I’ve been contacting all my friends with babies, pumping them for
information on whether those three-wheeler strollers are really all
they’re cracked up to be, and do you want a bassinet that also converts
into a car seat or is it fine to have those things separate, and surely,
surely, when the baby book says they go to the toilet 10 times
that has to be some kind of misprint, right?
In the midst of all this, I had an idea for a short story. So I
wrote it. If you’re interested,
here it is. It’s 3,000 words
Thanks so much for all the congratulations and well wishes! You
Now, I know other people have had babies. I see them all the time. In
fact, I have it on good authority that, at one time, I was a baby myself.
So on the one hand, surely there should be nothing newsworthy about
the impending arrival of yet another one. But on the other, OH MY GOD
MY WIFE IS PREGNANT.
I know, I know. Deep breaths. Work through it. Okay. Here are the facts:
The due date is August 22. We know the baby’s sex (my theory is
the birth will be interesting enough without needing to build up any
additional suspense), but are not telling anybody (because we’re cruel).
It’s our first.
about my newest arch-nemesis (why stop at one?), Todd
Bunker, got quite a reaction. First a lot of people left comments supporting
me, which was really nice and quite touching. I did notice
a few said some pretty mean things about Todd… but no, you’re
right, he deserved it. Then I saw a bunch of people had
the site that hosted Todd’s article to rake him over
the coals. And some copied me in on e-mails to Todd, pointing out
(in some detail) glaring deficiencies in his character.
Now, I had been thinking about writing a blog about
The Worst Review I Ever Got—one that makes Todd Bunker’s seem like
drooling praise—but now I’m worried that if I do, people will hunt
the guy down, smash his car windows, and kidnap his pets.
So, moving on. For a while there I had a metablog: in late March, a guy called Adam
left the comment:
Max Barry has inspired me to start my own blog, and since I don’t have a website, I will start writing on the comments of max barry’s blogs.
It will pobably be really boring and have a lot of grammatical errors because I am not a professional writer.
But it wasn’t! I was enthralled with whether Adam would ask
Jennifer to the prom, and what would happen to his simmering rivalry with
Eric, even if this was all clearly fictional. And damn, he made some good
points: why isn’t 2% milk called 98% milk? Unfortunately, Adam
seemed to lose enthusiasm in April, and then he stopped posting. So my
metablog is no more: I’m back to just a regular blog.
Speaking of comments: a couple of people asked about the apparently
redundant “A Novel” that appears on
the cover of Company.
Well, here’s the answer, straight from my editor:
That’s so bookstore clerks don’t throw the book in with WHO MOVED MY
So there you go. Apparently Doubleday is also debating how exactly
to “glaze” the donut on the cover! Although:
the scratch n sniff idea was deemed too expensive
Oh well. You can probably get
the same effect by purchasing a real donut and smearing it all over
the book. If you really want to, I mean.
Today I got some orthotic inserts for my sneakers, because I’d like to be able
to keep running without having my feet collapse, or my knees implode, or
whatever else is meant to happen to long-time runners.
My podiatrist was an energetic young woman named Allison, and pretty soon
she had my feet wrapped up in warm, wet bandages—which was really pleasant,
although it was hard to relax due to the threat of tickling. Apparently
Allison was making
a mold, from which a plaster cast of my feet
could be formed, and used to shape the orthotics.
“What happens to the casts afterward?” I asked.
“Oh, we keep them,” Allison said. “We have to. They’re considered medical
I found the idea of a big warehouse somewhere full of white plaster feet
a bit disconcerting. But Allison was enthusiastic. She was, in fact,
remarkably perky for someone who had to smell other people’s feet all day.
I quizzed her about this: “Don’t you get sick of dealing with feet
all the time?”
“Oh no,” Allison said, as if I had said something deeply
shocking. “Two people walk
in, and they’ll be totally different. With feet, you never know what
you’re going to get.”