Big news!  Big big big!!!

The Memoirists Collective's resident blogger Kim Brittingham has sold her memoir to Harmony!

YAAAAAAAAAAAY!

The book is tentatively titled "Read My Hips", and Kim's working hard to make it available in late 2009. 

Kim was a finalist in our "Win a Shot at Getting Your Memoir Published" contest, and we were so entertained by her entry, we asked her to become a regular blogger for the MC.  Do we know how to pick 'em or do we know how to pick 'em?!  For those of you who've followed Kim's posts, you're probably not surprised to hear her book's going to be published.  Neither are we! After all, remember these groovy hits?:

Fat is Sexier Than You Think

An Angel in Bennigan's

Day Job Believer

Living a Writer's Life

Kim will be taking a hiatus from blogging for the MC to get her manuscript in tip-top shape just for you.  But you can keep up with her on her personal MySpace page. 

Congrats again, Kim!!!

Love,

The MC xoxo

Hey everyone!

Hillary Carlip here, one of the four original Memoirists Collective peeps!  Remember us?!

I know… it's been a looooong time since you've heard from any of us, or since we've had the chance to do another kick-ass Memoir contest for ya'all!  BUT HAVE I GOT A CONTEST FOR YOU TODAY!!!

First, let me tell you why the four of us have all been so busy:

Josh Kilmer-Purcell has a FANTASTIC new book out called Candy Everybody Wants!  GO GET IT!  You won't be sorry!

Danielle Trussoni, author of the acclaimed memoir Falling Through the Earth is writing a novel now!

Maria Dahvana Headley just had a play produced, sold the TV Rights to her hit memoir The Year of Yes, and is working on a new big monster Shakespeare project, www.upstartcrowproject.com.

Oh, and me, you ask?  Well I have a BRAND new book out called A la Cart: The Secret Lives of Grocery Shoppers.

For years, I've been collecting strangers' shopping lists.  I find them in grocery carts, at the checkout counter -- alright, I've even been known to dumpster dive for them (as long as they're clean and dry!)  I'm totally fascinated by these snapshot scraps of human nature.  I believe you can tell so much about a person by their shopping list, that shopping lists are the new memoir!

In my book A la Cart: The Secret Lives of Grocery Shoppers, I have taken real, found shopping lists and transformed myself into the imagined authors by being photographed as 26 different characters who vary in age, gender, sexual orientation, ethnicity, and facial hairstyles, and writing stories about each.

Wanna know more?  Well, if you go to my profile, you can not only read all about it and see a short video trailer, you can also participate in a BIG, PHAT SUPERMARKET SLEUTH CONTEST, with BIG, PHAT prizes!  Just go to my current BLOG.

And here are a couple o' pics to intice you and give you a peek into A la Cart:

This is me:

And here's me as Pammy (along with the found list she's imagined from):

And me as Lloyd:

Look forward to seeing you over at my page and blog, and thanks for checking out A la Cart: The Secret Lives of Grocery Shoppers!

Happy shopping!

XO Hillary

P.S.  TODAY, yeah that's right, TODAY, I am featured on NPR's Day to Day in the first of a kick-ass TWO-PART piece!  You can listen to it online (and see an A la Cart slide show they put together by clicking here.)

Fat is Sexier Than You Think
By Kim Brittingham

"Oh, my God."  My mother slapped the steering wheel in percussive disbelief.  "Can you believe the nerve of that woman?  Where does she get off wearing a skirt that short?  At her size, she's got no business!"

We were driving along Byberry Road, past the old abandoned lunatic asylum.  A fat woman was walking with relaxed purpose along the side of the road in a black mini-skirt and t-shirt.  Her arms and legs were thick and alabaster, her rear end ample and heart-shaped.

It was summer and I was fat too.  I wore jeans and a boatneck tunic with three-quarter-length sleeves to hide my sausage-like upper arms and flabby elbows.  I was keeping my fat to myself, sparing the public of my hideousness.  Just as "The Elephant Man" John Merrick wore a burlap sack over his head when walking the streets of London.  It was a simple matter of courtesy.

I was in my twenties then.  I'm thirty-seven now, and I still wear three-quarter-length sleeves in summer.  And I only bare my legs when I swim. The difference is, I don't think my body is ugly anymore.

But you do.

The fact is, I think my body is beautiful.  Really.  That's my honest-to-God opinion.

