Don’t worry, I’m not about to write about swine flu. Just had to clear the air on that, what with the pig reference in the title. No, instead I’m going to regale you with far more compelling subject matter: wee wee. Well, not exactly. I’ve been thinking about wee-wee a bit lately, but really I’m not going to talk about it. At least not in it’s truest form.

You see my daughter is in an upcoming musical at her high school. She loves to sing and do all of those theatrical things and my husband and I have enjoyed watching her grow as a performer and we were duly thrilled that she was going to try out for the musical this year. I pictured her belting out songs about the corn being knee-high by the Fourth of July, or being Hopelessly Devoted to whomever was the closest thing to John Travolta that the school could scratch up, or maybe even getting a bit edgier and joining the ensemble cast in a rousing rendition of Seasons of Love from Rent.

But instead, she and her peers will be singing about pee. Yeah, I know, that sounds so terrifically disgusting. But really, it’s nothing but funny. They had a new drama teacher this year who wanted to undertake something a little bit different than the usual high school musical productions, to give everyone something to talk about, and she decided that this year they would put on Urinetown. Yep, that’s the title. Urinetown.

And then I got asked to help to publicize the play and I have a background in public relations so I was more than happy to do so, but then the reality kicked in once I actually started talking it up. Every time I’ve mentioned this play to anyone, I’m met with this:

“Urinetown? As in urine town? Oh.” And then their eyes glaze over. And I can’t say that I blame them because, I mean, the title is a little off-putting. 

I even thought about pitching it as You’re In Town, figuring nobody would know the difference. I came up with the line I’d use for reporters:

“I wanted to let you know that the high school will be putting on a play, and it’s been fabulously well-received on Broadway. Tony Award-winning, in fact. Yeah, uh-huh. Uh-huh. It’s called You’re In Town.”

I figured they’d just sort of in their minds mix it with Our Town, an old chestnut that gets dragged out by all kinds of high school drama departments during play season. 

Admittedly I’m not quite “in the know” in the world of drama, despite a potentially lurid addiction to People magazine. But that’s more to do with pop culture than actual theatrics. 

The extent of my acting prowess consisted of a quasi-starring role as Aunt Sally in Mr. Popsack’s sixth grade production of Huck Finn. I made quite the memorable entrance when I tripped over a tree stump prop in a night scene during the first few minutes of the play, flipping heels over head and landing on my back. Despite my abject humiliation from that gaff, I received rave reviews, and Charlotte Tragard, the actress in our modest little high school, pulled me aside and told me I had a future in the arts.

Little did I know that future would be in trying to convince people that a play about pee is a must-see production. 

For those of you who aren’t familiar with Urinetown, don’t let the title scare you. It’s good, clean fun for the whole family. And perfectly relevant for the times in which we live, complete with corrupt politicians, corporate greed, and ecological devastation thrown in for good measure. What’s not to love? 

Yes, sometimes I feel as if I’m flacking the live action version of the children’s book series,Captain Underpants. More like Captain Dirty Diapers. But I take heart in knowing that it’s a fabulous play and has lots of terrific singing and you know, in some ways it brings me back to the day when changing diapers with my own babies and I probably sang about wee-wee, just to keep the kids entertained. So it all comes around. 

Plus, my friend had a good point the other day.

“Hey,” she said. “At least it’s only pee! You could have been asked to publicize a production of The Vagina Monologues.”

I shrunk my favorite jeans today. They went into the laundry looking like you could slip a ’69 Buick into them, and they came out ready for consignment in Lilliputian land. So now I’m suffering from the blue jean blues.

Blue jeans are a curious thing. The right pair of jeans on the right body, and there’s no better outfit in the world. I know one woman who could be the poster child for Levi’s. Cut just right, fits her behind, wraps around her waist just so. It’s as if she was born to wear them.

Not so, me: the last time I even attempted to try on a pair of Levi’s was so humbling that I swore them off for life. By the time I found a size large enough to enable me to hoist the stiff boards of denim onto my legs and up and over my behind, the waistline could have accommodated yet another body.

There’s a certain ritual for stepping into a pair of jeans. Obviously, you step in one leg at a time. But then comes the tricky part: the left-right-left hip jiggle to jimmy the pants up and over the butt. You then grip a belt loop on either side, jump up once, and voila, you’ve got your jeans on. Next you have to straighten out the pockets: you want no lumps or bulges to betray your girlish curves. Tug down one leg, then the other, and you’re ready to roll.

So you’re taking a stroll down the street, thinking happy thoughts, and you notice for the first time in forever that your jeans actually feel loose. You can pinch an inch (of denim, not fat), and you’re thinking, WOW! I’ve done it! I’ve actually lost some weight.

Then you sit down. And suddenly the molecules in the lower half of your body redistribute so that you couldn’t feel fatter if you’d inhaled a quart of Rocky Road. Claustrophobia sets in as you realize that you’re trapped inside your favorite relaxed-fit jeans, and the fit isn’t quite so relaxed.

