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Stuck at the airport: the five stages of grief

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The unfortunate downside of being dyslexic is that I have a really hard time keeping things like dates and days in order. This lead to me being trapped at the Newark New Jersey airport for twenty-four hours this weekend.

Realizing that you are trapped in an airport comes in stages. After spending several good hours on the phone with Delta airlines customer “service”, I finally gave up and headed the airport to try and speak with someone in person. The mistake I made was in assuming that airline ticket counter representatives are human beings with souls aren’t constantly beset upon by weary, excuse laden travelers. And thus, our odyssey of grief begins…

Stage One: Denial Though my hotel had very graciously offered to let me stay in the room until 2pm and then hold my bags until late that night so that I could go into the city to do some sight-seeing or something, I was pretty sure that I didn’t need to take them up on that offer. Because how hard could it possibly be to get standby on a last minute flight out of New Jersey?

Stage Two: Bargaining Okay, so it’s pretty difficult to get a last minute flight out of New Jersey. But there has to be something that can be done. No, I don’t have $287.00 for a new ticket. I’m sure we can work something out for a lesser price. Hey, I could push the drink cart!

Stage Three: Anger You know what? FUCK YOU, DELTA. If I get stabbed in my sleep, it’s going to be all your fault.

Stage Four: Depression Actual transcript of conversation I had with my husband on payphone in concourse B: “I’m just so lonely and it’s so nice to hear your voice. Stay on the phone with me until you go to work, okay? Promise?”

Stage Five: Acceptance I’m going to live at this airport forever. I will never go home. The airport is my home now. Let’s make the best of it by building a tend with the ballgown from the masquerade party and barricade the door of the handicapped stall with luggage and a sweatshirt used as a rope so I don’t get raped.

Now that I’m home, I’m actually afraid that I’m going to suddenly wake up and be back at the airport, like John Cusack in that movie where he’s trapped in the haunted hotel room.

Another Open Letter…

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Over the weekend, I attended Jaquelyn Frank’s Authors After Dark conference in Secaucus, NJ. Overall, it was an amazing, enjoyable weekend. There were plenty of good friends, some I had met before, some I met for the first time. There were readers and authors, both sides fangurling over each other, fun giveaways and free books. Tons of fun was had by all.

Keeping that in mind, what I’m about to say is not a reflection on the conference. It is a reflection on one particular individual, and it should in no way turn readers or authors off from attending the conference the future. It’s fun, affordable, and everyone goes home happy.

Unless they spend the weekend having their body weight relentlessly mocked by someone who should fucking know better.

I’m a large woman. I make no apologies or excuses. If I wanted to be thinner, I could be. I could work out more, eat less, I’m large enough that surgery is an option. But I don’t pursue any of those options, because I’m happy with my life. It never occurred to me that anyone would feel that they had the right to be unhappy with my size on my behalf.

This weekend, one particular individual, and author who I used to greatly admire and looked forward to spending time at the conference with, took it upon herself to make comments leveled specifically at me, to my face and in front of other attendees in an attempt to shame me about my size. Comments like, “There’s nothing worse than a fat woman wearing flowers,” in regards to my love of Hawaiian shirts. “Don’t eat that, that’s why you’re fat,” when I grabbed a snack (this in front of a horrified group of readers attending a party in the con suite). Other fat-hate comments about “feeling sorry” for large people who wear sweatpants in public, and “knowing what that’s like,” that assume all fat people secretly long to be thin and are miserable because they are not.

When the straw finally broke my big, fat back (the “that’s why you’re fat” comment), I started off feeling enraged. How dare someone police my body? How dare someone feel they had the right to pity me for the way I dress or what I eat or how much I weigh? I have given no one permission to pity me, because I don’t pity myself. I like myself, at any size or shape, and I love my awesome, awesome life. I live for every moment, and I try to make sure that I feel everything in my life with enthusiasm for living. Okay, maybe not as enthusiastic when I’m stuck in a plane on a runway in Allentown, PA because God decided to smite New York with a crazy huge thunderstorm, but most of the time I really do love every second of my life. The thought of someone pitying me, making a judgment that because I’m fat I must also be unhappy with my lot, made me see absolute red.

