The Countdown Begins
For Everything
Happy August, My Fellow Warriors of Summer Survival!
We are four days into the final lap of summer, and let me tell you: I’m aggressively X-ing out the days on my Big Ships of the Navy calendar like I’m tracking a hostage situation. Everything is a countdown: to freedom, to school, to the sweet sound of silence echoing through my sock-strewn halls.
Could it be… is it... time for school to start? Oh no, this is not a drill. I’m not asking for a friend. I’m asking for myself, unashamed and unfiltered, because the day my son becomes the State’s legally supervised responsibility from 8am to 3pm will be a national holiday in my soul. Meanwhile, my daughter will return to her Vampire Phase™ at her acting studio in the West Village, gliding around like Nosferatu on a coffee bender.
They are, I believe, the most passionately unmotivated teens of the summer workforce. Back in my day (cue golden sepia tones and violins), getting a job wasn’t a choice—it was the only way to afford clothing that didn’t scream “child accountant.” My mother would only buy me items she personally endorsed, so I was rocking Talbots chic in culottes and sweater sets while other kids were living out their Delia’s catalog fantasies. I worked 40 hours a week at the Eastern Hills Mall movie theater—back before it transformed into a senior citizen paradise with artisanal nail salons and competitive mall-walking tournaments.
By contrast, my son scoops ice cream three times a week and spends the rest of his time tanning, texting, critiquing the décor, and occasionally wandering to the beach like an influencer on sabbatical. My daughter, bless her experimental spirit, pops into my office ten times a day to announce she’s bored, request a bikini tie-up, and demand dinner at 10:30 a.m. because that's how time works now.
And then, plot twist: she declared she’ll be moving into her dorm early—but staying home until September 4th because it’s “easier.” Easier for whom? I asked. She just smiled like a Bond villain.
Adding to this circus: my mother, who winters in Florida and summers on Long Island, drops in occasionally to criticize my parenting with the gentle wisdom of someone who once threatened to end my entire existence over an unmade bed. When asked what she’d have done if I slept till noon and complained about her cooking, she laughed and said, “Oh, I would have killed you.” So poetic. But now she tells me to leave them alone. “They’re different,” she shrugs. Yes, Mother. So is plague, but I’m not throwing it a party.
Anyway, I’ve got exactly 33 more days of towel laundering, short-order chef-ing, and existential questions about why dirty socks are in every room of this house. I tried to build one of those ticking Doomsday clocks to mark my Liberation Day, but the best I could do was a sad little countdown page that took me an hour and five passive-aggressive sighs.
On the brighter (bookish) side: I’m sliding into high gear with My Year of Really Bad Dates! The first review rolled in and, to paraphrase our philosophical queen Katy Perry, I read it, and I liked it. My fabulous publicist even turned the review into a snazzy graphic, and I’ve been handing out ARC copies like candy to beta readers (I’ve got a few left if anyone’s craving literary chaos and romantic misadventures. DM me) First Review for My Year of Really Bad Dates! and it was terrific. I spent decades with an actor who despised reviews of any kind, though I happen to know it tickled him when Ben Brantly praised him, reviewing a play he did in New York. I generally agreed with him in the review department. Art is subjective. One person’s inspiration is another’s worst experience in a theater, reading a book, or seeing an art show. However, I must confess, and I’ll paraphrase Katy Perry here: I read my review, and I liked it. Plus, my wonderful book publicist made this fabulous graphic to go with the review:
Also, Zibby Owens released her Most Anticipated List of Fall Releases, and guess who made the
cut? That’s right: My Year of Really Bad Dates. I feel like I’ve won Miss America. Or Ms. America. Was that ever a thing? Doesn’t matter—I’m basking like the crowned Queen Goddess of Corn and loving every kernel.
The events are rolling in: A book signing at Zibby’s Bookshop in LA on September 13th, another at the Whitby Hotel in NYC on the 25th, and News12 on the 30th. It's a whirlwind countdown—see the clock I made below so I can start marking time like a dramatic Bond villain waiting for the final act.
