Decaffeinating Brodi

Contest Status: Remember- all people who comment this week get entered into a drawing for an autographed copy of Laurie Halse Anderson's book Speak.

We had a great discussion in the comments section yesterday about what is considered offensive material in Young Adult books. There seemed to be a consensus about graphic depictions of sex and recreational drug use.

A couple of comments mentioned that no matter what happens, it has to feel real, and honest, which is one of my favorite things about Young Adult books. Teens seem to have a knack for sniffing out something that doesn't ring true. There's no fooling them!

Feel free to continue the discussion today, or you may choose to answer this question:

DISCUSSION QUESTION OF THE DAY
What would you like to see more of in Young Adult literature? Less of? Are there any issues you would like to see Young Adult authors address? If you're a parent, what do you want your kids reading?

For those of you who weighed in yesterday, and therefore believe you don't have to comment today, ponder this: Cosmic fortune always plays a role in random chance. I'm not necessarily watching to see if you've commented more than once. But I can't say the same for the universe. The fates are always watching...



Did you dig those killer special effects? I especially love the sequence of the floating eyeball, followed by a cheap naked doll, followed by the spookiest image of all: e=mc2.

Personally, I can think of about a million things scarier than Einstein's theory of energy. In fact, I find it comforting that energy is directly proportional to mass. It helps me sleep at night.

Come to think of it, I can think of a million equations more disturbing. How about that Pythagorean Theorem? I remember having nightmares for weeks after learning that in high school. It was seriously some sort of cosmic joke.

SPEAKING OF COSMIC JOKES

I'm trying (sort of) to cut back on my caffeine intake. So I decided to sample some of that vitamin water that everyone's so hip on these days. Only the store didn't have the regular stuff, so I tried this "Fruit 2 0".

I was feeling rather triumphant, until the jitters started. So I took a closer look at the ingredients in my "water".

Fruit, check.
Water, check.
Vitamins, check.

Buttload of caffeine, checkity check.

Figures.

I can only assume the universe does not want me to quit caffeine. The universe does not trust Brodi, the decaffeinated version.

And who am I to fight fate?

SHOW A LITTLE LOVE, WILL YA?

Contest Week!

Everybody who makes a comment this week (Mon, Tues, Wed, or Fri) gets entered into a drawing. Next Monday - through a very technical process involving algorithms, biogenetics, and my hairless cat - we will pick a name out of a hat.

The winner will receive an autographed copy of Laurie Halse Anderson's multi-award winning book Speak.





Now, let me just say the point of this is to get more comments. I know my blog readers tend to be a shy, self-sacrificing bunch, who don't think they deserve a signed copy of Speak, because those are just the sort of people I attract. But you would really be doing me a favor.

ARE YOU A LURKER?

Yes. I am a lurker. Thank you for asking.

So, all of my fellow lurkers, this is a great opportunity to de-lurk. I want to hear from you too.

The other day, I totally de-lurked on a very popular blog, and afterward, I was basking in the warm fuzzies all week. Not only that, I received an email, from a British banker, telling me I had randomly been selected to receive one meeeeeelion pounds. We're still working out the transfer process, but how's that for good Karma?

All because I de-lurked.

AND JUST TO MAKE IT EASIER...

For those of you who worry about what to say in a comment, I will end each post with a question, which you may or may not choose to answer.

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE

Actually, that's all I've got.

No, wait, my sister writer Bree is hosting a contest as well. So if you are into blog reading purely for the money, check out her blog.

SIDE NOTE

You may have noticed last week's Tuesday Dork Side was replaced with a very interesting conversation about bladders. The reason for the dork silence is Battlestar Galactica ended, for good, and I'm just not quite ready to talk dork. (But if you think about it, is there anything about a conversation on bladders that isn't dorky?)

TODAY'S QUESTION, SHOULD YOU CHOOSE TO ANSWER IT

In Young Adult literature, what do you find offensive? Is there something (a word, an act, a theme) that has made you stop reading at that point? Now, I don't necessarily want specific books or authors named. This isn't a forum for bashing. But I want to know, can you remember a time when you stopped reading a book on purpose? What made you stop?

And while you are pondering this, enjoy a clip from Jim Gaffigan. Sam and I watched his comedy special last night, and laughed our butts off. As for the contest, it begins in 3..... 2..... 1...... now.

