Claire LaZebnik

My husband and I agree on practically everything. Seriously. We’re very similar people. When we go out to restaurants, we order the exact same meal more often than not. We see eye to eye on the best way to raise our children–it’s not that either of us knows the answers, but we have the same instincts and present a united front. Our tastes align, and we have no problem decorating a house together or buying art or anything like that.

But when it comes to pets . . .

Yeah, that’s what we’ll divorce over.

I walk into a pet shelter, and I see a bunch of babies who need homes–sweet and scared little lovebugs, who are lonely and caged and need to be rescued. By me.

Rob walks into a shelter and sees a bunch of eating-and-pooping machines that, given the chance, would destroy our lovely house and yard and drive him crazy with their barking or scar him with their claws.

The kids tend to be more on my side, or at least the three younger ones are. Over and over again, we end up in a scenario where the four of us are begging to take home some little fuzzpot that’s won our hearts with a look or a wag or a nuzzle, and Rob’s moaning and shaking his head and reminding us how much work and mess another pet would be.

“Why do I always have to be the bad guy?” he complains when we’re all pouting because he’s nixed some little furry angel.

Because you’re mean, I want to say, but don’t. It’s not actually true. It just feels true when our hearts are broken.

“If it weren’t for me, our house would be overrun,” he says. “You wouldn’t have any time to work and there would be piles of poop everywhere. You need me to say no.”

Okay, maybe he has a point. And I can’t really complain that he won’t let us have any pets, since at the moment we have two dogs, two cats, and two dwarf aquatic frogs. He genuinely likes our old yellow lab, partially because Harvey has never had an accident in our house, and partially because even pet-phobic guys seem to have a soft spot for manly dogs like labs and retrievers.

“It’s the little yappy dogs I hate,” he says. And after we had a disastrous run with a little yappy dog who seemed to feel it was unseemly to defecate or urinate outside, and who barked incessantly at our oldest son, Rob said “No more little dogs. Never again.” (Don’t worry: we found a wonderful home for that little dog–he and a friend fell in love and he’s living it up as a spoiled single child.)

But my daughter volunteers at an animal rescue organization. Every week, she goes to the farmer’s market, where she helps take care of the pets and tries to find them new homes. A few weeks ago, a small dog found her way into Annie’s lap and stayed there for the entire morning. When we arrived to pick Annie up, she carried the dog to the car, looking hopeful. I could feel Rob tensing next to me, and before she’d even said a word, he was shaking his head. “No,” he said. “Just no.” Crestfallen, Annie  returned the dog to one of the other volunteers.

The next week, “Mandy” crawled into her lap again. Annie sent me photos. I felt my heart yearning–those big brown eyes, that sweet little furry cuddly body . . .

“Never,” said Rob. “I’ve learned my lesson. No more little dogs. Not ever. Never, never, never.”

Mandy has been living with us for almost two weeks now. Her name is now “Lula,” after Rob’s favorite condiment, Cholula.

How exactly did we overcome his resistance? I’m not sure. Some combination of “Just on a trial basis” and “It’s Mother’s Day,” I think. Lula has wisely been an angel since the moment she arrived, completely house-trained, calm, quiet, and friendly. I can’t say Rob’s exactly happy about this addition to our lives, but he does seem to have gone from openly resentful to begrudgingly admitting that “she’s sweet,” so I think we’re good.

Of course, if she starts having accidents or turning yappy, I’ve already assured him that we’ll figure out a solution–he shouldn’t have to feel tense or unhappy in his own home.

I’m sure he can find somewhere else to live. And a second wife who’ll agree with him on this whole pet thing.

What’s not to like?

My teenage daughter was home sick for a couple of days last week, and somehow we ended up binge-watching the reality show Say Yes to the Dress.  It’s hard to believe anyone hasn’t yet heard of it, but in case you haven’t, the show is shot at an enormous bridal store in New York and follows the stories of several consultants (i.e. salespeople) as they help future brides try on gowns until they find the right one or leave in despair. The shoppers arrive with entourages–friends, siblings, parents, future in-laws, etc, the more combative and critical, the better (not for them, for your viewing pleasure). The tension hinges on pretty much one thing: will the bride find the wedding gown of her dreams? Or will she leave empty-handed? (Okay, literally they ALL leave empty-handed because they try on samples and the actual dresses require like eight months of alterations, but you know what I mean.)

