Yesterday was National Nurse’s Day, so I thought I would write a few words about nurses.

In my memoir, An Innocent, A Broad, I wrote about my experience having my first baby, Jack, unexpectedly, during what was supposed to be a weekend visit to London. Jack was born a few months early, in a London NHS hospital, and though Denis and I had packed for two nights, it would be almost six months before we would return to the US with our baby. Denis had to return to the states to work, and since I didn’t know anyone in London, I spent most of my days and nights after Jack was born, hanging around the Neonatal Intensive Care unit, staring at my dear, tiny baby, and becoming friends with the nurses, who were my saviors.

Very proud of Denis Leary (yes, I call him Denis Leary) and Peter Tolan for winning this award.

The unspoken shame of Empty Nest Syndrome:

“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” Old English Proverb/My Life Story

When I was growing up, anytime I heard the term “If wishes were horses…” I was totally perplexed.  If wishes were horses? My wishes were horses. All of them. Every time I blew out a birthday candle from age 5 until almost adulthood, it was a horse wish I exhaled.  A velvety muzzle pressed to my cheek, the smell of leather, the pounding of hoofbeats on the ground beneath me, I was filled with desire for these sensations that I recalled from all the school horses I had ridden. All the wish-horses, all my lovely wish horses.

On Sunday night, Denis and I were in the city to attend the Tribeca Film Festival premeire of the documentary Burn.  Burn tells the story of a firehouse in Detroit, a city where the population is dwindling drastically and poverty abounds.  There are thousands of vacant buildings left behind by former auto workers and others who had to move elsewhere to look for jobs.  Their abandoned homes are either vacant or are squalid shelters for homeless people and drug addicts.  Every day, the firefighters featured in the film, put out up to a dozen fires, sometimes more.

If, during the past month, you have tried to email me at the [email protected] address, which is the address on the “Contact Ann” tab, I regret to inform you that your email has been lost. Why? You’ll have to ask GO FUC%ING DADDY!

I have just spent an hour trying to sort out why I have not been receiving emails at that address and it turns out that the account expired a month ago, but I was not informed properly. SO (deep cleansing breath)… now…. (sob), they are trying to retrieve my lost emails (shuddering gasp) but they aren’t offering much hope (honk).

Geese, Eyesore

Yesterday I went into the city to meet Paul Hochman, the Director of Social Media at St. Martin’s Press.  My editor, Brenda Copeland, wanted Paul and I to discuss ways to use social media to market my new book.

The other day, my editor encouraged me to look at some good book trailers to get an idea of something I might like for my novel. Apparently Brenda didn’t know that I’m an experienced book trailer director. Yes, that’s right. I directed the two critically ignored Julie Klam You Had Me at Woof trailers.

Here’s the first, my directorial debut, if you will.

This is my second video film.

Totally emo selfie

Again, I’ve been insanely busy and away from the blog.  See, I’m spreading myself too thin, I think, not just in the real world but in the world of virtual society.

I have this blog that I try to keep updated, and I also love Twitter. I’m much more into Twitter (@annleary) than I am Facebook, but of course I am on Facebook (like me! I beg you) many times a day.  Then there are the newspapers I read on line, friends’ blogs, the links to interesting articles I have found on my Twitter and Facebook feeds, the cute photos of pets and kids to admire and comment on, the sad news about which condolences must be carefully thought out and worded, etc, etc.

Tulips, Park Avenue

So, as I was saying yesterday, I parked my car in a garage in Manhattan on Wednesday, but when I went to retrieve it, I wasn’t sure which garage I had parked it in. So, I had to dig through my voluminous handbag in search of the ticket for the garage.