TEETH WHITENING IS FOR SISSIES... AND OTHER PEOPLE MUCH COOLER THAN ME.

Famous Author status: Last night, I got to meet Laurie Halse Anderson- famous Young Adult author.

She writes a lot of realistic fiction novels, such as Speak, and her books have won all sorts of awards.










Her new novel Wintergirls tackles eating disorders. I can't wait to read it!










Favorite Laurie Halse Anderson insights (paraphrased clumsily by moi):
1. If we keep throwing books like The Odyssey and The Scarlet Letter at teens, and never encourage them to read more contemporary, reachable novels, then we'll lose teen readers.
2. All the moments of her life she spent worrying about her own body image added up to a giant chunk of wasted time.
3. Sometimes you have to push yourself to write the book you don't want to write. The book you think you cannot write. The book that needs to be written.

Okay, she totally rocks.

Next week, watch for my blog contest. The prize will be an autographed copy of Speak.

I also met James Dashner, author of the middle grade series The 13th Reality. After sitting next to James at dinner, I soon discovered he is my soul brother.

He was all, "Your book is about aliens? Cool."

And I was all, "Your upcoming YA trilogy The Maze Runner is about a dystopian future in a similar vein as The Hunger Games? That is so... so..." And then I couldn't speak anymore.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, "Love Lift us Up Where We Belong" started playing. Needless to say, I was much more starstruck than he was. I can't help it. I get all gooey inside when I hear the words "Dark Dystopian Future".

The first book in his Maze Runner trilogy hits stands October 13th, 2009. I can't wait.

THIS IS WHY I DON'T WHITEN MY TEETH
So, I'm taking my niece home the other day, and she mentioned my post about how my ears are my favorite part of my body.

She says: "You are so much more than just a pair of ears... (wait for it)... You also have great teeth."

Ummmm, thanks?

My teeth, however, are yellow. It comes from my horrible habit of drinking cola and eating dandilions.

I tried to whiten them once. My dentist bro-in-law even made me one of those invisalign trays, so it looks like you're not even wearing anything.

So one morning I put the bleach in the tray, and went to Costco.

I hadn't eaten yet, and I just can't say no to those Costco berry smoothies. Ya know what I'm talkin' about?

I figured I could carefully sip the smoothie, through the straw, and then swallow it without messing up my trays.

So, I take my brilliant plan out for a spin, wandering the aisles and sipping my berry goodness.

Then I turn a corner, and nearly bump into a guy I used to date in college. You know the kind: where you swore if you ever saw him again, you'd look killer, and then wouldn't he be sorry. Yeah, that kind.

I consider ripping the tray out and chucking it into the clothes section, but that would not give the impression for which I was striving.

So I just smile and survive the pleasantries.

Later in the car, I check out the rear view mirror, and nearly choke on my berry smoothie.

Somehow, the purple juice had gotten sucked into my whitening tray, and the effect made me look like I was wearing one of those NBA mouth guards, like James Posey.


Umm, so take that, old boyfriend? All this could have been yours.

Sorry- Time for another Ted-tastic post... AKA What if the Hokey-Pokey ISN'T what it's all about?

Book Status: You may be sorry you asked.

Okay, so a few of you have been asking me where I am on this road to publication. The key is, it's a long, long, long road full of potholes, dropoffs, and random brick walls.

I have made a lot of progress, but there's still a long way to go.

So, to simplify things, I have created a flowchart of the process. (Keep in mind, this is purely from my own perspective).



















Oh, wait. That, of course, is the flowchart for the Hokey Pokey.

Let's try it again:















Whoops. Flow chart for the life of a dog.

One more time. My road. I am currently located at the large blue dot. Click on the image to enlarge it. There has been much internet chatter of late about agents as "gatekeepers", and the frustration many writers feel when they can't get agents to take on their work. The complaints range from mild (do we need the middle-man?) to cantankerous (Agents are the Harbingers of Death).

I would like to weigh in on this. Yes, on some days, I want to bronze Ted, lovingly frame him and then hang him on my wall. On others (mostly revision letter days) he's probably grateful we don't live in the same city.

But he is not the harbinger of death. He is more like the harbinger of "Holy Cow, it's a freakin' better book!" He has spent countless (unpaid) hours poring over my manuscript, meticulously editing, suggesting, praising, and disciplining.

