When I was 24, something very unusual happened. At the time, I was an editorial assistant at Random House and freshly minted graduate of Johns Hopkins’ Fiction program. My friend and I wrote a book together and we sold it. To our employer no less! And we used pen names! I had been dating Nathan for about a year. And in the seven years that I have known him, I have published a total of eight novels with my writing partner.
All of this is neither here nor there except to say that for a long, long time, people thought I was the writer in the relationship. I’m here to tell you, that’s only half the story. Even from the first flirtations, I knew Nathan could write circles around most people. In fact, I fell in love with his emails first, only meeting him in person later. (Yes, we were epistolary lovers for a spell.) And yet, for a long time, he didn’t consider himself a writer. In fact, the first real writing project he started was a screenplay and that wasn’t until 2006. He eventually ditched that in favor of a science fiction novel that never sold and finally out of the blue one day he started what would become JACOB WONDERBAR AND THE COSMIC SPACE KAPOW.
I can still remember the weekend he thought of the idea. It came to him very suddenly and he quickly got down a lot of pages. The idea at its very earliest was little more than, What if a bunch of kids blasted off into outer space and discovered a planet full of substitute teachers? From there, things moved fast. He finished the book, he got rejected by several agents and then finally found the right one, and a few months later she sold his book. In fact, he got his first offer when we were volunteering in Peru, working at a kids dormitory for a week. There we were at this tiny, ramshackle “Internet cafe,” which was no more than a converted garage in someone’s home, when he opened up his email and saw the news.
My sister and her husband were with us on the trip and I said across the crowded room, “Guys we have really big news!”
They turned to look at us and I could see the same question written all over their faces.
“No, we’re not pregnant. Not that!”
Today, Saturdays at our house are a ritual. First coffee, next typing, and then swapping computers to critique each other’s work. We suggest changes, celebrate the good bits, and, in general, egg each other on toward the finish line. He is a brilliant editor and he helps me every step of the way. I don’t know how I ever wrote without him and no one was more excited than me when he got a two-book deal. He worked for it. He earned it and more than anything, he deserved it.
And now I’m reading JACOB WONDERBAR for the first time. Obviously I’ve already read almost every single word in it, but when I did I was usually reading a particular chapter or section, thinking about a question he had asked me, maybe about how a plot line was coming together or if a character’s reaction to something was just the right thing. I have read it, yes. But not as a whole creature.
I’m here to report that it’s utterly and immensely enjoyable.
Each page makes me prouder still to know him, each hilarious line makes me so glad to call him mine, my partner, my editor, my husband. OBVIOUSLY I’m extremely partial and I shall do no such thing as apologize for that, but I think it’s a damn fine book and I can’t wait till it comes out next summer. It reminds me of SIDEWAYS STORIES FROM WAYSIDE SCHOOL in all the best ways and yet it’s totally fresh and exciting.
Congratulations, my darling. It’s really, really wonderful.
In June, I gave this particular summer a very special name. Want to hear it? It’s catchy!
The Summer of Our Discontent
Told you! Between finishing my work-in-progress and squeezing in, I don’t know, A COLLEGE-LEVEL STATISTICS CLASS, I realized pretty quickly that our summer was going to be, well, a bummer. Nathan’s schedule has been equally tough. He needed to finish JACOB WONDERBAR AND THE COSMIC SPACE KAPOW and begin JACOB WONDERBAR THE TOTALLY BADICAL SEQUEL (Not its real title! Which hasn’t been finalized!). That’s in addition to the CRAZY hours the man already puts in for his clients. It was all we could do to keep our sanity intact, our dog fed, and our floors in a somewhat respectable state.
At our house when we’re facing a big challenge, we need a carrot, A REALLY REALLY BIG CARROT. We thought long and hard about what it might be and landed on a weekend trip to Las Vegas. Now some of you might remember The Baby List but if you don’t it’s right here. As you can see #19 was “Go to Vegas, just for the weekend.” As far as carrots go it seemed like a good one so we booked a MAD CHEAP Flight + Hotel vacation package and have been living for it ever since. I can’t tell you how many times the thought of Vegas brought me back from the brink.
