Not long ago, I had the pleasure of sitting next to Michael Pollan and his lovely wife Judith at a dinner party. Michael is the author of the best-selling books, The Omnivore’s Dilemma and In Defense of Food: An Eater’s Manifesto and he is as gracious and engaging a dinner companion as he is a writer. It was one of those affairs in which you are given a choice of a meat or a fish entree – in this instance the choice was Sea Bass or Filet Mignon. I gave the waiter my selection of the Sea Bass but in mid-sentence I cringed at the thought that Michael might think me wildly self-serving by ordering the reportedly endangered Sea Bass instead of the beef. But hadn’t he written that brilliant piece in the New York Times Magazine about what happens to beef from the moment the calf is born until it arrives on our plates? That article put me off beef for some time. After I ordered, it was Michael’s turn and I realized that I was about to witness the author of the Omnivore’s Dilemma faced with the very dilemma itself. The Sea Bass? Or the Beef? Support the fish by ordering the cruelly raised beef? Or reduce the demand for mass-produced beef by ordering the fish? Michael, I hope, will forgive me for reporting that he ordered the Sea Bass. When I asked him about his choice, he said, “I really don’t like to order beef unless I know where it comes from.”

Now, neither do I.

The very next day, I received a call from Libby Fitzgerald inviting me to visit some new calves. Libby, her husband Terry and their three sons own Greyledge Farm here in Bridgewater, CT, and they raise natural, grass-fed beef cattle. It was calving time and Libby said that I might get to see a calf being born that day. When I arrived in her barn, there were no births in progress but there were several sweet, long-lashed newborns lying beside their doting mothers. The Fitzgerald’s barn is so pristine and the cows are such amiable, welcoming gals that I was almost overcome with the urge to nestle down in the straw with them to swap birth stories. I waited until I was out of earshot to place my beef order with the farm manager. Denis is a lover of red meat, and the first time I cooked him a Greyledge Farm steak, I'm not kidding, he nearly wept with joy. Natural beef really tastes better than the mass-produced, hormone-pumped stuff. Now when we drive by the Fitgerald's farm, Denis and the dogs stare out the car window at the grazing cattle and they all drool and whine.

Today I received a review of my book, Outtakes From a Marriage from Publisher’s Weekly, which said that I have “an eye for the comedy of manners of the rich and idle.” Well, thank you very much, PW. Now I’ll turn my eye on some of the less idle, like the participants in this past weekend’s Celebration of Young Writers in Washington, Connecticut. It’s an annual event in which famous actors and writers read the works of students ages 5-18. The readers have included Denis, Frank McCourt, Rose Styron, Mia Farrow, Peter Gallagher, Christine Baranski and many others. The event is a fundraiser for the After School Arts Program. Denis hosts the reading every year.

Here he is chatting with the lovely Rose Styron before the event:

We saw Rose again the following evening at the opening night performance of The Country Girl, starring Peter Gallagher, Morgan Freeman and Frances McDormand, and directed by Mike Nichols. Such an amazing performance by Peter, and everyone. There was a press line as we entered.

And afterwards, a party at Tavern on The Green. Here's Denis with Peter Gallagher:

Denis is a little partial to that particular jacket, and that particular shirt, as you can see. If you saw us leaving for the play last night you would have thought I was going to the Oscars (I overdressed as usual, rube that I am) and he was going to a hockey game. I could blog all day about all the wrong outfits I've worn to events. Fortunately, I'm usually cut out of the photographs when they appear in print.

In an earlier blog, I shared the little known fact that the men and women on the other side of the red carpet (photographers/journalists/cameramen) are usually far more attractive and entertaining than the actual stars themselves. Today, I would like to share another secret, which is that the behind-the-scenes workers on any television or film set are usually: a)more educated, b)more hilarious, and c)just all-around happier than not only the stars, but also the general population.

Take Lorraine Coppin, for example. Lorraine works as a Wardrobe Supervisor on Denis’s series, Rescue Me. Lorraine showed up on the set one morning in a gown. Why? Because she had been to a great fashion-industry party the night before and realized as she was leaving the party (at 4:30 in the morning), that her purse was missing. In true Holly GoLightly form, she wasn’t too terribly concerned and decided that since she had no money to get home, she would just walk to Union Square, where a van usually picked up cast and crew to go to the Rescue Me set at 6:00 AM. As she strolled through Manhattan in those darkest hours before dawn, a car pulled up and the driver asked her if she needed a ride.

Lorraine looked the man over very carefully, then asked, “Are you a murderer?”

“No,” said the man.

Satisfied, Lorraine hopped in and not only did the man deliver her in one piece to Union Square, he asked her out on a date!

