Every year on my birthday, I like to consult the stars. Well, really–the half-assed version of “the stars” that appears in a fifty-word blurb on a newspaper page right next to Mary Worth or some other lame comic strip. I used to be content with whatever vague predictions the Tribune coughed up, but now I can search around online for other options, so here goes.

Chicago Sun-Times #1 (they have two horoscope columns), Holly Mathis:

IF MARCH 13 IS YOUR BIRTHDAY: Your ever-evolving life is an inspiration to others. Put your message out there. The universe only knows to give to you if you are grateful for what you’ve received. Loving gestures are reciprocated, bringing comfort and healing. By June, you’re ready for an adventure. Sagittarius and Capricorn are ideal partners for travel, business and love. Your lucky numbers are 20, 14, 39, 3 and 25.

The first sentence makes it sound like I’m going to develop the ability to talk with dolphins through my fingertips, but I’m sure Holly means just personal growth or something. Sentence 4: ooh! Group hug! The fifth sentence makes me hope that I will be in a high-speed car chase with jewel thieves. I buy all the lucky number predictions except “39.”

This next one is from “Lovepsychic.com.”

Happy Birthday Pisces: This is the year to step out of your old self and refine your future! With liberating Uranus in your Sun sign, you are free to explore who you are and who you would like to be! You are free to seek new friendships, new lifestyles and a new self image! Money and career can be big issues. Abundant Jupiter in your house of finances can bring money you never expected this year. For instance, a tax problem is resolved, a credit snafu is worked out, a problem with a business partner comes to a compromise or the loan you�ve been waiting for is approved and the check is in the mail! This is certainly the year to follow your intuition. The information coming from your Angels is mind boggling and on point. Your career might still be undergoing some needed changes. Let�s face it Pisces, it is impossible for you work a nine to five unless there is some inner satisfaction attached to it! You need to feel needed at this time! Your spiritual life takes on an inner dimension! You will make incredible gains with meditation, yoga or prayer. The most profound change this year will be love! With crabby-Saturn in your house of love, you may not have been in the mood for romance for quite a while. All that changes on July 16th. You will feel like finding a special person and trying your hand again at the excitement of love!

Okay, the number of exclamation points in this one scares me. A lot! And yet, it’s pretty specific! Taxes! Credit! Yoga! Wow. If you’re reading this entry in my archives a few months from now, you’re totally going to check and see if I wrote something on July 16th, right? Or maybe one of you could do me a favor and email me on the 15th or so and remind me of my impending sudden readiness for romance so that when it happens I won’t mistake it for a nice beer buzz. But whatever it is, I don�t want to know what “liberating Uranus” has to do with it.

Also, while I can’t speak for any other Pisces, I have not had crabby things in my house of love.

Chicago Sun-Times #2, Georgia Nicols:

IF MARCH 13 IS YOUR BIRTHDAY: Actor William H. Macy (1950) shares your birthday. You can be quite prophetic. (Others know this about you.) You’re courageous, and can overcome enormous obstacles in your life. You’re both tolerant and accepting. Because of this, you will grow spiritually the longer you live. You like philosophy, spirituality and metaphysics. This year embraces exciting, major changes for you.

No kidding, Georgia Nicols totally mentioned the William H. Macy thing last year. Damn, you, Georgia, you owe me eight new words of astrological wisdom. But it’s not like the remaining fifty words are worth all that much. I’ll “grow spiritually the longer I live?” You mean I won’t grow in an inverse relationship to time? Well, that’s too bad, because, wow, think of all the philosophical, spiritual, and metaphysical implications of going backwards in time! And here is my prophecy: William H. Macy will get mentioned in my horoscope next year.

That’s all I could dig up tonight. If you happen to come across other birthday horoscopes online, I’d love to see them for March 13 and/or this week, so feel free to send links (or post them in the comments).

This makes me happy as hell that Jennifer Weiner wrote a blurb for my book.

In a nutshell: last week Meg Wolitzer, who is decidedly a Literary Author, wrote an essay in praise of chick-lit writers, calling them “Pink Ladies,” and while she has good intentions, you got the sense she was just a tad too amused with the idea of slumming with these fluffy girly novel confections to notice what their authors are trying to say about women’s lives and class issues and all kinds of sticky difficult cultural stuff. So Weiner decided to call her on it: first, briefly in her blog, and then in a guest essay on Beatrice.com. Go read it!

Sometimes I feel fortunate that my book cover doesn’t have a spot of pink, a shoe, or a martini glass on it, but I’m preparing myself for the fact that at the first whiff of “fat girl” some folks will likely jump to conclusions about my book (like my Kirkus reviewer, who kind of skimmed the end*). And others might dismiss it if there’s any kind of comparison to Bridget Jones.** And then sometimes I have to shake the feeling that writing this book means I’ll never get to Iowa Workshop Grad Heaven, where everyone has a nice fellowship, guy poets don’t use metaphors like “the chiaroscuro of her breasts” quite so damn much and without any discernible purpose, and everyone has died knowing that their literary legacy is secure and, um, literary. But I like to think what I’m trying to do here on this side of things–whether it’s the dark side, or the pink side, or whatever–is worth something, which is why Weiner’s essay hit home.

