Choose Your Own Chick-Lit Adventure!

 

Have you ever wanted to write your very own chick lit novel? Have you ever dreamed of being the next Sophie Kinsella or Jennifer Weiner? Well, guess what. You can be! Your hand-crafted chick lit novel is only one simple little recipe away.

 

I've provided all the main ingredients. The rest is up to you! Have fun!

 

 

What is your heroine's name?

A. Emma

B. Jane

C. Elizabeth

D. Sophie

Where does she live?

A. London

B. New York City

C. Los Angeles

D. Toronto

 

What is her job?

A. Journalist

B. Publicist

C. Fashion Blogger

D. Casting Agent

Who is her sidekick?

A. Fabulous gay bestie! (he's a hair stylist)

B. Straight male best friend (your heroine has known him her entire life, but would NEVER fall in love with him...or would she?)

C. Chubby female best friend who is married with two young children (she envies your "glamorous" single life!)

D. Thin, sarcastic dark-haired best friend who is an attorney and dresses in all black (she's cynical of men and never wants children)

What is your heroine's main goal?

A. Fall in love

B. Get promoted

C. Be famous

D. Lose 20 pounds

Who is your heroine's enemy?

A. Her perfect, gorgeous engaged little sister (that spoiled brat!)

B. Her overbearing mother ("When are you going to get married? You're nearly 30!")

C. That tall ice-cold blonde bitch co-worker (she wants your job...and your man)

D. The ex-boyfriend (he cheated and now he wants a second chance? Yeah, right)

Who is your heroine's love interest?

A. Her hunky boss (he's sophisticated, charming, and filthy rich)

B. Her straight male best friend (she's adorably oblivious that he's her soul mate)

C. That annoying businessman who spilled coffee on her at Starbucks and now appears everywhere (she despises him and refuses to acknowledge that she's attracted to him)

D. That casually cute Jeep-driving vegan with moppy brown hair (he's secretly wealthy!)

What is your conflict?

A. Your heroine tells a little fib that snowballs into a hilarious avalanche of disasters!

B. It's a case of mistaken identity and your heroine doesn't realize it until its too late.

C. She's chasing after true love, without realizing it's right under her nose.

D. Fish out of water scenario! Your heroine is shipped off to a foreign country (or a different time period) and she has no idea what to do! Poor girl.

What is your book's ending?

A. She falls in love

B. She falls in love and gets promoted

C. She falls in love and gets married

D. She falls in love and gets pregnant (oooh, sequel alert!)

What is the title of your book?

A. Confessions of a Thirty-Something

B. A Chocoholic's Guide to Dating & Other Disasters

C. Must Love Martinis

D. Tripping in Heels


Now, tell me about your book!!

Oh, Frankie!

When I was in middle school I had virtually no self-esteem.

Of course, I wasn't alone. But when you're 13, it feels like it.

I had been a really cute kid. But then things drastically changed. My teeth grew in severely crooked, thanks to a gum surgery (a benign tumor was removed). My front teeth grew in sideways. When I opened my mouth I looked like a freak. I stopped smiling when I was nine.

I hadn't grown into my nose yet. It was wide and had a hump and not at all like the dainty little upturned noses my blonde peers flaunted.

My hair was long, stringy, and frizzy. The humid south Florida weather promised I would never see a good hair day, no matter how many products my mom gave me.

I was pretty damn miserable.

I had crushes on boys, but they were pretty cruel to me when they found out. One popular boy even shouted "woof!" when he discovered I had the hots for him. If that doesn't shatter a sixth-grader's self-image, I don't know what does.

I suppose you could say being an awkward, unattractive pre-teen developed my character. I became extremely sarcastic. I didn't have many friends. I holed myself away at home, spending weekends writing humorous stories and fake magazine articles on the computer, instead of going to the mall with other girls my age. The Jennifer you know today was founded on that time period.

But I desperately wanted a boy to like me. I didn't even want a boyfriend. I just wanted a boy to LIKE ME. I wanted to feel pretty. I wanted to feel like I wasn't the biggest loser on the planet.

On the first day of seventh grade, that changed.

Frank, the new kid, sat next to me in algebra class. He was cute, in a non-threatening sort of way. He didn't use hair products and he didn't dress like a douchebag. He wore flannel. He had a strange accent. He had kind eyes.

I cracked a joke in class, and while my other classmates stared at me blankly, Frank laughed. Not at me, but at my joke! I couldn't believe it! It was a miracle!

