Too Hot for Stores

I thought y'all'd get a kick out of one of the complete REJECT images for the cover. Look, you know me - I LOVED it. I suggested it. The response was complete horrified silence...like, "Oh-m-Gawd! Barnes & Noble would order exactly NO copies of this book, Jennifer!"

Is there something wrong with me? I'm starting to wonder. Why is it that all things completely inappropriate appeal to me? My mother was just visiting and People Magazine (yes, you heard correctly...my Famous Fame increasing as we speak) asked me for a photo. My mother said (echoing the sentiments of my publicist, agent and editor), "You're not going to send that Terry Richardson photograph, are you?" and I was like, "Yeah. What's the matter with it?"

I think there's literally a part of my brain that's missing: the couth part or maybe it's the modesty part or maybe it's just a kind of warped sense of humor that no one else gets. I dunno. So anyway, check People Magazine next week and see who won the argument.

Meanwhile, this week, read the gorgeous review of The Booster in The Boston Globe by my new hero, Carol Iaciofano! Carol (who's a brilliant writer in her own respect and should totally become a Famous Author!) writes, "Jennifer Solow has neatly dropped her literary beach towel near the spot of sand occupied by Kate White and Sophie Kinsella. There's hope in this story, and beach book season is just around the corner."

Is this cool or what?

Ode to Jac

Yes, the day has arrived.
I received a note from the very first person (who is not my mother, my mother's friend, Pam, or my aunt Janie) who has finished the book.

Here is what Jac (an ex-lawyer-turned-writer from New York) says:

"Jennifer- I loved your novel. I read it one day- and refused to leave the apartment last Saturday, the first spring day in the City. I am just embarking on the publishing process with my first novel "Six Minutes In The City."

Now you may think that all Famous Authors are all cool-n-junk, but this one is secretly...well, not cool at all.

Thank you, Jac! I am rendered wordless.

P.S. Can someone publish "Six Minutes In the City" please!

Arianne Phillips was ROBBED!

I finally had a friend who was nominated for an Oscar. This is a glorious time in any Famous Author's life...a time when phrases like, "My dear friend who's nominated for an Oscar..." or "My friend, Oscar-nominated..." etc etc come in handy.

But now that my dear friend lost the Oscar to a lesser movie and was RIPPED OFF of her rightly deserved status as "Oscar-winning-dear-friend" I must protest, though possibly in vain. I, even with my power and influence, can not turn back the clock 24 hours and protest this disgraceful abuse of justice.

Is Arianne (Ari to me, her dear-dear-Famous-Author-friend) Phillips not the greatest costume designer to ever live? Is Hedwig and the Angry Inch not the most fabulously styled and sewn array of hairy bits (she bloodied her poor fingers to the bone on that one) to ever be made into an outfit? Is Walk The Line not an example of finesse and subtlety of cut,color and material? Excuse me? Memoirs of a Geisha? ARIANNE PHILLIPS invented Memoirs of a Geisha (well, stolen from centuries and centuries of tradition and culture).

So here I sit, eating my bon bons and vicariously feeling the pain. Indeed even my Famous Author's photo was my homage to Arianne. If you come and see me on tour you will see an array of Arianne-styled outfits (Madonna's cast-off black Pucci shirt, Gucci, Coureges, vintage Jean Muir) and I must say, while many might feel that Best Movie should have been Brokeback or that Heath was upstaged by another year of mimicry, Arianne was the one I was routing for. She is the uncontested winner in my mind. There you have it.

Madonna and I are like this

Harper's Bazaar hits the stands this week, indulging me, I must admit, in my lifetime dream: The Queen of the Universe and The Famous Author taking the same stage.

There are too many similarities to mention. While they title her piece, "Madonna's Secrets," and talk about her "oxygen facials", "buns of steel" and penchant for "foie gras" (funny that), they name my piece, "Dirty Little Secret", and call my debut "sharp," and a "Hot Pick Read" for April.
(They do not mention my buns of steel or intake of oxygen and overlook my love of goose gullet completely...but you can extrapolate.)

What's next?
Dinner and a day of riding lessons in Dorset-Wilshire?

Where have all the groovy chairs gone?