Washing blue jeans is another thing. I do so under duress–there have to be bloodstains or worse. But washing them just to keep them clean like you would your socks or underwear is a no-no.

For one thing, you work too hard to get your jeans to the right shade. The “oh, look who’s sporting a new pair of jeans” look finally fades, and you have a washed (well, not really, but it’s our secret) yet not too washed-out look.

Then there is that comfort factor. After you wear your unwashed jeans enough, they become mercifully forgiving, like my idea of what God is. I for one am not about to sacrifice the feeling of comfy jeans just for the sake of cleanliness.

Eventually, the time comes to wash them. The goal: avoid heat. Why? Shrinkage. If only there was an ice water setting on my washer. Gentle spin cycle is vital: you can’t have the jeans folding origami-style from a violent spin.

Then it’s into the dryer; there will be no drip drying. Because then you get stuck with Very Stiff Pants.  I use delicate air dry mode. But I swear, every time I sneak up on that dryer to ensure that no heat is being emitted during the tumble dry, I open the door and am greeted by enough hot air to make me think I’ve just been beamed into a roomful of politicians. You have to be careful with these dryers; sometimes you just can’t trust them.

Singing the blues about my blue jeans

You may be thinking that I am a prime candidate for some other kind of lower-extremity-wear. Leggings, perhaps. Maybe a long skirt. But the truth is, I like the challenge of blue jeans. They always keep you guessing. You never know if they’re gonna be kind to you, or turn on you like a jilting lover. I’ve learned that I have to stay one step ahead of my jeans, or else someday I’ll find I’m no longer in them.

authors note: Sadly I have currently fallen into disfavor with my blue jeans, but hope to be back in their good graces soon.

April Henry is the newest addition to the Girlfriend’s Cyber Circuit, and is celebrating the launch of her latest novel (co-authored with Lisa Wiehl), Face of Betrayal, which is sure to keep you up reading and the lights on till dawn.

Here’s the story: When 17-year-old Senate page Katie Converse goes missing on her Christmas break near her parents’ white Victorian home in Portland, Ore., law enforcement and the media go into overdrive in a search for clues. Three friends at the pinnacle of their respective careers–Allison Pierce, a federal prosecutor; Cassidy Shaw, a crime reporter; and Nicole Hedges, an FBI special agent–soon discover that Katie wasn’t the picture of innocence painted by her parents. Did Katie run away to escape their stifling demands? Was she having an affair with the senator who sponsored her as a page? Has she been kidnapped? Is she the victim of a serial killer?

About the author

April Henry knows how to kill you in a two-dozen different ways. She makes up for a peaceful childhood in an intact home by killing off fictional characters. April had one detour on her path to destruction: when she was 12 she sent a short story about a six-foot tall frog who loved peanut butter to noted children’s author Roald Dahl. He liked it so much he arranged to have it published in an international children’s magazine.

By the time she was in her 30s, April had come to terms with her childhood and started writing about hit men, drug dealers, and serial killers. She has published six mysteries and thrillers, with five more under contract. Her books have gotten starred reviews, been on Booksense (twice!), translated into four languages, short-listed for the Oregon Book Award, and chosen as a Quick Pick by the American Library Association.

April co-wrote Face of Betrayal with Lis Wiehl, a legal analyst on FOX. They have a contract for three more Triple Threat mysteries. 

In March, April’s young adult thriller, Torched, came out from Putnam.

“A sizzling political thriller. … The seamless plot offers a plethora of twists and turns.”

–Publishers Weekly

4.5 stars [and they don’t give out five stars] “Wiehl and Henry have penned a winner that seems to come straight from the headlines. Captivating suspense, coupled with tightly written prose, will entertain and intrigue.”

–Romantic Times

Welcome, April!

JG: Tell me a little about your book.

AP: In Face of Betrayal, Katie, a 17 year old Senate page, disappears. The prime suspect: the Senator who may have been more than just a mentor. Three women – an FBI agent, a federal prosecutor, and a TV crime reporter – team up to find out what really happened.

JG: What got you writing in the genre in which you write.

AH: It was kind of accident. I wrote the book I wanted to write –Circles of Confusion – and my agent told me she thought it would sell well as a mystery. The idea of it selling was enough to sell – I had already written three other books that hadn’t sold. She was right – I had a two book deal in three days. I’ve since realized that the kind of books you right at first are like a brand. Readers expect you to continue to write in the same genre. 

JG: Favorite thing about being a writer?

AH: When the words come so quickly it’s like I’m transcribing and grinning like a crazy person. That happens about once a year. Unfortunately.

JG: Least favorite thing about being a writer?

AH: The one time I couldn’t get on the same page as an editor. It was excruciating.

JG: What is the most interesting thing that’s happened to you since becoming a published author?

AH: Watching a book come close to being made into a movie. It was a huge long shot that didn’t pan out, but it was fun while it lasted.

JG: What’s your favorite type of pie?

AH: Cherry, made with bright red pie (sour) cherries. Runner up: lemon meringue.