And if I had turned in my original manuscript to publishers, without Ted's influence, I think my road to publication would have hurled me straight into a landmine, and you'd find pieces of Brodi splattered from Heavens to Mergatroid. (As Yaya used to say).

Plus, he lets me sign my emails with "hugs and kisses." They don't come much cooler than that.

Bladder Enhancements

Book Status: Rockin'.

What have you read lately status?: I've read the Gallagher Girl series (I'd Tell you I love you, but then I'd have to kill you, and the sequel). Fun reads. What have y'all been reading?

INTERNAL COSMETIC SURGERY? WHAAA?
I don't know how these conversations come up.

Awhile back, when I listed the 25 things about me (Okay, more like 11 and a half), I mentioned my tendency to use the bathroom 15 times before I go to bed each night.

So, I'm out with my cousins, and in the course of normal everyday conversation, the topic of pee arises. Naturally. I mean, why wouldn't it?

So I mention my problem.

Cousin W starts nodding in empathy. "Yeah. It's a saggy bladder."

me: "I'm sorry- saggy bladder?"

W: "Yep. Grandma A had one too, and she passed it down to us."

me: "Do you have one?"

W: "I used to."

me: "How did you fix it?"

W: "I had a bladder lift."

I know what you're thinking, but she's completely serious!

I have to admit, when I think about elective surgery, a bladder tuck is not the first one that comes to mind. But Cousin W has a killer bod, so maybe that's her secret? I don't know. And whom does one talk to about this procedure?

There are so many other body parts I would like to fix before my bladder.

In fact, my ears are the only things on my body that I'm satisfied with.

Now when my cousins and I are talking, we always refer to the "bladder tuck" and our husbands are convinced we must be speaking in code. My question is: what the heck would that be code for? If I wanted to speak in code, "bladder" would not be my word of choice, to repeat over and over. It's kind of grating on the ears. Like the word "moist".

I'd pick a word like "funicular railway" or something fun to say.

When No One Else Is There, Mom's in Your Corner

Random Palm Springs Story:
Moms. You gotta love 'em.

So, we're in the stands, watching tennis last week, and I'm sort of focusing on the matches. My mom is chatting up the couple in front of us- a cute older couple from Brooklyn, and I'm listening with half an ear. Until I hear what she's saying.

Mom: "... yes, she writes Young Adult books. You know, she read those Harry Potter books, and she said to herself-"

Me (interrupting): "Mom!"

Mom (looking innocent): "What? I'm just talking."

I give her what I think is a meaningful look, and she acts like she understands.
So she turns back to the guy and goes on talking.

Mom: "So anyway, she wrote this book, and it seriously blows those other books out of the-"

Me: "MOM!!"

Mom: "What?" (She looks at me as if I'm the insane one). "You already have book clubs lining up to do your book."

Me: "That's your book club. Just the one. And that's only after you told them my book is the best book on the planet."

Mom: (pointing to the guy from Brooklyn). "He asked."

Me: "Right. This complete stranger turned around and said, 'By the way, how's your daughter's book coming?'"

Of course, this is the same woman who goes into every bookstore, asking them to "order" my book. She says it's a good way to spread the word. Moms make a pretty good publicity team/founding member of fan club. And they're free.

Sam and I have seen a couple documentaries lately, and they totally rock. They are about people pushing themselves to the extreme.

I have a friend who is addicted to marathons and running 50-milers. Whoa.

Then I read about the "Ultra Marathon Man" who ran 50 marathons in 50 days. Double Whoa.


Then last weekend, Sam and I watched the documentary "Running the Sahara." As the title suggests, it's about three guys who decided to run the Sahara. We're talking 50 miles per day, for 100 days.

Here's what their route looks like:

At one point, they are running in a sandstorm, and the tracks they were following had been blown away. They could have been running in circles.

At another point, when entrance into Libya is uncertain, they must decide between route A, which is full of land mines, and route B where they will be mistaken for spies and shot.

I don't really want to ever be in a position where trekking through Libya is my safest option.

Anyway, if you get a chance, check it out.



The second doc is called Deep Water, and it's about a boat race around the world in the 60's. All the racers are experienced boat men, except this middle aged father from England.