Then, it made me even more mad to realize that if she’d said these same comments to someone who has a problem accepting their weight, they might have thought, “She’s right.” A friend who roomed with me said, “If she had said that to me, it would have destroyed me.” I thought about how low my self-esteem was after I gave birth to my first child and gained the first seventy-five pounds of what would ultimately be an over one-hundred pound weight gain. If someone had said to me then, “This is why you’re fat” or made a comment about feeling sorry for people like me, I would have been crushed. I struggled with binge eating back then, out of hatred for myself and my body. I crash dieted, desperately counted my “points” and kept a “thinspiration” journal of svelte bodies that I wanted so badly to have for my own. If I had met this author back then, when my career was first starting and I hated myself for getting fat, I would have given up. I would have given up writing, starved myself, missed out on friends and acquaintances that I met in this business who I hold very dear. A single snide comment about my weight, back then, would have literally ruined my life. Did she make a remark that hurt someone else that badly at this event?

But as I considered all this, I also realized that this woman was not making these comments to me. She used to fat, and makes no attempt to hide the fact that she has lost the weight. She shouldn’t, either. She was unhappy with something in her life, so she changed it, at great personal sacrifice. She worked hard for a dream, and she deserves credit for that, just as anyone who is brave enough to make a huge sacrifice for what they want deserves recognition. But for some reason, it’s not enough for her to have attained her goal. She needs to punish her old self for not living up to her new standards.

She wasn’t talking to me. She was talking to herself before she lost the weight.

So, to this individual, who I hope reads this post, I say: Let go of the hatred you have for yourself. Who you are is not about what you used to weigh. The people in your life who loved you then and now will never stop loving you because of a number on the scale. Your readers, who devour your books, don’t care what you look like. They love you and your stories because you have a gift that transcends physical standards of beauty.

I know, because I used to be one of those readers. I’m not anymore. I will probably never forgive you for the hateful way you treated me this weekend. I know I damned sure won’t be reading your books in the future, because every time I pick one up I will be reminded that you don’t feel I’m worthy to shake the ground with my lumbering steps. But I do truly want you to forgive yourself for being fat in the past. You were a lovely person then, inside and out. You’ve made the outside lovelier. Now work on fixing the ugliness you grew on the inside.

Wanna check out Ravenous for free?

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If you’re looking to win a copy of Abigail Barnette’s (yes, that is me) Ravenous, Bronwyn Green is giving away one free copy to a lucky commenter.

As for Abigail, her/myself? I spent last night in the ER with a crippling headache. Thankfully, they did not listen to my pleas to euthanize me. But I’m all better now, and both my (fully integrated) personalities are hard at work writing today!

The Internet Powers of Colin Firth

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Okay, either blogger has just added stats to the dashboard, or I’ve just never noticed them. I love attention, so I jumped at the chance to see how many people notice me. The results are… surprising.

First of all, I need to do some revamping of this blog. Put some pictures of my books on it and stuff. Because otherwise, people might think this blog is about Colin Firth. According to stats, until I wrote my rebuttal to Laurel K. Hamilton, my most viewed entry was one that I wrote about Colin Firth. More specifically, it was a post made up of lies about Mr. Firth.

Now, the simple fact of the matter is, while Colin Firth is a great actor and generally under-recognized for his contributions to film and indeed, even literature (because everyone knows by now that Mark Darcy in the Bridget Jones books and columns is based entirely off of Firth’s portrayal of Mr. Darcy in the flawless miniseries adaptation of Pride and Prejudice), I don’t really have much more I can say about the man. I’m not what you would call a huge fan. If he’s in a movie I was otherwise uninterested in, I’m not likely to go see that movie based on his presence alone. In fact, when I hear the name “Firth”, I don’t even think about Colin.

I think about his brother, Jonathan.

In the 1990’s, there was a television series called Covington Cross. You probably don’t remember it, because it was only on for like, six episodes in the United States. Time and detective work uncovered the rest of the season for me, and I’ve enjoyed it for years, despite the fact that the series ended on something of a cliffhanger (Do Richard and Charlotte get married or something? What about Eleanor’s new found love of all things feminine? Does John Mullens pursue Lady Elizabeth romantically? Because that was hinting at pretty hard in one of the last scenes). Imagine, if you will, the show Bonanza (Or, if you’re familiar with it, The Big Valley), only in Robin Hood times. It was super awesome.

