This is the cell phone conversation I overheard this afternoon:

"Yes, well, if you want four bridesmaids and then yourself, it's one-fifty for each bridesmaid, and then for you it'll be about four hundred, unless you want an up-do, and then it'll be closer to five or five-fifty, depending on what you want. Now because you're thinking about adding your mother -- another one-fifty -- that might mean we should add another person, so we can get them done all at the same time. That would be another four hundred. And if you want makeup, that's one hundred per, so add another five hundred -- six, with your mother. Now your wedding is at eleven, and you have to get there early, which means you'll have to come over at 7:30 in the morning. They'd open early for you, which would add another four hundred. So are you all set to book?"

And THIS is why I'm doing my own hair and makeup.

I did my own hair and makeup tonight. Right now, in fact, I'm sitting over here, looking super hot. This past week stee said to a friend of mine that he has a thing for girls in boots and skirts. Now, I've never been able to fit in a pair of boots and have missed this boot craze. But the boy is marrying me, and I've never been this size before, so I figured I'd suck it up and risk the potential humiliation again. Last time only Evany had to witness the embarrassment. When I finally found a pair that would go over my calves, a complete stranger walked by and said to me, "Those look cheap."

Anyway, this time I had my pick of the boots, and I found a pair that I like. Hair, makeup, skirt and boots -- I walked out into the living room with did a pose I picked up from some jeans commercial from the eighties.

stee gave a quick sideglance from his Grand Theft Auto game. "You're sexy," he said.

"The magic is over."

"What? Don't say that. I said you looked good."

"You barely looked."

"I don't need to look."

"Yes, you do."

And now I'm updating my website about it, because we're late, because stee is still playing his game even though we were supposed to already leave.

Twenty-two days until we're married! And then these are the only boots he can look at forever.

...Maybe he didn't see the boots. I bet that's it. He never got past the hot rack. The boots will be a pleasant surprise later.

We're in.

Look, sometimes, you know the answer and sometimes you just plum don't.

The first correct answer, delivered at 9PM on a school night is "Oh, hell yes," in answer to the question, "Are we really about to start playing Trivial Pursuit?" Maybe you're a little tired and maybe you've been at the packed mall in the pouring rain and maybe you're feeling a little down and maybe you should just go to bed. OR maybe you should have some wine and play Trivial Pursuit with Pam. People? You will not be sorry.

I am normally hopeless at that game, not because I'm a giant moron with no smarts at all (shut up. I am NOT a giant moron with no smarts at all), but rather because I feel so competitive in so many aspects of my life that when it comes to the low stakes world of board games, I often can't muster up the urge to think that hard. Also, when you grow up with a family myth entitled "My Parents Got Divorced Because Of A Scrabble Game" swirling around you, it makes your need to devalue the seriousness of board games all the more intense.

But we were amazing. Maybe it's because we were playing the version that has actual, relevant questions from the last twenty years, rather than the Genus I version in which all of the questions start with "What Canadian province" and all of the answers are, mysteriously, "Hitler." Pam took an early lead three pies to one, but in no time we were both on fire. Larry McMurtry! Minnesota Twins! Mongolia! In less than ninety minutes I had pulled even and we were tied six to six, barreling toward the center.

Jealous that you aren't in our rarefied league of playing Trivial Pursuit the Stephen Hawking way? I'm not done. Remember the times when we didn't know the answer? We're trying to forget them ourselves:

Pam: Blue.

Dan: All right. Here we go: "What did it take a space crew eleven days to fix in a 1993 mission?"

Pam: Oh!

Dan: Really?

Pam: Yes. Okay. Is it...a flat tire?

Dan: Um, a space crew.

Pam: Yes.

Dan: As in, one flying in space.

Pam: Yes.

Dan: Fixing a flat tire?

Pam: Yes.

Dan: The answer is the Hubble Space Telescope.

Pam: Oh.

Dan: Not "a flat tire."

Pam: I'm going to tell you why I thought that it was a flat tire.

Dan: Yes. Do.

Pam: Okay. So let's say that the space shuttle is flying around, and then it's going to land. And anything that needs to be fixed can be fixed once it's back on the ground, right?

