I hope everyone had a fine holiday. I also hope everyone got a ton of Amazon gift cards, because both Longo Looks at CHRISTMAS and Longo Looks at DIETING are available for cheap. And if you’re like me, you might be thinking an awful lot about diets right now, and how maybe you should go on one once all the cookies are polished off.
 
If your current exercise regime consists of sidestepping the bathroom scale, you might enjoy this little excerpt of Longo Looks at DIETING:
 
Our bodies tell us when it’s time to consider losing a few pounds. If you’re like me, you’ll stick your fingers in your ears and shout, “I can’t hear you!” like a petulant child, but sadly, this doesn’t shut our bodies up. With a patience rivaling Mother Teresa’s, your body will sit back and bide its time. It’ll smirk when your knees start aching as you climb stairs; smile knowingly when your boobs jiggle right out of your bra as you make a mad dash to the doughnut shop to get there before they sell out of chocolate bombs. Your body thinks it’s funny when the seat of your pants splits as you sit down at the board table for that big meeting at work. So will your coworkers. Also, you’re not getting that promotion, and the CEO now refers to you as Toots McFartsaLot, because when your pants ripped, he thought you passed gas. We all hate hearing it, but it might be time to go on a diet.
 
Of course, sometimes it isn’t just our bodies or the scale telling us it’s time to do something about our weight, or even incredibly rude passersby who need to butt the hell out of our business. When things get really bad, a higher authority might speak up, too.
 
At Least You Have Your . . . Never Mind
 
If you’re overdue for your annual physical, my advice to you is to never go to the doctor again. As long as you feel fine, there’s no reason for those pesky blood tests and prostate exams. Because if you do feel fine, and you go because you figure, What’s the worst that can happen?, your doctor will be happy to give you a laundry list. And it will be much, much worse than you imagined.
 
When I went for my physical back in May, I felt fine. Sure, I was coughing at night, and my knee ached a little, but I figured things would improve once allergy season was over, and we stopped having rain every other day. Not so, my doctor warned. I was probably about to keel over. She sent me to an allergist, an orthopedic specialist, and a pulmonologist. Apparently, I was falling apart and didn’t even know it!
 
It turns out I’m moderately allergic to dust mites, to the point where I now have dust mite-induced asthma. I packed my informative pamphlet and my brand new inhaler in my purse and moved on. While waiting for the orthopedist, I read my pamphlet and found out it’s dust mite feces that contains the allergens, which doesn’t say much for my housekeeping, since I’ve been coughing my brains out for months. If I thought about it too much—I was breathing in so much spider poop at night it was interrupting my sleeping patterns—I might want to clean more, which sounded unpleasant. I decided to read an old issue of People instead and pass judgement on people like Kim Kardashian.
 
The orthopedist called me in, took a look at my knee, and told me I needed knee replacement surgery. But not yet, because you can only get three in a lifetime, and they only last for about fifteen years. So I would have to live with the pain and wait until it got so bad that I couldn’t climb up a flight of stairs on my own. My dreams of setting off metal detectors every time I went to the mall vanished. Feeling pretty low, I went on to the pulmonologist, forgetting that I didn’t need him anymore since I already knew why I was coughing.
 
The pulmonologist felt it would be ridiculous for him to waste a good co-pay, so he sat me down, confirmed that I shouldn’t be breathing microscopic spider poo, then tested my cholesterol for fun. After eating nothing but oatmeal and produce for three months, I’d managed to raise my cholesterol ten points higher than it had been at my last physical. He called the orthopedist, who conferenced in the allergist and my primary care physician, and they all agreed on the same diagnosis: I’m fat. This is what’s causing my knee, lung, and cholesterol issues.
 
I felt like whipping out a picture of myself from 2004 and saying, “You want to see fat? I’ve been fat!” but I restrained myself. I smiled, thanked him, and left the office, tossing my dust mite pamphlet in the trash as I left. Two weeks earlier, when I’d been oblivious to my overdue physical, I’d occasionally had an achy knee before it rained, was coughing because of ragweed, and most importantly, I felt skinny.
 