Later that day in the cafeteria, my friends and I looked up to see Frank holding his lunch tray, hovering over us.

"Can I sit here?" he asked.

I nearly knocked my milk over the table, I was so eager to make room for him.

"Everyone here seems really superficial," he said, narrowing his eyes at a group of popular girls applying makeup at the next table. "I'm from New Jersey. I'm not used to palm trees and all these fancy houses."

After the girls I was sitting with went to hang out in the sunny quad, Frank and I talked. He was so easy to talk to, which surprised me. Other than my cousins, I didn't have much experience talking to boys my own age.

We became fast friends. He ate lunch with me every day. He laughed at all my jokes. He talked a lot about New Jersey. He was clearly very homesick. I didn't mind though because I didn't know much about the east coast. I found it all very interesting. I couldn't imagine not going to Disney World every weekend. I couldn't imagine a beach without palm trees. It all seemed very odd and exciting. Industrial and cool.

We started hanging out after school. I even went to a school dance with him, as friends, and taught him the Macarena. I couldn't believe Frank had never done it before! It was like hanging out with a Martian! Even President Clinton knew the Macarena!

And of course, from the moment we became best friends I knew I was madly in love with him. I had never been treated so nicely before by a boy who wasn't a relative. He made me feel so special.

Suddenly, my life changed.

My parents took me to Bennigan's for dinner during a weeknight. I should have known something was up because we only went there for special occasions and never during the week. I was halfway through my delicious hot wings when my parents dropped the bombshell.

We were moving to Nebraska.

Haha wait, what?

My dad had been offered a much better job up there in Omaha. One he simply couldn't turn down.

I was devastated.

I awkwardly parted ways with my friends. Saying goodbye to Frankie was the hardest. He promised me he would write.
And guess what. He did.

For a month, we wrote each other once a week. Neither one of us had e-mail back then. It was all snail mail, which, looking back on it, made his correspondence even more impressive.

But I was miserable in Omaha. I thought about Frankie all the time. I slept with his letters underneath my pillow. It was torture knowing he was there and I was here. That I was in love with him and he didn't know.

So, I decided I needed to tell him how I felt.

I recorded myself singing "Don't Let Go" by En Vogue onto a cassette tape and I mailed it to him.

It seemed like a really good idea at the time. It seemed so rational!

I didn't take into account that my singing voice sounds like a dying cat. I didn't realize that my wailing "there's gonna be some LOVE-MAKIN', HEART-BREAKIN', SOUL-SHAKIN' loooOoooOoove" was severely inappropriate.

After I mailed him the tape, I never heard from him again.

I was crushed.

At the time, I couldn't figure out why. Didn't he like me back? Wasn't my message obvious? Did he not like R&B?

I was flummoxed.

Of course, looking back now, I realize that I pretty much made the worst decision in the history of the world. And I laugh hysterically thinking about it.

Oh, man. Poor Frankie. I wish I could have seen his reaction when he hit play. I must have scared the shit outta that poor boy.

I wonder if he still has the tape.

Where's Rachel?

When I was a little girl, my parents quickly learned that sending me to my room as a punishment was, in fact, not a punishment. I loved my room. All my Barbie dolls were there.

So, when I got in trouble, they started sending me to the home office.

At first it was boring. But after rummaging around on the desk, I discovered a massive carton filled with pens and pencils.

 

Putting my twisted imagination to work, I began to play with the writing utensils like they were dolls. Each pen and pencil had a name, a personality, and a family. For example, the blue pencil, David, was in love with the State Farm pen, Denise. But he was already married to Megan, the chewed up red pencil. The faded pink eraser was their daughter, Lindsay.

The pens and pencils in that carton were an entire village. It was like a soap opera, filled with family drama, romantic scandals, and even a random bank robbery when an erasable pen stole a bunch of paperclips at gunpoint.

I was so caught up in the little world I had created that I started to prefer playing with the pens and pencils over my own Barbies. I would rush home from school, running straight past my bedroom, into the office and dump out the carton of pens.

The anticipation was killing me. Would Rachel, the Yellow Pages pen finally realize that her husband, the Dr. Epperdink MD pen, was cheating on her with a pink highlighter named Gwen?! Was Rick, the black Sharpie, going to get cold feet at his wedding with Sarah, the red Bic pen?

I couldn't wait to start the show!