 Nothing says Paris like a neon balloon. And I’m pleased to say, we’ve come in right on schedule. Statistics? CHECK! Work-in-progress? CHECK! This Friday we are boarding a Virgin America flight and being whisked away to Sin City. And there we plan to do one thing and one thing alone: blow off some steam. Good people of Las Vegas, I formally and most sincerely apologize at this time.
 Be honest. If the French had thought of that, they'd have done it. Everything looks better with a fountain in front. Now, granted, we aren’t exactly your typical “Vegas people.” I don’t have rhinestones glued to my lower back in the shape of a dolphin. Nathan’s hair does not have frosted tips and we never, I mean NEVER, shout, “Woo!” And yet, we love Vegas all the same. We love to gamble, we love to eat fancy food, and we love fabulous hotels. But there is one thing I’m looking forward to more than anything else, something that’s going to make the rest of you snicker.
I WANT TO GO TO THE POOL!
As I’m sure you’ve heard if you read other San Francisco blogs, we’ve been “enjoying” the coldest summer in 40 years. The sun only shows itself every couple of days and outside it feels like a frozen tundra. That is why even if I had access to a pool in San Francisco, I wouldn’t care. It would be way too cold to enjoy it.
I checked the weather forecast for Las Vegas this weekend and it’s predicted to be 104. I’m not ashamed to tell you that I nearly swooned when I read that. Even better, I’ve been STARVING myself for weeks so that I can look as good as possible while I soak up my Vitamin D.
 I love that these people went on a gondola ride...with their in-laws?! I was telling Holly my big plans today because only a fellow San Franciscan can understand.
Alison:
I’m hungry. Like really, really hungry.
Holly:
Almost there!
Alison:
My whole plan is to do nothing. I have a six-month backlog of silly magazines. I’m just going to lie by the pool, drink margaritas, and read magazines about nothing.
Holly:
Sounds awesome.
Alison:
And if anyone tries to make me move, I’LL EAT THEM!
Lately, I’ve been thinking of adding a new section to my resume, something along the lines of:
Successfully Planned a Wedding
- 2007-2008
- Pulled off a flawless event for 80 friends and family members
- On-the-job experience working hands-on with a variety of local vendors
- Created, managed, and executed a project on a tight budget
- Negotiated with local vendors and cross-shopped to find the best price
- Managed high-maintenance family members who were flying in from the South and fielded calls such as, “Can you look at my email? Does my dress look like something people where in ‘the city.’?”
- Stayed cool when guests dropped out and signed up at the last minute
- Wrote countless thank-you cards
- Offered tailored travel advice for at least 50 wedding guests
- Kept smiling in the face of freak San Francisco showers on wedding day
- Lost 15 pounds and kept it off for the big day, even in the face of the occasional bout of “stress eating”
 The other people on the cable car were a little confused. Also, this is one of the better pictures I've ever taken in my life. I’m not saying our wedding was the end all, be all. Lord knows it wasn’t. In fact, it was really pared down because we paid for it ourselves and we’re really not into much of a fuss. There was a short ceremony at Grace Cathedral and then a feast at a nearby restaurant. Boom. Done. That’s all she wrote, folks. And yet, it’s still one of the harder things I have ever done in my life. Well, planning it was hard. Enjoying the big day was easy.
Lately I’m thinking a lot about it because I’m putting together an employee volunteer trip for my company to Glacier National Park. 10 lucky employees are joining yours truly at one of the most gorgeous spots on earth. We selected them from offices all across the U.S. and I’m single-handedly in charge of them for three full days. Even better, the CEO MIGHT TAG ALONG.