Tactically, I'm scrumptious.  The pinkish-white swells of my hips, breasts and belly beg to be caressed, stroked -- kneaded like so much pie dough.  And if you've ever actually kneaded dough, or pressed your fingers into a lump of dense but pliable clay and felt the sweet, aching satisfaction in your hands as you molded it -- feeling it give beneath your palms, subtly varying the pressure from your fingertips as you slid them across the endlessly fascinating surface -- then you know the pleasure of a body like mine beneath your touch.

Aesthetically, I'm pear-shaped.  The contrast between my waist and hips is dramatic and unmistakable.  It's an exaggeration of femininity; like a promise of extreme fertility.

And for an observer to be aroused by the sight of me should not be surprising, because my fat casts a floodlight on my pelvic area and is shamelessly suggestive not only of the babies to which I was designed to give passage, but of the sexual stimulation of which I am capable.  It is a pelvis that can writhe with abandon and thump like a bass drum in arousal.  The sway of my generous hips is like a neon yellow highlighter wiped over the word "woman".  My oversized hips are a bull horn screaming "woman!"  I am a siren song to every other human being capable of seeping with desire for the female form.  I am woman -- lots of woman, abundant woman, ultimate woman.

This is what breast implants are meant to do, you know.  Cast a magnifying glass over the inherent womanliness of breasts and attract.  Women get boob jobs to give themselves a certain edge.  Frankly, I don't see why they nearly kill themselves trying to diet off their equally bulbous hips.  Besides, my belly feels just like a nipple-less breast.  It's like one giant porn boob implanted at my waist – a sexual bonus, if you will.

Archaeological discoveries like the Venus of Willendorf have taught us that early peoples, untainted by contemporary definitions of the body "ideal", really responded to the big-hipped, big-bellied woman.  They idolized her, literally.

And when I see myself naked, I see that body worthy of worship.

Everything changed when I got my first digital camera.  It was a gift, and it came with a tripod.  Alone in my apartment one afternoon, I decided to look at myself – see myself as I actually was.  I pulled the blinds and stripped down to my cheap polyester bra and teal cotton granny-panties.  I slipped on my black satin special occasion pumps, then erected the tripod at the end of the hallway that led from the front door.  Pressing the camera button for a ten-second delay, I hustled to the opposite end of the hall and stood, hands-on-hips, letting the camera's flash shower me in white.  I returned to the camera and reached for it, tentatively.  I looked in the viewer.

Yep, I sure was fat.  And at the same time, something about my body pleased me – the milky fullness, the inviting topography of its curves.  So I set the timer again, this time to take my picture as I sashayed away from the camera, capturing me in movement.

I was stunned by how sexy I looked.  I'm talking drop-dead bombshell sexy.  The kind of sexy that makes sailors in movie musicals spin 180 degrees on their heels and whistle, white caps comically askew or twisted in their hands.

There was a line to my body like an elongated "S" that riveted me.  And I liked the way one of my ass cheeks cocked upwards as I threw my leg forward.  Like a wry smile, or the cheerful buttocks in the old Underalls commercial that made a cute staccato xylophone sound with each side-to-side wag.

I liked these pictures.  I liked the body in them.

Now I understand why every lover I ever had couldn't resist tucking their hands into the warm, baby-smooth pockets of skin on either side of my pudendum, just under the fold of my overhanging belly.  I understand the passionate abandon with which one man took my left leg into both arms as he knelt before my reclining body and kissed the leg's thickness, stroked it wildly from tree-trunk calf to thunder-thigh, his eyelids half-lowered in a state of near-madness, overcome, a stream of pleasing filth dripping from his slack lips.  I no longer discount the lovers who reveled in the rolling cashmere expanse of my ass as having had "something wrong" with them.

Do people view fat women as unsexy because it's what they've been taught since birth?  And are they eating that opinion obediently off a spoon like a dozy infant in a high chair?

We look at fat women and are conditioned to think their thick limbs and juicy middles are putrid.  But these same features fail to disgust us in other contexts.

We bite into a plump and succulent fruit with relish.

We put the corpulent plaster bodies of cherubs on display in our gardens, on our bedspreads in one-dimensional brushed cotton and on glossy paper we frame and hang in our powder rooms.

Every fleshy newborn baby inspires cooing and cuddling.  We can't resist fondling their soft, stout and unshapely limbs, tickling their pudgy bellies and nuzzling their swollen apple cheeks.