One evening, I dumped out the carton, ready to play, when I let out a gasp.

Where was Rachel?!?

RACHEL WAS MISSING.

I scoured all over the office. How did she disappear?

I ran into the living room, where my dad was watching the news.

"Where's Rachel?" I demanded.

He looked up, perplexed.

"Rachel who?" he asked.

"Rachel, the, the, pen," I sputtered, in panic. "The Yellow Pages pen! Where is she?"

My dad stared at me.

"The Yellow Pages pen?" he repeated, blankly. "That pen wasn't working this morning. The ink is out. So I threw it away."

I shrank away in horror.

"You what?" I whispered. "You threw her away?"

With tears streaming down my face, I ran back into the office.

"Where are you Rachel?" I wailed, digging through the trash can. "I'll find you! Oh my god!"

She was nowhere to be found. I ran into the kitchen, rummaging through that trash can, throwing garbage all over the floor, desperately seeking out the Yellow Pages pen.

My parents ran into the kitchen.

"You're making a mess!" My dad roared. "You better clean that up!"

Finally clutching the discovered Yellow Pages pen, now covered in ketchup, I glared up at him.

"You killed Rachel," was all I could manage to croak.

My parents stared back at me, speechless.

Then they had a long talk in the living room.

They came back into the kitchen and told me I was no longer allowed to play with the pens and pencils.

I was devastated.

To make their point, they hid the carton from me in a locked desk drawer.

That moment marked a changing point in my life. Staring at the locked drawer, I realized that playtime was over. It was time to grow up.

I moved on.

But I never forgot.

And now sometimes when I look at a pen, for a split second, I think I see her personality stare back at me and she winks. And it jolts me back to life.

But then it fades away as quickly as it appeared.

Your 1950s childhood

When most people look back at the 1950s, they see the decade as a delicious whirlwind of Marilyn Monroe, Elvis, James Dean, soda fountains, poodle skirts, chocolate milkshakes, and motorcycles.

But, in reality, the world was a much darker place.

Imagine being a kid in the 1950s...

...and these were your toys.

 

 

 

Oh, you don't want to play by yourself anymore? I understand. How about playing a board game with your parents? That's safe, right?

 



 

No? Okay, how about browsing through your mom's fashion magazines? Surely those won't be terrifying. Christian Dior dresses, Chanel suits, and satin gloves. Sigh. Let's look at some of the advertisements now!

 

 

 

 

 

Well, fuck. Forget that shit. Let's just watch television!

 

 

 

Ugh, seriously?!?!

Ummm you know what, mom? I think I'm just going to go play outside!

 

 

 

 

Much, much better.

 

Phew.

 

The Magical World of The Smiths

It just occurred to me that I rarely talk about Morrissey on this blog.

I'm obsessed with him, and yet he barely makes a mention here.

I suppose it's because I know most of you probably aren't as obsessed with him as I am. And I know there are a few of you who don't even know his music.

I decided that needs to change.

During my snow day yesterday, I was uber bored and while listening to The Smiths (Moz's former band) I suddenly realized a magical theme. Since I had plenty of time on my hands, I created a set of Disney memes to accompany some of my favorite Smiths (and solo) tracks, along with the song, so you can sing along.

Please enjoy.

What do you think of my memes? Do you like The Smiths? (Isn't Moz dreamy?)

Hollywood Time Machine

Have you ever wondered what would have happened if certain celebrities had been alive in a different time period?

Welcome to my parallel universe, where these fantasies have come true.

You're welcome.

1933

When Britney Jean Spears was 16, she ran away from her small hometown in Louisiana and hopped on the first train to New York City. She wanted to be rich, famous, and beautiful.

With her pretty face and extensive ballet training, the Southern teenager didn't have trouble finding work. She soon became a well-known showgirl on the Broadway scene.

But, Britney was too ambitious to be a showgirl. In her mid-20s, when producers were hinting she was getting too old for the job, she started to look for other work. She tried performing as a sultry songstress in nightclubs, but found her mediocre voice couldn't compete with all the other talent.

Plus, her life was a bit of a mess. Her wealthy ex-husband was a cold-hearted gangster who had caught her cheating on him with his right-hand man. He killed her lover, and Britney was terrified she would be next. She was constantly frightened his thugs were watching her every move. She became an emotional, mental, and paranoid wreck. Her fragile state, along with her now-tarnished reputation, ruined her career.