It’s clear what the source of all of my problems is: I never should have picked up the phone when they called to schedule my annual physical.
 
Longo Looks at DIETING is available now wherever books are sold! And HERE.
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Every New Year's Day in our house (and my mother's and sister's houses), we do this thing called vasilopita. It's a Greek tradition where you bake a lucky coin into bread, then cut up the bread while announcing loudly whose slice is whose, and one lucky bread-eater chips a tooth on the coin. Usually, my mother did coffee cake. Since I'm not as Greek as she is, I often buy a cake and poke a lucky dime in the bottom of the thing. 
My point is (besides describing our fascinating Greek traditions that I actually had to google the word for, because all my life I've just called it "the lucky dime thing") last year, I got the dime. This hasn't happened since 1980, the year I won both the dime and a stuffed dog at Riverside Park. I expected great things. Did the dime deliver?
Overall, 2015 was a fabulous year. It had high points and low points, but really, there were more highs than lows. Let’s take a look:

High Points:

At the beginning of the year, in this blog post, I vowed to be more selfish. Best thing I’ve ever done. I sought out and found a job I love; I took more time for myself, even when Jason grumbled; I ate cupcakes when I wanted a cupcake. It’s made me a happier person overall. Here’s to more selfishness in 2016.

My novel, Ordinary Boy, came out in March. It’s gotten good reviews, and was even nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Also in March: shamrock shakes happened yet again. Hooray!

Bloom County came back after a twenty-six-year hiatus. Just the best news ever. I cried a little when I heard. And now I get to laugh again, every morning.

I vacationed on Block Island for the first time in four years. There were no cell phone signals where I was, no wifi, no cable television. I was forced to spend quality time with my family, and read books. It was delightful!

I was on television in September. It was anxiety-inducing and scary and fun. The guy who interviewed me is one of my favorite people in the world, so it was kind of like . . . hanging out with one of my favorite people. Overall: pretty cool.

The year ended with the announcement that my niece has finally reached Girl Scout Cookie selling age. Clearly, good things are ahead for 2016, like Thin Mints and Samoas.

Low Points:

By the end of May, three family members had been hospitalized. That kind of sucked. But all three of them are doing well now, so it all worked out!

Spring didn’t arrive in New England until June. Al Gore promised me global warming, but instead, we had snow in April. On the plus side, we haven’t really had winter yet this year.

The publisher who bought my second novel was bought out by another publisher, delaying the release of My Sister the Zombie. Kind of a bummer, but the new publisher did promise that the book should be released by the end of July. Plus, he offered me some freelance editing work, so it turned out to be a win.

I was bitten by a tick on the tushie in June, and wound up on antibiotics six weeks later. I was tired and achy and my hands went numb and I had no ambition to do anything. I can't even come up with a stupid Pollyanna spin to this. Just glad it has passed.

This fall, and on through December, either Jason or I or both of us have been sick. Colds, sinus infections, whole other colds . . . we've gone through a lot of Kleenex and DayQuil. In December, Santa informed me that I've been on the naughty list for three decades, and last night, on New Year's Eve, a fourth family member wound up in the hospital. You see, I think the dime's magic wears off toward the end of the year.

I liked 2015. It was a good year. I'll remember it fondly. Well done, magic dime. I have this year's coffee cake ready to go, and if Jason doesn't rouse out of his NyQuil coma soon, the whole coffee cake will be mine, including the magic dime. Happy New Year!
____
This week from The Storyside:
Reflections on books I've ignored: "Classics I Haven't Read" by Stacey Longo (hey, that's me!)
Fabulous Free Fiction: "Sunset Anniversaries" by Rob Smales

There are rules in my house for the holidays. (Actually, they’re not so much in my house as in my head.  I do take them with me wherever I go.) Here’s what you have to do if you want to celebrate the holidays with me:

• We do not talk of weight or diets during Christmas week. There are no “I shouldn’ts” or discussion of Weight Watchers points during this week. You have your whole life to diet. This type of food only happens once a year.
• We do not yell at the cats for destroying the tree. It’s their house, too, and they’re not allowed to go outside. You’ve just brought a giant, six-foot cat toy into the house. If they want to chew on the pine needles and barf up green hairballs later, by golly, you will LET them!
• We do not play holiday music in my presence unless it is Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. The exceptions to this are limited, and come down to:

1.  “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” by Band Aid.
   
