Campaign for the American reader asked me cast a movie version of MOMMY TRACKED (and, no, the movie rights haven’t yet sold, but it was fun pretending!). . . check out my fantasy all-star cast here.

Or, at least, the way onto her show.
TMZ is reporting that Jessica Seinfeld, a.k.a. Mrs. Jerry Seinfeld, sent Oprah twenty thousand dollars worth of Christian Louboutin shoes — yes, you read that right — to thank her for featuring Seinfeld on her show last week . . . and launching Seinfeld’s new cookbook to the number one spot on Amazon’s best seller list.
Good to keep in mind.
I wonder what Gabriel Garcia Marquez sent Oprah for selecting Love in the Time of Cholera as her new book club pick? That should be worth at least ten pairs of new Louboutins, no?

Yes, I know I’ve been a bad blogger as of late. I’m starting to get emails along the lines of: WHERE ARE YOU? ARE YOU OKAY?
I am here. And I am fine.
Actually, I’m not fine. I’ve had some sort of disgusting bronchial infection going on four weeks now. All day, every day, it’s cough-cough-cough, hack-hack-hack.
But other than that, I’m fine. Just on deadline, and busy finishing up a book.
I’ve also taken up tennis again after a ten year hiatus from the sport. Once upon a time, I was a pretty good player. But the time off hasn’t done my game any good, for I now seriously suck. I played in a Ladies Round Robin last week, where I was the youngest person out there by about thirty years . . . and those grandmas kicked my ass up and down the court.
When I told George about how I lost every single set, he was encouraging. “But they didn’t criticize you, did they?”
“Yes, they did so criticize me!”
“Really?”
“Yes, really!” I said.
“What did they say?” he asked.
“It was along the lines of: ‘move forward,’ ‘stand back,’ ‘stop hitting the ball out, ‘you play like shit.’”
“They told you you played like shit?”
“Not in so many words,” I said darkly. “But their meaning was clear.”
Now I’m trying to decide if I dare show my face at the Ladies Round Robin again . . . or if maybe I wouldn’t be better off finding a class of seven-year-olds to play against. True, the seven-year-olds will probably be more likely to laugh when I fall down hitting a volley (which happened to me not once, but twice during my match last week). But maybe I can at least smash a few winners past the little kids. It might do my ego some good.