The doc shows how he gets caught up in the pre-race frenzy, and before long, he can't bow out, even though he is infinitely unqualified for the task.

I won't tell you how it ends. But I will say sometimes there is nothing as creepy, or as haunting, as a video that captures someone's final days on this Earth.

Ummm, so I guess I just told you how it ends.

My Date with the Mocha Honey

Mood: I gotta say, I'm feeling rather complete.

Mood: Totally Rocks.

Mood: Satisfied.

Reason for Mood: You all know, right?

So, first day of the tournament, I took my seat over at Stadium 1 for 15 minutes of one match: Rafa against... ummm... some poor soul. My seats were in the stratosphere, and I could barely see him. But at least I could see him, as in, there was only air between us.

This was my view. Rafa is the "dot" on the right.

I considered paying some exorbitant price for closer seats, but the tix would have cost like 200 dollars. I love Rafa, but my love apparently has limits of the monetary sort.

So, I could leave, saying I saw him in person. Technically.

THE DAY THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING
Then, the schedule for Tuesday came out. It showed Rafa would play his singles match in the gigantor stadium... and then... he would play his doubles match in Stadium 2! Which, is general seating! Which means, if you get there early enough, you could have front row!

So I told my parents, we WILL see Rafa. Up close. Personal. Splash zone for his sweat.

I was determined to beat everyone to the front row. We woke up early the next morning, and I felt like it was Disneyland, wrapped up in a package of Christmas, with a bow of Heaven, or something.

My mom told me it was my turn to say grace on our food, and my brain wasn't quite up to the task, so it went something like this:

(Words in italics represent what I was actually thinking, but trying desperately not to say out loud, because I take my blessings seriously).

"Ummm... bless the food (that it will give us the strength to sit through 5 matches in the blazing heat) umm... bless those (poor suckers) we left behind ... umm... bless our health (that I may wear black, and still withstand the scorching sun, because black is my fave)... and so forth."

By the time I finished, my dad was nearly in tears, laughing at my sincere effort. I told him, if he's laughing, he's not eating, and therefore he's wasting precious minutes.

After all my hard work, we got second row. We were so close to the players! Now I just had to sit through 5 or 6 matches.

What does it say about me that this guy had the same idea?



And the matches were stellar.

The annoying guy behind me would say things about the women like "Boy, she's got some caboose on her. That's a Serena caboose." And I would turn around and give him the elite tennis stare- the one that says "Stop being such a butt-munch, and have you seen your own gut? and tennis fans are supposed to be polite!" with my eyes only.

The hardest part was teaching my eyes to say "butt-munch".

The caboose guy marveled at my courage in wearing black on such a hot sunny day. Or really, he mocked me for my stupidity.

me: "Rafa's playing tonight. And black is my signature color."

caboose guy: "It absorbs the heat."

me: "Rafa doesn't care about that!"

guy: "There's no way Rafa's coming tonight."

me: "Take it back!"

But he didn't. Because, you see, nobody thought Rafa was going to show. He already had a singles match, and everyone knows that singles players don't care about doubles, so if they have two matches in a day, they will default on the doubles.

I just shook my head. "If I have to park my butt on this metal bench until it melts, he will come."

guy: "Is that like some sort of twisted take on that Field of Dreams movie?"

me (resembling a growl) : "Yes."

And then, as much as I was enjoying the matches before Rafa, they kept getting longer. and longer. This added to the speculation that Rafa would withdraw.

I started yelling things like: "Will somebody please just dominate and get off the court!"

But there were 3-setters galore. Nobody wanted to take one for the team. And by that, I mean, nobody wanted to default so I could see Rafa sooner. Nobody wanted to succomb to the heat. Bah!

By the time the match before Rafa's started, I had been in my seat for ten hours straight. Then, the ladies in front of me gave up, and donated their front row seats to the cause! Hooray!

And still, everyone was all, "You're delusional, little Chica. The scorching sun on your black shirt has made you crazy. He's not coming."

And I was all, "Whatev's"


Finally, after 12 hours in my seat, he showed.



He came. He played. And it was beautiful.






He wore his signature white long shorts, and he picked his snuggies (aka "wedgies") multiple times. (Because Rafa is so good, he doesn't care that he has to pick his snuggies between every point. His tight shorts ride up, and he wants to be comfortable, no matter what people think. How cool is that? Makes me want to pick mine.)