I've basically been sleeping since Monday. I took a two-pound bag of dried satsumas and a box of Kleenex to bed hoping that 4 or 5 consecutive Ambiens might cure the horror of the New York Magazine gossip column piece about the book.
Did they read THE BOOSTER? Is the story NOT about a kleptomaniac who joins a Peruvian high fashion shoplifting ring? AN ENTIRE BOOK on Donny Deutsch? Hello! Anna Wintour he aint'. Woa is me.

So it got me thinking...remember all those cool chairs they used to have? Remember that album where Bobby Sherman is sitting on that really big red hand? Now THAT was a cover! Remember bean bag chairs when they were fer'real....like beans came out when you jumped on them?

Or maybe I'm just feeling sorry for myself. Maybe I'm feeling a little like Jessica Simpson, caught looking all ugly n' stuff walking out a hotel room wearing the shirt off her one-night-stand's back. Or maybe I'm just thinking about those great Bobby Sherman lyrics (okay, I'm making you think I'm really, really old here, right?)....Being' alone at night makes me sad. Yeah it brings me down all right. Tossin' and turnin' and freezin' and burnin' and cryin' all through the night.

More famous by the minute

Am I allowed to gush for just a little moment?
This morning, THE BOOSTER got a starred review in Publisher's Weekly. Needless to say I feel like putting on a bad gown and screaming, "You really like me!" while running down my street.

Bear with me as I cite the thrilling moments:

First there was the star itself. We love stars. In general, all famous people love stars. Next there was the opener: "Solow's SPECTACULAR debut..."

Then there was a bunch of other stuff that was also really great. I will include the entire review because it IS MY BLOG, and I'm not sure that anyone besides me reads it so...for those of you who are not my mother but might still be interested, read below:

PUBLISHER'S WEEKLY
* Solow's spectacular debut sounds a warning to fashionista shopaholics while providing a healing catharsis that anyone grieving over the loss of a loved one can appreciate. "It is mine. It is mine. It is mine " is the mantra Jillian Siegel repeats before any major shoplifting expedition, believing her hobby is not a crime but her "birthright." The Upper East Sider's addiction to larceny increases after she loses her ad agency job just before the agency acquires the coveted Loevner's department store account. Loevner's had once been owned by Jillian's dying uncle Bingo, a beloved parental figure. As a little girl in bunny fur, Jillian had appeared in the original ad that defined Loevner's upscale glamour. After Shelly, a needy young drifter whom Jillian meets in jail in the wake of a tourist-trap incident, introduces Jillian into a Peruvian shoplifting ring, Jillian becomes the ring's star American booster. "Designer clothes are like armor" providing "protection from the masses," Jillian thinks, but by the thrilling wind-up, Solow, an ad agency veteran, has ripped the tags off this assumption, forcing Jillian to face what compels her to steal. (Mar.)

WHAT DO YOU EXPECT FROM US?!!!

While it seems quite fashionable to weigh in on the whole James Frey controversy, to proclaim that writers are cheaters, thieves, deviants and murderers, every one, instead I'd like to discuss the unrealistically extreme expectations of the South Beach Diet.

How on earth is man expected to live without the evening martini? Without the late night gorge on dates, raisin bread, peanut butter and a bottle of beer? Now, as I have said before, this girl don't diet, BUT, if I did, I'd need something that involved pills, some expensive procedure, daily massages and oodles of moisturizer, not the elimination of the necessities.

First, we ask writers not to lie, THEN we ask a bevvy of Americans not to have French Toast with powdered sugar and maple syrup for breakfast! I am hopelessly dishonest and doomed to a life of carbohydrates. I may indeed have to find my culinary and literary freedom in another country.

Integrity

1. I, Jennifer Solow, would do a movie where I had to shave my head.
2. I would not do a movie where I had to wear really ugly outfits.
3. I would do a movie where I had to kiss Kate Nauta.
4. I would do a movie where I had to gain 15 pounds (with physical trainer in contract).
5. I would not do a movie where I had to lose 15 pounds (over that).
6. I would not do a movie where I had to spew vomit.
7. I would not do a movie with Jessica Simpson.
8. I would not do a movie where I had to wear one of those fat suits.
9. I would, despite the bad luck, do a movie with Madonna.
10. I would not do a movie where a bloody woman comes out of the bathtub.

