[ARCHIVE SCRUB OCCURRED HERE - OUCH!]

Oh my, the attention! Can you see me basking in it? Turning this way and that in my fashionable sunglasses, waving at the paparazzi?



People, people, thank you. I know you’re all going to forget about me as soon as that link drops off Blogger’s front page, as soon as you have to settle for that year-plus wait until the book actually comes out. But for now, well whoohoo! Hello! Yes, thank you – of course you can have my autograph/take my picture/adore me. I adore you too!



I know, too, for my regular fans that the blog has been somewhat of a bore lately. No XXX action! Because, as I explained, everyone and their f*cking mother (including mine) reads this blog now (not that I’m complaining, oh no!), and that includes the current object of my affections, the one-and-only Sexy Boy.



Oh yes, since we’ve been friends (-plus) for so long, he got access to the blog way back in the innocent days before I had much to say about him. Now that I want to dish, well, I can’t really, lest I begin to use the blog as a passive-aggressive communication tool. Which I have done, in the past, with varying degrees of “success." That is, I have alienated at least two people I’ve dated by saying unkind things about them on this here blog. Bad girl.



I tried, with Library Boy, to be kinder. I wrote only the positive things about him – and there were many – knowing that it was likely he would someday read the blog. And he did eventually find it, after we broke up, only to tell me that it “touched” him to read what I had to say. He realized the depths of my feelings for him, read things I’d been afraid to express since I could see him backing away. Then he asked me to get back together.



Yeah. I know.



But it was too late because a week later I’d already gotten together with that longtime object of lust, SB. This time, I hoped, for good.



Yeah. I know.



But I’m not talking about that. I’m not talking about #($~@)% anything anymore. Oh, except how I’m going to become a rich and famous drug-addicted novelist. Yes, I’ve gotten quite boring.



But I will post something soon for all you writers out there who want to sell a book (because, you know, I'm such an EXPERT now!). The gist is, of course, work hard for years, get rejected repeatedly,feel like a complete loser but keep writing anyway, and get your heart broken many, many times. But I’ll give a little more detail than that.



The scary thing is I still have a lot of writing to do. In a short amount of time. But am I complaining? Nooo, I'm not! I'm dancing! That is, when I'm not sleeping late or drinking too much Syrah or bitching about my job or revising my book with a double Americano in hand while thinking "This is complete and utter sh*t! Why would anyone want to publish it?"



Being scared is good. I think we all function best when pushed just beyond our limits, don't we?

OK, I am officially freaked out.



I'm moving in two days. I've spent the last day dismantling my beloved apartment in Capitol Hill, with its scuffed hardwood floors, leaded glass, arched entryways. The beautiful top-floor apartment with a view of Mt. Rainier that sheltered me when you-know-who booted me onto the street. The apartment that embraced me as I grew from lost, heartbroken soul to kickass author babe.



And now what am I doing to it? I'm disemboweling it! I'm reaching into its innards and scooping them out! Pulling coffee cups and first-aid kits and boxes of old birthday cards out of closets. Little pieces of string and maxi-pads and single earrings that have long been missing a mate. Putting everything out for embarrassing, gaudy display that was so nicely hid for two years in my apartment's five spacious closets (my new condo has a grand total of ONE closet)!



When I finally do move it all, the scars will be left behind. Oh the poor hardwood floor! There will be long scratches from my furniture. Water stains from my plants. The spots on the bookshelves that I burned with candles. The holes in the walls.No doubt my landlord will lasso all my deposit, but still, I can't help but feel sorry for the apartment that loved me, and who I loved back but abused in so many ways.



And now I'm leaving it. Because I'm an "adult," apparently. With a condo in lower Queen Anne that has a dishwasher AND a washer/dryer! But I will dearly miss this shabbily elegant place, this bittersweet home that saw so much drama. So many tears and so many loney nights and so many strange boys!



Goodbye little apartment.

Whoohoo, I'm a star! Gimme a swig of that vodka! Pass the cocaine, baby! After two years, Blogger finally put me on their front page! Where are my groupies? The free designer clothes?!



Oh shit, what? You mean I can't become one of those drug-addicted, alcoholic celebs yet?



I've got too much work to do? I've got to finish the book FIRST? I've got a good year and a half of working at Geeksoft left before I can join Courtney in rehab and make out with Madonna?! Meanwhile, it's gotta be clean'-livin', early-risin', 11-hour day bullsh*t.



Damn.



Well, as promised, I now have to dish about my love life again because someone made a *lucky* guess about who the *lucky* man is! He appeared way back when, becoming the first acronymed boy on this site (Sexy Boy) after he strode into a party of mine right after you-know-who had flushed me down the toilet. And oh, how did my drunken, on-the-rebound self fall for him! As I say in Chapter 5 (soon to be rewritten, but never mind that):



I’d also unexpectedly developed a crush on Jack.* When he’d walked in to the party, I took one look at him and he went into soft focus. My legs became weak and I felt sparkly little stars shooting out of my eyes à la Davey Jones of the Monkees (for whom, at age 6, I’d declared my true love).



Maybe it just was the big shot of tequila I’d tossed back, but still – the feeling was so novel, yet also so familiar. That pow feeling I got in the pit of my stomach, the high that took over when hormones mixed with hope. I’d always thought Jack was cute but now that I was single, I saw him in a whole new way. God, he was sexy. Those green eyes! That strong yet comforting-looking body!



*Names have been changed to protect the not-so innocent, of course.



Two years and two months later I've actually gotten to know that "strong-yet-comforting-looking body" and mmmmm, it doesn't disappoint.



But more on that later. I've got a book to write.