Every time I see a dog show on TV., I'm struck by how fervently we adore our fat little breeds of dogs: the endearing rotundity of lumbering bulldogs and chubby pugs, the sad heavy-lidded eyes and loose sagging skin of the sweet shar-pei.  (Ironically, the fat breeds are among the most popular in status-conscious/body-conscious human circles.)  We derive joy from the appearance of these creatures.  We can't resist reaching out for them, encircling their barrel bodies with affectionate hands.

We survey lush landscapes with variations not dissimilar to an "imperfect" female body with absolute pleasure -- say, an expanse of Irish countryside with grassy rolling hills, and clusters of boulders and sudden valleys, gullies and ridges and bald patches.  Do these wide swaths of earth nauseate us?  Is it really so much uglier when it's made of flesh instead of soil?

I think men in particular are ashamed to admit to their buddies, even to their families, when they find themselves attracted to a fat woman.  Sometimes I think they sublimate their natural desires just to keep up appearances.  And that's just plain unhealthy.

Some of you may have read about my "social experiment" in which I created a fake book cover, "Fat is Contagious: How Sitting Next to a Fat Person Can Make YOU Fat" and displayed it openly on public buses.  It was pure mockery on my part; a snarky response to the many people on buses who'd made nasty remarks about my weight and/or refused to sit next to me.  And yet I stopped riding subways for the opposite reason: I was tired of being molested.

Every other trip it seemed I was getting grabbed or squeezed or jizzed on.  I've seen some clever, applause-worthy ruses for trying to get a hand on a boob.  I even sent a stalker to jail -- a wiry, drunken fool whom I first noticed when he tried to slip his hand under my ass while I sat.  Men did strip teases to impress me; they pulled it out and shamelessly started whacking off as they stared.

It's compelling, isn't it?  It's as if guys are literally taking their desires underground.

As for me, I'm ashamed of myself.  Ashamed that I'm not strong enough to shrug off your shame for finding me fleetingly attractive.  So when skin is bared to the emerging sun of summer, eagerly unwrapped and unsweatered and flaunted in the light of day, it's your disgust for my kind of body that keeps me covered up.  At least while I'm out among you.  I don't want to tempt your cruel comments, don't want to imagine the ones you might be making as you drive by.

And I don't want you to think less of me.  I don't want you to miss my engaging personality, and my wealth of good jokes and even better ideas, because you're distracted by the details of my obesity: the translucent tiger stripes of my stretch marks; cellulite like a dappling of fairy fingerprints on my skin.  I want you to give me a chance.  For a job and equal pay, for a table near the front of the restaurant, for courtesy when I shop in your store, for lasting friendship, for unconditional love, for everyday kindness.  So I hide my fat as best I can.

Which is probably a good thing anyway, because if I really let you see it all, you might die from an overload of primordial lust.

------

Links to Recent Blogs:

Jealousy-Proof

I See Old People

Frosty: A Family Christmas

Two Tools for Comfy Writing
By Kim Brittingham

Thought you might like to know about two tools that are helping me write more, because they're making me more comfortable when I do.

The BedLounge

I've owned a few back rest pillows in my time.  But inevitably I ended up throwing them out, every single one.   They seemed comfy in theory, but practically speaking, they were useless.

I recently discovered a nifty product by Cequal called The BedLounge and I absolutely love it.  It's a cut above the ordinary back rest pillow – the next generation, if you will.

I've used my BedLounge to write in bed, but more often lately, I've been propping it on the chaise extension of my sofa, because it provides better support than my sofa cushions.

Traditional back rests of this type are lumpy and limited.  Most of the time, they're little more than sculpted pillows, without much thought for how their design realistically interacts with the human body.  If the pillow is inflexible, you could end up shoving extra pillows behind your lower back and neck to get optimally comfortable.  And with all the extra padding you have to provide, what's the point in having the back rest in the first place?  Might as well just prop yourself against your own bed pillows.  At least you can manipulate them more easily than you can a bulky stationary back rest.

Besides, a crappy back rest can actually cause discomfort instead of relieving it.

And how 'bout those stuffed arm rests?  Most of the time they're too short to really be of much use.  And if they don't move, what if the space between them isn't wide enough to accommodate you?

I'm a fan of the BedLounge because there's actually some thought behind it.  For starters, its arm rests are the right length, height and shape to provide real support to your arms, especially when your elbows are slightly bent in the typing position.

And the arm rests move!  Yes!  They pivot outward to make way for butts of all sizes – even mine!  It's convenient, plus it eliminates any feeling of being "caged" into your back rest.