Anyway, many fans lost faith. And I like to think they lost sleep over their decision to give up on Rafa.

And now, dear readers, I will focus on something else in my blogs. I promise.

By the way- Rafa loved the black. Did I mention that?

It's not Stalking... It's Supporting

Cool Writer Friends: So I heard my writer friend Emily Wing Smith speak at the UVU conference on how to write different voices. She brought the house down! Her book has six different narrators, so she knows what she's talking about.

Shannon Hale also spoke, and when an audience member asked her what her favorite books have been this year, she mentioned Emily's book The Way He Lived. What an endorsement.

It's Not Stalking
I've decided that since Rafa and I already know each other so well, it might be time for us to meet. I am leaving this great state to go see my honey play in the Indian Wells BNP Paribas Open Tennis Tournament!

I know he is thrilled. Just look at him.









Sam is staying behind, with the kids, and I know he is equally thrilled.

But, hey, he gets to go hang out with the cows in the deserts of Pakistan. It is only fair that I get to hang out with the mocha honey bears in the deserts of Palm Springs California.


To make Sam feel better about not going to Pakistan while I'm gone, I have provided him the video below, showcasing the rising tension in the area. He should thank his lucky stars he's not going there any time soon! (At least, until April).

Volatile India-Pakistan Standoff Enters 11,680th Day

The One Where Sam and Brodi Find Themselves Among the Nude

Did I ever tell you the one about the topless beach?

The other night, Cousin W was asking us if we knew of any fab topless beaches. Unfortunately, I do.

So, a couple years after we were married, Sam had business in the Canary Islands. Being the thoughtful wife that I am, I insisted on accompanying him on his dull business travels.

The Canary Islands are off the western coast of Africa. They are like Hawaii for the European crowd.



We had heard a little about the clothing-challenged European beaches, and we were prepared. (Not prepared, as in naked, by the way. Prepared, as in there was no way I was gonna allow Sam even one glimpse of the beautiful Euro-ladies). I told Sam he would have to close his eyes while I led him to our spot, and then he was only allowed to stare at the ocean.

But as we were wandering among the topless hordes, I soon realized these were not gorgeous European Ladies. It was more like all of our Grandma's got together, and decided to play some strip poker.

And then I noticed the men. They looked naked, but that was only because their giant bellies hung well past their speedos.

To tell the truth, I looked like a model compared to the ladies, and Sam looked like a freakin' greek god.

So after a few minutes of leading Sam, who was dutifully covering his eyes, I was all, "Open up and take a gander, Sammy. Look as long as you want, at whomever you want."

We strutted our stuff all week.

Then the weekend hit. And it was like something out of a summer barbecue at the playboy mansion, with Sam playing the Hef, and me resembling Hef's mother, and everyone else starring in their own version of MTV's Spring Break, Cabo Style.

Yes, the beautiful people come out on the weekends.

So I did what any normal wife would do.

I chucked a handful of sand into Sam's eyes. Yeah, he'll now associate topless women with searing eye-pain.

Mission accomplished.

The Dork Side: Trashy Mag time!

Revision status: I just pressed "send", so you know what that means: Trashy Mag time!

Here are a couple of my favorite pics from my Trashy Entertainment mags:

The first is from the Style Hunter in Entertainment Weekly. She points out how everyone wants to know what shade of lipstick Lana (from Smallville, pic at left) is wearing.

The answer: "Honey Violet".

My question is: Who the heck is noticing her lipstick? Did they not actually see the picture at the left? We've got a chick, fondling what has to be the creepiest doll every made.

So, who are the people that look at this picture, and think, "Hey. Cool lipstick. Where can I score me some of that?"


Next, we have a tribute to the original cast of ER.

So, not only does it take six people to wheel in an Emergency Room patient, but five of them are doctors.

Wow, this is a hospital where five docs will meet you at the door?

Sounds great, right? Makes you want to get shot in their city. The only problem is they also have time to stop and pose for a somber picture. If I was the guy on the gurney, I'd be thinking: "Oh Crap. They do not look happy. I'm a goner."

I love the feet sticking out. Poor guy.

I Promise I'm Ripley! I Swear It!

Mood: Hunky. With just a splash of Dory.

So, I've been having the dream again.

