Between you and me, can we please acknowledge that I was into The View before it was “cool” to be into The View? I’ve been writing about my deep love for the show since I started this disco train over a year ago, and I’d just like some credit as an early adopter, one who was in the stew during the thin broth of the Meredith/Star days. Thank god, then, that someone knows where to go for genuine, informed commentary on the Rosie/Elisabeth conflict — in today’s Philadelphia Daily News, I try mightily to defend Rosie against the pick-on-someone-your-own-sizers, but the reporter was having none of it.

“I think there is some truth to the idea that the bully is the most sensitive,” said Melissa Kirsch, author of “The Girl’s Guide to Absolutely Everything” (Workman Publishing, $15.95). “When it comes to our female friends, it’s usually the ones who put up the steeliest fronts who are the most sensitive in the long run.”

Read the whole article here.

Sigh. I tried. Not printed are all the things I said about how a good friend is on your side, defends you, whether at a cocktail party or on national television. And how, if you’re particulary upset about something and need a friend to go to the mat for you, you have to communicate that. Please let it be known I also feel like a total idiot even talking about Rosie & Elisabeth as if there’s something to be gleaned from their Fight of Spurious Provenance about our real-life friend conflicts.

Just in case:

Hey real & virtual friends,

If someone ever mistakes a comment I make about the administration as labelling the troops as terrorists, I’d appreciate it if you’d come to my defense on Larry King, because I don’t think that and you know it. I’m communicating this to you now because I’m concerned that you might not know how strongly I do not want to be branded a traitor in the international media, and you might side with Joe Scarborough against me. Oh, and if you hear that people are talking about me on Larry King, or Scarborough Country, could you please text me? I have a feeling that would sell a lot of books, and that is also important to me. Also, please don’t talk smack about me to In Touch. Thanks!

Love, Melissa.

Remember my good-intentioned ambition to make note each day of things I like about NYC in effort to remind myself just why I live here? Me neither. But yesterday I realized I was about to finish a very good day and noted it out loud. Because I find myself frequently saying “This was a bad day” or “I’ve had a hard week” or “The last four years have been generally not good” (I only said this maybe twice, and only really meant it once) and decided I would try, for a change, discussing my good day.

What I Did
Rode my bike in the morning to Chelsea, where I met Ben, and we biked way uptown, with the goal of riding over the George Washington Bridge. We had a long, leisurely ride, waylaid but briefly when I got a ridculous flat tire on a steep hill. I say ridiculous because by the time I realized I had a flat, the tire tube had somehow escaped the wheel and tire and entirely wrapped itself around the frame of the bike. I have never seen anything like it. A very friendly biker who was suspiciously unsweaty and whose longish hair was suprisingly mane-like for having biked in from New Jersey, stopped and helped us (okay, fine, helped Ben) get the tire extricated with the use of his handy pliers. (There is a “women’s bike repair” class that meets once a week on Houston. Why don’t I go to this? If Ben hadn’t been with me, I may have idiotically sat down on the side of the path and wept helplessly. I am going to go to that class.)

We walked our bikes into Hamilton Heights, a very lovely section of Harlem, where the guy at the health food store had a large stack of business cards for nearby Manny’s Bike Shop — evidently I am not the first person to emerge from the path at 181st Street with a flat. Manny made quick and cheap work of the flat and off we went, over the Bridge. I’ve never ridden over before and it was almost exhilarating. A little hazy, and some women yelled “SINGLE FILE!!!!!” when we were riding out of the line, but there were trees and rocky cliffs and the Hudson and you could see the Empire State Building down there somewhere in the grey distance.

We rode back and tried to find a park in Inwood that a guy had told us about in the health food store, but instead ended up in Fort Tryon Park, which is where the Cloisters are. I’d never been there either, and Ben and I sat in the park for several hours, trying to recount the plots of Shakespeare plays. We did a pretty good job. I feel robbed that because of the “special” Modern Studies program I was in in the English department in college I was exempt from the English major Shakespeare requirement in which you read a play a week. So I’ve never read Othello, I’m much shakier on my characters and “What did Yorick’s skull signify?” type of questions than Ben, who took the class. We also attempted to recite Shakespearean sonnets but were very bad at that.

We rode back down to this very no-frills outdoor restaurant around 100th Street in Riverside Park and had dinner outside overlooking the river. I was filthy. Like my hands were black and my face was really sweaty and my hair, my hair that I just got cut in attempt to make it look something like Rachel Weisz’s in My Blueberry Nights, was full of city-crap. My skin had grit on it.