Each arm rest also has a roomy pocket along its entire length for tucking pens, notes, etc.

The BedLounge also has a heavenly lower back support feature that I've never seen in any other back rest.  A small pillow is tucked inside the BedLounge, in just the right position to aid your lower back.  And ingeniously, BedLounge gives you access to that pillow through two slots in the back rest's cover, so you can reach in and mold the pillow to suit you – move it around, plump it up, squish it.  Or, if you prefer, pluck it out completely.

Probably my favorite feature of the BedLounge is the head rest.  A perfectly-shaped cushion adjusts and follows your head horizontally and vertically to support your head in any position as you work.  It can be raised or lowered, or removed.

The BedLounge is very light (just six pounds) but super-sturdy.  Its interior structure is made of a strong-but-featherweight, nearly indestructible polypropylene -- designed to survive when you throw the BedLounge against the wall in frustration when writer's block strikes.

And when you need to put the laptop aside and just let the ideas percolate (read: nap), the BedLounge reclines.

The BedLounge also folds up for easy storage. (Two sets of fabric ties allow you to secure the arms in a compact, self-hugging position.)

The BedLounge's slip cover is removable and machine washable, and a variety of colors and fabrics are available to suit your aesthetic.  A hypoallergenic version is available as well as a smaller version for folks under 5'3".

The classic BedLounge sells for $117.99 at www.bedlounge.com.

The Allsop Heat Therapy Mouse Pad

I'm a mouse person.  Whenever possible, I try to work with one.  I don't like sliding my finger around on a slick square of hard plastic to manipulate my cursor.  It feels…unnatural.

Unfortunately, when I've been writing for a long stretch, I tend to feel sore in my "mouse wrist".

The Allsop Heat Therapy Mouse Pad has saved my life – or at least my right wrist.  Its comfy, rubbery-bubble wrist support has a zipper opening, and inside is a gel pack that provides cushioning and – here's the magic – therapeutic heat or soothing coolness!

The gel pack is removable and can be microwaved or frozen, then zipped back inside the wrist rest to provide heat (to increase circulation and relieve tension) or cold (to decrease swelling and reduce blood flow).  I like that the Allsop Heat Therapy Mouse Pad comes with two gel packs, because I'm able to keep one in the freezer at-the-ready, and the other stays in my wrist rest to provide steady support until I feel compelled to heat it.  The heat and coolness are conveyed gently through the latex-free wrist rest, and the temperature tapers gradually as the gel insert cools or thaws.

The Allsop Heat Therapy Mouse Pad sells for $19.99. Visit www.allsop.com.

Happy(ier) Writing!

I See Old People:

http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=61706395&blogID=342318485

Frosty: A Family Christmas:

http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=61706395&blogID=333477482

Lust, Kindergarten & Davy Jones:

http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=61706395&blogID=320817408

A Tale of Seven Lap Desks
By Kim Brittingham

When it comes down to it, if you want to be a writer, you've just got to write, period.  No excuses.

And no fancy equipment is necessary, either.  I mean, my god, look at Shakespeare.  They didn't even have electricity in his day.  Dude had to work on a manual typewriter.

Nevertheless, I believe in making it as easy as possible for myself to write.  Ironically for me and just about everyone else who writes, it's all too easy to avoid doing the thing we love doing most, in favor of Ghost Hunters, an Erik Larsen paperback, or scrolling through cute animal photos of the week on Yahoo.

When I enter my apartment, my desk is not the first thing to greet me.  No. That would be the sofa.  Big, beckoning, comfy, L-shaped, it's-OK-to-eat-spaghetti-on-me-because-I'm-a-cheap-piece-of-IKEA-crap sofa, with its snug corners, extra cushions and plush fleece blankie.

The desk?  I need to go out of my way to get to that.  And by the time my early-rising commuting workaday butt gets nestled into the sofa, it's hard getting motivated to move camp.  Especially on a bone chilling New York night.  My desk sits in front of an eight-foot-tall uninsulated window, installed in 1901.  It's very La Boheme, typing in fingerless gloves, but at 37, I'm so over the romance of that.

So, I thought about how I might make my sofa itself an inviting writing environment.  It's already comfy enough.  I do have a serviceable laptop and an ideally-located outlet.  All I needed was some kind of platform – a sofa desk, if you will – to aid my process.

And this led me to imagine other places and other positions in which one might write.  I thought, maybe there are other writers out there who would turn more of their time into writing time if they knew about some of the neat-o, enabling tools that exist.