Dan: I expect this is so.

Pam: Except, of course, if there's something wrong with the landing gear that would prevent the shuttle from getting back on the ground to begin with.

Dan: Like a flat tire.

Pam: So the space crew has to go up and deal with it, fix the flat tire, return the landing gear to its former glory, and allow for the shuttle to land. Then they can do all the rest of the maintenance. See?

Dan: That makes total sense.

Pam: Doesn't it?

Dan: Except I have a few follow up questions.

Pam: Hmmmm.

Dan: First of all, how does the tire get up there?

Pam: They tie it around with rope, maybe, and attach it to the repair ship.

Dan: Uh-huh. And then they fly it up, into...is this shuttle of yours in orbit at this point?

Pam: I think it's trying to land.

Dan: So the landing gear is down, and this second ship --

Pam: -- the one with the tire --

Dan -- the one with the tire -- flies up and finds the space shuttle, which is moving now nearly at the speed of sound -- and changes the tire in midair.

Pam: Yes.

Dan: For eleven days.

Pam: Uh-huh. Can you pass the wine?

Dan: Does it bring one of those metal things that raises the tire up? A tire jack?

Pam: Sure.

Dan: And where do they hook it to raise the tire up?

Pam: Maybe they tuck it underneath a nearby planet?

Dan: And they bring a pressure gauge too?

Pam: Yes. But, oh wait...

Dan: Yes?

Pam: What do they do with the flat? Do they tie it to the second ship and bring it back to earth, or do they shoot it off into space?

Dan: And that's the only break in logic that makes you think your answer might be wrong?

Pam: Yes.

Dan: The answer is The Hubble Space Telescope.

And, scene. I neglected to mention that, during this exchange, I was lying on the living room floor, laughing so hard I was literally unable to move. I thought Cal was about to draw a chalk outline around me and pronounce me dead by reason of intergalactic hilarity.

The later it got, the worse it got. And Pam was waiting to get me back.

Dan: Pink.

Pam: Okay: "In..." Oh, easy.

Dan: Whenever someone says that, I always get it wrong.

Pam: Well..."In 1991, who coined the phrase, 'At ease, as I mob with the dogg pound, feel the breeze.'"

[Now picture, as this is being read, that you have no idea how certain words in this question -- say, for example, words like "dogg" -- are being spelled.]

Dan: I have absolutely no idea.

Pam: Yes, you do.

Dan: No, I really don't.

Pam: Just take a guess.

Dan: I don't even have a guess.

Pam: You do. YOU DO.

Dan: I do not.

Pam: "At ease, as I mob with the dogg pound, feel the breeze."

Dan: I don't know.

Pam: Just guess.

Dan: MY PARENTS GOT DIVORCED BECAUSE OF SCRABBLE.

Pam: All right.

Dan: Okay, fine. I'll guess. You want a guess? Fine. Here's my guess: Marlon Brando.

Pam: [stunned silence].

Dan: You mean that's not right?

Pam: That most certainly is not right.

Dan: Well, I'll be.

Pam: It's Snoop Dogg.

Dan: Oh, because of the...

Pam: Yes.

Dan: Not Marlon Brando?

Pam: Not Marlon Brando.

Dan: Because The Godfather never said the words, "At ease, as I mob with the dogg pound, feel the breeze."

Pam: Not to my knowledge, he did not.

Dan: And I guess 1991 wouldn't have been a year that found Brando walking around, doing a lot phrase coining.

Pam: Not unless the catchphrase of the year was, "My, but isn't this a delicious cruller."

Dan: Damn. I was so close.

Pam: You most certainly were not.

And, scene. Moving on. Sometimes the wrong answers are better than the real answers:

Pam: Pink.

Dan: Under what name do Jim Jeffords, Larry Craig, John Ashcroft, and Trent Lott perform?

Pam: The Whips?

Dan: No.

Pam: Majority Rulez?

Dan: No.

Pam: Patriot Act!

Dan: The correct answer is "The Singing Senators."

Pam: Mine were so much better!

Dan: They were. They were, as well, wronger.

