Charming, but single

Don’t forget to post your questions for author Meg Cabot in the post below. Best question = free copy of “Queen of Babble” by Ms. Cabot. (And, um, a note from me?) A quick question could get you some superfab summer beach reading. Who could ask for anything more, right?

Major writer’s block this week.

Contests? Do we likey/not likey?

I’ve had a BIG spam problem as of late – Akismet normally catches about 20 spam comments a day, but when I got home today I had 200 spam comments pending. While I was deleting them, more were being posted … and they’re slipping through. A few here, a few there. Anyway, I have no idea why the spam is so crazy all of the sudden, but it seeeeriously annoys me.

I would like to remind you all that you can subscribe to this blog and get posts e-mailed to you first thing in the morning. (Between 5 a.m. and 7 a.m. CST.) This is super great for those of you who have been banned from blogs at the office by your evil IT people. Productivity-schmoductivity. Anyway, I think the e-mail subscription is cool. (Good morning, e-mail subscribers! Enjoy your coffee!)

And, to finish on a random note, I present my Top 25 Played on iTunes:

1. “Single” by Natasha Bedingfield
2. “Who Knew” by P!nk
3. “Home” by Michael Bouble
4. “Addicted” by Kelly Clarkson
5. “Fools Like Me” by Lisa Loeb
6. “Not Ready To Make Nice” by Dixie Chicks
7. “U + Ur Hand” by P!nk
8. “Stupid Boy” by Keith Urban
9. “Chicago” by Sufjan Stevens
10. “Same In Any Language” by I-Nine
11. “Because Of You” by Kelly Clarkson
12. “SOS (Rescue Me)” by Rihanna
13. “How To Save A Life” by The Fray
14. “Break Your Heart” by Barenaked Ladies
15. “Butterflies” by Dave Barnes
16. “Bright Lights” by Matchbox 20
17. “Tonight I Wanna Cry” by Keith Urban
18. “Ring the Alarm” by Beyoncé
19. “Fighter” by Christina Aguilera
20. “I Will Follow You Into the Dark” by Death Cab for Cutie
21. “Slow Dancing In A Burning Room” by John Mayer
22. “Catalyst” by Anna Nalick
23. “New Shoes” by Paolo Nutini
24. “Leave The Pieces” by The Wreckers
25. “Check On It” by Destiny’s Child

I shall call that playlist “Last Year/VH1 called and it wants its music back.” Also, I am shocked – SHOCKED – that “Don’t Bother” by Shakira and “Say It Right” by Nelly Furtado didn’t make the Top 25. iTunes tells me I’ve only listened to “Say It Right” 14 times. Which I find hard to believe because that song is ALWAYS in my head. Shakira narrowly missed the Top 25 because I’ve only listened to “Don’t Bother” a mere 31 times, as opposed to 34 times for “Check On It.”

Yes, I was serious earlier about the writer’s block. Why do you ask?

We here at Charming, but Single headquarters (And by “We” I mean, um, me. And by Headquarters I mean “my bedroom.” My “field office” is any one of my city’s many coffee shops that serves sugar-free vanilla lattes and has free wi-fi.) don’t often get to GIVE you things, other than maybe something to read when you should be dutifully filling in spreadsheets or faxing your TPS reports or whatever it is that you are supposed to be doing at work instead of reading about my pathetic, if not mildly amusing, attempts at a love life.

Some of you may be familiar with Meg Cabot, the author of “The Princess Diaries,” among other books. Meg’s books aren’t just for young adults and last week her “Queen of Babble” was released in paperback. Next week I’m going to be publishing an interview with Meg on the blog and you, dear readers, get to submit questions.

This is where the whole “contest” thing comes into play. The questions Ms. Cabot answers will be ones you submit. The reader who comes up with the “best” question of the bunch will win a copy of “Queen of Babble” and the fame and fortune that comes with being the First Ever Charming, but Single Contest Winner.

For a description of “Queen of Babble,” click here. To read Meg’s blog, click here.