2.   “Peace on Earth/Little Drummer Boy” by David Bowie and Bing Crosby. (Note: ONLY this version is allowed. And no more than twice a season.)
   
3.  “Wonderful Christmas Time” by Paul McCartney (no more than once a season).
   
4.  “You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” by Thurl Ravenscroft (most fun name EVER!)—however, if you compare me to the green, cranky one, I will stab you in the eye with a fork three sizes too small. Like a cocktail fork. Whatever. It'll hurt, that's all.

Note: I have been known to break up with radio stations forever for starting their holiday music crap right after Thanksgiving (it was nice knowing you, 106.5 WBMW).

• If you want me to bring food to a holiday gathering, you have two choices:

1. spinach dip in a bread bowl
   
2. cookies (probably snickerdoodles)

There is no wavering from this list. If you call me a week before your scheduled event and ask me to bring a fancy pesto-puffed-pastry tree with dipping sauce that you’re just sure I’m talented and creative enough to make, you will get a bread bowl filled with spinach dip.
Or nothing. You might get nothing. A pesto tree? Are you kidding?

• Step out to the left, please. When the car stops, please step out to the left. (Wait. I think that's the rule for the old Mr. Toad's Wild Ride at Disney World. Disregard, please.)
• You are welcome to wish me a Merry Christmas, a Happy Holiday, a Fabulous Festivus, a Happy Chewbacca, or whatever you wish to say to acknowledge the season. This is the one time of year when I will not be offended by your religious views. Knock yourself out.
• Do not ask me to watch holiday specials with you. I do not like them. You cannot change my reaction to them. I will not enjoy them. I will heckle them. You will get angry and call me a Grinch. I will impale your eyeballs with my above-mentioned cocktail fork. It will end badly.

Follow these rules, and we'll get along fine. I hope you have a wonderful holiday this Christmas. Happy Chewbacca, everyone!
__________
This week from The Storyside:
My Favorite Funny People: "Light Reading" by Stacey Longo (hey, that's me!)
Festive Book Review: "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Krampus" by Rob Smales

It’s that time of year again, when I flog and skewer stupid, sappy Christmas specials. Today’s victim? The insipid and generally terrible Miracle on 34th Street.

The movie opens with Kris Kringle (Edmund Gwenn) getting upset that the Macy’s Santa is slightly intoxicated, proving that Kris Kringle is an intolerable prig. Alcoholism is a disease, Santa. Perhaps the only thing this guy had to look forward to in his miserable life was the brief, shining moment during his day when he could play Santa Claus. And now you just got him fired. Right before Christmas. Ho, ho, ho. Jerk.

Now that Macy’s has no Santa, Kris steps in to fill the role (how convenient). Listen, if this guy is the real Santa, doesn’t he have better things to do? Like prepare for the one day of the year when he has to deliver toys to every single good kid in the world? I’d think he wouldn’t really have time to fill in at Macy’s, but what do I know? Kris promptly messes up on his first day by sending parents shopping at every store in town except Macy’s. I was brought up to respect the company that puts food on my table every year, but clearly Kris was raised by woodland elves and has no concept of loyalty. (I’d bet if Santa’s stupid elves quit to take a better job at, say, the Lego factory, he wouldn’t feel quite so magnanimous about recommending other companies.)