I know I should be stressed. I know I should be sweating bullets, but the truth is, this is still WAY easier than planning our wedding. 10 people? Pshaw! Where is the challenge? What’s that you say? I’m not paying for it out of my pocket? I could do this hopping on one foot!
Perhaps I shouldn’t crow so early, right? Maybe I’ll get there and we’ll get slammed by an early blizzard. Maybe a moose will chase me into a frigid lake or maybe someone will wander off, never to be heard from again. Maybe a giant asteroid will hit the state of Montana and cause a new ice age. (Man, okay. Now I’m a little stressed.) But all I keep thinking as I pull together the details is, Wow, this is WAY better than planning a wedding.
ACT I
SCENE I It’s late on Sunday night. A woman with unwashed ratty blonde hair and wild eyes stares hopelessly at an Intro to Statistics textbook. A man relaxes on the other couch, watching TV.
ALISON
There’s no way to learn this stuff. It’s impossible. It simply won’t go in my head.
NATHAN
You can do it. You’re going to be fine and then after tomorrow it’ll all be over.
ALISON
I really can’t. It’s like they make it intentionally hard. For instance, guess what an “array” is.
NATHAN
Now? Like, really guess?
ALISON
Guess!
NATHAN
I don’t know. Maybe it’s, uh, a graph?
ALISON
Wrong! It’s just a list of numbers. Why can’t they call it a list of numbers?! Or a list?! Why does it have to be an ARRAY?!
NATHAN
You’ll be fine.
ALISON
Tell me what a histogram is.
NATHAN
I didn’t take the class. How am I–
ALISON
Wrong! It’s just a bar chart with the bars stuck together. DO YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN HERE? We did NOT need a name for that.
NATHAN
(Stays silent. He seems afraid to speak)
ALISON
What’s an ogive?
NATHAN
(Opens mouth)
ALISON
WRONG! It’s just a line graph–only “line graph” wasn’t good enough for them. Oh no. They had to invent a Scrabble word that no one can pronounce because that would be harder. WOULD SOMEONE JUST KILL ME ALREADY?!
NATHAN
I think I’m going to bed, crazy. Don’t stay up too late.
[Alison stands up and sheepishly walks to the front of the room. She looks out at the gathered crowd and reminds herself that this is a safe place.]
“My name is Alison Presley and I hate book clubs.”
…
…
I’ll give you a moment to recover. Go on. Take as much time as you need.
I know what you’re thinking. Wait, Alison, you hate book clubs and yet you:
1) Are currently writing a novel.
2) Spent four years on the editor track at Random House.
3) Are married to Nathan, a literary agent.
4) Were a lit major in college.
5) Are reading three different novels as we speak.
Wait, there’s no way you could know that last one. But yes, all of the above are true. You’d think this would mean that I’m a natural fit for book clubs. Indeed, running in the book-nerd circles that I do, I have often been invited to join them, but even if I adore the people and trust their literary tastes 110%, I always politely decline.
This inevitably leads to the big question: Why? Over the years I have come to understand that I am the only book-lover on the planet who hates book clubs. Everyone else lives for them. Attends three a month!
I think there’s one basic reason: reading for me is a very personal thing. If I read a book and become attached to it, it will crush me to hear that you don’t like it. Even if you mostly liked it but you thought my favorite character didn’t ring true–even something as mild as that–I will never look at the book the same way again.
Example:
Recently I was eating with a friend. Somehow we got on the topic of memoirs and I was just about to share that I was currently reading (and enjoying very much) Joan Didion’s THE YEAR OF MAGICAL THINKING. As if she could read my thoughts, my friend launched into a thoughtful-yet-eviscerating review of the book. When she was done, I could see nothing but the book’s faults and could barely bring myself to finish it. I don’t know if it’s my polite Southern upbringing or just some grave character flaw, but I’m crazy sensitive to others’ opinions.
