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?

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

Available February 26

Go over to my Facebook author page to post your entry.  And may the most excruciating story win!

Anyway, the point is: most men are terrible at picking out gifts. I’m not sure why. We could take pity on them and say that they try, bless their little hearts. Or we could be honest and say they don’t pay close enough attention to the women (or men) in their lives to notice what that person really wants.

A friend of ours once broke gifts down into three categories:

A) The generic gift. You’ve bought a million of these to give to teachers or distant friends: the little soaps, the bath salts, the bottle of wine . . . You can give them to anyone. The whole point of them is that there’s nothing personal about them. They’re safe and uninspired.

B) The thoughtful personal gift. This is the one women want, because it means their loved one has been paying attention. He remembered that when you were staying at that hotel, you loved using the Keurig coffeemaker and so he surprises you with one of your own on your birthday. Like that.

C) The “It’s what I would want” gift. The giver’s too inside his own head to think deeply about what the recipient wants, so when he goes to the store and sees that . . . you know . . . luggage scale or whatever it was he’s been wanting, he buys it and gives it to you, even though you have never wanted to weigh a suitcase in your life.

Guess which kind of gift most men give?

Right.

Which explains why women have become adapt at unwrapping gifts, plastering smiles on their faces and saying, “Wow, thanks. This is . . . amazing.” It also explains why so many of my friends have taken to sending their husbands emails that say, “Just ordered myself this [see link below]. It’ll be your gift to me this Valentine’s Day. Thanks!”

But that seems a little sad to me.  The whole point of receiving a gift, as far as I’m concerned, is feeling like someone thought about you. Like attention has been paid.

But what do you do if the guy you love simply sucks at giving gifts? Here are a few tips to get him out of his own head and into yours. (That sounds weird. Okay, moving on . . .)

1. Positive reinforcement. As the mother of four and the owner of many pets, I’m a huge believer in behavioral interventions. You want someone to behave well? You start congratulating that person from day one on the slightest effort in the right direction. Example: “A car deodorizer? How nice. You remembered I like when things smell nice!” Sure, you didn’t want a car deodorizer, but you’ve just made him feel good for remembering something personal about you and he’s going to want more of that good feeling.

2. Rephrasing. You know how a good teacher never tells a student that her answer is wrong, but instead manages to twist what the student said into something helpful to the entire class? “What an interesting point you just made, Cindy! I don’t think Shakespeare was actually a time traveler, but he certainly knew how to find great stories from the past and reuse them.” Like that. Well, you can do the same thing when you open up a gift. “A light for the outdoor grill! Did you get this at Sur La Table because you know how much I love almost everything at that store?” Sure, it still has the Home Depot tag on it, but at least now he knows where he should shop for you.

3. Hinting. Believe it or not, the two of you share the same goal: for you to receive a halfway decent gift. Help him out. Start a while before the holiday. Be obvious. This is a man. He’s not going to notice subtle hints. Call him over to your laptop, point to the screen, and say, “How great is that? I really love that. Don’t you love that? I don’t know why I love it so much, but I really really do.” It wouldn’t hurt to toss in a mention of the upcoming holiday somewhere in the middle of all this. “Isn’t this just so great? Hey, I just remembered it’s almost Valentine’s Day–I keep forgetting about that. Anyway, I just love this so much.”

4. Enlist outside help. When my daughter was in kindergarten, she picked out a necklace for her teacher that Ms. G still wears to this day. So I figured out pretty quickly that she should go gift-shopping with her dad. And he’s been grateful for her advice ever since. But even if you don’t have a live-in gifting genius, you can turn to others. I have a friend who will happily corral anyone’s husband and tell him directly what he should get his wife for a big occasion. He gets the info he needs and his wife gets the gift she wants. You and your friends can do it for each other! That’s what friends are for.

5. Be blunt–at least at first. Okay, I know I said that ideally the gift giver figures out what the recipient wants all on his own, but that’s the dream and sometimes you have to accept reality. If your guy is trying but is truly incapable of figuring this out on his own, give him some guidance. At least at first. Once he gets the hang of it, he’ll be able to keep going. Last year I said to my husband, “Enough with the chocolates. I like donuts better.” So he switched to donuts.

6. Appreciate whatever he gives you. This one may surprise you. After all, the problem is that he’s giving you something you can’t appreciate, right? Wrong. You can always appreciate a gift. So maybe it’s not something you wanted–but at least he tried. I mean, in life, if someone’s standing in front of you looking hopeful and holding out a wrapped present—that’s a good thing. So take the damn gift and be kind about it. Because you know what? Kindness is a good thing in a relationship. In both directions. Which leads to my last bit of advice:

7. Give him wonderful and thoughtful presents when the tables are turned. If you start raising the bar when it comes to gift-giving, he will too. It’s called “modeling” and it works. And even if it doesn’t . . . you’ve done something nice for someone you love. How bad is that?

“Gr 7 Up–Elise Benton is not starting her junior year off on the right foot. On her first day at elite Coral Tree Prep in Los Angeles, she walks right into one of the most popular girls at school. From there, things seem to spiral downward: she’s told that she isn’t wearing the right clothes; her mother is the much-disliked principal; and the son of town royalty, Derek Edwards, catches her staring at him, much to his chagrin. As if that weren’t humiliating enough, she soon learns that her sister is dating Derek’s best friend, which forces Elise and Derek to be together frequently–and unwillingly. Elise makes it her mission to resist his occasional charms and instead fall for Derek’s enemy, Webster Grant. But first impressions can be deceiving, and people aren’t always as they seem. LaZebnik takes her inspiration for this novel from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Teen girls will identify with Elise, who is likable enough, but with a sharp tongue to match her Regency counterpart, Elizabeth Bennet. The many near-miss romantic moments between Elise and Derek create excitement and help further the plot. The themes are universal and interesting enough to grab even reluctant readers. Epic Fail is a fun, romantic read.”

Come on–it’s less than three bucks. What have you got to lose? The cost of a venti coffee?