Oddly riveting. The show is a visual form of potato chip: you know there’s nothing even remotely good for you in it, but once you start watching you don’t want to stop. I’m not even sure why it’s so fascinating (although I bet the people who edit it know exactly what keeps people coming back). I guess there’s the wish fulfillment aspect of watching someone get to try on enormous gown after enormous gown–if you’ve ever loved a Disney movie or old Hollywood glamour, this is probably something you’ve wanted to do yourself. And of course they play up the drama–focusing on the young woman whose parents can only afford a three thousand dollar dress but falls in love with a six thousand dollar one, or whose sister hates everything she tries on, or who bursts into tears when she finally puts on THE DRESS, the one that apparently makes all her dreams come true.

Because, you know, buying the right wedding gown is the most important thing a young woman will ever do. They tell you so on the show many times. “This is the most important decision a bride will make,” the consultants tell us over and over again. One girl goes to try on her dress and bursts into tears because the train didn’t come out the way she was told it would–the design ends too high up–and sobs to her mother, “The wedding is in less than a month. This is a disaster. What will I do? What’s going to happen? I can’t get married like this.”

Have you guessed by now that I hate-watch this show? I hate everything about it. I hate most of the young future brides who have terrible taste and think it’s a good idea to go over their parents’ budgets and put them in debt so they can have a ten thousand dollar dress with a see through mesh corset inset that shows their navel. I hate the consultants who encourage the idea that one dress will improve or destroy your entire  life. Mostly I hate myself for watching and enjoying it and since it’s something my daughter and I like to do together, I’m constantly reminding her that this is ridiculous, that no one should spend that much money on something that you wear for a few hours, that a wedding is simply a big party, nothing more, nothing less, but a MARRIAGE is a wonderful and important lifelong (if you’re lucky) commitment.

A visit from my niece, who’s planning her own wedding (and who is thankfully nothing like the brides on the show), prompted my daughter to get my old wedding-gown out of the closet and unzip its plastic cocoon. I warned her that it wasn’t a very pretty dress, but even so, I was shocked at how ugly it was–I got married in the late eighties and that was not a kind era for fashion.

My search for a wedding dress was kind of a sad one. I picked something vintage out with my mother–a long skirt and crocheted lace top–then decided I didn’t like them. She was so annoyed at having to return them (the store owner wouldn’t even take back the top, so it hung for years in my closet, reproaching me with the waste of money) that I told her I’d take care of finding something else to wear by myself and one day wandered into a store, found a sample dress on a sales rack, grabbed it and bought it. I didn’t particularly like it but I didn’t hate it.

It sure is ugly to look at now though, with its cheap beading and pieces of mesh lace–oh, and the ribbons on its puff sleeves. The fabric is some substance unknown in nature. You know Princess Diana’s crazy over-the-top eighties wedding gown? Imagine that made for ten bucks and you’d basically get my dress.

Annie wanted to try it on of course, so on it went–easily, because a crapo dress like this one has a zipper, not a fancy lace-up or buttoned back. She’s fifteen and long-legged and made it look as good as it could look, but even she agreed it wasn’t something you’d want to wear. Still, she played around for a while with the dress and veil, mugging for us and having fun.

I looked at this girl in the ugly dress I had bought quickly and never loved and thought about her and about her three brothers and about everything that has happened in my life since I wore it down the aisle.  Almost twenty-four years later, my husband still has no reason to think I’m much of a dresser–most days I’m in thrift-store jeans and a comfortable sweatshirt–but, man, we’ve been through a lot together, and I can’t imagine facing a day without him at my side.

“You know,” I said to Annie, “Say Yes to the Dress is a ridiculous show. You know that what you wear at your wedding doesn’t actually matter, right? That the only thing that matters is who you’re marrying?”

“Of course I know that, Mom,” she said. Then, “How does the veil go on?”

Trying on the Ugly Wedding Gown.

She’ll figure it out.

I had the very great honor (honour?) of contributing a guest post to the wonderful Jane Austen in Vermont blog. In it, I discuss the challenges and delights and unexpected discoveries in updating Austen for the modern reader. Please let me know what you think–and share with other Austen fans.

Click here to read it. There’s also a book giveaway!