So that’s why I hate book clubs. I prefer to read books in my own little world. Sometimes I love them. Sometimes I hate them. But no matter what, the opinions are pure, unadulterated Alison.
I hope we can still be friends.
I’m not very fashionable. In fact, I wear a dress almost every single day for two reasons:
1) As a very wee person, I look stumpy in pants. STUMPY.
2) “One and done.” As in, pull one thing over your head and done. The dress already matches itself so it’s hard to mess up.
I wouldn’t say I’m hopeless, but I know better than to get too “creative” and try to throw together one of those outfits that only celebrities can pull off.
So why, then, did I buy a pair of slouch sandals?! (Side note: Is that what these are called? I really don’t know! Seems fitting at least.)
 They dream of going to a rock show. I go to bed at a sensible hour. I can only plead Temporary Sale-Pricing Insanity on this one. They were a really great deal, so I threw all caution to the wind and invested in a pair. And you know what? I loves them! Loves them! But all attempts at wearing them so far have been hilarious disasters.
Trial 1: Rolling Up My Jeans
 Anyone want to help me white-wash this here fence? It's really fun! The problem with these sandals is if you wear them with jeans, you can’t see the cute part. I wore these to work on Friday, hoping that people might notice them when I sat down at the very least. This did not happen. Update: I have very long jeans; see stumpy excuse above. Then as I was getting lunch I saw a Hip Person wearing a pair of slouch sandals and she had ROLLED UP HER JEANS.
My first thought was, Wait? Are we rolling jeans up again? Is that allowed?
But the girl looked good so I thought, I guess so. I promptly STOPPED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SIDEWALK and rolled up my jeans too. (How terrified do you think she was?) I walked around like that for a few hours until I went to the ladies room and saw myself in the mirror. I looked like Tom Sawyer in slouch sandals.
I immediately unrolled my cuffs.
Trial 2: With Skirt
 I look like a Garden Party Barbie and Gem rolled into one. There’s a debate going on at our house as to whether or not you can wear these with skirts. I say yes. Nathan says “enh.” I gave it a try this weekend with a conservative denim pencil skirt and the effect was hilarious. The problem is, these sandals were meant to rock out! My skirt collection was meant…to go to a garden party and eat crustless sandwiches…or talk about the weather at a Mothers’ Day brunch.
Mission aborted.
Trial 3: Tucking Into Jeans
 Pathetic After trying on every single skirt in my closet, I went back to my jeans and just kind of tucked them half-in/half-out of my stupid slouch sandals. This lasted about five minutes and then it came undone. Sigh.
Do you have slouch sandals/cool sandals? Can I wear them with a skirt? Someone suggested wearing them with a skirt and leggings. Are we doing leggings again? I CAN’T KEEP TRACKING ANYMORE! Help!!
Where: Happy place
When: Monday evening
Why: After cramming all weekend long (and I do mean every second of both days) and breaking down in hysterical tears on Sunday night, I rose early on Monday and survived a three-hour, closed-book, waking-nightmare of a statistics final. And this means WE SHALL NEVER SPEAK OF THIS AWKWARD PERIOD IN MY LIFE AGAIN.
One of the moments that really sticks with me from my sister’s wedding is, of all things, saying goodbye to my parents.
 Yes, apparently my aunt is 10 years old Being an adult is difficult in so many ways that you never expected and one of the hardest for me is dealing with my parents’ crushing disappointment and inconsolable sadness that I live in California.
We moved here four years ago from New York City. At the time, we were over New York’s craziness, we were tired of how soul-suckingly poor we were, and we were ready to live close to one set of parents. Mine live in Florida, surrounded by generation upon generation of Presleys. And Nathan’s live two hours outside of San Francisco, again surrounded by generations of family members. When we lived in New York, we spent every last scrap of time off flying across the country to visit one set or the other. San Francisco seemed like the perfect, logical solution.