And, scene. And sometimes the right answers aren't nearly as right as the wrong answers. Or something.

Dan: Blue.

Pam: In what state does the longest uninterrupted ant bed call its home, at 16,000 miles?

Dan: California.

Pam: How did...no, wait.

Dan: That's it. It's California.

Pam: The card says it's "Boy George."

Dan: Blue, Pam. Not Pink.

Pam: Oh, shit, right.

Dan: The answer is not "Boy George."

Pam: Could you imagine?

Dan: I cannot.

Pam: Rosie? Listen, it's Boy George here. Sorry to do this, but I'm gonna have to cancel the tour of Taboo. These ants. They're just everywhere. All over me.

Dan: Oh, man. That is funny.

Pam: Rosie? I know, I'm breaking contract and everything and I really like the show and all that. But these ants, Rosie. I'm their home now. They simply haven't got anywhere else to go.

Dan: I'm like a father to them. Rosie, listen, will you give me a call back? The ants have been asking about the birds and the bees and, well, I just don't know what to tell them. You know, like when you're with a lady? What's that like?

Pam: Rosie, do you have any lotion I could borrow? The trail's itchy today. Yeah, over near my toes. The little buggers just get right in there.

Dan: Rosie? They can lift ten times their body weight. That would be like if I could pick up YOU.

Pam: Rosie. The ants are really hungry. Can I borrow one of your sandwiches? It's the only way I could possibly feed them all.

Dan: Fat jokes. We're down here with the fat jokes.

Pam: Your move, Blau.

And, scene. And THEN we played Payday. I know. I lost that shit, too.

Right now somewhere in Los Angeles and New York, simultaneously, there's a conference call to discuss whether or not our show is going to Aspen. We won't know for a few hours. I'm trying to pretend my stomach isn't twisting in knots.

I'm working on one script while reading another, and because my brain is being pulled in too many directions, I thought I'd take a moment to tell you about this past weekend. Immediately after announcing the Battle of the Seven Rebeccas, one dropped out and another declared herself the winner. After hearing this story, you might agree.

Saturday night, Dan, Adam and I went to see Rebecca sing in her pretty concert. It was all holiday songs, and very pretty. Attending this event with Dan and Adam was like when Adam went to see The Pixies with me. But instead of me squealing, "I hope they do 'Gigantic'," Adam and Dan were like, "Ooh! They're doing 'Fum, Fum, Fum'!"

I was fine until I read the translation for Allons, Gay Bergeres :

Come, gay, gay, gay, shepherds. Be joyful. Follow me. Come, come to see the King who, from heaven, on earth is born. I will give him a nice present. Of what? Of this flute of mine, so gay. A cake will I give him; and I will offer a full tankard. Ho, ho, be quiet! I see him. He suckles well without his thumb, the little King. The King is drinking.

People, how am I supposed to hold it together? I mean, come on.

Later, when Dan was explaining to me that he's an Enemy to Art mostly because he often feels like he's just not in on the joke, I promised I'd expose him to the kind of art that doesn't make you feel stupid. I told him that I was at this concert even though I know nothing about sightreading or choir music or gay kings, but I don't worry when I'm not getting all of it. I can still appreciate it. Dan agreed to try more art. We went back in for the second half of the show, which ended with a Twelve Days of Christmas, with each verse sung in different musical styles from a Gregorian Chant to 19th Century America. By the time they got to "Eight Maids-a-Milking from 19th century Germany," the audience was rolling with laughter. Screaming. The man in front of us was spasming like Eddie Izzard was doing his Englebert Humperdink routine. I turned to Dan and raised a single, arty eyebrow. "Fine," he admitted. "You win."

Anyway, the concert was beautiful and there was much singing and afterwards we were still in the singing mood when we all headed over to a Silverlake piano bar. Now, I've never heard of a piano bar in Silverlake, and I lived there for two years, so when I saw the address I said, "This place is either inside a gay gym or it's inside a gay porn store." Either way, we were excited to find out. As we walked through the cold rain to find the super-secret hangout, Adam noted, "This night isn't over until the three of you are singing and I'm playing the piano with my ass."

