When I set out to learn about my mother's bridge club, the Jewish octogenarians behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, their gen, and the ragged path that led me back to my mother.
Hello,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we’re unable to accept you into AdSense at
this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
– Difficult site navigation
Fuck me dead. My friend Ilan who used to work at Gurgle told me (given my stats) that I would make about fifty bucks a month. Hey, fifty buck is fifty bucks, and then I get this REJECTION from AdSense which I don’t even want in the first place. Which is the story of my life. I don’t need this shit, AdSense. Difficult site navigations; what, were you big brothering my site. If so, can you stop Jeff? Can you bring back Lynn LeJeune? Can you help me with my fucking screenplay. Okay, no ads, no selling out. Speaking of selling out, unbidden, my fourteen year old tells me I should convert my screenplay into a romcom and “drop the drama.” This child was born to be an executive producer, or if she plays her cards right the head of Warner Brothers. DId I mention that I dared her find something on Youtube that I could sell as a book, and I’d give her a 1/3 share of my commish. She found these incredibly cool girls with a popular show, we worked with them to create a book proposal and sold it. Beats babysitting. Guys, I’m not myself tonight.
If you could sell out, how would you do it?
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Betsy Lerner 
I’m so glad to hear Ad Sense knows they don’t belong here. Ads on a blog look so desperate. And they pay almost nothing. And they’re likely to put up an ad for PublishAmerica’s new “buy an agent for $199” program or some such thing.
You dodged a bullet. Keep writing that screenplay. Make it a dark rom-com. Very dark. Kill off Hugh Grant in the first scene. I’d go.
I’m pretty sure I already have sold out, and the answer to your question is that I’m enjoying my self. I thought I’d write literary fiction, but it turns out it’s a lot more fun to write mysteries that’re sort of literary. I like the sound of your daughter, by the way. Smart kid.
I’d sell out by ghostwriting romance novels for any of the herd of celebrities currently hawking them: Snooki, Hillary Duff, Lauren Conrad, Jordan, etc…
Miley….how about a country teen romance called “Achy Breaky Heart”? Call me!!!
I’d say my novel was really a memoir.
I’d say my memoir is really a novel. And I’d change my last name to Trump or Palin to garner the most publicity.
My next book will be titled, “Oprah’s Favorite Book.”
Think she’ll mind?
I’d write those HI-larious celebrity personal assistant anecdotes that the A-list agent(s) said would be a greaaaat idea. Then I’d take all the mirrors out of the house because I wouldn’t be able to fucking look at myself.
I’m not sure. What would your daughter suggest?
I would totally let the marketing folks put plastic figurines of all my characters into Happy Meals. Eat up kiddies, you only have to scarf 48 macnuggets and ten thousand french fries to collect them all. Watch the movie.
I’m with Rachel Searles (above). I think McCharacters might be the biggest sell-out. I’d really love that. I got the very best swag at BEA: an Oscar Wilde action figure. I almost wet myself. I’d also like to consider being too tan, as a lifestyle choice, as part of selling out. Kind of like Johnny Depp. Too tan. Action figure. See where I’m going with this?
Don’t get plugged in by being rejected for something you didn’t really want anyway. It’s just an old tape from your past playing, called “Betsy was rejected,” so those same old feelings start doing their dance. Fuck AdSense.
An Oscar Wilde action figure. So jealous.
Hysterical, right?
I’d first have to assume a whole new identity – no one who knows me would believe it. On the other hand, the YouTube girls didn’t sell out, did they? It seems they were just following their hearts and a series of good coincidences have helped them along. You and your daughter are a good team – does she take queries, too?
As for the AdSense issue: give it a few days. Google sent out these snail-mail advertisements to small businesses with a promotion for on-line ad placements. Today, I received a postcard from Google admitting there was some glitch in their on-line registry. Do you really want to get wrapped up in such confusion?
Maybe an easier fundraiser would involve getting your posts written in a code and we would have to purchase the decoding chart. – all on-line of course!
Ugh. It’s like having a guy you didn’t even like in the first place stand you up. Totally wrong.
look, a mosquito!
A rejection email from Google AdNonsense. Yes, fuck you dead. Dodged a bullet there, Betsy.
As for me, I can’t wait to sell out. I was thinking of a prescriptive about how to be a half-assed urban farmer. You know, chickens and the like? I’d call it, “Pets with Benefits.”
That is one of the coolest parent/teenager experiences I’ve ever heard of and Betsy believe me I have heard them all, the good, the bad, the tragically ugly. As for selling out I’d let the buyer decide how I’d go down…
“If you could sell out, how would you do it?”
I’m so sorry, but I do not understand your question. I know what “out” means, but the word “sell” is unfamiliar to me. Should I be worried?
pets with benefits — i’m laughing so hard i cant capitalize my words. if you keep the icky stuff out i think it’s a winner.
Sell out? Sure, why not? A bag of killer weed would do the trick. Aw shit, even a film canister (remember them?) packed full would be fine. Who am I kidding? I’m easy. A six pack of Bud. That’s my final offer.
pre-film canister: matchbox
Greeting cards.
