Headed to Atlanta tomorrow morning to see my family! Very excited. Also excited about my lunch and reading at The Eagle Eye Bookshop in Decatur on Sunday!!! If you're in the area, please stop by. I'd love to seeeeee you.

Jumping for joy!

 


 
 

Huge thanks to Jodi Lipper and Cerina Vincent, authors of the upcoming Live Like A Hot Chick (Avon A, September 2010)!

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jodi-lipper-and-cerina-vincent/friendships-help-women-do_b_500649.html

doo dee doo doooooo, do dee dooo doo doo dooooooooooooo

Man. I can't believe that the time has come. Tomorrow, my book goes on sale – to be either loved, hated, lukewarmed or disregarded by the reading public. A lifetime of dreaming and over a year of writing is finally culminated in one gorgeous book. What a gift!!! I feel blessed and happy, and nervous in the best possible way. What will be, will be. It's all about the journey, as my Dad says. Very true.

If you find yourself near or in a bookstore tomorrow, and you see my little book waiting patiently to be purchased, please take her home. And if you're feeling really ambitious, take a photo of yourself with it and send it to me. Fully clothed, preferably, and in no compromising positions. You know who I'm talking to.

Well, it's time to sign off. If you're in Brooklyn tomorrow night, please stop by Book Court in Cobble Hill at 7 PM. I'll be reading from the book and wine will be flowing.

The book looks and feels amazing! I love it so.

 
 

My real live book, as displayed by international supermodel and one of my best friends in the whole wide world, Susan Phear.

As I am in Chicago this week, I won't get my mitts on the book until Monday, so I am living through Susan. I can't wait to see them for myself!

Hello! Still getting the hang of this blogging thing. I know I should be writing about all things Brooklyn and yoga related, but since I am in Chicago spending a blissful week with my husband, whose work has relocated him here for the year, and working from home, I am forced to write about something else: eyebrows.

Having abundant eyebrow hair is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing when you mostly leave them alone and somehow create the perfect, clean arch; and a curse when you are chained to the laptop and it is freezing outside. It begins with just a small pluck of an errant hair inside the line that you know you need to keep, and ends with — well, it ends badly. 

In Balancing Acts, Sabine struggles with the same eyebrows. I had a lot of fun writing a small bit about her tendency to pluck when bored. As I wrote, I laughed to myself as though that tendency was behind me. Behind me: no. Right in front of my face as I gaze into the mirror in horror: yes.

Good thing these puppies grow like weeds. Brooklyn will never know the difference.

Do you remember this show? I do, vaguely. Kids would compete for some kid-approved prize by completing grueling obstacle courses. Inevitably, if they did manage to finish, they would emerge from some sort of tunnel covered in egg yolk, slime, and limp noodles, victorious and eager to accept their booty.

The reason I bring up this random show, is because most, if not all of the time, running errands in New York often feels like an adult version of Double Dare – minus the egg yolk and the coveted prize. Instead of cash and a new television, your reward is clean laundry or a stocked refrigerator. Great, thanks.

Yesterday I set out to do my laundry. My laundromat is about 4 blocks away. I gather my mounds of dirty clothes. I decide that yes, I will wash my duvet cover, even though removing it from its comforter companion is akin to running about 4 miles. Why it requires so much energy, I have no idea, but when I finally do separate these two goliaths, I am sweaty, out of breath, and covered in feathers (hello – Double Dare!) I regroup and carry the granny cart (my Brooklyn version of an SUV) down my three flights of stairs. I return up the stairs to bring the laundry bags down. Back downstairs, I wrestle them into the cart, only to realize that I have left the detergent in the apartment. I mumble to myself. Five minutes later, I am back downstairs, detergent in hand. Let's do this.

Rolling into the laundromat, I am immediately filled with dread. Why are there so many mother-loving people in here!?! It's as though everyone in the boro of Brooklyn is doing their laundry. My heart races. I look desperately around for two empty machines. One on the far right, and one on the far left end. I muscle my way into the fray, practically mauling a small Chinese boy in the process. I cram my clothes, sheets, towels and monster duvet into them at the speed of light; somehow convinced that if I pause for even a second, someone quicker will rip my belongings out and use my machines for their own pleasure. This may sound crazy, but anyone who has forgotten about their clothes in a New York dryer can attest to the horror of seeing their freshly laundered belongings stuffed angrily into some random cart. You snooze, you lose in this fair city. And, strange people fondle your underwear. But – back to the moment – I've done it. My stuff is securely in the washers, and soon it will be in the drier. I, super productive human that I am, will go to the gym while my clothes dry. The granny cart will serve as an air dryer for two white shirts that, if thrown into the drier, will fit me like sausage casings. The worst is over. I have conquered phase one of Saturday laundry.

I arrive back from the gym just in time to see that I have one minute drying time left. I congratulate myself on my timing. Oops, turns out the monster duvet actually turned into a duvet burrito inside the dryer. Still wet, I shove it back in for 20 minutes, Annoying, but not the end of the world. 'Runaway Bride' is on the postage sized television, and a table is open for folding. At last, a half hour later, my cart is ready to roll. I am overjoyed by the concept of clean underwear.

One block, two blocks, three blocks, so close to home. Then: a bump. My shins smack into the cart and it tumps over – my white shirts poised to take the brunt of the fall. I yell an obscenity. I pick the cart up and survey the damage. Without a word, I turn around and wheel the cart back four blocks to the laundromat, throw the shirts back into the washer, wait a half hour for them to be done, roll those four damn blocks back again with a watchful eye, take the laundry bags out of the cart, climb the three sets of stairs to my apartment, go back down to retrieve the cart and repeat the process, and then – THEN – I am done.

And what is my prize?? Wrestling my comforter BACK into the duvet. Awesome.

 

 

“Anyone who has wondered, ‘Now what?’ about her life will relate to Zoe Fishman’s ebullient and wise novel Balancing Acts. The pages flew by and I was sad when my time with these great characters ended – but not too sad to try some yoga.” – Valerie Frankel, author of Thin Is the New Happy 

“Zoe Fishman strikes the right balance in her warm-fuzzy debut of rekindled friendship and self-empowerment.” –  Publisher’s Weekly, 11/16/09

“When Charlie decides to leave her high-paying job as a Wall Street banker to open her own yoga studio in Brooklyn, her biggest obstacle isn’t convincing her friends and family that she’s not crazy, but finding customers to keep her in business. At her college’s 10-year reunion, she reconnects with three prime would-be customers: Naomi, the former queen of the Upper East Side and hot photographer who now finds herself a single mother without inspiration; Sabine, a cheesy book editor who still hasn’t written the novel she has always meant to write; and Bess, who finds herself writing bitchy captions for a tabloid rather than investigating the real news.  Charlie signs them all up for beginners yoga, where they learn to lean on each other as they deal with the disappointments in their lives and begin to make some serious changes. Fishman combines humor and brutal honesty as she keeps four story lines going and tracks the growing friendship among the women.”– Booklist, 2/15/10

 

“This tale of one young woman’s “quarter-life crisis” neatly captures the sense of floundering through those post-college years. Fishman handles her characters with wit and good humor. Readers will cheer them on — and then run out to a yoga class.” – Romantic Times / Four Star Review, 3/10

 

 

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