This tiny little piano bar can only be entered from the back (Ho, ho, be quiet!). When we walked in, the guy at the piano was playing one of my least favorite songs of all time: "Benny and the Jets." Earlier, at the reception, Rebecca and I were talking about drinking. She was complaining that whenever she drank she found herself yelling by the end of the night, thus ruining her singing voice. I countered that she just hadn't found the right drink yet, since Kir Royals make me fun and silly, Vodka Martinis make me puke in public and Tequila makes me act like a trollop with a full tankard. "I should try that Kir Royal," Rebecca said. "We'll get them at the piano bar," I decided.

A round of Kir Royals later, and Rebecca, Adam and I are seated in the row of chairs around the piano. It was set up not unlike a stripper stage (not that I'd know anything about that), with holly and ivy twined around the edge of the bar. Holly had fake boobs, but Ivy knew how to hang upside down from the pole by her thighs. Ba-dum-bum. Dan was off talking to some friends from work, and I was watching the dinnerless Rebecca enjoy herself. She sang along with the piano man. "I think this is the best drink in the world," she said to me. Adam accidentally spilled half of his Kir Royal on the woman sitting next to us. She moved to the other side of the piano.

Adam pointed out that we weren't sitting at a piano at all, but rather a wooden fake piano with a keyboard resting where the keys should go. This was very apparent when the piano man's PA system kept shorting out mid-song, and he'd have to reboot. He chuckled and joked, but seeing as how his mic was out, too, the three of us were the only ones to hear his witty banter.

When the microphone came back on he said, "This is my first night. I'm still learning how they do things around here."

Adam requested his song with Rebecca, and they held hands through "Moon River." The piano man made his way through a few requests. Adam asked for "Fame." The piano man knew the song, but not the words. He asked the blonde still soaked in Kir to come up to the microphone and sing it for him. So she did.

"You know, every time I've been to a piano bar," I said to Adam, "and by that I mean the one time in New Orleans, they never know the song I want to hear." It's Cole Porter's "Too Darn Hot," and I've always wanted to sing it live, but not one Karaoke joint, nor a single piano man seems to know that tune. This place was no exception. "I'm pretty sure he'd let you go up there and wing it," Adam joked.

"I'm done with my drink," Rebecca announced.

"Okay, I'll buy the next round," Adam said as he stood up. "But when I get back here, you two had better be singing at that microphone."

Ha, ha, ha. Adam left. The piano man turned to me. "Any requests?" he asked.

"Do you know 'Natural Woman'?"

"Are you seriously asking me if I know 'Natural Woman'? The question is, 'Do you?'"

"I do."

"Then get up here and sing it."

And that's when Rebecca and I walked to the front of the bar. I looked over at Dan, who was on the other side of the place. It looked like he had put his friends on pause, and was turned towards us with this expression of awe and potential humiliation. "I'm sorry, do you WORK HERE?!"

And uh, we sang the song. Not badly. It was a lot of fun. If you're ever going to sing live in kind of an impromptu sort of way, I highly recommend bringing a professional singer up there with you. Holy cow, Rebecca can sing.

So we're walking back to our seats and a man at the bar shouts, "Hello? This is a GAY BAR, ladies." Perhaps the song was a bit too hetero. Or was it just gay enough?

"The gauntlet has been thrown," shouted Dan. He turned to the piano man. "Do you know 'Copacabana'? " He didn't. Dan pointed at his brother. "Well, HE does."

The piano man stood up. "Let's hear it."

And that is when the Brothers Blau took over the place. I don't really know how to describe it, other than it was like a scene from a movie, where suddenly the entire bar is passing around a tip jar so you can have enough money to pay for your cousin's kidney operation, and the boy you like realizes you are the love of his life, and everybody's singing and the credits are soon going to roll. I turned to Rebecca and shouted, "I wish their mom was here!" It was truly a moment.

And from then on we turned that piano bar into a karaoke joint, with other people from the crowd coming up to sing, including a man who had brought sheet music and was thrilled to be performing some of what I think might have been his original works. Then everybody was drinking Kir Royals. I never realized how important the karaoke monitors were for prompting lyrics until I forgot an entire verse to Laura Brannigan's "Gloria." And when Dan and Adam performed their sexy cover of "Private Eyes," I couldn't have been prouder. We never got around to doing "Too Darn Hot," but I figure we'll just wait until next month, when they ask us to headline.