We never really even considered moving south. That’s not to say I don’t love the South. I adore it, long for it, and self-identify as being Southern all the time. But the kind of jobs we have really only exist in one of two cities: New York and San Francisco. And I’m the kind of person that needs to be happy in her career to be happy at all.
When we first moved to San Francisco my parents were devastated. We didn’t worry too much about it at the time, thinking they’d fall in love with the city and adjust to the idea just like they had done with Manhattan. They loved it when we lived in New York and visited us very often.
Four years later I can tell you that they are still devastated and they’re never going to get over it. And now when I have to tell them goodbye, they clutch at me and tear up. “We miss you so much,” they say. “Can’t you move back to New York?” We’ve considered it a time or two–both of our companies have offices in both cities–but just the mention of it and Nathan’s parents get that same look mine already have.
I think part of the problem is that it FEELS far away in their minds. It’s not that much farther on the plane but the time zone thing really messes with them. The other is that I’m Southern and in the South a girl does not leave the homeplace. If her husband loves her at all, he will give up his family and move to where she was born. In fact, I recently learned that two girls we were raised with use me and my sister as an example of HOW BAD IT COULD BE to their parents. (They have dared to move as far away as Tampa.)
No matter how I look at it, there’s no way to make both sets of parents happy. This is the plight of falling in love with a man born halfway across the country from where you were born. And when we have kids, it’s only going to get worse, as my parents feel cut off from their grandkids.
Worse still, now that I’m older, I can look down the road far enough to foresee painful periods when one of my parents is sick and I can’t get there fast enough. I don’t think I could even bear that thought except for the fact that my brother is there, my calm, sturdy, big-hearted brother, so I know they will always be looked after. But I won’t be the first to their bedside, and I will hardly be able to tend to it for months at a time.
Anyway, there are no easy solutions. We tried to meet up with my parents every couple of months this year and we’re video chatting with them now, but it’s never going to be easy. I just wish there was a solution that didn’t come at the cost of the happiness of one set of parents or the other. I really love my mom and dad, and it’s hard to see them so consistently sad.
As you guys know, I was super nervous about my Maid of Honor speech. Specifically, I was worried about crying through the whole thing. The funny thing is, I used to be the unsentimental type. I almost never cried for the first 29 years of my life. But then one day I turned 30 and everything changed and suddenly I became like your annoying aunt who sobs at Hallmark commercials and collects Thomas Kinkade throws for her floral couch.
I discovered this new-found propensity for water works in the world’s most awkward fashion. About a year ago I had to give a toast at my best friend’s 1,000-person Indian wedding. I kid, I kid. I think there were only 500 people in attendance but we did eat off of gilded elephants at dinner. Anyway, for that speech, I made it through just a few lines and began to sob, hard. I was REMOVED from the stage by her husband in a very thoughtful mercy killing.
 Her dress weighed 20 pounds. So did she. I did not. So my strategy with the speech for Sandy’s wedding was to write it all out, practice it a ton, and then just read it straight through–trying not to stop. Sure, it wouldn’t be the most natural delivery but if I got through it that would be a victory. Oh, and I had asked my sister-in-law to be my plant and to GUFFAW LOUDLY at anything that seemed like a joke.
My dad warmed up the crowd first, getting the obligatory ear-shattering microphone feedback shrieking noise out of the way. I was careful to stand far away from the speakers and BE STILL. I actually had the speech typed out in my Gmail and my plan was to read it from my iPhone. I made a quick joke about that and my sister-in-law dutifully GUFFAWED.
 He's a really good speech giver. Guess I take after Mom... It started off fine. The opening was a funny story from our childhood that reflected very well on Sandy. But then, disaster struck. Clearly I am not favored among womankind because A STUPID TRAIN BEGAN TO PASS THE WEDDING VENUE, COMPLETELY DROWNING ME OUT.