I did a little research, tried some things out, and I bring the results to you now, in:

Kim Brittingham's Great Lap Desk Trial of 2008

For The Esthete: The SurfACE 1.5

By far, this is the funkiest, most chic of all the lapdesks I found.  Its design cleverly allows for flexible configurations, and if you've got an imagination, it can be as much fun as a futuristic building set -- like the ones you see in those pricy little smart kids' toy stores, with the rock tumblers and potholder looms and Revive-Your-Own-Cadaver kits from Bavaria.

The desk is primarily made of three acrylic pieces – a large desktop (19.55" wide, 10.5" deep) perforated with half-inch holes, and two smaller acrylic wing pieces (about 8.8" x 9.25") with two holes each.

The unit is shipped with approximately 40 interchangeable metal pieces that fit into any of the holes on the acrylic slabs, and the bits connect to each other. They connect the wing pieces to the main desktop, and they can be screwed together to create wand-like extensions to create rise or depth, depending on your configuration.  You can also do what I did, and screw two metal bits onto the main desk surface about a foot apart, creating the perfect "rests" for the laptop, so it sits on an ergonomically comfortable slant.

If you're using the unit in a chair, the wing pieces rest on the arms of the chair, with the main desktop dropped lower in the center.  The wings can each do double-duty as a mouse pad, but I found mine handy for keeping a small pad on-hand, allowing me to glance at notes. The opposite wing held a can of Coke Zero beautifully.

If you're using the unit on a sofa, you turn it "upside-down" (although that term is entirely relative), and join the wing pieces to the main desktop with four long legs, so the wings act like big feet keeping the desk hovering comfortably above your lap.

The holes in the desktop serve the additional purpose of providing ventilation, preventing the laptop from overheating.

To the maker of the SurfACE, I do suggest drafting clearer assembly instructions.  They were a little vague, and I ended up abandoning them entirely in frustration and just approaching the pieces with a sense of play.  This approach proved successful, and in under thirty minutes, I was able to assemble the SurfACE into two fun configurations and settle on my favorite.  However, it might be helpful for SurfACE to include instructions that offer two or three suggested configurations, and give step-by-step instructions for each, because not everyone is as willing to play with their purchase as I was.

The SurfACE is an ideal tool for all you Ludlums and Lovecrafts of the La-Z-Boy, especially if you like your useful things equally beautiful.  It's available in clear or white acrylic and sells for $149 at Edgeblur.

For The Minimalist: The LapWorks Futura

This is the lightest and most portable lapdesk I found – ideal for travel.  Just one simple plastic piece that folds in half and stows easily away.  Fully extended, it measures 10.75" x 22", fitting a wide variety of computer models.  Folded up, it's a mere 10.75" x 11", and less than an inch thick.

A rubberized surface helps keep your machine in place, and plentiful vents keep the heat off your lap.

A sort of "kickstand" on the underside converts the Future into an angled desktop support for your machine.

It's not the most stable of all the lapdesks I tried, but I wouldn't call it unstable, either. And I wouldn't hesitate to take the Futura on a bus, train or plane -- and at $29.95, you don't have to worry too much about leaving it behind.  To buy, visit LapWorks.

For The Minimalist With A Mouse:  The Xbrand Lap Desk with Retractable Mouse Pad

The Xbrand Lap Desk is compact and lightweight, but with the added feature of a mouse pad extension, which flips out of the center and provides an optional surface.  (Works nice for supporting small notepads, too.)

When the extension is in use, the doughnut hole it creates in the center of the desktop provides ventilation and guards against overheating.

The Xbrand Lap Desk also includes such thoughtful details as four padded disks on the desk surface to prevent your laptop from slipping, and a carrying handle molded into one end of the desk.  The plastic is substantial without being weighty.

The Xbrand Lap Desk  measures 11" x 14.25" with the extension tucked in.  It can fit easily into most backpacks.

Although the Xbrand Lap Desk felt slightly less stable in my lap than some of the other products I tried, it still works well.  (I attribute the mild tendency to wobble to the very flat design – it doesn't mold to your body, so sit still when using it, or at least sit up straight.)  So, if you're looking for something that doesn't take up a lot of space, can travel with you easily or even hide behind a sofa cushion without being noticed, you'd do well to get an Xbrand Lap Desk.  It retails for $29.99 at Xbrand.