(I admit this is not the first time I have desired to imitate Rachel Weisz. And I’m not generally the sort of person who brings a photo of an actress to her hairdresser. That’s not true. About a year and a half ago I brought a photo of Mary Tyler Moore from ’70s to him and tried to get my hair to look like hers. About six months ago I read she was wearing a wig for the entire run of the show.)

Why It Was Good
It was on the ride back that I said to Ben “This has been a good day.” He agreed, but wasn’t excited as I was to have actually had a good day that had virtually nothing bad in it. I then became nervous that I would crash my bike or come home to a stressful email or be struck by lightning before midnight, but none of these things happened. I saw many sailors in town for Fleet Week, and thought about that Sex and the City episode and also wondered if anyone else finds it confusing that the Marines are called “the Marines” when their job is not marine-based.

People like to say that New York is the best on holiday weekends because everyone leaves and the real, die-hard New Yorkers (or those of us without Hamptons houses) have the city to themselves. This was not the case at the track in the East River Park, where I went to run today. I remember now why I hate to run there on weekends — there are soccer games going on in the middle of the track and people just sort of hang out in the shade and play auxiliary soccer games and roughhouse and roll all over the track at the shady ends which makes it a not-very-relaxing run. But I wanted to know my exact distance, so I went there and nearly turned an ankle about 40 times, almost tripping on various balls, Coleman coolers and small children. It’s about 400 degrees on the track by the East River. Why must the East Side be so dreary compared to the lovely Hudson River Park? Why must my feet feel weirdly run-over-by-a-truck after a moderate run? Why so hot?

The real reason, by the way, that NYC is better on a holiday weekend is NO CONSTRUCTION. For a few days, no 6:45am Armageddon. At least in my backyard.

And just like that, Rosie was gone.

Sigh. And to think I doubted the veracity of her emotion. What is left for the procrastinators of the world? Are we expected to just go gentle into that bad morning of TV gutterdom that includes shows like Starting Over and Montel? I can’t even contemplate it.

So I missed The View this morning — at my peril. When my friend Lynn told me about the throwdown, I tried to convince her that Elisabeth and Rosie’s fight was staged for ratings. I couldn’t believe that there would actually be real emotion behind one of their red state/blue state tussles. But then I saw the clip and I have to admit, it’s pretty fantastic. Not only is it real, it’s captivating. It’s must-see TV. I’ve said it before: Rosie O’Donnell has made The View relevant. She’s made it required viewing. Say what you will about her, she’s a firebrand, and she gets people talking. And say what you will about Elisabeth, but girlfriend’s got some moxie.

Just in case you were wondering, and I know you were: I think that The Bachelor: Officer and a Gentleman, Lieutenant Andy Baldwin, is a right-wing frat boy masquerading as a heroic, deep-sea-diving doctor. Also, not cute. He looks like a Walton. As in The Waltons. And nothing very insightful to say, ever. A show I would like to see — nay, a show I would lie down on the tracks to be a contestant on — is The Bachelor: Apolo Anton Ohno. Who’s with me?

Let’s talk about dubious forms of celebrity. I, like, you, want to be recognized for my talents. Like you, I want to be rewarded handsomely and perhaps slightly publicly for these talents in a way that means I may have an article or two written about me and/or my talents, but not so famous that I might be denigrated in a tabloid or someone would consider assasinating me to impress Jodi Foster. Existing outside all this frivolity, there is the twinkling beacon of all that is untainted by the mundane, separate and superior to the meager trappings of fame and strivers and small-time hustlers with Broadway dreams. Yes, friends. I’m talking about Wikipedia.

Now, I know people (I won’t name names, but you know who you are, people) who have entries written on them in Wikipedia. Some because they’re famous or “famous” for deeds such as writing books and pop songs, performing in musical acts, or sundry forms of civil disobedience that renders one suitable for notation in the public record. I have been urged by fellow authors to just go and create an entry on myself — which, evidently anyone can do. But I have decided — in the dignified fashion for which I am known to my large and sophisticated fan base — to wait for greatness to be thrust upon me. One day my works will merit an entry in The World’s Encylopdedia, and not by my own hand.

I have also been curious about the people who write Wikipedia. I ate up that super-fascinating New Yorker article about the guy who founded it, its gatekeeper and writers, those trillions of experts and near-experts who contribute and police each other and make sure that only the most valued, esteemed, and authoritative sources in the land are used to inform Wikipedia entries.

Now, let me not tarry any longer to the point. I may be all but non-existent if you search for my name in Wikipedia. But, my friends, it seems my contribution to The World’s Encylopedia is a far loftier one. I’m not a Wikipedia entry. I’m a Wikipedia source.