Macy’s event director, Doris Walker (Maureen O’Hara), has told her daughter, Susan (Natalie Wood), that Santa Claus isn’t real. Susan takes this as permission to yank on Kris Kringle’s beard, which should have put her on the naughty list right there. She tells Kris she doesn’t believe in Santa, adding fuel to the naughty fire. Then she asks him for a house for Christmas. A house! Heck, when I was a kid, I didn’t even ask Santa for a Cabbage Patch Kid because I thought it was too expensive of a gift to request. (Santa brought me one anyway, because he's magical. but not rich, kid.)  This spoiled, disrespectful beard-puller has a lot of nerve!

As it turns out, when you go around telling people you’re the real Santa Claus, someone is bound to think you’re reality-impaired. The Macy’s shrink (and since when does Macy’s employ psychiatrists?) has Kris committed.  Doris’s boyfriend Fred (John Payne) convinces Kris to take his case to court, because America is the land of frivolous court cases, after all. Fred gets the US Postal Service to dump 40,000 tons of junk mail in the courtroom, and because now all of the court officials have to spend their holidays cleaning up the mess, they forget about convicting Kris.

On Christmas morning, we have a moment of glee when Susan wakes up to find she didn’t get a new house for Christmas, but our joy at her misery is short-lived. Doris, Fred, and Susan take a drive in the country, and break into an empty home that Susan assumes is hers. (Even if it is, that’s a lot of responsibility to lay on a kid. Between maintaining the property, paying the taxes, pest control, and all the other fun things that come with home ownership, there’s no way this snotty little brat can keep up with the house on her own. Good thing her mom has roped Fred into proposing.) Honestly, Santa: it’s okay to tell a child “NO” when their Christmas gift requests are completely unreasonable. A HOUSE! In the spirit of Christmas, let me just say: what in Christ’s name are you thinking, giving a CHILD a HOUSE?

Overly sentimental, unrealistic, and too indulgent of children: I give Miracle on 34th Street two candy canes down.

I'll be signing books at the Book Club Bookstore, 100 Main Street, Broadbrook, CT on Sunday, December 13, from 10 AM–1 PM! Stop on by!

From The Storyside this week:
A new ebook single release from Rob Smales: "Carol of the Bells"
Fabulous free fiction: "The Sleep Thingy" by David Daniel

Thanksgiving has always been my mother’s holiday. She’s been hosting it for as long as I can remember, and has claimed for years that it’s her favorite holiday. Maybe it is. Let’s look back at some of my fondest Thanksgiving memories and try to figure out why, because frankly, I’m stumped.

Thanksgiving 1981: My mother was particularly pleased that year to have found adorable candles in the shape of pilgrims to use as festive centerpieces. My cousins Paul, Sal, and Lori, my sister Kim and I were all kicking each other under the kids’ table, bored out of our minds, until Sal had a brainstorm: his mother, my Aunt Stephanie, had brought pigs-in-a-blanket appetizers, complete with cocktail swords stabbed through them. There were tiny plastic weapons littered throughout the house. Sal was not one to miss such a prime opportunity.

Soon, the children’s table was awash in manic giggling as Sal managed to stick a record thirty-nine plastic swords into one much-abused pilgrim candle. My mother was not amused.

Incidentally, this was the same year we discovered my cousin Lori had the brilliant talent of being able to hang a spoon from her nose. Where this magical ability came from, I don't know, but I can report that it is still impressive thirty-five years later.

Thanksgiving 1998: Fast-forward ten years. My sister was now married, and her in-laws were joining the Longos to break bread together for the holidays. The Kanes are lovely people. They surely found the farm, and our family, quaint and for the most part, not crazy (they did not know us well yet).

My mother was alarmed to catch movement out of the corner of her eye while preparing dinner. She thought she’d seen a mouse dart under the refrigerator, which, while mortifying, was not entirely unexpected that time of year on a farm. She discreetly called my father over and whispered the details of her dilemma to him. Could he eliminate the mouse before it became an embarrassing situation? Note: she forgot to say “as inconspicuously as possible.” This will become important in the next paragraph.

Dad was, of course, the perfect man for the job. He grabbed a fork, squatted down, and with the reflexes of a ninja, managed to impale the mouse on the fork in one jab. I will not go into more squeaking, squirming detail than that; I will only say that it was both incredibly impressive and truly disgusting. One of my favorite Thanksgiving stories.