How Lorraine got into show business: Lorraine’s cousin was a script supervisor who worked on The Bernie Mac Show, and on various films. One day, Lorraine got a frantic call from her cousin. They were on the first day of shooting an independent film, and the Set Costumer was a no-show. Lorraine had attended Rice University with the intention of becoming a lawyer, but had always been interested in fashion. She had worked in the Men’s Department of Barney’s and had become quite adept at dressing men. So she said, “I’ll be the Set Costumer.” She showed up that day, figured out what she needed to do, and she did it. Then she showed up the next day and then the day after that. The production was so pleased with her work that they asked her to go to Los Angeles with them to finish the shoot, and she gladly agreed and off she went to LA. Now, Lorraine had not been paid for her work and, she naively reasoned that since she was learning as she was going along, perhaps she wasn’t supposed to get paid. In fact, one of her job requirements on that job was to repeatedly rub lotion into the shoulders of Antonio Sabato, Jr. It defied logic to Lorraine, that anybody would need to be paid to rub lotion into the shoulders of Antonio Sabato, Jr. Finally somebody realized that Lorraine had worked for an entire month without pay and she received back pay and the rest is history.

This is Lorraine outside the wardrobe truck. The photo doesn’t do her justice. She’s gorgeous.

The other women who work in wardrobe wouldn’t allow me to take their photos but I did get them to admit to something I had long suspected, which is that the men of “Rescue Me,” could out-diva the Desperate Housewives any day. “Go talk to the ladies in make-up,” they laughed.

I feel that my blog needs some beauty today, so I'm posting a painting by my very dear friend Lindsey Brown. Lindsey is an artist and curator based in Brooklyn and Dutchess County, NY. Her work is in the permanent collection of The Portland Art Museum, is exhibited regularly in various New York galleries, and is hanging all over our house.

Lindsey is my oldest friend. We're from the same town, went to the same boarding school, and then we went to the same college. We both lived in Boston for awhile, and then we both lived in New York. She's one of those friends that you can lose contact with for months, but when you finally hook up with each other, you pick up right where you left off. If I feel like making her spit out her coffee, or collapse to the floor like a rag doll, gasping with laughter (Lindsey does that - she will actually end up on a heap on the floor if you're not careful), I only have to say one or two words that instantly conjure some past humiliation or gaffe that we experienced/committed together. She can just say a name and I fully understand her sorrow or joy, because I know all about this name. And vice versa. It's impossible for me to hear a Joni Mitchell song without thinking of Lindsey. Like Joni (whose music we listened to all the time, for years, in our bedrooms, in dorm rooms, in cars, bars), Lindsey is an artist with a poetic sensibility and a love of nature and color and beauty and light. Denis isn't wild about Joni Mitchell music, and my kids have threatened to throw themselves out of the car when she's playing, so I can only listen to her when I'm in the car by myself and I always recall my times with Lindsey, and all our dreams and schemes, especially when I hear the words, "I am a lonely painter, I live in a box of paints...." Because Lindsey and I really thought of ourselves as these lonely, tortured artists, though we were never really alone, ever.

Recently, I attended a book reading and signing at our local independent bookseller, The Hickory Stick Bookshop.

Honor Moore was signing copies of her new book. The Bishop's Daughter. If you haven't read it yet, go buy it - it's my favorite memoir in years. Honor is a poet and the memoir is about her father, a famous Episcopal Bishop who had a secret life. It's beautiful and loving and riveting as all good memoirs should be. You might have read excerpt that ran in the The New Yorker a few months ago. Anyway, I can't recommend this book highly enough, so go buy it - but if you can, buy it at in independent bookseller, and here's why -

Before the reading, a bunch of us stood around mumbling about the Washington Pharmacy, which used to be across the street from the Hickory Stick, and which had suddenly closed its doors two days before, with no warning. The pharmacy had been there, under one ownership or another, for over a hundred years. It looked like this:

The pharmacist knew all of his customers by their first names. Once I needed some antibiotics but couldn't make it to the store before they closed and he left them in the mailbox for me. Now, all our prescriptions will have to be filled here:

So we were all talking sadly before Honor's reading about how a town slowly loses its character when small shops are forced out of business by the giant chain stores. And we all vowed to order our books from the Hickory Stick, where lovely Fran Keilty knows most of her customers by name. Fran keeps her charming shop stocked with all the latest great books and has wonderful author events. Everybody from Frank McCourt to Henry Kissinger to ... well...me has signed books there. Fran pointed out that it's better for towns, better for the economy and better for the environment if we all remember to support local businesses.

So, to order Honor's book - or any book - at the Hickory Stick, call: 860-868-0525.