Jonathan Firth, Colin’s younger brother, played Richard Grey, the middle son who was always struggling for his father’s love and trying to make a name for himself despite being dealt the shitty medieval hand of being the second son and not the one who stands to inherit all the titles and land and stuff.

I have no idea what has happened to Jonathan Firth, because I’m bad at keeping up with actors that I like. All I care about is that I still have my copies of Covington Cross, and that the inclusion of the name Firth will bring me some kind of blog traffic.

A sensitive subject.

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I am aware that not everyone sees eye-to-eye with me on the subject of the war in Iraq, or our president. I try not to be too overtly political, but I’m an opinionated person and my family’s motto is kind of like, “He who is loudest wins” but in Latin, probably.

However, I can’t let the end of Operation Iraqi Freedom pass without comment. I never agreed with the war, and I supported the troops in that I didn’t want them all blown to tiny pieces by roadside bombs. I have nothing but good feelings for the men and women in our Armed Forces. I have friends and family that are currently serving, some of whom served in Iraq. I have at least one family member set to go to Iraq, even though the war is officially over. I have no illusions that the true end of this conflict will come years from now. I mean, we still have soldiers at posts in South Korea, we’re never truly “done” with the wars we’re involved in.

Still, it’s a relief to have one less war to worry about. Our country has been at war since both of my children were born. We’ll probably still be involved with the war against terrorism when they go to college. But for today, this is all right. Not grab-a-nurse-and-kiss-her-in-Times-Square all right, but all right enough.

Thinking about Cyrus…

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If I have learned one important lesson from this whole JLA vs. LKH blog dust up gossip fest (that still continues… Dear Author featured it in their link round up today), it’s that people friggin love Cyrus.

I’m still not sure why.

Don’t get me wrong, there are tons of “bad boys” that I love. I’ve even blogged about them before. But I don’t really understand what’s so appealing about Cyrus. Maybe because I’ve spent so much time writing him. And maybe because I had to call upon all my selfish, negative personality traits to cobble him together. Cyrus is the kind of person I would be if I had just a little bit less conscience. You know, minus the statutory rape and child murder.

But I must be crazy, because I miss the bastard. I would absolutely like to write him again. And from the messages I’ve gotten from some of you, I think you’d like me to write him again, as well. Unfortunately, I can’t just write him, because he doesn’t belong to me anymore, and the people he does belong to don’t feel there would be a readership for him. So, I’m starting a grassroots thing right now.

If you love Cyrus, if you want to read about him again, leave a comment here to that effect. Have your friends who don’t read my blog but like Cyrus come do it, as well. I want to see if I’m right, that there are people out there who would send my publisher some dollars for another few hundred pages of Cyrus.

I’ve already found out how powerful word of mouth can be when I open my mouth wide enough. Let’s see if the same goes for Cyrus. Leave your comments. Honk if you love Cyrus. And if there are no honks, then I can put him to his final rest on my “to do” list.

Battle Royale: Armintrout vs. Twain

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I received a tip from an anonymous commenter that my Laurel K. Hamilton blog was burning up the intertubes over at an amazon.com forum, so I stopped in to check it out. Somewhere in the discussion, famous author feuds were mentioned. Including Mark Twain and James Fenimore Cooper. To which an astute commenter mentioned that I am, in fact, no Mark Twain.

You won’t hear any argument here. Mark Twain is probably the greatest American author of all time (okay, third greatest, after Herman Melville and Nora Roberts). But I am pretty sure I can take Mark Twain in a fight. You know, if the alien race he returned to upon his “death” when he hitched a ride on Haley’s Comet hasn’t created some devastating combat technology or done away with violence all together. But let’s see what happens if we put me up against Mark Twain in a Battle Royale.

Now, if you’re unfamiliar with how these little throw-downs go on my blog, you can check out Jen vs. The Hoff and Daleks vs. The Borg. That should make the rules pretty clear.

Dust off your old timey mustache, Twain, it’s show time.