You know, the dream everyone has when they are stressed.

Yep. I've been dreaming I'm actually living inside the movie Alien. Only it's real life. And the whole time, as I'm running for my life, and no one is hearing me scream, because I'm in space, and in space no one can hear you scream... sorry. Run-on sentence.

Anyway, the whole time, I'm thinking to my self: "Please tell me I'm Ripley this time. Please." Because here's the catch. I'm never Ellen Ripley! And as we all know, Ripley is the only one who survives.


In fact, I can gauge how stressed I am in real life by the character I play in the dream.

Sometimes, when I'm in my happy place, I'm the chick with the short hair. The one who almost makes it to the end. But her death is the worst, because even though she outlasts many of the other crew members, she knows exactly what's coming.


Sometimes, I'm Dallas. He's the guy that kicks it in the tunnels, with the alien. I'm usually Dallas when I'm feeling a little cramped, a little claustrophobic- which, let's face it, is like, all the time. Because when Dallas goes in the tunnels to try and trap the alien, he can't stand upright. And that feeling is almost worse than when he gets alien drool sliming him from above. Almost.

*Which brings up a side point: How come they never see it coming from above? That's how the aliens get 'em. Whenever they come up with a "plan" I want to scream: "Look Up! Would you please just look up!"

And then, when I'm at my low point (like last week. I'm not sure if any of you noticed, but my parade was getting rained on all week) I'm the worst character of all. You all know who I'm talking about.

Kane.

In these dreams, I spend the first half being suffocated by a face-sucker, and the second half trying to keep the alien spawn from exploding out of my rib cage.


No matter which character I am, I always end up running for my life.

Except for those rare instances where I try to negotiate with the alien, and convince him I'm really Ripley, and would he please step toward the air-lock so I can blast him out into space. Pretty please.




The dreams always end with me, bleeding out, and moaning something along the lines of: "But I'm supposed to be Ripley. Why am I not Ripley? Why do I have to be the "other chick"?"

Just once, I wanna throw someone-- Anyone!-- out the airlock. Just once.

So... how was your weekend?

IF IT'S A DOUBLE DOG DARE, HOW CAN YOU SAY NO?

Mood: total funk. My cool friend Amy knows about my gray mood, so she made chocolate chip cookies, Brodi Style.

I love chocolate chip cookies, but I prefer a ratio of one chocolate chip per cookie. Of course, this does not happen randomly.

Amy made me a whole batch of "Uno Chip
Cookies". Then she told me to step away from my computer, which I will do right after this post. In fact, I'm on a post-sabbatical until Monday. I'm thinking I'll do one of those safaris in Africa, or clean my house, or something.

DEBUNKING AN URBAN MYTH

Before I start my sabbatical, I feel prompted to share a story. (Not, like, spiritually prompted, or "from the great beyond" prompted, by the way).

The other day, I happened upon a blog whose author wondered if drinking a gallon of whole milk is REALLY impossible.

Happily, I can shed some light on this. (I also know one of my readers can attest to this as well, but I won't name names unless she wants to be known.)

One night when I was in college (I know, I did all my stupid stuff post-high school), a bunch of guys and girls were hanging out in the middle of the street. I'm a little vague on the reasons why, but anyway.

These "friends" bet me I couldn't drink an entire gallon of whole milk in an hour.

Being comprised of a subtle blend of stupidity and ego, I couldn't say no. Despite the fact that I hate milk. It makes me sick.

I know what you're all thinking: Game On! Right?

Well, I was about halfway through the gallon, when I felt a buildup of pressure in my gut.

And then it happened. The dairy firehose.

I had always thought the phrase "projectile vomiting" was an exaggeration, until this night. Seriously, my head started spinning around.

So, what would you do if this happened to you?

Probably the same thing I did... rope in another couple of suckers to fall for it.

So, my friend and I went on a double date a couple weeks later, and challenged our dates (Bob and Phil) to drink the milk.

One of them ("Bob") took the challenge. Only, he didn't puke. He just got really sick.

So, my friend and I were looking at each other, worried, like, "Should we tell him what's supposed to happen?"

Of course not. Never in a million years. We just went home.

Well, the next day, I get this phone call at work from Phil.

me: "Hey, Phil. How's Bob?"

Phiil: "Not good. We had to take him to the emergency room last night."