Why I love gay guys

I am back from my fabulous tropical vacation with some horrifying news:
Wouldn't you know it, as the Pina Colada was just making its way to my lounge chair, I felt a little tickle in my throat - a burn, really, a cough and then some sneezing and snot.
I was sick.

But a gay guy knows that this is not the worst of it. He knows that coming home, unpacking the bikini and the diamonds and crawling into bed with a tub of Kleenex With Aloe Moisture is actually the lowest depths of all.

My dear friend and near-personal-stylist (who shall remain nameless unless I get an email from him saying that it's okay to be outted at 30ish in San Francisco), upon hearing the news had some marvelous advice.

I am reprinting it here because I think we all have something to learn.
Print is out. Put it up. Hold it in your heart.
(I love you, honey!)

****************************************************

Watch Oprah. Drink lots of herbal tea with honey. And insist to your man that,
strangely enough, expensive jewelry makes you feel better...

Take care, sweetie.
Call me when you're better - there's nothing more unjust than
being tan and sick at the same time.

****************************************************

Swimming With Sharks

My agent has been warned, the auto-reply button on my email has been pressed, the dieting is done (it will be what it will be when the day is done) and three tanning sessions (high speed bed "Grand Lounge," 6 minutes, then 7, then 8) have been completed.

It is that time - the pre-book-launch vacation of a lifetime. The last time I will perhaps go anywhere without the prying cameras and the nasty literary stalkers. Ambergris Caye, Belize, is a fine place for an escape - in the middle of nowhere, papaya for breakfast, bologna sandwiches on the dive boat for lunch, steamed fresh catch for dinner.

So long you all. Until then.
xxx

What to bring to the party

For those of you coming to my New Year's blowout, here's what we still need:

Brian & Karin are doing Brian's famous pork. Karin is making her dessert-thing and we HAVE to promise to smile and nod even if it's all messed up. You know how she gets.

Steph is bringing cookies. My guess is that the cookies I gave her will end up back here...but who cares - they're Dean & DeLuca cookies and someone gave them to me anyway.

Karen is coming late due to a so-called booty call which may or may not happen and a babysitter who may or may not show up and no matter what, I promised her I woudn't publish that sort of thing on my blog. So I won't. Unless it's really good.

AND...I'm completely annoyed about the whole illegal caviar situation. I thought those were ideal prices for beluga last year and I'm completely UP-set that I will not be drowning in the stuff this year. So, if you're really rich and you don't mind watching my teeth turn all black - you're welcome to bring that.

Believe it or not, I am doing a ciabatta. Yes, I'm a baker. A joker and a toker. The poolish is fermenting as we speak. Fresh bread and warm butter at midnight. Yum yum. As good as kisses.

Dana is bringing the wigs and music and Marcy is bringing the asprin - because Lord knows she has a TON of it at home and Greer isn't coming because who the hell knows where she is when she's not working - it's like she has some secret life or something. Jeeze. Jen WOULD be donating the bulk of the champagne, but seeing as she's busy with that whole scuba-diving-in-Australia thing, we won't count on her.

So - we still need: oodles of champagne (Blanc de Noir to win my heart), sparklers, party hats, the martini fountain, Campari, parchment paper, a drill, and someone needs to pick up Kiki from the airport.

See you tomorrow night. xx

I have a lipstick sickness.

It had been exactly 3 to 5 business days since I ordered my Japonesque Double-Sided Professional Lipstick Palette Kit and I was salivating. Now, it would make sense if the company was paying me to be this excited, to actually feature their product in the sacred space that is T-FAC, but no - my anticipation, the waiting by the door for the UPS guy, was pure illness on my part, plain and simple.

Here's the deal - this thing holds ALL your lipstick! And I know I'm not the only one who thinks this is the greatest thing since thong underwear. This is pure wonderfulness - butter on a Ritz cracker.

So it finally comes on Wednesday night. I rip open the box and my glorious new palette. Like hope and promise itself - it gleamed before me. I already had my shoebox of lipsticks ready and waiting, some towels and a nail scissors. And I am a crafty girl in general so you can only imagine my excitement.

For nearly two hours I performed the transplants: "Russian Red" "Cha Cha Cha" "Goldmine" "Fetish" "Sugar Baby" "Cyber" "Diva" "O" - all sliced off at the base and lovingly pressed one by one into the waiting plastic pockets by my tender thumb. When I was done it was a sight to behold - my years of collecting, the glistening rainbow of my life, there together, like one magnificent family.