Booklist’s synopsis of “Queen of Babble” (courtesy of Amazon.com):

Lizzie Nichols, a fashion-history major, wants nothing more than to graduate college and then fly off to London to be with her boyfriend, Andy. But at her graduation party, Lizzie finds out that she can’t graduate until she writes a senior thesis. And when she lands in London, Andy turns out to be a liar, gambler, and a fashion disaster. Lizzie, stuck in London with a nonchangeable ticket home, escapes Andy via the Chunnel in hopes that her friend Shari, who is catering weddings for the summer at a French chateau, can help. On the train, Lizzie meets a stranger, Jean-Luc, and spills everything that has happened, only to find out that he is the son of the chateau’s owner. At the chateau, Lizzie continues to babble when she shouldn’t, ticking off Jean-Luc, shocking his mother, and upsetting a bride. Will she ever learn to keep her mouth shut? Cabot, best known for the young adult series The Princess Diaries, writes adult fiction that is just as playful, irreverent, and entertaining.

Sounds like great summer beach reading. Possible question topics include: Advice for wannabe writers, inspiration for her work, favorite writers/books/vacation spots, etc.

Here are the contest rules:

1. Questions must be posted in the comments on this post between now and 10 p.m. Central Standard Time on Friday, June 1, 2007.
2. No more than three questions per reader – if you post more than three, the first three will count.
3. You must provide a valid e-mail address with your question/comment. (E-mail addresses will not be published on the site and I won’t spam ya, promise.)
4. Winner will be selected by Blogger Extraordinaire and Chick Lit Expert Neil Kramer from Citizen of the Month, with assistance from yours truly. Entrants will be judged on creativity, relevance and spelling.
5. Winner will be announced next week when the interview runs on this site. I’ll make arrangements through e-mail to get you your book.

You can post questions (about the contest) in the comments or e-mail them to me, but please post questions for Meg in the comments to this post. Have fun!

I have a tendency to live only in extremes. I am at once terribly motivated or downright apathetic, bursting with joy or flattened by despair, hysterically hopeful or ridiculously cynical.

Not in a mentally unstable way, of course. But in a way that can be almost comical. One day I am convinced that I will never speak to another man again, that I will never go on another date again, that I will die alone in my bathroom when I slip on a puddle and crack my head on the side of the tub and when they finally notice I am missing and come to my apartment, my mother will be horrified that my laundry basket full of bras and panties is sitting on the couch, high heels litter the living room floor and three empty bottles of wine clutter up the kitchen counter.

Then, of course, are the days where I am so optimistic about my future that I’m mentally monogramming towels and planning perfect dates and perfect date outfits and being annoyingly chipper about the romantic road ahead.

Take Passport. (Who, it is worth noting, has not called. It has been 16 days. Not that I’m counting. Really.) Something about tall boys with dark hair sends me into a state of frenzied hopefulness that lasts until something crazy happens – like he disappears for good, or another man does something so terribly stupid that I lose faith in the entire gender or someone I know announces that she is pregnant and I start mentally counting how many eggs I have left myself.

I haven’t quite decided if optimistic or cynical is easier for me – on one hand I am somewhat of a hopeless romantic who does want to believe that there’s someone out there for me. On the other hand I have dated some of the least eligible men in the world, been lied to, emotionally misled, made to feel inferior by some and generally creeped out by others. I could choose cynicism, and who would blame me? Conversely, I could plug my fingers in my ears and ignore the mounting evidence against happily ever after for a little longer, choosing instead to default to the fairy tale stories that nurtured my dreams as a child.

I try to maintain a balance – hopeful enough to stay open to a relationship, but cynical enough not to fall for the first guy to buy me a beer and check out my rack. But I’m constantly teetering between Woe Is Me and One Day My Prince Will Come.

As for Passport, much of my hope that he is interested is gone and what remains is bolstered by various friends from the Dating Committee who assure me that the next time we’re in the same town is crucial and will determine his intentions. Their well-meaning support is enough to keep me from completely writing him off – though conventional wisdom says I probably should.

For now, he’s relegated to the mental backburner while I forge ahead, with hope in my heart and cynicism is my step.