Thanksgiving 2003: At this point my sister and brother-in-law had two children. Evan, who was conveniently born right around Thanksgiving, thus allowing us to combine his birthday party with the holiday every year, was turning one. He’d been napping most of the afternoon, and his Aunt Julie and I took it upon ourselves to wake him up for his party. This is because in 2003 neither of us had much experience with infants, and we were dumb.

Evan was not pleased. He screamed like a banshee, he cried, he did not want to get up right now, and why did we deprive him of sleep? Aunt Julie tried to make him laugh, and he wailed and turned purple with heartbreak over his lost nappy-time. She quickly abandoned ship and headed downstairs for pumpkin trifle. But I recognized this behavior. It was the same tear-filled tantrum I went through every morning when my alarm went off. I, too, have never understood why grown-ups think that anything, even cake, is more important than sleep. It was in that moment, while I was cooing to my angry, heartbroken nephew who'd had his blissful nap interrupted, that I realize something truly special: we were kindred spirits, my nephew and I. I sat down with Evan in my lap, watching fat, hot tears spill down his cheeks, his breath hitching as he wound up for another wail, and started to cry with him. I wanted a nap, too.

Mom says Thanksgiving is about family. I guess she’s right.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

____
Did you visit The Storyside this week? Here's what you might have missed:
Fabulous Free Fiction: "Good Guy Standing in the Rain" by David Daniel
Author memories: "Author Flubs: What Not to Do" with Vlad V., Rob Smales, David Daniel, and me

There’s a new woman at work who has appointed herself our floor’s social director. I think we all know someone like this: the person who says “hello” in the bathroom (breaking the cardinal rule that you do not speak in the lavatory unless the other person in there is related to you or a really close friend). The person who organizes Secret Santa around the holidays, and you always get someone you don't know and have no idea what might interest them for a gift. In this case, she was the woman who pulled together a “get to know your neighbor” potluck lunch.

I do not like this woman.

I’m not an antisocial hermit at work, mind you. I talk to and joke with everyone in my department. We go to the cafeteria in the morning together to get coffee, and often eat lunch together. I even speak to at least one of them outside of work. Plus, there are at least two people not in my department on my floor that I greet every morning. I met Maureen, who sits two aisles down, at a book signing once. And Lisa in psychiatric claims? She and I went to high school together. I'm practically a social butterfly, darn it!

This was not good enough for the social director. She organized a pre-Thanksgiving potluck, sending out a cheery email blast to all of us on the floor. The sign-up sheet was located at cubicle 314-J, which I’ll admit I couldn’t possibly locate on a floor plan. (This would require me to know the number associated with my own cubicle, which up until this point I thought was universally recognized as “behind Elaine, across from Jim.”)

Our department likes to expend its creative talents on the work we do every day at our job—in other words, none of us wanted to cook or bake. We all agreed to chip in some money and buy our potluck contribution. Sue found the signup sheet and put us down for “large dessert platter.” A day later, she went back to the list (now that she could navigate the J row of our floor, she was feeling like a world explorer, and wanted to show off a bit) and discovered that there were people breaking the inherent rules of potluck: namely, the first person to write down the dish gets to bring that dish. But lo and behold, right after Sue’s dessert platter entry, someone had written “cookies.” And after that, someone else had scrawled “apple pie.” That wasn’t fair! We’d called dessert first! That’s right: there’s nothing like an office luncheon to make the kindergartener in all of us break free.

I hate potluck.

The day of the luncheon, Sue and I ran out and picked up an apple pie, blueberry pie, pumpkin pie, cheesecake sampler, baklava tray, and whipped cream—we'd called dessert first, and we were going to deliver desserts, by golly. We proudly brought our goodies back and helped the social director set up the food. When all was said and done, we had a turkey, mashed potatoes, and (in addition to our desserts) a sweet potato pie; cookies of the chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, snickerdoodle, chocolate crackle, Italian, and walnut white-chocolate chip varieties; a pineapple upside-down cake; peanut butter bars; brownies; blondies; cream puffs; six more apple pies; and a platter of fudge.