And for the sake of comparison, here’s a little story: in the fall of my freshman year at Iowa I saw Meg Wolitzer read. It was the first reading I’d ever attended–a fiction and poetry reading: Meg Wolitzer read the fiction; James Tate was the featured poet. She was reading from her novel This Is Your Life, which was just about to be made into the movie This Is My Life. I remember it not just because it was my first reading, but because it was the reading Jorie Graham*** was referring to in the very first paragraph of her introduction to that year’s Best American Poetry anthology. No really, go read that first paragraph–I know Graham is making a point about the difference between prose and poetry, and of course she doesn’t give names so she never says it was Wolitzer’s reading, but still: for all of Meg Wolitzer’s Literary Gray Lady stature now, in that essay from fifteen years ago she was the one on the flashy “fast track,” with the movie deals, reading the perky funny stories that made people feel all comfy and “at home.” Plus apparently she “sprayed forward over the unsaid,” with like, her big aerosol can of mid-list prose or something. So evidently you can be Gray and still, you know, spray. Or the grass is always grayer on the other side. Or maybe we shouldn’t be concerned with how Pink any of us are or aren’t.

*Yeah, so the stuff in the last three lines of that review, the stuff the reviewer says happens in my book… doesn’t actually happen in my book. Oh well–guess you can’t get them all right, Kirkus Reviews. (Or can I call you “Kirk,” since for most of the review you’re on a first-name basis with me?)

**A comparision I’ll gladly take when it’s meant well, and I know in that review it is, lest I appear to be complaining too much.

***Graham taught at Iowa at the time, and I completely worshipped her, and at that time in my life I wanted to be the poetriest poet ever and so I clearly remember sitting through the Meg Wolitzer part of the reading thinking “whatever, I’m a poet,” and thinking it slightly vulgar that the story I was listening to was going to be made into a movie, and I wouldn’t have even admitted to really enjoying Wolitzer’s reading, but you know, I think I did. And now I’m not ashamed to say so, dammit.

This article about all the weird things that can happen during book tours and signing events has me alternately excited and anxious about the events of the next few months (and there are about a dozen of them now, holy crap), because besides the usual reasons for being excited and nervous, I think I already have a weird and poignant book-signing anecdote, so God knows what else is going to happen.

The story is this: back in the fall, my friend Dana and I were attending our friend Erin�s wedding, and we were staying at a hotel with another friend of ours. The wedding itself was over by two PM. The reception didn�t start until after six. It was nearly four and we�d already taken a long nap. “Well, I guess we can start drinking now,” one of us said. Okay, so maybe it was me.

Dana went down the hall to get some ice. When she didn�t return after a while I peeked outside and found her in the hallway talking to the woman next door. The hotel was part of a casino and there seemed to be a certain anything-goes spirit to the whole place which made it easy to strike up conversations with total strangers.

“They�re making green apple martinis,” Dana said when she�d come back inside. “They said to come on over!”

There were three of them�a woman in her thirties with her teenage daughter and her mother, who looked far younger than her years and in my head I called her Grandma Foxy. They were all dark-skinned and gorgeous. The younger two looked more polished in high heels and jeans than we did in our wedding-guest outfits, and the foxy grandmother had a bias-cut dress and a totally amazing weave. They made us drinks and we brought over candy.

The woman our age was single again and her daughter made fun of her for only wanting to date white men. Grandma Foxy mentioned matter-of-factly that she had incurable brain cancer. “Nothing I can do,” she said, “but just enjoy myself.” I loved her after about five minutes of conversation. We all loved each other after about five minutes of conversation. The women lived nearby but they had come here for a “girl�s weekend,” they said. They were going to dinner at a fancy steak house for dinner later on, they said, and maybe we could meet them after the wedding reception.

Dana and Ericka and I looked at each other. Hell yeah! we were thinking. We wanted to meet them later; we wanted to be their best friends; we wanted to buy them bottles of champagne and designer handbags. We wanted to change our whole lives. But what time did we have to leave for the reception? When did we have to check out? We let our neighbors add more vodka to our plastic cups.

“Wendy has a book coming out,” my friend Ericka told them. “A book!” exclaimed Grandma Foxy. I explained that I had just turned in the manuscript and it would be out in the spring. I tried to tell them what it was about but I was having a really hard time. I wished I had a copy and could just give it to them. “Will we be able to buy your book?� they asked. Yes, I told them, in a bookstore and everything.

�Well,� said Grandma Foxy, �you are just gonna have to sign our book for us.� Sure, I told her. �So will you sign it?� she asked. Well, yeah, I said. Maybe she didn�t understand that it wasn�t out yet. �Okay!� she said, and she walked across the room to the dresser and got something out of her bag. �She�s going to sign the book for us,� she told her daughter.