I feel like I’ve reached a stage in my life where I can give parenting advice. For one thing, I’ve co-authored two books about raising kids with autism, so right there I have some decent credentials. I’ve also raised four kids, and the feedback I’ve gotten about them has been pretty positive–so far teachers and administrators and employers seem happy to have them around, and I feel the same way, which maybe doesn’t sound like such a huge recommendation, but trust me, there are some parents who breathe a sigh of relief when their kids leave the house.

So I was thinking recently about good parenting versus bad parenting and after hours of contemplation and research, I realized it can all be boiled down to one small and easily-followed but incredibly important bit of advice:

If your kid screams in a restaurant, take him the hell out of there.

Seriously.

Look, I get it. Eating out can be fraught–kids can be overhungry, overtired, angry that the food doesn’t taste like the food at home, upset because they spilled something, upset because you didn’t let them spill something, uncomfortable in a high chair, uncomfortable in a regular chair, too cold, too hot, too antsy, too bored . . .  It’s easy for all that to lead to some crying, maybe a little screaming. And what do you do then?  Most parents try to shush their kids, try to reason with them, try to ignore them, all the while desperately trying to eat their own dinners. The last thing they want to do is leave. Then they’ll never get to finish.

The problem is there’s only one right thing to do with a crying kid in a restaurant: explain that if she doesn’t stop immediately, she’ll have to leave the restaurant, because she’s disturbing the other guests. And then follow through with what you’ve said.

Carry her out!

Why does it matter?  Well, think about all a kid learns from this one brief experience:

1. He learns that the privilege of going out somewhere special is contingent on good behavior. It’s the beginning of a lifetime of learning how to behave in public. You want your child to be polite, use a fork, dress nicely? This is where all of that begins.

2. She learns to respect parental authority. You’ve laid down the rule: we can’t let you stay in here if you’re going to be disruptive. And you follow through on it: we’re taking you out because you’re still being disruptive. Simple, clean, elegant. It’s how parenting should be: no anger, no abuse, no irrationality. Just a simple, “Only quiet people get to eat in restaurants, so if you can’t be quiet, you can’t eat here.” And the truth is, kids don’t like to spiral out of control. They like to feel their parents are watching over them and will always keep them from going too far.

3. At the same time, she learns that she has control over her own behavior and its consequences: screaming in a public place means you lose the privileges associated with that place; calming down brings them back. This is the kind of connection you want your child to make. Parents have authority; she has control.

4. He learns empathy and awareness of other people. I can’t tell you how many kids on the west side seem incapable of understanding that they’re not the center of the entire universe. I once saw a kid lie down in the middle of a stairway that about a hundred people were using and just stay there. What did his mother say? Not, “You have to get up or I’ll pick you up: these people need to get by.” Nope. She stood there smiling and remonstrating with him at some length: “Oh, honey, don’t do that. Please get up. You could get hurt.” People backed up behind them for an entire flight and she’s encouraging him to think about himself. Anyway, my point is, kids need to understand that other people are eating in that restaurant and those people have a right to a quiet, pleasant environment. Want him to get involved with community service down the road? This is where it starts, with a basic awareness of other people’s needs.

And as far as missing out on your meal goes, you’ll probably be back inside pretty soon, with a much quieter, calmer child–there’s nothing like sitting in a boring car with a calm but stony-silent parent to bring home how much more fun it was to be eating french fries and drinking chocolate milk. You won’t have to do it often–I don’t think we had to carry any of our kids out of a restaurant more than once.

So that’s it. That’s the sum total of my parenting advice: take your kids out of a restaurant if they refuse to be quiet, and you’ll raise sweet, well-behaved, empathetic little angels. Let them scream and carry on without any repercussions and they’ll be entitled little monsters. It’s your call.

Oh, and if anyone knows the mother who was seated about two tables away from us at Kay N’ Dave’s last weekend, will you please forward this post to her? She really needs to read it.

Authors everywhere are playing tag. Someone came up with this idea to have a “blog hop”–a writer answers a bunch of questions about her work, then tags two other authors in her post, and then they post and tag two other people and so on.  Last week I was tagged by GVR Corcillo, who (to put it in her own wonderful words) writes humorous women’s fiction about characters who try not to trip as they valiantly march to their own bongo beat. Please check out her website and her wonderful books!

And stayed tuned for the two terrific YA authors I’ll be tagging at the end of this post. Not only do I love their work, but I admire them both hugely as people: they’re supportive of other writers and of good causes.