In an effort to create a stir about my forthcoming novel, Outtakes From a Marriage, I have spent the last 24 hours cruising around Facebook begging people to be my friends. I’ve turned Facebook inside out on this friends quest and the process has left me exhausted, humiliated, demoralized and with very few new friends.

It all began when my new cyber-friend Doreen Orion told me that she had heard that fellow Authorbytes author Chris Bohjalian (stay with me now), attributed much if his latest novel’s great success to Facebook. This puzzled me. How could my 12 Facebook friends help me sell my book?, I logged onto Facebook and after a little research, I decided that I needed some new friends…fast.

My friend, author Dani Shapiro (she’s my real, very dear, flesh and blood friend), had 112 friends as of yesterday afternoon. Chris Bohjalian had 485. My teenage kids had hundreds upon hundreds of friends. I had a lot of catching up to do. I left no stone unturned. I peered into all my friends’ Facebook pages, scoured my school and community groups and when I came upon a name that even sounded slightly familiar, I clicked on their “be my friend” button.

I was surprised by the people I found on Facebook. I defy you to find a veterinarian who is not on Facebook. My horse vet was there, my dog vet was there. Every vet I’ve ever known was there. And I was equally surprised by who wasn’t there. My book publicist? Not there. Web designer? Nope. But Eddie Brill was there. I was tempted to call this blog entry “Six Degrees of Eddie Brill,” because his Facebook presence is huge. Denis and Eddie have been good friends ever since they went to Emerson College together. Eddie is a comedian who works on the David Letterman show, so he has Roseanne Barr on his list, Matt Dillon, even Deepak Chopra. Every stand-up comedian I've ever known is on Eddie's list. When I found Deepak amongst Eddie’s friends he had 4802 friends. Now he has 4803.

I still have less than 50 friends, so if you’re reading this and you’re on Facebook, come friend me. I'm here

And I still have no idea how this will help me sell books.

Okay, I've been in a funk all day. Filled with sorrow. I couldn't figure out why and then finally I was able to put my finger on it. I am having a "Too Much Birthday" experience. "Too Much Birthday" is a Berenstain Bears story that I used to read to my kids. It's a complex narrative but I'll summarize: One of the little Berenstain Bears is having a birthday. He has a party. All his friends come to the party. They give him presents. They pay lots of attention to him. He is given a cake and is sung to. Then, he has a complete meltdown and cries hysterically, puzzling his friends and family. This is because the Berenstain Bear is very, very young and has not yet learned to regulate his emotions. His heightened excitement reaches a fever-pitch and then he can't cope.

Well, EXACTLY the same thing happened to me last night. I had a reading at the Tribeca Barnes & Noble. All my friends came. I went to a dinner party afterward. The people at the party paid tons of attention to me. Halfway through the party I realized that I was filled with despair. This was me:

Well, okay, I didn't cry. And fortunately there wasn't a "Search Inside" flag pointing at me (but there might as well be, with the amount of shrink hours I've logged over the years). But I whined at the dinner. I whined to my nice friends. Then I fretted when I got home - fretted and worried aloud to my nice husband and children. Because, I realize today, I am very, very emotionally immature and what is regular excitement for most adults, is just too much for me. So I had some quiet time today. Quiet time and soothing words from my friends, and now I feel better.

I started an Ann Index last week but keep forgetting to update it. Here's today's index.

THE ANN INDEX
Days since Outtakes From a Marriage arrived in bookstores: 7
Amazon Ranking: 1013
Number of Facebook Friends: 101
Number of real friends: more than I deserve (sob)
Days since we last saw our cat Sneakers: 10
Current shame level (1=total self-love, 10=total self-loathing): 8
Total number of amusing anecdotes accrued in my lifetime: 5
Number left untold after last week's interviews: 0
Times this week that I have told my funny story about the time that Denis and I drove our own black Town Car to a red-carpet event: 39
Times anybody but me thought this was funny: 1

I have done a couple of book signings this past week. Here I am at the Barnes & Noble in Tribeca.



And here I am at my favorite bookstore, The Hickory Stick Bookshop in Washington Connecticut. That’s Fran Keilty, the shop’s owner standing next to me.

I never know what to write in a book I’m inscribing. My instinct/desire is to write something along the lines of: “Thank you so much for buying my book. I hope you like it, I’m really sorry if you don’t. Really, don't feel like you HAVE to buy it. But if you do, I can’t thank you enough! You’re so nice. I like what you’re wearing. Thanks again. I love you, Ann”

I recently asked a couple of writer friends what they write when they sign books. One said to always remember that the book you’re signing might end up for sale on a sidewalk one day. Then she said that a book she had once inscribed to her aunt turned up on eBay! The other told me that she simply writes: For (the person’s name) and then signs her name.