For The Sofa Executive: The Instand Bean Bag Table

The Instand Bean Bag Table is for the lapdesk user who wants more desk in her lap.

I found that the majority of lapdesks intended for computer use were generally small -- but the Instand Bean Bag Table is refreshingly generous, without being cumbersome.  The work surface measures about 14.5" x 18.75", allowing for larger laptop models and room to spare.  I liked being able to multi-task from this desk, as it held a paper copy of my manuscript and my cell phone in addition to my laptop, all at the same time.

It even has a depression molded into the desk surface for holding pens, and a carrying handle.

The surface of the Instand Bean Bag Table is covered with two large patches of non-slip material – no skimping here! -- that help keep your computer in place, and the center of the desktop is slightly recessed to allow for airflow under your machine.

The Instand Bean Bag Table felt incredibly comfortable in my lap.  It was very stable, thanks to the bean bag underside that contoured to my lap.  The comfortable wrist rest along the bottom edge of the desk surface was a much-appreciated extra.

The InStand Bean Bag Table is an excellent desk-away-from-desk, and it works as well in bed as it does on the sofa.  But if I could improve upon anything, I'd ask Instand to build in some mechanism to allow for working at a slight angle.  There were moments I wished I had a foam wedge I could tuck between the desk surface and my laptop, just to create a mild slope.  Maybe the bean bag itself could be shaped more wedge-like, a little higher in the back.  It would feel a tad easier on the eyes, shoulders and arms.

Interestingly, I was able to remedy this with a product by Xbrand, whose lap desk I reviewed above.  Xbrand makes a Cooling and Comfort Station that can be used on any surface, and there's plenty of room for it on the Instand Bean Bag Table.  The Xbrand Cooling and Comfort Station is a compact piece that puts your laptop on an ergonomically comfy angle, with an embedded fan that keeps air circulating under the machine.  The fan is powered by a USB cord connected to your computer, which tucks neatly away in a hidden compartment when the station is not in use.

Overall, the Instand Bean Bag Table was one of my favorite lap desks.  It sells for $29.95 at Instand.

For The Perfectionist: The iLap

I was really impressed with the iLap, and found myself reaching for it again and again. The iLap had the best overall stability and comfort of all the lap desk models I tried under 18" in width.

It's designed to put your computer on a gentle incline, which is optimally comfortable for typing.  The angle is perfect -- I never had that weird sense of looking down at my screen.

A padded rear piece swivels to allow for ideal positioning on your lap or legs.  As I moved, it moved with me, keeping my laptop as level as possible.

The actual desk surface kept my computer super-steady, because it's one solid piece of aluminum.  They haven't failed to recognize the importance of heat control, however.  The iLap is ingeniously designed to keep your computer cool because the aluminum plate draws heat away from the machine, and the desk design promotes circulation.  It also comes with four rubber adhesive pads to help keep the computer in place, and mine didn't budge.

I bended and unbended my knees several times, crossed my legs, folded them -- and I never, ever felt like my laptop was going to slide backwards off the desk – a disconcerting sensation I occasionally experienced with some other models.

VERY COMFY black velvet wrist rest (which is removable for using the iLap on a  stationery surface).

Plus, the iLap comes in seven different sizes to ideally suit different computer models.  The iLap folks asked for the make and model of my PC and matched it with the best possible size iLap.  The fit is perfect.

To buy your own iLap, visit Rain Design.  Prices range from $49.90 to $69.90, depending on size.

For The Floor Walker: The Connect-A-Desk

The Connect-a-Desk is by far the most unique of all the desks I tried.  It's designed to let you walk and type.  So if you get your best ideas pacing the floors at midnight, now you can get your ideas into the laptop before they dissipate into the ether, leaving your true genius unrecorded.  Get ready for greatness!

The Connect-a-Desk holds your laptop on a slab of plastic at belly-level, and it's secured to your body with straps that fasten around the waist, and a padded piece that hangs around the neck.  The straps are adjustable, so you can customize how far you need to reach for the keyboard.  It also comes with a foam rubber wrist rest.

It's very portable and lightweight -- just throw it in your tote or backpack and go.  And I must admit, the idea of being able to stroll through the park or on the beach while writing is alluring -- although I haven't tried it yet.  I'm waiting for better weather.  I did my test walking across my apartment.

The Connect-a-Desk works just fine, although I do wish they'd beef up the desk surface a little -- it's super-thin and bows under the weight of my laptop, even without its battery.  And the wrist rest isn't permanently attached to the desk, which was a pain in the butt.  It kept slipping off.