Yes, it’s true. The Girl’s Guide to Absolutely Everything — my darling book, my sacred issue — has been consulted on matters large and significant and cited not once but twice in a Wikipedia entry of grave importance. Who needs glowing book reviews, Good Morning, America appearances, or velvet cinch-sacks full of gold coins when they have written the Vulgate from which the Bible was translated, the primary source for the Source? People of the world, I give you…

The truth is, I do get asked all the time about bikini waxes, about the wisdom of the Brazilian, about whether it’s “unfeminist” to wax your bikini line. I’ve interviewed countless women about this, and thanks to “natural women” and pluck-every-last-stray-sters alike, there’s a pretty riveting section of the Chapter 10 devoted to the debate (and there is one, sisters, there is!), the different kinds of hair removal available, and how to prepare for the procedure down to the tiniest detail. Not that I need to establish my bona fides. The World’s Encyclopedia has done that quite well, thank them very much.

In case you can’t read that second citation:

“I think there’s something creepy about this phenomenon: Everyone has hair there, it hurts like hell to have it waxed, it requires near-fanatical upkeep, and the more hair we eliminate from genital areas, the more we resemble little girls and not the hirsute women we’ve (proudly) grown up to be.”

And I stand by it, universe. As I am Wikipedia’s witness, it hurts like hell. And you can quote me on that in your dissertation.

Not a day goes by that someone doesn’t ask me, “You’ve written The Girl’s Guide to Absolutely Everything, so now why don’t you write one for guys?!” The answer to that question, my friends, provides a sad-but-evidently-true commentary on what guys want to know.

My answer is always two-fold. 1. Guys don’t buy/read advice books in the same way women do. It’s not that they’re not curious, but both sales statistics and biology show that men don’t ask for help, think they need help, or if they do, they don’t tend to buy books containing info on stuff like self-esteem or how to dress for their figures. 2. The Guy’s Guide to Absolutely Everything appears to already have been written The success of books like Maddox’s The Alphabet of Manliness and Neil Strauss’ The Game, both NYT bestsellers, would appear to indicate that guys will buy books if they teach them how to pick up girls and get laid. If that book happened to teach them how to get rich in the process, then it would definitely be a hit. That’s it. It’s not that men don’t need — or even desperately need — advice on etiquette or how to ask for a raise or prepare for an interview or prepare dinner. It’s that they don’t think they need it.

I am totally willing to be contradicted about my Guy’s Guide theory. In fact, I’m dying to be contradicted. I’m not saying there aren’t sensitive men, or men who aren’t interested in getting laid and making money. As far as a book for men, however, my informal research has shown that, in the self-improvement realm, little else sells.

PS I’ve read both Maddox & Neil Strauss’ books. They’re both worth a gander, and The Game is actually a fairly compelling read, should you be low on bathroom reading.

Hey, if you’re in New York City in the next couple weeks, might I strongly suggest that you not miss the LAByrinth Theater Company’s latest greatest production, Pretty Chin Up by Andrea Ciannavei? It features my dear friend Cusi Cram, who’s an out-of-this-world playwright, but this time she’s acting, which promises to be a rare treat. In addition, the play sounds great:

Pretty Chin Up asks the question: What’s the difference between an overweight marketing executive who sells women’s lingerie and diet pills and the starving spokesmodel who peddles the goods for the camera? About 100 pounds.

Of the intent of her work, Ciannavei notes, “I just want this play to explore the themes of perfectionism, despair, control and self-loathing (which is a close derivative of self-centeredness); how the heart slowly gets closed up when the obsession with food and appearance progressively takes over; and to do it all with a sense of humor.”

All performances are at 6:30pm
Wed-Sat, May 16 - June 2
at the Public Theater
425 Lafayette Street

Get tickets by phone at 212.967.7555 or online here. Use promotional code LABPCU1 to save 20%.

For more info, check out the LAB website.

I have that Regina Spektor song “On the Radio” playing in my head as today I start another round-robin national radio tour. Watch out, North America (I have my first ever Canadian interview in fifteen minutes and I cannot wait to discuss the Louisiana Purchase. Or graduation gifts. Whichever the DJ thinks is more relevant.)