So on Saturday, I kept these authors' words in mind. No more offering love, praise, free sex to the book buyer. I simply signed my name. Okay, I used the word love a few times, but only for people I really do love - my daughter's former teacher, the guy who lives down the road whose name I forgot, everybody who said they loved my first book, a woman who bought TEN books as gifts because she thought I was so amusing on Morning Joe, and a woman who thought it was going to be Roxana Robinson signing books that day (she bought my book anyway, how could I not love her for that?)

Allow me to introduce Pete. Pete lives at North Forty Farm in Roxbury, CT. He's one of those rare and wonderful dogs who can smile:

Pete's a boxer-mix. He weighs over 100 pounds. I'd estimate that fifty pounds of that is head. When you first drive up to North Forty, if Pete hasn't met you before, he will usually rise from his bed next to the riding ring and give you a few short woofs. He's an impressive looking dog, with those big jaws, and if it weren't for his slowly wagging tail and his affable smile, you might think twice about getting out of your car.

Pete's owner Mike is in the army. When he is away, as he is most of the time now, Pete lives with Mike's parents Mariann and Larry. Mariann and Larry dote on Pete, and when they're not busy grooming and cleaning and mucking and tending to all the other duties involved in running a small horse farm, they are brushing out Petey's coat or fluffing up one of his many dog beds.

The other day, Mariann told me that Mike was coming home for the weekend. Pete was lying at her feet. "Yes, Daddy's coming home," Mariann said, and Petey lifted his head and stared off down the driveway, his ears alert, his tail thumping the ground, his mouth turning up, ever so slightly, at the corners.

Well, nobody guessed the right answer to yesterday's stumper.

THIS is my dear little sister, Meg Seminara:

I just love her.

My daughter passed her driving test today. She got her license. Here she is driving off down our driveway – without me.

I thought about her driving off down the road alone. Then I thought about the first nurse, the one who delivered her, who plopped her onto a table and tossed her little limbs from side to side as she rubbed her – helping her breathe. Not so rough, I thought, then, but said nothing. One must breathe. Tenderly, is what I kept thinking at that nurse, the tears running down my face. Tenderly.

Off she drove today with her music and her mother’s car, her thoughts on horses and her friends – mine on the hardscrabble roads, the screeching of tires, the twisting of iron and the crushing of steel. It crushed like an accordian, they always say – crushed. The odds are against it, I know. She will be carried along our country roads, though tunnels, over bridges and into great cities. She will be carried along crowded highways into her own great life, tenderly, I hope, tenderly, tenderly.

I just had lunch with my dear friend Jennifer. Jennifer and I met the very first day of college. She was a lifelong New Yorker wondering how she ended up at a school that was in the middle of Hicksville. I was a hick wondering how I ended up in a school where everybody was a cool New Yorker. We had lunch together that first day and were immediately inseparable. I'm trying to come up with one amusing story to share about our antics during our younger days but realize that there's not a single one that's fit for my blog, as our kids are teenagers and might get the wrong idea about us. Let's just say we were into the usual crazy college stuff. Necking with boys in the commons. Sharing a beer every once in a great while. Most days you'd find us in the library, our noses buried in books. We were just little sponges soaking up knowledge, Jennifer and I.

Someday, I'll be able to write about all the stuff I learned at Bennington, but not until my kids are completely grown.

Jennifer and I both have two children and we conceived BOTH on the same day. Totally unplanned. Well, the kids were planned, but we didn't plan to have our babies the same day. I think our firstborn children shared a due date and the second were due within days of each other. We both lived in NYC when our kids were little so we did all the nursing and weaning and potty training and stuff together. When we were in college we did almost everything together. Today we reminisced. When I see Jennifer, I still see the beautiful 18 year old I met that first day at Bennington, only now I have to put my glasses on to see her.

Jennifer is an artist. She's a painter, an art teacher, and the mother of two gorgeous, talented daughters. She is one of the wisest people I've ever known, just filled with razor-sharp intuition about people and situations. We can not speak for months and pick up the conversation right where we left off every time.

I love her like a sister.

Yesterday I got an email from my cyber friend Courtney Corvan, aka "Makeup Kitty," who is a regular commenter on my blog, informing me that it's gloomy in LA too, but not because of the weather. She emailed me some pictures of what the LA fires have done to the sky above Marina Del Rey. It was snowing ash above those crew teams paddling through the ...marina? River?

I'm hoping those great LA firefighters are staying safe, as well as the people in that area.

Courtney also sent me a photo of the very dapper Shanti, who really resembles our old dog Rocky.

Coutney is an LA makeup artist with a great blog with all sorts of makeup tips. Check it out!