Now, the whole point of this stupid exercise was to meet our neighbors, yet ten people immediately begged off due to being diabetic. But the rest of us were supposed to grab a plate and mingle. My department gamely stacked our plates with turkey and sweets and stood around awkwardly. I looked for Lisa. Her department had grabbed two of the apple pies and retreated back to their cubicles. Maureen had called out sick. The other departments were in the process of filling their plates and making a run for it. The social director, God bless her, was smiling widely with blueberry-pie-stained teeth. For four minutes, while we'd all scrambled to get a slice of the one apple pie that had real apples in the filling and not that canned crap, we’d come together as a cohesive group. She was happy.

At least someone was.

——--
Did you stop by The Storyside this week?
Fabulous Free Fiction: "The Penitent" by Rob Smales
Entertainment (no, really): "This is the Way the World Ends" by Vlad V.

I do a lot of Halloween attractions. I’m a horror writer, after all, so I feel like I’m obligated to check out these haunted houses and spooky spectacles for you.

Here are some of my favorites:

1.     Trail of Terror, Wallingford, CT—We did the trail a few years ago with my sister-in-law and brother-in-law. The line was long, but there were zombies doing the “Thriller” dance to entertain us as we waited. The power went out (really—it wasn’t meant to be part of the experience) when we were about a third of the way through. We were trapped in the dark for the better part of an hour. The truly terrifying part was how badly I needed to pee. However, the best moment of the Trail of Terror was at the bathroom facilities afterwards. Jason’s sister Joy waited until her brother was in the porta-potty, then started banging on the port-a-john walls and screaming. I nearly wet my pants from laughing so hard. Maybe you had to be there. But I’d highly recommend doing this attraction with my sister-in-law.

2.     Eastern State Penitentiary, Philadelphia, PA—This prison is absolutely worth touring during the day, and I do suggest you do the audio tour with Steve Buscemi narrating. At night in the fall, they turn it into a fabulous haunted attraction. The actors are spooky, completely into their roles, and there are seven different sections of the prison to walk through. So much fun!

3.     Six Flags Fright Fest, nationwide (I went to Agawam, MA)—I won’t lie: I’ve had better. But you have to hand it to Six Flags: they try. During the day, they have “Monstertainment” in the form of performing vampires, ghouls, and mummies; at night, they open up the Wicked Woods and Zombie’s Revenge. It’s fun, though repetitive—Area 51 hasn’t changed much from year to year, and throwing some cobwebs on the Buzzsaw doesn’t really make it more terrifying. But the Demon District and Midnight Mansion are fun. As with everything at Six Flags, their main goal is to part you from your money: many attractions require an additional fee.

4.     My cousin Lori’s house, Columbia, CT—Okay, so this isn’t open to the public, but she and her husband Frank delight in, and I quote, “scaring the living crap out of the neighborhood kids.” She had a ghastly pumpkin-head scarecrow on the lawn one year, and at least three kids pooped themselves when it moved. Hee hee! Too bad you can’t visit her.

5.     Universal Studios Halloween Horror Nights, Orlando, FL—If you want to do Halloween right, you have to visit Universal during Horror Nights. They change over nine different attractions to make them haunted, and I’m not talking about some cheap nylon cobwebs. These people have the budget to change the whole freaking ride to make it so terrifying, you will be filling your shorts like the kids who live on my cousin Lori’s street. They think of everything, even shutting off the bulbs on the drive-in theater so the sign reads DIE-IN. Absolutely the pinnacle of Halloween fun.

So there you have it: my top picks in Halloween horror attractions. Apparently, for me, Halloween means soiling yourself repeatedly. If you can’t afford the trip to Orlando this October, I highly recommend trekking over to Philly. The prison’s awesome, the food is good, and they also do a haunted downtown tour of the city at night.

You do what you must to get your scare on. I’m going to Lori’s house.