Breakup Babies,



Thank you so much for all your congratulations! You rock.



Now, on to other important matters. Such as tax deductions. Now that I am raking it in as a writer who writes about dates gone bad -- can I deduct my dating expenses? This idea was put forth by L'il Sis, who,as it may be obvious, has an MBA!



Dating expenses would include dinners that I pay for, bottles of alcohol I buy to seduce unsuspecting dates, "mood" music, and skimpy clothing. Linens too - you know how fast they get "dirty." Gas money for my numerous rendezvous, condoms, and...oh, the deductions are endless!



If only I could put a price on the broken heart that got me this deal. Yes, I would say at least one-quarter of my heart was fully broken; what kind of deduction would that be? I must get my accountant on the phone immediately!



Oh wait, you don't want to hear about tax deductions do you, you want to hear about S*X! And when my book is coming out!



All right then. Should all go according to plan (and whatever goes according to plan?) the book will come out, um, year after next. Give or take a year. Then you will buy it immediately as well as a copy for EVERY SINGLE PERSON YOU KNOW so as to make it an immediate bestseller. Voila!Instant happiness for all!



Then s*x. Ahem. Whatever gave you the idea that I would talk about that? But you must be feeling so deprived. Poor things. An astute commenter had it right when he said that the current object of my affections was "buried in the archives" somewhere. Guess who it is and I'll spill all.



When you guess CORRECTLY that is.

Dearest readers,



I have some good news for you. I do not want to brag. I do not want to gloat. I do not want to prance around the rainy streets of Seattle, exulting because after years of hard work and frustration and discouragement and rejection and perserverance:



I SOLD MY BOOK. TO RANDOM HOUSE.



Look at me - I am so calm. Sitting here in my windowless office telling you that I SOLD MY BOOK.



Thank you mom, dad, Li'l Sis! Thank you all you noncommital boys - you know who you are! Thank you Geeksoft for letting me come in at noon! And thank yooooouuu you-know-who for begetting The Great Unpleasantness and the ascendancy of Breakup Babe. I never knew how well I could write until I got my heart smashed into a zillion pieces, thenn stepped on, and ground into dust (then again, you always did believe in me when I didn't believe in myself).



No! I'm not gloating! Really.



Oh, and you, readers, thank YOU for tirelessly reading, commenting, and making me feel kick-ass about myself (except when you were insulting me). This book is going to be a lot about you, and you better believe that! And most of all, I'd like to my fabulous agent, and of course, Random House!



More details to come.



xo,

BB

[ARCHIVE SCRUB OCCURRED HERE - OUCH!]

Well, everyone, I'm back. And none too happy about it either.



Oh let me rescind that. I am ecstatic to have survived my flights, the last one of which rocked and bounced into Seattle like a Super Ball(R) in a dryer. I am ecstatic to be back in my cold, moist city, now covered in a canopy of yellow leaves. To be back in the company of my GalPals, whose sweet doses of support are like cream-filled chocolates in shiny wrappers.



But this vacation was an idyll and life is not. Especially now that you-know-who is president again.



Especially because most major aspects of my life are up in the air right now. Book? Condo? BF? (And oh yes, how I have tried to love the journey and not worry about the destination! But sometimes you just want to arrive!)



I spent the last week driving, sleeping, exploring the canyons and byways and higher-class motels of the Southwest. Wandering along the Rio Grande river lined with flaming fall colors. Driving the mountain roads between Taos and Santa Fe; stopping in the artsy towns on the way to Albuquerque, seeing the Grand Canyon covered in a foot-and-a-half blanket of pillowy snow without another tourist in sight, camping in a deserted, snow-covered campground.



And then, in the final stop, Albuquerque, I did what I had come to do. I monitored a polling station on the outskirts of town as part of a non-partisan group called Election Protection. I thought it would be easy. I thought it would be boring. I thought maybe my presence might be superfluous.



I was wrong. That poll was a mess. Half the voters were frustrated, confused, irate - after being told that yes, it was true, they had voted at this particular site for 45 YEARS OR MORE, but their polling station had been switched without them knowing it! So yes you made a special effort to get here before work or on your break or with your five little children in tow - but guess what? You have to go somewhere else now!



Not only that but the poll workers, for some reason or another (confusion? misinformation? malice?) did not tell aformentioned voters that of course it would be preferable for them to vote at their assigned station despite it being a huge hassle, BUT that if it was a hardship for them to drive the f*ck all over town, well they COULD vote right here by provisional ballot.



Yours truly, in fact, got kicked out of the polling station for telling one young, distraught woman with two small kids that she did have the right to vote right there if she wanted to. I was, apparently, "obstructing" the process by clarifying to voters what their rights actually were. Meanwhile, the poll judges were arguing with each other about what these rights were, each of them telling their voters different things.



And still the people came. They voted. Then went to that other polling station to make their voices heard, even if it was a monumental hassle. They waited in line and dealt with the surly poll workers, and the unreliable computers, and the frustration of not being able to find their names on the list, of finding out that the voter registration they filled out six months ago had not gone through and that they had to vote at their old location or risk having their provisional ballot not be counted.



It was an eye-opening experience, I tell you that. Eye-opening, dismaying, and rewarding all at once. Because me, apathetic old me, was there helping these people to vote and they were doing it, despite everything. And in the end, I knew I'd made a difference, even if we didn't get the outcome I wanted. But of course I can't help but wonder - how many votes were lost by this kind of confusion across the country?



And now, after all the excitement, I'm back at work, in body if not in spirit, waiting for the unknowns in my life to resolve. Attempting to focus my mind and do my job.



But lemme tell you, it's not workin' too well.