I had worked so hard to plan everything but I had never considered A TRAIN. In fact, I was so surprised I actually stopped and said, “Ohmigosh. A train,” and then I just froze and stared out at the audience. I quickly realized that it was a loooooooong train and there was no way I could wait for it to pass. I cleared my throat and said, “I’ll just try to keep going.”
From there, things are kind of a blur. The funny bits were over and it was time to elaborate on all of Sandy’s and Eric’s good qualities and how much Sandy means to me. I just kind warbled through those parts, tears rolling down my cheeks. Eventually, I realized the only way to STOP crying was to tell another joke so I skipped quickly to the end where I had planted another family story.
All in all it wasn’t a disaster but I still broke down and sobbed. Someone really needs to come up with a nifty trick to avoid that because picturing the guests in their underwear doesn’t work for me.
I suppose what I SHOULD have done is think back to this moment, when the photographer on the chair came THIS CLOSE to falling right on top of the wedding cake. I caught her on film just after she regained her balance. The bride and groom were blissfully unaware.
 It's funny because it didn't happen, right?
Let it never be doubted that I take your advice, Internet Pals, and thank god for that. You guys really came through for me with the preparations for my sister’s wedding.
Just as you instructed I skipped the fake tan, worked hard on my speech, and invested in a good pair of water boobs. In fact, I ended up going with Pure Style Girlfriends Women’s Bump-a-Cup Inserts. Nathan laughed to no end when he saw the confirmation email from Amazon. “That has to be the most ridiculous product name ever.” AGREED.
The funny thing is, I did a ton of research on my water boobs. Turns out you can go with the Bump-a-Cups for just a little boost or you can get greedy and try the Jump-a-Cups. Let’s just say, I was feeling greedy but at the last second I decided that what with a wedding being a SACRAMENT and all I should probably go with the more church-ly Bump-a-Cups. (That’s word, right? Church-ly?)
And even though all along I’d been calling them “water boobs,” something about Erin’s term for them–chicken cutlets–really stuck in my head and that became the running joke of the wedding week. “Ali, put your chicken cutlets in. It’s almost picture time!” “Whose chicken cutlets are these on the table?” The funniest part was when my mom was trying to get in on the laughs and she turned to my sweet sister-in-law and said, “Oh, do you have chicken fat too?”
We all stared at my mom in horror. Then I realized what she meant.
“Sorry, she means chicken CUTLETS, which are fake boob inserts. Mom, chicken fat is…well, not a chicken cutlet.” Mom shrugged and said she was unable to keep all the chicken guts straight.
All in all, the wedding was really gorgeous. Lancaster, PA is really pretty–if a little quiet for my taste. Also, apparently it’s a hotbed for miniature horse breeding. I’ve never seen so many tiny, tiny horses.
 This was not a petting zoo. It was someone's yard. Also that's not a miniature horse, technically. My parents stayed in a converted barn/bed-and-breakfast for part of the time and the owners were REAL LIVE MENNONITES, which are kind of like Amish people who decided that MAYBE riding in a car once in a while was no big deal. Here’s my mom sitting with their “emergency phone.” You see? This is exactly what makes them NOT Amish.
 Who is this harlot with the saucy sunglasses and short pants?! The countryside was really pretty but it was so hot that all my pictures look hazy. The truth is, it WAS hazy. In fact, during the one family walk we attempted, my little nephew Aaron began to cry because it was so hot. It bears mentioning that THE KID LIVES IN FLORIDA.
 We sang the Farmer in the Dell forever...then we looked up what a "dell" was on our iPhones. Amish Fail!  Children of the corn  I love this picture I’ll tell you all about how the speech went tomorrow. The tears were mine–but I don’t think I was the only one sniffling. All in all, it was a lovely wedding and I’m so happy for these two crazy kids. My sister was on cloud nine all day and during the reception a group of deer grazed in a nearby meadow. That has to be good omen, right?!
 I've NEVER seen my sister happier. PS: Is there a term for a group of deer? You know, like a gaggle of geese?
|
|