"I'm yelling!" Rebecca shouted. "And I love it!"

It may not have been on a list of things I wanted to accomplish before I died, but it should have been. That was one hell of a good time.

(Note to five other Rebeccas: good luck in the swimsuit competition.)

Subject: Warning to My Bitch (At)!
To: pamie@pamie.com

Dear "Pamela",

"Please" accept this "warning" from New York: Wear my wedding "guests" out at your New Year's "nuptials" and "I" will have you "kilt".

This is "not" a "joke".

"Love",
Faye

Hi Pam!

At the risk of sound like a Jane "It Happened to Me" column, I would like to present you with my very own wedding story. Not the stuff that makes it onto TLC, that's for sure.

In 1999, I was living in Indianapolis with my boyfriend. He proposed to me at the Indianapolis Art Museum on a snowy day in March. Whee! We called all the parents and other interested parties later that evening and decided to decide on a date sometime in 2000, since we were in the middle of preparing to move to New Jersey.

My soon to be mother-in-law approached me early on about wedding plans. I was marrying the youngest of her three boys, and while she had thrown some really expensive bar mitzvahs, she'd never had the opportunity to throw a wedding so would we allow her to help with the planning?

Sure, I said. Like a big dummy. Okay, not that big a dummy. Knowing that she is a freaky controlling type, I made her promise that no matter what MY word would be final, although her input would be considered. Since she was paying for this shindig that I didn't really even want all that much, I figured I could get my way on the stuff that was important to me (music, cake) and she could go nuts with the rest.

So far, so good. Things were progressing. I drove from New Jersey to Ohio (where I'm from) to pick up my bridesmaids and my mom so we could go dress shopping. I picked out stuff and the bridesmaids picked out stuff (oddly, all three of them picked the same dress even though I told them they could get whatever they wanted). I got it all home and showed Ma-in-law. Didn't like my dress. WHAT.EVER. I loved it.

That was the first tiny wave in what was otherwise smooth sailing.

Then we found a reception site. Excellent old mansion, surrounded by beautiful gardens and fountains blah dee blah. They only had two dates open in August: the 20th and the 27th. Ma-in-law was pulling for the 27th, but that's my parents' wedding anniversary and ewwww - how tacky would THAT be? So, the 20th it was.

Wave #2.

We went in to discuss the menu and all hell broke loose. I didn't really care what the actual food was going to be, since I was going to be in a floofy white dress with champagne in one hand and cake in the other. See, the WHOLE POINT of having a wedding, for me, is CAKE. My fondest memories of being a kid was going to the weddings of aunts and uncles and cousins and chowing down on cake (and later, getting drunk because the open bar didn't card, like EVER. I miss the 80's). So, yeah. Cake is important to me.

Ma-in-law was insisting on a cake with raspberry filling and whipped cream icing. I apologize if that's your absolute favorite, but... barf. Cake and fruit don't mix, in my book. I wanted four tiers: marble, chocolate, white, and carrot for the very top. With heart-stopping, fat-laden buttercream icing, with big honkin' flowers and swirlly loops of frosting and if I could get it, a fountain and lights and even a cake Ferris Wheel.

Nothing doing, apparently. So we agreed to disagree and come back to the cake issue at a later time.

Wave #3 started over the freaking chair covers. I didn't want them, since the chairs the hall was providing were neato: all spray-painted gold with sparkly disco cushions. Seriously, they were like, the Elvis of chairs. So ugly they rocked.

But, since I was still planning to fight for my Cake Vision, I decided to give in on the chair covers. I found out later that my impression of "graceful backing down" was not taken that way. She said she found me "disrespectful." Whatever.

Guess that proves her point, eh?

SO we left the place with a HUGE deposit paid and the menu worked out and the cake in limbo. Things seemed to be going well.

