Altar

The man she loves/loved/will love is about to be married. While she was busy time-traveling–Saving the world from crisis!–he could not wait the two minutes it would take her to get back to his era to re/acquaint him with her. But why should he stop courting one plain, non-time-traveling lady in hopes that another woman—one whom he hasn’t yet met—will show up?

It’s funny, isn’t it? While he is saying his vows, the time traveler is stuck at a tollbooth without a dollar; having the power of time travel doesn’t save her from having to scrounge in the seat cushions for change. When she arrives, it is already too late. The bride and groom are kissing each other. Later, there will be cake and champagne.

The time traveler is angry. She is disappointed. She needed her man to be a mind reader. He is perfect for her, except that he lacks that one skill, that gut instinct, that tells him that something is out of joint. Is a little extra-sensory perception too much to ask from a man? Instead, the time traveler shrinks from the receiving line and toys with a wineglass. She wonders if marrying a woman in a different continuum counts as faithlessness. The bartender does not offer an opinion. He’s seen it all before.

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Was sir in a state of awareness that bestselling novelist Danielle Steel periodically takes to her blog to air her pet peeves? She does. Her latest , written this past Monday, is when men ask her “Are you still writing?”

From Daniellesteel.net (Ed. note – ANOTHER SUCCESSFUL .NET)

The comment is an immediate put down. It is a way of suggesting that what I do is really not very important. Women NEVER ask me that question. But SOME men do. The men who do, I find, are VERY uncomfortable about my success at what I do, and VERY annoyed by it. The other really ridiculous comment is “You have an AGENT?” Of course I have an agent, I have written 130 books that are sold in 69 countries in 43 languages—they think maybe I write letters by hand and send them to publishers around the world to sell my books? Of course I have an agent (a fabulous one I love). I never say to guys, “So are you still a lawyer?…A doctor?…A brain surgeon?” They would think I’m nuts if I did. But men who are annoyed by women’s success in business have to find a way to put them down. And what better way to insult someone than minimize what they do, imply that it’s really insignificant, and inquire if they’re still doing it? Are you still bungee jumping off your mother’s roof?? Having contests to see how many grapes you can squeeze into your mouth?? (That was so much fun when I was about 8). I was actually a pogo stick champion when I was about 10, and no I am not doing that anymore. But YES, I AM STILL WRITING. In fact, I finished a book about an hour ago.

What a marvelous thing to be able to say. “In fact, I finished a book about an hour ago.” Danielle Steel writes books the way you or I write checks: efficiently and often.

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“You know,” Alisha says, “you’re being a little too healthy about this.” Slouched in a coffee-shop armchair, she’s a belly with a head and limbs stuck on as afterthoughts. A kick ripples the stripes of her t-shirt, and her face locks into a grimace.

I rattle an ice cube into my mouth and crunch it. The brick in my throat matches the brick in my lower abdomen. I gulp a couple of times before I can swallow the ice shards. “I’m OK,” I say, my tongue thick with cold. “I’m having a baby or I’m having a miscarriage. You know?”

“Yeah, but…”

“It’s fine.” I slurp loudly at my straw. “I can deal, once I know what’s happening.”

*

Being six weeks pregnant doesn’t feel like anything. Or it feels like a sinus infection that trails waves of dizziness and gagging. Or it feels like the day after a 24-hour bug, the appetite capricious, the body heavy but functional. It feels like an elaborate lie incorporating the objects at hand a la Keyser Soze, a dream that folds the alarm clock into its narrative. It feels like an unspeakable fetish: scrutinizing toilet paper for blood, recoiling from my own grossness. Until there’s blood. Then, it feels like terror.

*

I somehow keep my voice level when I tell my husband about the blood.

“What does that mean?” Park asks, carefully calm. “Could this be completely normal?”

Afraid I’ve run out of vocal control, I nod.

“Is there anything we can do about it if it’s not?”

I shake my head. Swallow hard. “The nurse said to call if there was any bleeding. I’ll call as soon as they open.”

“OK, good. Let’s get some sleep, then. It’ll be all right either way.” He folds his arms around me, his beard prickling my hairline, and rubs between my shoulder blades. “I promise, we’ll be OK.”

In bed, Park picks up the cheap copy of The Hobbit he bought when the spine of his 1965 edition disintegrated. He began reading it to me the day of the positive test. He wants our child to have Tolkien in its bones. That first happy evening, the sweetness of our new ritual was almost too much to bear. “Do you want me to read a chapter tonight, or should we skip it?”

”Skip it.”

This is the last time he asks about the book.

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10. The Maddeningly Gentle Food Blogger With The Completely Unjustified Book Deal Whose Posts You Read Every Day

“This is so stupid,” you tell your best work friend over gchat. “Why does anyone read these posts? It’s just glossy pictures of icing and domesticity porn.” Your friend does not respond. “Do you want to get lunch,” you ask. Still no response. Five minutes later, you write: “Most of her recipes are just stolen from somewhere else. They’re not even original.” Your friend’s status changes to Busy. An hour later, you will see her at the Panera Bread down the hill from your office park with two other coworkers you don’t know.

9. The Memoirist Whose Life Eerily Parallels Yours

“Nobody should write a memoir before they’re fifty,” you sometimes announce to your friends over drinks. You are not fifty. “Everyone seems to think having been 27 and unhappy in love is all you need to write a book about your life. You should have to get licensed before you can write one.” You are on your fourth glass of wine; it is Tuesday. “You should have to be–Gore Vidal, or a cultural attaché, or invented genocide or something.” You have spilled a little bit of your wine, but it has landed on your napkin and you don’t think anyone has noticed. You have never been asked to write a memoir, but you would immediately if anyone seemed interested.

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