By 1940, she had completely disappeared. Did the mafia kill her? Or, did she go into hiding for the rest of her life? Nobody knows.


1943

Growing up bi-racial in the early part of the 20th century was a struggle that made Alicia Keys strong. She grew up in a poor household, raised by her single mother, a struggling actress. In order to deal with the prejudice and pain inflicted upon her life, she turned to music. She was a child prodigy on the piano, and had a breathtaking voice.

When Alicia was 17, she was performing at a hole-in-the-wall jazz club in Harlem, when a music producer arrived. He was immediately blown away by the gorgeous singer, and realized she could be a major star.

At first, his colleagues dissuaded him against the move, telling him it was impossible to market an African-American singer to the masses. But, the music producer ignored them. Alicia's first record became an international best-seller and she toured the world, performing at the most prestigious venues. She even appeared as a nightclub singer in a few major Hollywood films.

By the time Alicia turned 80, she was an established Hollywood legend, even earning an honorary Grammy Award in 2003, presented by a beaming Whitney Houston.


1953

The daughter of a 1920s silent film star, Angelina Jolie always knew she wanted to make a name for herself in lights. With her exotic features and undeniable talent, she was given her first leading role at 20.

Five years later, she had become the biggest movie star in the world. But, her personal life started to overshadow her films. Already married three times, Angelina had also been named "the other woman" in a whopping 17 divorce lawsuits. There were also rumors that she was a lesbian with Marlene Dietrich. At the age of 27, she made international headlines by marrying the dashing movie star George Clooney.

During their honeymoon in France, Angelina was found shot dead in her hotel suite. The incident turned the world upside down, with movie fans around the world tossing out theories. Did a scorned ex-wife from her past murder her? Rumors started swirling that George was really a closeted homosexual and had been using Angelina for her money, since he was secretly on the brink of bankruptcy, due to gambling debt. Had his lover killed her? Or, did George kill her in the midst of a lover's quarrel? The answer is still unknown and today remains one of the biggest Hollywood mysteries, having been the premise for dozens of films, books, and television shows.

In 1999, Julia Roberts won a Best Actress Academy Award for playing Angelina in the critically acclaimed film about the murder, "Kiss of Death."


1963

Her name was simply Adele. Nobody knew her story. Had she been a street urchin, raised in the mucky sewers of London? Or the youngest daughter of a wealthy earl? She simply just appeared one day, as a glamorous and beautiful superstar. She never spoke about her past in interviews.

Her soulful songs were played on the radio. She performed for presidents and kings. Countless magazines, such as Good Housekeeping, continually had stories on how to obtain Adele's perfect sexy curves. Pill advertisements claimed to pack on the pounds, so any housewife could have the Adele hourglass figure. After all, no American housewife wanted to be a stick!

Her personal life was just as mysterious as her persona. She was photographed getting cozy with oil tycoons, American senators, and even handsome movie stars.

But the weight of fame and failed relationships was too much for the curvy singer to handle. Her mournful songs could no longer heal her pain. She turned to alcohol. By 1968, she was chugging back five to six dry martinis per day. Her curvy figure started to bloat until she became practically unrecognizable. In 1970, she was found unresponsive in her estate in the English countryside.


1973

A socialite who always made the gossip columns, Nicole Ritchie quickly shot to fame as a major style icon of the 1970s.

Details about her wild parties with John Lennon, Mick Jagger, and Andy Warhol were devoured by fans all over the world. She was so famous, she even started her own clothing line, so the average teenage girl in Des Moines could have the same bohemian flair in her closet.

Before long, Nicole was a millionaire, and seemed to be on top of the world. But what people didn't know was that her rock n' roll friends had introduced her to a dangerous lifestyle. She was snorting cocaine, popping prescription pills, and dissolving LSD on her tongue. She was addicted to drugs, but nobody thought to seek her help since, well, they were addicted too.

In 1981, Nicole almost died of a drug overdose. She was rushed to the hospital and saved and immediately placed in rehab. Unfortunately, with the changing 1980s fashion, her bohemian clothing line went bankrupt.

In 1985, the former hippie queen decided to turn her life around. She started writing health cookbooks and selling them on infomercials. She wrote a best-selling memoir, detailing her affairs with rock legends. She married a yoga instructor and had two children, and never did drugs again.

Today, she can still be seen on talk shows, promoting her latest boho-inpsired jewelry line.


What do you think of my stories? Which one do you like best?