Two weeks later, or thereabouts, I called to organize the cake. We'd eventually decided to have TWO cakes. One her way and one mine. ROCK ON. Two cakes are always better than one, even if one is all nasty. However, the nice lady on the phone politely informed me that "oh, that event has been cancelled. Mrs. Ma-in-law informed us that the wedding was off so we returned her deposit." Me, barely keeping it in check: "Oh, thanks so much. I must not have gotten her message. Can you tell me when this was done?" Nice lady on phone: "um, about a week and a half ago." This is extra-funny when you realize that invitations had gone out by this time.

And... RAGE! Searing, burning, blue-hot rage. I hung up, called my beloved at work and told him he needed to get home ASAP. He thought something was very wrong (he was correct) so he made it home in record time. I told him about the cancellation and he got on the phone with his mother. Lots of things were said. The gist of the conversation was that she couldn't believe a son of hers would end up with "someone like" me, etc etc etc.

My beloved and I spent the next 9 hours talking about all of this, trying to decide if it was worth it to proceed when his mother (and by extension, his entire family) hated me. Didn't bother me, since I had no particular love for most of them, but what did bother me was the fact that they deliberately put him in the middle. He had to choose, and he chose me. WOO! Er, I mean, yay!

He then spoke to his mother and told her that, basically, we were getting married by hook or by crook and she was welcome to join in our joy or stay away. At this point, we figured we had the synagogue and rabbi booked, so we might as well have a wedding. We started calling everyone we had ever talked to or worked with in New Jersey and people came through like champs. A restaurant that we really liked agreed to close for the afternoon so we could bring 50 of our closest friends and relatives to lunch. The liquor store gave us such a huge discount on all the booze we decided we needed that I almost married THAT guy instead.

A nearby hotel put us up for the weekend in a room that was bigger than our apartment and gave all our out-of-town relatives huge discounts. ROCK!

Looking back, it wasn't that bad. I looked excellent, my now-husband was super-cute, we got the giggles during the ceremony, and my mother-in-law wore black to the wedding even after we'd specifically requested that people wear the brightest colors they could bear. We had our luncheon, I had the cake I wanted (with Homer and Marge Simpson Pez Dispensers on top), we got joyfully drunk with our best friends and MY family (his family had their own "after party" to which I was not invited), ordered pizza at 4 AM, and barely made it through brunch the next morning.

Six days later, we trekked out to Ohio for a scary huge reception bash for 350 people (200 of whom are related to me. I have a big family). We ended that party at 11 so we could go to the bars we went to in college. If you get the chance to go to the bar in your dress, do it. I still have free drink tokens, and I never got hit on as much in my whole entire life. I mean, I'm there in a giant white dress with a freaky-long veil and frat boys are coming on to me like I'm naked and wearing a sign that says Open House.

If I had to do it over again, I wouldn't. I'd either not get married at all, or I'd go to Vegas and get hitched there. No fuss, no muss. I'd still get a wedding dress and go to the bar, though. That was awesome.

However, it sounds like the way you're doing it will be awesome, as well. Karaoke Singers Anonymous will be pleased to have you as their spokeswoman, especially if you end up all Madonna on the floor.

And that's my story. Four years later, we're still happily married and his mother is learning to accept the fact that I am part of his life, despite her best efforts. Weddings never go exactly as planned. In fact, I don't think any wedding I've ever been involved in has gone even remotely close to plan. It's more fun that way. Just remember to breathe and smile, drink clear drinks (vodka & tonic - doesn't stain!) to avoid the Courtney Love look, and have a great time.

Wishing you and stee much love and happiness always,
Rachel

Help-A-Gilmore Day:

Rory wants to show a young Chilton girl a grand Yale time, but that requires the cooperation of everyone in her life. Same goes for Lorelai, when she wants to do something nice for Luke. Even her pregnant friends have to haul around furniture. When Rory's "humiliated" in her class by Logan and his henchmen, she needs her Grampa to help her out. Luke has one day a year where he likes to be alone and have nobody bother him, but you know a Gilmore can't resist making herself a part of something she was specifically not invited to. Hey, would you mind going to the store? Rory's feeling a little hungry.