I was eating my grandmother’s Hungarian chicken and dumplings – a dish I’ve loved since childhood and tried to cook with mixed results twice since rejoining the ranks of the meat-eaters. I’d been picking her brain about it, yet again. She’d just cooked two whole chicken’s worth of the stew and eight eggs worth of dumplings. (By contrast, two boneless thighs and a breast of chicken and two or three eggs are enough for me to eat several dinners and a lunch or two myself.)

I simply couldn’t fathom how she could make enough for an army and yet hers tasted so much better than mine, aside from the fact that she’s probably made this hundreds of times and I’ve eaten hers a hundred times and even though it is simple – chicken, paprika, oil, onions, dab of tomato paste on mounds of simple egg-and-flour dumplings.

She explained, yet again, while my younger cousin teased me about not being able to cook.

“I can cook,” I said, defensively. “But there’s just something that just isn’t the same when I make it.”

“I know you don’t believe it, but I couldn’t cook at all when I got married,” my Grandmother told me.

“Oh yeah?” I said.

“Not at all,” she said, shaking her head very solemnly.

“Well, that’s why I’m waiting to get hitched. I want to be able to know how to cook everything first,” I said, winking at her and patting her wrinkled hand.

She smiled.

And later she sent me home with a half-dozen small mason jars, handwritten notes based on three old recipes and a lengthy description of how to make her homemade bread-butter-pickles.

The Bride at the wedding I went to on Saturday was perhaps the most relaxed bride ever in the history of weddings. She looked relaxed and poised – we joked that it was the two years of planning. She just had this big, happy smile on her face and calm demeanor, as if she were thinking, “I’m here, I’m wearing the white gown, there’s my husband, let’s roll.” Not to say that the other brides I’ve seen haven’t been happy. There was just something about the calmness that I found to be kind of impressive. Because I’m sure I’ll be a bawling, weepy basketcase should I ever get hitched. Both of my parents are criers. Heck, my whole family could produce a Gulf of tears if the occasion was joyous enough.

But on Saturday, there was even a moment when, after her husband said his vows, she looked at the priest pointedly and nodded, like, “I’m ready! Vows, please!”

I couldn’t help but giggle and nudge my friend, who was also trying to suppress a chuckle at The Look.

Now, I have been to a few weddings in my day and as someone who has not yet made it up the aisle, I find myself with conflicting emotions during the ceremony – joy for my friend, regret for myself and curiosity about what exactly it is that the bride and groom are gossiping about up there.

Sure, I’d like to think that they’re having some special moment of, “You’re the one I want forever and ever.” But I’m pretty sure the conversation is probably a little more irreverent. A few “you look breathtaking”s followed by some, “I am so ready for the reception” or “I think I look silly with 20 feet of tulle coming out of my head” and a dash of “Seriously, what is your cousin wearing? I know right? She looks like a drag queen.”

Not that I’m saying that weddings shouldn’t be a time of solemn reflection and love. I’m sure that, somewhere between the lighting of the unity candle and the first kiss, all of that is in there. But I am almost equally sure that a combination of nerves and excitement makes the whole thing comical to the bride and groom. You’re in this $1,000 dress with a bustle and a woman tasked to keep the train straight and lovely and you’re supposed to be all serious, but really, all you can do is giggle about how, well, the guy you met in jeans and flip flops is all buttoned up in a tuxedo.

Perhaps it is just me being shallow – I’ve been accused of that from time to time. Honestly, though I protest about weddings and needing a date and how silly I feel going, I am somewhat in awe when two people I know actually stand in front of God and everyone and profess their love and tie the knot. Because, contrary to popular opinion, I am very much a softie hopeless romantic.

And then, of course, you move to the reception. This is where I will admit that I fit the classic Single Girl Cliché of taking notes about venue, cake, band.  Stone me if you like, but I’ve already picked out what I want my wedding cake to look like and I’m merely using all current and future weddings to try different flavors and fillings – and if you think about it that way, it really makes wedding hopping, even as a Singleton with nary a date and nary a prospect, kind of fun.