it’s not the end of the world. Really, so many things are not the end of the world in life.

Your top school didn’t take you? Not the end of the world. You’ll get in somewhere better for you. Your crush doesn’t crush you back? Not the end of the world. You’ll find a cuter guy who does. Your husband isn’t get getting you a Birkin for your birthday? ARMAGEDDON! Snarf. Just kidding. He already said he was getting it for me. But now I am wondering if I still want one. You know how they say the anticipation is sweeter than the thing itself. So we’ll see. I kind of like just wanting one. Once I do get one I’ll be so bored. Such is life.

So I’m trying to not get too crazy as we go through these nursery school rounds. Mattie will be fine. There are many great schools and she’ll be happy wherever she ends up.

And so will you. I know applications for college aren’t due till this December, right? But don’t stress so much. And if you don’t get into your first choice, like one of my dearest friends Garret who didn’t get into Stanford and had to go to Columbia, you can always transfer to Stanford your junior year (like the traitor he was!) and then go back and visit all your friends at Columbia every semester and get homesick for New York and then end up at Columbia Law School anyway. I’m jus’ sayin’.

xoxo
Mel