And although the neck straps are quite comfy, there's one small stretch of belting at the back of the neck that was left unpadded and it's a tad abrading.  I improvised by tucking a washcloth back there, but it would've been that much nicer if I didn't have to.  If anything, I would've liked a little extra padding at the back of the neck.

Although the Connect-a-Desk distributed the weight of my computer comfortably and I was able to walk and work with ease, I kind of expected to have a sore back the next day.  But to my delight, no such pain.

Despite a few kinks, the Connect-a-Desk is great fun, and definitely does what it's supposed to.  Frankly, I'd like to see more people walking around using these things -- as long as they do it in an open field somewhere, and not on the street when I'm walking behind them!

To buy your own Connect-a-Desk for $34.95, visit Connect-a-Desk.

For The Long Haul: The AKP OfficePro/10

Penning a trilogy?  Compiling a personal history of every American named Joe?  You're gonna be at it a while.

You might consider investing in an OfficePro/10 from AKP.  This is the most substantial of all the computer desks I sampled, and definitely a personal favorite.  It's not for everyone, especially if you're looking to conserve space.  But even in my tiny Manhattan apartment, I find the OfficePro/10 to be well worth the space it takes, because it's moveable and versatile.

The OfficePro/10 is on a wheeled base.  Its surface is wide and curvaceous, with no uninviting sharp edges.  It rolls comfortably up to your chair or sofa, and rolls just as easily away.

It's made to be used with a long side of the desktop facing the user.  This provides more than enough room for even the heftiest laptop model, plus plenty of space for papers, snacks, and miscellany.  This is how I used it when writing on a living room chair.  Additionally, the OfficePro/10 has an adjustable height and tilt mechanisms.

But I found a second way of using the desk.  When I was tucked into the corner of my L-shaped sofa, I pulled the table in as close as possible, so one short end of the table hovered perfectly over my lap.  My computer fit nicely, sat steadily, and I worked in total comfort.  And unlike any of the other desks I tried, I was able to merely push the desktop to the side when I needed to get up, and it glided easily away.  It was nice for a change not to have something resting directly on my lap.

The AKP OfficePro/10 usually sells for $185, but for a limited time it's available for $129.95 plus shipping at AKP.

See?  Even if you're a sofa spud, you can pen your memoir.  Do it during commercials, bit by bit.

But give it a rest when that description of your grandmother reads oddly similar to Jared from Subway.

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Links to Recent Blogs:

I See Old People

Frosty: A Family Christmas

Lust, Kindergarten and Davy Jones

An Angel in Bennigan's

Did you miss The Best Memoirists Pageant Ever this past November in NYC?

Dry those tears!  Now you can listen to the entire program, starring Neil...AKA...Neil, AuthorChrys, Heather Maidat, Kim Brittingham and Radmilla Suleymanova!

Just use this player, and play away!

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Felicia Sullivan's volatile, beautiful, deceitful, drug-addicted mother disappeared on the night Sullivan graduated from college, and has not been seen or heard from in the ten years since. Sullivan, who grew up on the tough streets of Brooklyn in the 1980s, now looks back on her childhood—lived among drug dealers, users, and substitute fathers. Sullivan became her mother's keeper, taking her to the hospital when she overdosed, withstanding her narcissistic rages, succumbing to the abuse or indifference of so-called stepfathers, and always wondering why her mother would never reveal the truth about the father she'd never met.

Ashamed of her past, Sullivan invented a persona to show the world. Yet despite her Ivy League education and numerous accomplishments, she, like her mother, eventually succumbed to alcohol and drug abuse. She wrote The Sky Isn't Visible from Here, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, when she realized it was time to kill her own creation.

We face one another picking apart our chicken
cutlet parmesans. While my mother complains about the thieving coked-up whores in her diner, I assemble piles of mozzarella cheese -- eyes transfixed on the clock. I keep time; will it to pass by. It's 1996 and my mother and I sit through one of our semi-annual lunches, which consist of filler talk with minor variations. We dine in Long Island cafés rife with stale breadbaskets and tepid beef. Today, while my mother prattles on, it never occurs to her to ask about me, about my life, rather she talks about herself, how my stepfather and me ruined her life, how she's desperate to escape. Sometimes I think we do this, the lunches, simply to see how long we can endure one another. Whether she can break me.

