{"product_id":"here-i-go-again-isbn-9780451416858","title":"Here I Go Again","description":"\u003cb\u003eWith her debut novel,\u003ci\u003e If You Were Here\u003c\/i\u003e, Jen Lancaster “[leapt] into the fiction arena with her rapier-sharp wit in one hand and a fistful of Home Depot gift cards in the other” (\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Joshilyn Jackson).  Now she goes from the trauma of home renovation to the drama of soul renovation in \u003ci\u003eHere I Go Again\u003c\/i\u003e....\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwenty years after ruling the halls of her suburban Chicago high school, Lissy Ryder doesn’t understand why her glory days ended. Back then, she was worshipped…beloved…feared. Present day, not so much. She’s been pink-slipped from her high-paying job, dumped by her husband, and kicked out of her condo. Now, at thirty-seven, she’s struggling to start a business from her parents’ garage and sleeping under the hair-band posters in her old bedroom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLissy finally realizes karma is the only bitch bigger than she was. Her present is miserable because of her past. But it’s not like she can go back in time and change who she was...or can she?“This is the only book in twenty years that made me wipe my eyes. Jen Lancaster’s like a modern-day, bawdy Erma Bombeck....I couldn’t put it down!”—Lisa Lampanelli, \u003ci\u003eNew York Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Entertaining, humorous, and well-written, and the characters are perfection; those of you who grew up in the eighties will be transported back there as if it was only yesterday.”—Examiner.com\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eMean Girls\u003c\/i\u003e meets \u003ci\u003eBack to the Future\u003c\/i\u003e…scathingly witty and lots of fun.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A whimsical twist on the \u003ci\u003eBack to the Future\u003c\/i\u003e scenario…a fitting and none too treacly close. Quantum physics was never funnier. A great read.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A charming comedy in the vein of movies like \u003ci\u003eBig \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e 13 Going on 30\u003c\/i\u003e….Readers will find it easy to root for the frank and funny heroine of this winsome, whimsical tale...downright fun.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eJen Lancaster \u003c\/b\u003eis the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of ten books: \u003ci\u003eTwisted Sisters\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Tao of Martha\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eHere I Go Again\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eJeneration X\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e If You Were Here\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eMy Fair Lazy\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ePretty in Plaid\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eSuch a Pretty Fat,\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eBright Lights, Big Ass\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eBitter is the New Black.\u003c\/i\u003e She has appeared on \u003ci\u003eToday\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Joy Behar Show,\u003c\/i\u003e and NPR’s \u003ci\u003eAll Things Considered\u003c\/i\u003e. She resides in the suburbs of Chicago with her husband and their ever-expanding menagerie of ill-behaved pets.\u003cb\u003ePrologue\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvery high school has a Lissy Ryder—you know, the girl who’s absolutely untouchable. She goes by many names, but you might have known her as the Prom Queen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Head Cheerleader.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Mean Girl.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Bitch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was the richest and the prettiest, with the blondest hair, the thinnest thighs, and the hottest car, and she never let you forget it. Nothing made her happier than stealing \u003ci\u003eyour\u003c\/i\u003e boyfriend, just to see if she could.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd she could.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf course she could.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was Lissy Ryder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLissy Ryder spent her teen years making yours miserable. She’s the one who “accidentally” tripped you on the bus, mocked the sweater your sweet old Nana knitted, and told the boys you stuffed socks in your bra, despite being the one who taught you how to do it. (Ankle socks. The trick is using ankle socks.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvery time she looked at you, sighed, and rolled her eyes, a little piece of you died inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou hated her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou wanted to destroy her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut you were satisfied just to graduate and get away from her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo you went to college, grew up, and now live a successful, fulfilling life, vaguely wondering if that thing called “karma” ever comes for the Lissy Ryders of the world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHmm . . . let’s find out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eChapter One\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ePerfection Is Overrated\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh, honey, \u003ci\u003eno\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI scan the woman’s outfit up and down. A thong-bottom leotard worn over neon tights? With high-top Reeboks? Seriously? I’m sorry, were you possessed by the ghost of 1983?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI sigh into my Bluetooth. “What are people thinking when they come here dressed as extras in an Olivia Newton-John video? This is the \u003ci\u003eWest End \u003c\/i\u003eClub, not some nineteen-dollar-a-month Boys Town storefront, full of old StairMasters and HPV germs. So shameful. So inappropriate.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eglance at my properly clad self in the mirror across from where I’m paused on the elliptical machine. Lululemon Wunder Groove cropped capris paired with a Back on Track tank in Heathered Pig Pink?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCheck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLong blond layers of honey and ash (never platinum—I mean, who am I? Holly Madison?) pulled into a messy, yet attractive high pony?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCheck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSmashbox O-Glow blush and a swipe of MAC Lipglass in Early Bloomer?