Male interviewers, whether on radio or television, tend to take a sort of offensive approach to talking about The Girl’s Guide to Absolutely Everything. When I’m being interviewed by a male/female team, the woman always asks the hard-hitting questions about the book, the man sits back and cracks jokes about how uncomfortable he is with discussing body image, how he doesn’t know the first thing about the changing nature of friendship and doesn’t care. The guy typically becomes this fratty, mischievous sidekick who undermines the interview. I tend to joke right back with the uncomfortable guy and this, not surprisingly I guess, throws them off and they get sort of petulant. I’ve learned, however retrograde it is, that male interviewers need to be the funniest, they need to mug for an audience, and the interview will go much more smoothly if you just laugh politely and agree.

Men have told me that they cannot possibly walk into a bookstore and buy a book with “Girl” in the title because it’s just not done, because the salespeople will think god-knows-what — the most “liberated” men I know feel their masculinity could be questioned if they buy a book targeted at women. Most women I know would buy any book, no matter who it was “geared toward,” no matter how “embarrassing” the title. Do men still feel emasculated buying tampons? Does this account for the shock jock morning show hosts who use “Whatever!” as a response when they can’t come up with anything clever to say to a female author?

The true professionals, and maybe this comes with age or experience, have no problem talking about the book, its girly intricacies, and comfortably say “This is a book I could use!” or “I’m going to get this for my daughter and my son! I’ve been interviewed by many fantastic radio hosts (I wish I could remember the cities, because I fell in love with this male duo who interviewed me on the radio somewhere out there in some city, they were just so funny without being mean, it was amazing).

One guy this morning asked me what was up with everyone being so PC in the northeast and why had they fired Imus? He gave a good interview but I was struck once again by how easy it is to wander around New York and assume the rest of the country agrees with us or doesn’t exist. Not that I didn’t think that there were people who protested Imus’ firing; I just like to pretend we’re all aspiring to be more liberal and politically correct, and it’s easy to forget that smart people disagree with us. This is why people tend not to wander too far from their own backyards — “People out there disagree with me, but I don’t plan to meet them.”

“On the radio, we’ll hear ‘November Rain’…”

The posting’s been light lately as I’ve been getting my affairs in order. Let’s face it: The Bachelor: Officer and a Gentleman finale is approaching, and I can’t be expected to blog and worry whether Andy will pick Tessa or Bevin.

In the meantime, I’m at the beach, working and doing research and running on flat streets with no traffic and lots of trees and no construction. It’s possible I’m also suffering from a strange stomach bug and/or exhaustion; however, posting will resume apace.

In the meantime, I saw two movies I recommend: Deliver Us From Evil and The Puffy Chair.

A compassionate but finally blistering review of The Feminine Mistake by Leslie Bennetts in Sunday’s NYT Book Review.

I have been curious about these “Mommy Wars,” if exhausted by the prospect of reading all the disciplinary tomes that have emerged on the topic of stay-at-home vs. go-back-to-work mothers. The issue seems to be coming to the fore as baby boomers approach retirement, look back on their lives, and feel they have something urgent to teach their daughters. Or this is the supposed rationalization for writing these “I did it my way, and my way is the only way” books about working/mothering.

I think most of these books are truly written as a means to shame women who made different choices from the books’ authors. It’s really all so tedious. If we got good, solid education on the women’s movement in school (which, if you’re me, you didn’t), if we were actually shown what our mothers’ generations worked for and fought for and what we stand to lose by not acknowledging and celebrating it and working to further it, we wouldn’t need such excoriating reminders from people like Leslie Bennetts and Linda Hirshman or the Dread Pirate Caitlin Flanagan. Why isn’t Betty Friedan required reading in high school history classes? Why do we learn about the civil rights movement but not the women’s movement? The issues of both “movements” are still on the table, they’re still present in our everyday conversations, in Supreme Court decisions, in our selection of presidential candidates, in our payscales and secret and not-so-secret prejudices. Why are we so grossly undereducated?

I recommend the book Dear Sisters: Dispatches from the Women’s Liberation Movement, whose font is way too small but whose content is a necessary and entertaining Women’s Lib 101.

Also Jennifer Baumgardner & Amy Richards’ Manifesta: Young Women Feminism and the Future and, of course, the Friedan classic.

From the final paragraph of Eugenie Allen’s review of The Feminine Mistake:

Bennetts is right to dread an exodus of accomplished women from the work force. But this book is so unwieldy, and so polarizing, that it is unlikely to convince many stay-at-home mothers to return to work — or to develop that backup plan. Friedan wrote with elegance, authority and empathy for the readers whose lives she hoped to change. Bennetts seems to have little but disdain for the women she is trying to reach. When I finished the book, I didn’t feel the need to give it to my daughters, as Tina Brown’s back-cover blurb urges. Instead, I dug up an old copy of “The Feminine Mystique.” I hear it’s really great for teenage girls.