Giggling, my mother reveals that she's leaving us for another man, one she met in a bar -- he's taking her to Disneyland! Disneyland! -- and could I not call her for six months, make that a year, because she's concerned that I would inevitably wreck her happiness. You always do. In the same breath, my mother tells me, Oh, the sex. You wouldn't believe. I start to shake because my mother is leaving us for a man and mouse ears. I look up at my mother, watch her scrape her teeth with her fork, slurp the last dregs of her piña colada, and I writhe. I hate her. I hate you.

Nine months later, on the eve of my college graduation, my mother calls me, hysterical. The man who bought her mouse ears tried to strangle her. She's been fired, living on white bread, and can still see the marks his hands left on her neck.

Could we take her back? Could life be the way it was?

I pause, wondering if it's possible to drown standing up. I want to be the dutiful daughter, the one who loves beyond repair. But I think about the way it was: the woman who never allowed me trespass to my real father, a mother who stole my childhood from me. I remember the years of neglect, rage and abuse, her decade-long cocaine addiction, the fear of angering her and the terror of wondering whether she would get even in my sleep, and the countless times she told me I wasn't worth her labor. I wasn't worth anything at all.

I told my mother that she made it impossible for me to love her. Her response was a cold fuck you.

A decade later at a party in a bar that resembles a cavern, someone asks me about the book I've written. I give broad strokes, don't bother with the details, but I say that it's a book about my relationship with my abusive, drug addict mother, and how love is not unconditional. That having a family for the sake of having one, no matter how painful the familial binds, is not the healthiest decision. That day in the spring of 1997, my mother asked me to make a choice -- between her and my mental health -- and the decision suddenly became so easy. I chose me.
After I say all of this, the person replies, "How could you not love your mother? How could you not want to find her? She is your mother, after all." I close my eyes; it's as if I had been miming the whole time for this was not the first time someone has asked me this question and it won't be the last.

We live in a culture where parents routinely disinherit their children from marrying out of their faith, social standing, race and sexual orientation. When a friend from my high school came out, her parents changed all the locks, banned her from their home and excluded her from family gatherings; they haven't spoken in eight years. And while this is all heartbreaking, the stuff movies are made from, it's a practice routinely accepted. In response, we shake our heads and lament about the unfortunate situation. However how unfortunate, parents aren't shamed by their decision to disown their children, and it is typically up to the child to reconcile the family.

In our culture where mothers are sacrosanct, it is the ultimate taboo to sever ties with the woman who bore and raised you (save the rare cases of celebrity parents and enablers because while they are real people, they don't seem very real to us like our friends and neighbors), so while I understand how someone would question my decision to end my relationship with my mother, it doesn't make it any less frustrating and difficult to answer. In the 10 years since my mother and I have parted ways, while I long for the idea of a mother -- a mentor, a role model, a learned woman who serves as my career and life guide, a best friend, a blanket that offers comfort -- my mother was none of these things, and I have developed my own familial construct: a life inhabited by strong, supportive, loving people who couldn't imagine their lives without me in it (and vice versa).

But perhaps I should have answered with these questions instead: Why does love need to be unconditional? Why is a family member granted an unlimited supply of get-out-of-jail-free cards while friends and partners endure our fissures, breakups and divorces? Why is their only one definition of family?
What I should have said is this: What is your decision won't necessarily be mine.

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This weekend, if you're in or near NYC, don't miss PAPER DOLLS: Live Lady Essayists at The Bowery Poetry Club, featuring MC blogger Kim Brittingham!

Essayists, get your butts there at noon SHARP, when audience members can compete in an on-the-spot "flash essay" contest.  The winning mini-essays will be showcased between the afternoon's featured readers. And there are prizes to boot!  To participate, don't be late!

Other featured readers will include:

Susan Henderson of LitPark.com, two-time Pushcart Prize nominee and author of the forthcoming novel "Rise" (St. Martins Press)

Heather Maidat, Los Angeles-based screenwriter and essayist, and creator of the popular "New Yorker in L.A." blog

New York-based writer Carol Clouse, best known for her writings about her adventures in London, which are the basis for her forthcoming as-yet untitled memoir

Iranian-born Shoaleh Teymour, a belly dance instructor who came to the United States as a girl in the 1970s, will be reading from an autobiographical work in progress.

Admission to PAPER DOLLS is $10. The Bowery Poetry Club has a cash bar, tasty soups and sandwiches, mind-blowing coffee and teas and more. Those under 21 will be admitted, but no boozin' for you youngsters -- sorry!

See you there!