But Are You Making Any Money? and Its Challenged Author

As most of you guys know, I just closed a big chapter (pun intended because I’m already over-caffeinated) in my life – finishing my first book: But Are You Making Any Money? This was a huge feat for me. Not because getting a book published is an involved process, but because I have a very hard time focusing on anything. (BTW, for those of you who want an advance copy, go to www.ButAreYouMakingAnyMoney.com, click on the book cover to get one. THANKS!) Now before you snarky-time readers think this is a shameless plug, hang on.

My reward for finishing this book, getting advance praise and now, IMAGINE!, trying to get people to buy it, my reward is a flesh eating virus. You’re chuckling, but I’m serious.

A couple of weeks ago I fled to Mexico for some r+r so that I didn’t turn out like Lindsay Lohan (sweet thing, such a mess.) I had these bumps all over myself in Mexico. My girlfriend said they were probably bed bugs. Oh wonderful. I’m now my own NBC Dateline special here. No, I did not think they were bed bugs because how would my husband not have them? Her response, “Maybe they don’t like him.” (This is actually possible.)

When I get back from Mex, I have this, I kid you not, open wound on my left hip. My girlfriend says it’s my underpants.  I tell her to bite me. (Now you need to know that I am NOT the hypochondriac in the family, I am the one who is actually always on fire and usually disease free.) The wound does not go away. This cannot be good. My husband gasps. I apply Neosporin. Nothing. No help. The bumps and sores all over me (slight exaggeration, ok) continue to persist. Now my husband says “Are you going to see someone about that?” Sure Dude, I’ll get right on it. In between my freakin’ 3 kids, their nannies, my 24/7 travel, my highhhhhh maintenance husband, the friends I’m trying to keep, the parents I’m trying to visit with, the FLESH EATING VIRUS THAT HAS ATTACKED MY HIP. Sure, I’ll just head to Urgent Care right now.

By yesterday, I make the call.

I call Teresa, BFF from college, super smart dermatologist at UCLA, generally treats me for severe deficiencies in Botox. Yesterday, mid power walk that I did not want to do in the first place with my kleptomaniac 2 year old who is trying to steal the neighbors flowers, I call Teresa. It goes like this.

Me: “Yo.”

Teresa: “Hello?”

Me: “T, what’s up?”

Teresa: “Hello??”

M: “T, it’s me.”

T: “Oh hey.” (She has that sinking sound in her voice because she knows this is going to be an emergency Botox request. Little does she know.)

M: “T, I’ve got an issue. Oh, how are the kids? Sorry we can’t make it to the birthday party.”

T: “Oh, the kids are good…” (She continues with mother talk, I am actually not as interested in the kids as I am in a diagnosis for the flesh eating monster on my left side.)

M: “Well anyway, T, [I cut her off, mid birthday plan/update], I’ve got this issue.”

T: “What kind of issue? Wrinkles again that don’t exist?”

M: “No. I’ve got these spots all over my body and I look like a bad crack addict.”

T: “Probably just stress.”

M: “T, Dude, I have a FLESH EATING VIRUS HERE. I am covered in spots. I am an author. I am about to start my press tour. People depend on me, T. I am now an authority. I have, helloooooo, fans. I sign autographs now T.” [Unquestionably she finds this hard to believe as most people try to get rid of me, let alone are looking for an indelible mark of ink on some prized possession, but I am undaunted.]

T: “What book?”

M: “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, T. What do you mean, ‘what book’? The g.d. thing that has consumed my life, robbed me of my family, that book. I am going on tour. To NYC no less, the land of the perfectly skinny and wrinkle free.”

T: “Oh, got it. So you want to come in?”

M: [Note: She does NOT say, “Hey, that’s great! So excited for the book! I know it’s going to do great!” No, nothing. Nada. Zip. Nothing from one of my BEST FRIENDS. Well, she probably doesn’t think she’s one of my best friends, but I do. That’s actually sort of sad. So the convo continues and I make an appointment. End of dialogue here.]

After explaining in grave detail that I cannot be a spotted book author, looking like I’m MOMENTS from my last hit, I tell her YES, I do need to come in. But….there’s a little problem. I leave Sunday for West Palm Beach. NATCH!! “Oh goodness” she says. “I’m in surgery all morning” (of course Dr. Miss Perfect is caring for the truly wounded, saving lives one stroke of the scalpel at a time), “I guess I can squeeze you in in the afternoon.”

I snap up the appointment.

She of course is going to want a promise that this is just a quick look-see at the spots and viral drama, I of course want to squeeze in a little more Botox. She will not be happy. I will be stiff faced and thrilled.

So all of you out there who wanted to stop hearing about food trucks and get me down to business with a real blog, here it is. Stay tuned about the appointment. And SERIOUSLY, I love the private emails you send me about the blogs, but could you actually COMMENT here so someone things that I have readers???? It’s easy, just hit “Comment.” Oh, last request, could you go and buy the book so that I can actually pay Teresa to get rid of the damn spots? Toodles!