Me vs. Mark Twain: The Battle For Endor



  • Name
    Me: Jennifer Armintrout Difficult to pronounce and google.
    Mark Twain: Mark Twain Pleasant, ethnically neutral, not at all scary and German.
    Advantage: Twain

  • Body of work
    Me: Four novels about vampires fucking, three faery books everyone hated.
    Mark Twain: You have to use the scroll bar on his wikipedia bibliography.
    Advantage: Twain

  • Racial slurs?
    Me: No, those don’t really go over well.
    Mark Twain: His name was what Jim? Dude, not cool.
    Advantage: Armintrout

  • Hair Height


    Advantage: I got this, dude.

  • Presidential connections
    Me: Had my Obama lawn sign stolen twice; hold out hope of one day boning President Clinton.
    Mark Twain: William Howard Taft released a statement upon Twain’s death.
    Advantage: Twain

Okay, so I didn’t beat him. But he is an alien, and I do have bigger hair. Only time will tell, friends. Only time will tell.

The Phone Book: A Tale of Terror

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I hate phone books. Once upon a time, they had a useful place in life. If you needed to know a phone number or look for a business, the phone book was your go-to guy. You probably had a few different phone books, all of varying usefulness. I lived out in the country, so we had our little local phone book that was about as thick as a people magazine, but if you wanted to go to a movie in town, you got out the Kalamazoo phone book, which was substantially larger.

Then, a strange thing happened. That thing was the internet. Now, if I want to go to the movies, I get on my computer and in less than a minute I can know what the times are at every movie theatre in Kalamazoo. But still, the phone books come.

I don’t know when my friendship with and reliance upon the phone book soured. Probably when I realized I was getting four or five of them a year. And they were heavy. And also, I didn’t use them.

At first, I diligently kept them. But I never used them, and more kept coming. And coming. And then, something strange happened.

When we moved into our new house, we got a phone book within days. It was hanging from our mailbox like a little “Welcome Home” present. So, I left it out there. “Maybe whoever left it will get the hint. They won’t want to waste the phone book.” It stayed out there, hanging from my mailbox like a rotting head on a pike during Tudor times. But instead of sending the message, “Please don’t fuck the queen,” it apparently sent the message, “Bring me more phone books.” Because that’s just what happened. In a few weeks, our rain-swollen phone book and dirty, torn bag had been replaced by a brand new phone book wrapped in shiny plastic. I still wouldn’t allow it into the house. My neglect of the phone book and its subsequent replacement became a sick pattern. It was as though the phone book deliverer was saying, “Here, have a second and third and fourth chance to make things right.”

One day, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Taking a sharpie marker, I sat in the driveway and wrote a perfectly lovely note on the plastic bag holding the phone book. Something like, “Thank you, but I don’t use the phone book.” There may or may not have been expletives in it. The next day, the phone book was gone. It seemed like my troubles were over.

A few days later, someone knocked on the door. I figured she was a Jehovah’s Witness, because we have a lot of those who come around. But she didn’t look like my normal crew of spiritual visitors. And she wasn’t holding a bible. She was holding a phone book. With a smile that reminded me quite a bit of Tom Cruise pretending to be normal and friendly on a talk show, she thrust the phone book at me. “I noticed that yours was ruined by the rain.”

“Are you the phone book person?” I asked, my hands behind my back. “I don’t want any trouble. I just don’t want a phone book.”

She bent down and placed the phone book in the center of my welcome mat. “I’ll just leave this here for you.”

For the rest of the day, I avoided going outside. I was sure I would find phone books in my driveway, perhaps arranged in a circle around a honey dew melon with a knife sticking out of it with a little note that said “beware.” A friend stopped by to visit. “Hey, this was on your step,” he said, and for a minute I thought he might hold up a severed head. It was the phone book. Somehow, that was worse. I grabbed it out of his hand and threw it out the door.

Time has passed. My husband burns the phone books when they come. And they keep coming, like some zombie plague. My son started school, and he’s made a lot of friends. Like the family up the road. Now that he’s old enough to cross our little low-traffic street, I let him visit on his own. Yesterday he returned home with an orange plastic bag and handed it to me. “What’s this?” I asked, reaching inside.

It was a phone book.