I am Jennifer Solow and I have a lipstick sickness.
And I am proud.

There's only one reason to be famous.

No, it’s not because it’s really great to lose your ability to buy bras unrecognized. It’s not because Heath Ledger calls you up to say he’s breaking up with that Michelle girl in order to date you, a woman twice his age. It’s not even because it’s great when you go to Nobu and the delightful gal at the front says, “Right this way, Ms. Solow.”

Here’s what it’s all about:
Today, just minutes ago actually, I got an email from a cute guy I knew in high school. He said, and I quote,

“Shit, Solow, you look good.”

There was a “shit,” a comma, my name, and a “good” at the end. The intent was there. The emotion was clear.
What more could a girl want?

Now if I wasn’t a very, very famous author, the world would just continue to go by and cute guys from high school like Josh Mooney wouldn’t think twice about me. Or, if they did think twice about me, I would never know it. What’s the point of that?

My advice – if you did not go to your high school prom, if you were not one of the cheerleaders, even if you did not have a pair of those really great furry après ski boots because they were too expensive and your mom thought they were silly: stop what you’re doing, star in a movie, have your photographs retouched, get on the cover of In Style, practice poses in front of the mirror, DO WHATEVER YOU CAN to be very, very famous.

Party on wheels.

Parties are like rollercoasters and Hellraiser movies; I used to have a greater tolerance, dare I say, an attraction to the gore of it all – now I’m just not sure they’re worth the extra eyeliner.

But when an invitation goes out for a Porn Star party, I just can’t help but find the personal motivation.

As was usual, I felt inspired by such a challenge to go for my personal best. This often includes a sense that I have out-wigged the competition, out-ruffled the cheerleaders, out-feathered even the drag queens. This is an expensive pursuit, requiring hours of online shopping and gobs of glue. Frankly, it tends to result in me alone in a corner – overdressed, forgoing a cocktail due to my sticky lipstick, but I stay the course nonetheless.

The Porn Star party was different.
I decided to go Rollergirl.

As the character, not only was I embraced by all (the world, as I now know, LOVES Rollergirl), but I was on wheels. San Francisco on roller skates added that special spice to an otherwise dull commute and a party in motion is better than a party standing still.
Thus the lesson.

So, my legal council advises me that I should caveat this entry with the sincere recommendation that you should not try this without a special license or whatever it is they give to people attempting to self-inflict bodily harm, but me – I’m going Rollergirl from here on in.

I'll keep you posted.

The most fashionable guy in New York.

I met Marshall Heyman from W Magazine on a blustery New York City morning a few days ago. One might assume that working at the hopelessly fashionable magazine might require a kind of vast closet - a trunk-full of bling, a drawer full of dark Chanel sunglasses. And worse yet, being a man who works at W! - a fey dandy with a bow tie, an Andre Leon Talley wanna-be.
Thankfully however, Marshall Heyman was none of those things.

He had just rolled out of bed at 8:00 am, thrown on whatever sweatshirt was closest to his feet and was still working out the kinks of his left contact lens as he walked through the door of the cafe on 6th.

"I just live upstairs," he grumbled as he reached for his coffee and rubbed at his eye.

Now even a very famous author like myself should not presume that Marshall Heyman was all that interested in moi on an early, early Friday morning. And why should I, what with so much Mary Kate to think about? Instead I was privvy to the best gossip in New York, stories of the fabulous parties he was either dying to attend or plotting to avoid and, if I was so inclined, could get the Cliff-Note rundown of every movie playing in America. (Indeed he was off to see Munich on its opening day after breakfast and hinted lovingly at SJP's Oscar potential for The Family Stone).

Now I don't know if W Magazine or Marshall Heyman will ever utter a peep about THE BOOSTER or me in any sort of public fashion, but I happily paid for breakfast anyway (yes, Marshall, you tried and tried and tried to pay the bill yourself!). I was perfectly entertained, informed and satiated with an overload of buttery carbs and caffeine. Plus I made Marshall Heyman pinky swear that he'd take me out for a night of his infamous karaoke next time I was in town. I do a Patsy Cline like nobody's business.

I'll keep you posted.