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Heather B. Armstrong’s memoir jumped on to the NYT bestseller list its first week on sale. Man, am I happy. Even our dog noticed what a good mood I was in and roped me into something like 4,000 throws of the aqua blue sheep toy. Heather’s on the road doing readings, huge crowds, due in large part to the enormous popularity of her blog, Dooce.com which is about marriage and motherhood, or poop and boobs. I understand some women at the readings have asked to have their pregnant stomachs autographed (reminds me of my high school neighbor who got her fifteen year old butt signed by Bob Weir), many are bearing gifts, taking pictures with Heather. It’s really amazing how you can develop a loyal readership through blogging. Ahem. Anyway, her book is called, IT SUCKED AND THEN I CRIED. It’s hilarious and then you cry. Highly recommended.

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Big, huge, exciting news: As of tomorrow or the next day, I will have a new blog site. I know you will miss the jejune photograph of me circa kindergarten. And the blocky hard to read type. I will, too. But this young woman named Hilary who lives in Detroit helped me create a better blog and it’s just way better. (That was a plug for Hilary if you need website help — I’ll give you her email.) Look out for the new site, let me know what you think. And thanks for reading.

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Every year, Publisher’s Weekly posts sales figures for the year’s top sellers. I always comb the lists and find myself either pleasantly surprised or dumbfounded as in: wow, that great book sold many more copies than I would have thought, or, I can’t believe that piece of crap sold that many copies.

This year in the dumbfounded column:

The Last Lecture (#1 top seller): I knew this was a huge bestseller but I would have never guessed that it sold 4,388,137 copies. I know the author wrote this as he was dying and that people the world over find it beautiful and moving, but have you read it? It should have been called Are You Smarter Than a Stupid First Grader. Sorry, but I can’t take inspiration of any kind.

Gladwell’s Outliers sold 821,721. I would have thought he tipped the million mark. Wah!

Dewey (aka cat crap): 758,931.

A book called What’s Your Poo Telling You sold 161,000. No comment. Oh wait, shhh, my poo is trying to tell me something.

James Frey’s novel, Bright Shiney Asshole, sold 125,380. Oops, I think it’s called Bright Shiney Day.

Life with My Sister Madonna by Christopher Ciccone, who I believe is her brother, sold 235,000. Material Girl!

Michael Phelps No Limits sold 200,000. Not sure if that was before or after he was caught bogarting the bong.

Jessica Seinfeld’s Deceptively Delicious sold 156,000. Have you ever tried hiding a yam in chocolate pudding?

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First week back from vacation and a lot of good news: a blocked writer becomes unblocked, a dazzling new chapter from a memoir in progress, a revision on a proposal sings, a great meeting with a new film agent, entertaining lunch with a major magazine editor, some checks arrived, a contract negotiation down to one small point, three fantastic new titles launching. Like that.

The challenge: how can Betsy Lerner negate all this great stuff and find a way to feel crappy about herself and the industry. C’mon, give me something hard.

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Just got back from Heather Armstrong’s B&N reading for the launch of her book, It Sucked, And Then I Cried. It was SRO and she sold every last copy they had in the store. Amazing to see her fans come out, buy multiple copies, take pictures with Heather. Rock star! If you don’t know her website, Dooce.com, check it out. She’s been doing it since 2001 and there’s a reason she’s won every blog award and is in every top ten list. Yes, she’s gorgeous. Yes, she’s savvy. Yes, the site is to die for. But it’s something else. She writes like a bat out of Utah.

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I’m back from Disneyland. While I was out, I have to say the inbox filled up with some mostly very happy making news. Don’t jinx it but two books on the verge of publication are getting some great coverage — more on that to come. One writer who was stuck has come unstuck. Another who was very ill is much better and her revised proposal appeared in a beautifully revised fashion. Another proposal nearly ready to go from an author who disappeared for a year and returned with a revision that is nothing short of astonishing. A small press publisher is interested in a book I love and couldn’t find a trade home for three years!

I have to be honest. I didn’t want to get up today. Not without Mickey and Tink and all my friends at the Magic Kingdom. (Did you know they sell, and people eat, gigantic Fred Flintsone-esque turkey legs there?) But, hey, publishing it its own magical kingdom and today, even without a 90 minute wait to go down Splash Mountain, was a decent day.

One more thing: while I was away this wonderful young woman named Hilary in Detroit is working on making a better site for me. I hope it will be up and running soon with author jackets, photos, etc. All this writing is getting a little dull.

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Spring break. Taking my daughter for a culturally enriching trip to Orlando for a few days. I’m attempting a Blackberry black out week. Cold turkey. I thought giving up smack was hard, but this, this is gonna kick my ass. I can tell. Wish me luck, and don’t miss me too much. Though I’ll miss you.

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I just read an hilarious column bashing Facebook, or MyFace as I like to refer to it, by Matt Labash in The Weekly Standard. I would link to it here, but who am I kidding, I have no idea how to link.

I myself tried to go on Facebook after getting the feeling that it would somehow be “good for the career.” Which career I’m not sure: agent, writer, new blogger, professional self-hater, whatever.

Here’s what happened: friend requests. I’m not from the friend request generation. When I was growing you made friends by having rolling papers on hand. No one asked to be your friend and you didn’t “accept” or “decline.” Also, what’s this with “getting poked?” I remember driving a bunch of CIT’s around at camp one summer and one girl in the back seat, we’ll call her Wanda, had just slept with half the waiters. “What can I say,” she said, “I like getting poked.” Why I remember this 100 years later is beyond me, but the term seemed exceptionally revolting to me back then and still does.

I’m also a diehard Woody Allen type vis-a-vis the club thing and not wanting to be a part of one that would have me. Here’s a list of things I haven’t and won’t join:

synagogue (sorry Mom, not now, not ever)
book groups (no, no, no, no)
jogging group (that’s what they invented IPods for)
PTA, or any school related function
any volunteer group

I lasted two days on MyFace. I’ve worked hard to lose people in my life; I couldn’t afford to have them pop back up. I also couldn’t bring myself to use the word “friend” as a verb. And the less I know about what my exes are up to the better. Do you feel me?

Finally, when you sign off of MyFace they ask you tell them why and there’s a list of reasons to check including too much drama. Check.

Tell me your MyFace experience.

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