She handed me a big, thick hardcover book. It was My Life by Bill Clinton. It looked almost new.

“I haven’t finished it yet, but it�s very good,” she said. And then she fished a pen out of her purse and gave it to me.

“Oh, gosh, I can�t sign this,” I said. I was a little drunk. And this was the memoir of our former president. “Are you sure?” I asked.

Oh yes, they said. They insisted.

I opened it up to the title page. The paper felt expensive and I could feel the binding yield just a little. I heard myself say, “Now how do you spell your name?” as if I�d always known to ask that.

I wrote “Dear” and wrote her name, which unfortunately I�ve forgotten by now. “It has been an honor to spend this time with you and your beautiful family. Best wishes to you all.”

I wanted to write more, but it wasn�t my book. It was written by someone else; it belonged to this woman I knew I’d never see again, because of course Dana and I would stay at the reception until it ended, and when we got back to the hotel it would be too late to do anything except kick off our shoes and change for bed and sleep off all the wine. All the same, I signed the book with my name and it almost felt right. Or at least not all that wrong.

That’s right: here is my list of Ten things I’ve done which you probably haven’t. I mean, I hope for your sake that you haven’t done most of these things.*

1. Attended a season finale party where I got to watch the cast of a reality show watch themselves and their own naked, pixellated asses on TV.
2. Composed rhyming back cover copy for a children�s book about lice.
3. Mentioned (by first name only! like Cher or Madonna!) in Variety.
4. Ditched college classes on a Friday afternoon only to discover later that a disgrunted grad student had shot and killed five people on campus.
5. Shared a Vegas hotel room with a Fug Girl.
6. Wrote a book, doy.
7. Viewed the horrifying VH1 special of Liza and David’s wedding at least twenty times now.
8. Met with a MacArthur Genius for a thesis meeting and wound up drinking tequila and grape juice in Genius’s kitchen, which was all totally Genius’s genius idea, not mine.
9. Went to school on last day of seventh grade with hair sprayed jet black and dressed in a bizarre outfit that featured ripped fishnet stockings worn on various limbs.
10. Saw Spice World in the theatre during its original release.

*If the comments are any indication, an alarming number of you have done #10.

Yesterday I ran two miles. Well, by �ran� I mean �jogged� and by �jogged� I really mean �shuffled,� because I�ve caught sight of myself in the reflection of the windows around the track at the gym, and the way I move with my gait I look like amateur claymation, but whatever I was doing, I did it without stopping.

I went two miles, which means if I had been running/jogging/shuffling in a straight line (instead of the fancy circular track at the gym) and if you�d stood in the place where I started and if we both had cheap walkie-talkies, you could probably still reach me on the radio, but it would be pushing it, you know, because I would be almost out of range; like THAT�S how much I ran/joggged/shuffled. And if whatever you had to tell me was really important you�d have to call me on my cell phone just to be sure, but of course I might not answer, because hello! I just ran two miles! Excuse me if I am not exactly in a chatty mood! Leave a message! Two miles! Which I ran at an estimated speed of five miles an hour–which, if I were a sport utility vehicle, would be fast enough to cause thousands of dollars worth of damage to myself if I hit a pole.

But I didn’t hit any poles, or cars, or anything, though there was this one guy there on the gym track who I’d sort of like to smack, since he is there every morning trundling along in what appears to be ordinary street clothes, and I hate him because his civilian presence somehow disrupts my personal sense of Fitness Urgency. When I come up behind his big blocky back and am try to muster the energy to pass him my mind starts shooting indignant sparks: curse you, Perambulator! I’ll think. Still, I did the two miles.

Thanks for your emails about my grandmother, by the way. I was thinking of her the other day when I was reading about The Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death exhibit, a collection of miniature dioramas of real death investigations. She’d loved the Thorne Rooms Miniatures at the Art Institute but she was also a fan of mystery books and shows, so I wonder if she would have liked the unique combination of tiny scale replicas and police intrigue. Or maybe she would’ve thought it was horrifying. Either way, I have to go see it for her.

In long overdue book news: people have been asking if I’ll be doing any readings for the book this spring. The answer is YES and at least two will be in the Chicago area. The first one will be Wednesday, April 27, at Women & Children First in Andersonville. If you’re in the Chicago area and would like a handy reminder of this event, you can join my local mailing list by sending your mailing address to wendy@candyboots.com. (I’d love to try and set up some sort of web form for this.)

More reading info to come in March…

I’ve been taking a little break ever since my grandmother passed away a week ago. She had been slowly winding down for the past year and by early February we knew it would be soon. She was eighty-eight, she’d lived a long life, and she’d stayed around long enough to vote against Bush in the last election. I will miss her like crazy.

The memorial service was on Sunday, and now I’m trying to get caught up at work after an extended personal leave/holiday weekend. I’m fine, but for now I’d rather keep a low profile, which is why I’m temporarily disabling the comment feature. I’m just giving myself some much-needed quiet time. Thanks.

(Edited to add: Please do not leave comments for this entry.)