Well I freaked out for a good five minutes on the phone, and fessed up to what was supposed to happen.

Then Phil says: "I'm totally kidding. Bob's fine."

When I finally picked my jaw off the ground, I let loose with a string of expletives that would make a sailor blush. The air was blue.

Here's the kicker.

Phil says: "Um, Brodi? You're on speaker. With my family." And I hear them all laughing in the background. Like, uncomfortable laughter.

You know how the story ends, don't you? Phil and I have been happily married for ten years.

JK. Neither of them ever spoke to me again.

See y'all on Monday!

DORK SIDE: WAY TO PILE-DRIVE HER HEART, JASON!

For today's Dork Side, I must comment on last night's episode of the Bachelor.





Sam and I had never seen the Bachelor until last week, and when the promo's for last night said the ending was so emotional, they couldn't even have a studio audience, we knew we had to tune in.

We were so not disappointed!

First off, DeAnna "stops by", because she was in the neighborhood, and all, and she was out for a walk, and so she just thought she'd up and fly to New Zealand.

De: "Jason, I made a mistake. I followed my heart, and chose the fun exciting guy. I should have stuck with the boring, safe, boring guy. You."

Jason: "Ummm, thanks?"

De: "It's not too late for me to break your heart again. Please give me another chance!"

Jason: "You're the best. Seriously, you're like, the third best girl I have in my life right now.

Look at that ring as long as you want, Jason... I don't think the answer is in there...



Then for the rest of it was like we were watching pro- wrestling. When Jason came out and said, "Since the show ended, the chemistry with Melissa has been zilch," Sam and I were all, "Oh no he didn't! He just slammed her with a folding chair!"

And then when Jason tried to explain it to Melissa, with his big brown puppy dog eyes, and she says, "You're such a B-----d." We were screaming at the television, "Nuh-uh! She just bounced off the ropes and pile-drove him in the groin."

I'm thinking polygamy looks pretty good about now...

We were laughing the whole time, and I'm just impressed they were actually telling the truth: It really was the most shocking rose ceremony ever!

DON'T MESS WITH THE INTEGRITY OF THE DRINK

Book status: Revising.

Sometimes Neuroses are Totally Justified

So I've got a few things I'm a little neurotic about (refrain from interjecting, please).

1. After dishing out ice cream, I have to rinse off the spoon before I will use it to eat the ice cream.
2. If I finish my bowl of cereal, and I want more, I have to rinse out the bowl before I fill it up again. Even if it's the same cereal.
3. I can't sleep if my sheets have a wrinkle in them.
4. I can't sleep if Sam's touching me. (I know, I know. He's so lucky to have me.)
5. I can't sleep if he's breathing. (This one proves difficult sometimes).
6. If Sam drinks out of my Diet Coke, I won't drink the rest. It has nothing to do with cooties, or anything. I'm just very particular about the integrity of the drink.

I know what you're thinking: "Integrity of the drink? Is she crazy?"

Yes.

But when it comes to preserving and protecting the perfect glass of Diet Coke, I am an expert. I'm not just bragging. (I know, I know. No one would really 'brag' about such a lame-o quirk).
But we have conducted scientific experiments on the subject.

Last summer, we went to Hilton Head Island with my sister and her family, and my parents. And they all got to making fun of me about my obsessive way of pouring the diet coke into the glass. (There's a special technique in the pouring that will preserve the most bubbles).

I know what you're thinking: "There's also a special place they send people like you."

Yes.

So, my family created a "bubble challenge". (Because that's what you do when you're on vacation at the beach, right?)

They presented two identical glasses. Into one, I poured half a can of diet coke MY way, and then my bro-in-law poured the rest into the second glass THEIR way.

Then they blindfolded me, and switched the glasses around.

And just by the taste, I could tell which glass had been poured by me, and which one had been poured by them.

Fluke, you think?

Nuh-uh.

We repeated the experiment several times. (Because it was raining outside, and because my family is made up of dorks). And my guessing percentage was a stunning 100%.

So, this just goes to prove... I'm not sure. But it has something to do with vindication!

I'm off to eat a healthy breakfast of Diet Coke and Mentos.

What? Is there a problem with that? I've got a brother-in-law on Sam's side who conducts experiments on this all the time...

Yeah, he's a dork too.