Now the point of The Next Big Thing Blog Hop is not to talk about the books you’ve already published but about the one you’re working on. I’ve been working hard to promote The Trouble with Flirting, which just came out last week, so it’s a pleasure to talk about something else for a while.

 

 

1: What is the working title of your work in progress?

The Last Best Kiss.

3: What genre does your book come under?

Contemporary YA fiction. You could also probably call it romantic. And humorous. And realistic. I don’t know where genre ends and description begins!

4: Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

Chloe Moretz for the narrator and Nicholas Hoult for the boy she did something unforgivable to back in ninth grade and who’s come back in twelfth more appealing than ever. (If Hoult can still play a teenager–he may be too old now.)

5: What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

The best thing that ever happened to Anna Eliot in ninth grade was meeting and falling in love with Finn Westbrook–and the worst thing was losing him through her own bad behavior.

9: Who or what inspired you to write this book?

My editor gave me a two-book deal. That was excellent inspiration. Jane Austen, of course. And finally watching my teenage daughter navigating the social world of a west side high schooler–there’s a lot of rich and, yes, inspiring material there.

10: What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

The Last Best Kiss is about regret and redemption: if you do one stupid, thoughtless, even cruel thing, can you make it up? How do you make it up? How do you square that one bad decision with the fact that you’re basically a decent person who wishes she could undo the wrong she’s done?  This makes it sound more serious than it is–it’s still a romantic novel with a lot of comedic elements. But there is a wistfulness there.

So my seventh novel goes on sale tomorrow, online and (with any luck) at bookstores throughout the country. Tomorrow morning I will beg friends and fans to buy the book and will continue to do as much online promotion as I can, all in the hopes that attention will be paid. But will it?

In stores TOMORROW

I had an interesting talk with my 12-year-old son this weekend. (Actually, virtually all the conversations I have with Will are interesting: he thinks seriously and creatively about a lot of different topics and knows more than I do about most of them.) We were on our way to his second debate tournament. His previous and only experience at a debate tournament had been mildly frustrating: he hadn’t done as well as he’d hoped. But during our drive that morning, he said to me, “I’m going to go in thinking we’ll win all four debates and that I’m going to get high speaker points. I know that probably won’t happen, but I might as well think it will, right?”

And I told him that I thought that was exactly what he should do. And I said that every time I publish a novel, I have a moment when I think, “Maybe this one will hit the New York Times Bestselling List.” It is, as Samuel Johnson famously said about second marriages, the triumph of hope over experience.  In my earlier days as a writer, when the thought would come into my head, I’d push it away, embarrassed: Look who thinks she’s so great! No one even knows who you are. You’ll be lucky if you sell enough copies to get another book deal.  But then I read an article that said people who daydream about success tend to be more motivated and resilient than people who don’t. And I realized that daydreams don’t cost you anything: they’re free and they’re private and they’re, frankly, kind of delicious. So why deprive yourself? Reality comes along to slap you in the face soon enough: why not bathe in a little happy “what if-ing” first?

So my son walked into his tournament with a smile on his face because he was thinking about a future where his team won every debate and he got 90′s on his speaker points. Neither of which happened. They won half their debates and he was disappointed by his speaker points, but he left that day saying that he loved the tournament and wanted to debate more. He wasn’t cast down by the contrast between his dreams and reality. The dream had been lovely and the reality had been exciting.

And even though I’m not nearly as goodnatured and fine a person as this son of mine, I’m going to learn from him. I’m going to dream big today: the book will go on sale tomorrow and thousands of people will flock to Amazon and Barnes and Noble and independent bookstores everywhere to buy it and it will soar to the top of the bestseller lists!

And then I’ll settle for reality, which is that I’m lucky to get books published at all, and that my last YA novel Epic Fail did just fine and has allowed me to continue writing books for HarperTeen, and there’s a good chance this will do equally well. And no matter what actually happens tomorrow, even if not one single copy of The Trouble with Flirting gets sold, my husband and I agreed we would open a bottle of champagne at dinner and make a toast together. To publication dates and the dreams that go with them.

If you like my blog posts, come read the one they posted today over at Story Crush. See if your favorite fictional couple list lines up with mine–and if it doesn’t, add your own favorites in the comment section either over there or back here. Happy swooning!