When I divorced my husband of 20 years, he rented the house across the street. Then I started dating a guy also newly divorced. His ex-wife lived in a house this man built right across from his DRIVEWAY. All four of us live in the rural, butt-crack-of-dawn Midwest. I’d sell out by getting mama a reality show, baby. Bravo? TLC? NatGeo?
You and I need to collaborate: my ex bought a house a few doors away from me because he was too lazy to have to drive to see his son. Years passed, son now in college and doesn’t speak to his dad. Never-the-less, when ex remarried, he and the Lovely New Wife bought a house a few doors away on the other end of the street. It entertains the mailman and the rest of the neighborhood, I guess.
I took all my ads from gurgle off my site. It was a waste of time. Over 2 years I made 64 bucks, and I can’t even get that because of the 100 dollar limit. You aren’t missing anything, don’t worry.
“Difficult site navigation” is corporate speak for “Your site may cause us legal or publicity problems.”
I’d write a story about how the “godmother of punk” who turned into a National Book Award winner looked into a little girl’s eye and made a connection.
Gosh, I wonder where Lynn LeJeune is too. That woman can write. Here’s a link to her blog: http://elijahrising.com/?tag=lyn-lejeune. And this is what is says on Amazon about her book The Beatitudes: Royalties from the sale of The Beatitudes will go directly to the New Orleans Public Library Foundation as part of The Beatitudes Network Campaign, dedicated to rebuilding the public libraries of New Orleans. A class act all the way.
And we are most grateful for her generosity! The library near my house was so flood damaged it was torn down. Construction started on the new building this year and is progressing very slowly. Five and a half years without a library is a torture! Thank you, Lynn for trying to make a difference.
I didn’t realize you were down that way too, Karen. Hopefully, you folks will have your library soon. I’m going to put Lynn’s book in my cart.
I’ve missed her killer Louisiana take on things as well. Glad to have the blog link!
i sell out if the project is fun and a little risky. like co-editing a book of literary noir stories surrounding the stampede. that sorta thing.
Is it still considered selling out if nobody’s buying it?
No, it isn’t. Looks like you dodged a bullet.
As did I. Just–
— and again. Just now, and again. Every time I get onto this site at work lately, the boss comes out of his office with–
–gah! Again! He keeps coming over to my desk with work for me to do. Some nonsense about me earning my pay or something.
And that, kiddies, is how I sold out. I sold my hours to the dollars, so I might have minutes leftover for the scribblings.
My mother just called. I think this is verbatim.
Her: “You sound low. Am I interrupting? You’d tell me if I was interrupting. Are you low? You sound low. Are you doing something?”
Me: “I’m writing.”
Her (to my father): He says he’s writing.
Her (to me): So you’re writing, but is anybody reading?
Her name isn’t Judy, is it? We’ve been trying to convince a friend to write a book about her Jewish mother’s Judyism.
HBO series with lots of sexy sex!
Yes to the HBO series. All people talking about politics while copulating. And we call is, Sexposition!
I cleared that limbo bar months ago. I’ve got smut and half-naked chicks all over my blog, and still it’s me and my girls, chatting amongst ourselves. (And you, Phil. Thank god for you.) I feel like I’m back in high school, wondering why the boys won’t talk to me.
I’m not sure what my last resort will be, but I have a feeling it will involve a stolen picture of Lisa’s D-cups and a fifth of tequila.
Pretend your blog’s an all-girls Catholic school.
See, I told you AdSense was tacky.
As long as we remain in the realm of the theoretical, I’m game to contribute. Hm. How would I sell out? I’d write Pat Booth-type novels. Except it wouldn’t really be selling out, since God knows how much fun it would be. But if I didn’t make piles of money, I’d be pissed. Because while it might be fun to write trashy, it wouldn’t exactly satisfy, know what I mean?
Either that, or get my degree and become respectable.
Shit. Sorry, Betsy. Outta here. If I’m the Jeff you are referring to, never again. I don’t want to screw up your show. The rest is your problem. Ha! Good-luck! Life is grand. Ain’t it now. Sorry, again, and , never again. Promise. I must tell you , though, I’m about half way through The Kiss, and if anyone knows their soul shattering tearjerkers, you are the woman. Did I mention I live an insane asylum and they let me have internet access for two hours a day. It took me ten years to get that. I hope I haven’t hurt you or your family with my psychosis. I meant no harm. The Meds are kickin’ in, baby. I’m sorry if I’ve ruined anything for you. You are no longer my Jumbo Jack. I swear.
Oh please Pete, let this be for real.
I have to admit: I’ve been spending a considerable amount of time thinking about this question over the 24 hours since I read the post yesterday morning and now, coming on here to read the comments, I see that a lot of people are thinking what I’m thinking: a reality show. Because, you see, I’m perfectly willing to sell myself out as a person, before I’m ready to sell my writing out; I am pretty sure I’m not ready for that one yet. Maybe I am but in that case, you’ll have to get me drunk to figure it out.