California Awards $80 Million in Library Construction Grants

Oakland will build a new library next to two elementary schools in one of the city's poorest neighborhoods, where many people struggle beyond the most basic reading skills.

You helped draw attention to these struggling public library systems. Thank you.

Subject: Book stuff and stuff and stuff.
To: pamie@pamie.com

Pamie,

Remember me? The short girl who showed up at your performances (well, to Letters Never Sent and Call Us Crazy) with the tall guy and the...um. The tall girl? From San Diego? Your book signing! I'd been reading you since 1999 or so, and I got the lollipops? Right.

While I would love to go and see an encore performance of Letters Never Sent (and drag my posse along with me), I cannot. I will be busy, all week long, helping to put together the monster that is a Christmas parade for the city of Chula Vista. See, my brother's the mayor here. And this year, they're using the parade to launch the Give a Book campaign, which is going to be -- if all works out well -- a traveling sort of charity that collects book donations (preferably children's books, but they'll take anything) in different cities and then builds children's libraries in public facilities which need them.

For this holiday season, the donations are being taken in to benefit the Polinsky Children's Center (who provide services to children who have been physically, sexually, and or emotionally abused, medically or physically neglected, and or have no parent or guardian), Casa Seguras (which provides confidential emergency and transitional housing for domestic violence victims and their children), and the Chula Vista Library's Literary Center.

The thing is this. Give a Book is going to be turning into an official not-for-profit in the beginning of next year, with lots of paperwork and forms with letters and numbers in their names that I am not in the loop about. It will then cease to be associated with the city of Chula Vista (at least, that is my understanding), and will begin to travel around. The next stop is tentatively Phoenix. Because it will exist only with donations and grants given to keep it afloat, this beginning drive is really important. If the books don't come in, then the money has a tendency to go away. And while we're confident that the elementary schools will come through with book donations from their students, we're taking donations from anybody who wants to give them.

Guess what. I thought of you.

I know technically this isn't for the libraries, and San Diego is already receiving books to help rebuild from the fires, but if you
wouldn't mind giving it a mention I'd be pretty happy about it, and owe you something big. Also, if we get enough books during this initial drive, they will overflow into other cities and be taken to Phoenix and then wherever Give a Book decides to stop next.

And if not, I guess I'll get over it. And I'll even come to your next performance. I think we're going to make Katie bug the video store she used to work in down here to get stee's movie, even. See? I'll still love you.

Anyway. Here's the address that donations are to be sent to. Honestly, it's a long story about why they're going to Florida, which has no good answer other than right now the drive's mainly being held in the schools and in local businesses (you know, a box on the floor that only collects dust?) and so when I asked for an address I got the organizer's permanent address, which gets forwarded. If this bothers you for some reason, I'll talk to my dad about taking donations here. Remind him of his duty as father of the mayor and all.

Give a Book
8668 Navarre Parkway #360
Navarre, FL 32566

And here's some happy links, which are just being stuck at the end of the email here because this gmail is a new-fangled thing and I haven't tried html in it and I'm already late to call someone back and need to go.

The City of Chula Vista's page about Give a Book

The Polinsky Center

I couldn't find a good site on Casa Seguras that wasn't just a mention on a bigger page, so boo on them. And boo on us, because the Give a Book site is still being designed.

Anyway. As I said, I won't hate you if you'd rather pass, and if you've even made it this far down the email, I'm impressed. Hope your wedding plans are going swimmingly, and we send all our luck to you two, not only for the marriage but for your careers. Can't wait for the next book!

-- Kim

I'm not going to be able to stop doing this.

Ha.

Awesome.

They're all hilarious.

I was going to just show you one of the pictures, but they're all way too priceless.

Sometimes I try to shield the truth from you because I don't want you to find out that sometimes all this hard work can be even more terrifying than sticking with The Plan. If you knew that having a book comes with it a slew of unanswerable questions about your future, friendships and talent, would that make you less likely to give it a try? I might keep the scary stuff away from you sometimes, but luckily Gwen doesn't. (If it makes you feel better, Gwen, I never even got a Publisher's Weekly review, and apparently "EVERYBODY" can get one of those. They made it sound like they're handed out by the porn barkers in Vegas.)