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCheck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI continue. “The West End Club is a sophisticated place and you’re pretty much nobody in Chicago if you don’t belong. I mean, Oprah’s a member, for God’s sake. I wish the Big O were here right now, because she’d be all, ‘My friend Jane Fonda called and she wants her leg warmers back.’”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNicole is my go-to person for phoning when I’m working out, because she’s always home. I’d urge her to get a life, but frankly it’s kind of nice being able to chat with her whenever I want. She hesitates on the other end of the line, finally saying, “Um . . . Lissy, I thought you weren’t allowed to come within five hundred feet of Oprah.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI slowly begin to pedal. “That was a \u003ci\u003esuggestion\u003c\/i\u003e, Nicole, not a law. Like it’s \u003ci\u003emy\u003c\/i\u003e fault she thought I was too aggressive for sneaking into her massage room. I mean, the world of PR is all about differentiating yourself. You’d think she’d \u003ci\u003ewant\u003c\/i\u003e to work with the publicist who tried something different to catch her attention.” I begin to pedal harder. “Whatevs. Doesn’t matter anyway, because she’s totally passé now that her show’s over. Enjoy your obscurity!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOkay, the truth is that unpleasantness with Oprah still stings even though it was years ago. I know I’d have done an outstanding job for Harpo, Inc., but she wouldn’t even hear me out, which is rude, considering I forked over ten thousand dollars I didn’t have back then (thanks, Daddy!) to join this place to get close to her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo be fair, she didn’t have my club membership revoked. I grudgingly give her credit for that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI blot my face with a thick Turkish towel and pat the area around my Bluetooth so I don’t, like, accidentally electrocute myself. Theoretically I’m not supposed to use a cell phone in here, but I think that’s because the management wants patrons to keep both hands on the machines. Liability and all. A couple of the regulars are shooting me dirty looks, but if they can’t multitask while getting their cardio on, that’s not my prob.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Who else is there today?” Nicole asks gamely.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Um . . .” I scan the room. “There’s the Chris Colfer doppelgänger who lip-synchs to the \u003ci\u003eGlee\u003c\/i\u003e sound track and is always talking about his ‘girlfriend.’ You’re not fooling anyone, sweetie! The closet’s wiiiiiide open! Come out already!” I take a swig of filtered water from my skull-print SIGG bottle. “Let’s see . . . Hey, there’s Cougar Town who takes Pilates with me. She told me she can wrap both her ankles around her neck. I’m all, ‘Really? Did you do porno back in the sixties or something?’ And there are the two fake-titted twenty-somethings who date Bulls players. They’re totally fat.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis, of course, means they’re totally thin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don’t tell Nicole that, though. Don’t want to shatter her illusions about me. But how could they \u003ci\u003enot\u003c\/i\u003e be in perfect shape? These bitches have no responsibilities save for workouts and waxing. I mean, SOME of us aren’t a size two anymore because SOME of us have day jobs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Uh-huh . . .” Nicole sounds distracted. She’s got three rug rats under the age of six and they’re always screaming in the background when we’re on the phone. Not cool. Plus her husband brought a stepdaughter into the marriage, and I swear I want to slap the smug right out of that brat. Last time I was over, Charlotte was all, “Wait, you guys were alive \u003ci\u003ebefore the Internet\u003c\/i\u003e? How old \u003ci\u003eare\u003c\/i\u003e you?!” I told Nicole to go all Snow White’s wicked stepmother on her, yet for some reason she’s got a soft spot for the kid. I don’t understand it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eActually, I’m less than thrilled with a lot of Nicole’s decisions. For example, she traded her adorable Audi coupe for some hideous, multirowed family truckster with automatic sliding doors and built-in video monitors. I was like, “What’s next, mom jeans?” I won’t ride in it on principle. I wait for her to say something else, but she’s quiet, possibly because of all the banging and shuffling in the background.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nicole! Are you even listening?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry! Bobby Junior just poured his own milk for the first time. He’s so independent lately!” Her voice goes up a couple of octaves. “My little man, I’m so proud of you; yes, I am! Lissy, you won’t believe it—he pulled up a chair and got the fridge open all by himself, and almost every drop made it into his sippy cup! Every time he accomplishes something on his own, I feel this incredible surge of—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ve found that if you give a mother an opening, she’ll yammer on about her boring offspring all damn day. Like I care that little Madison or Isabella can wipe her own ass. I feel it’s my job as a friend to keep Nicole from spiraling into the Mom Zone, where it’s nothing but sensible haircuts, soapbox derbies, and organic carrot sticks. “That’s just \u003ci\u003esuper\u003c\/i\u003e, Nic. But let’s talk about tonight instead.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat shut her down right quick.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNicole exhales a little loudly on the other end of the line. “Okay, Liss, so what are you doing later?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Tonight’s our anniversary dinner!” I gasp. It’s not that I’m all pumped about the evening. Rather, I’m slightly winded from having ratcheted up the resistance on my machine after watching the stunning red-haired Bulls consort sprint on the elliptical like a goddamned gazelle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Where’s he taking you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We’re going to MK on Franklin Street. I made Duke book us in the private room. I don’t really want the Great Unwashed in the regular dining area honing in on my joy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf you want to be all nitpicky, Duke and I have been together off and on since our junior year of high school, but we’ve been married for only three. Yes, before you say it, we’re that “breakup” couple. We know. We’ve had more splits than \u003ci\u003eReal Housewives\u003c\/i\u003e’ Taylor has had lip injections, but we always find our way back to each other. I mean, yes, I dated all kinds of people when we were on a break—and even when we weren’t, like when I hooked up with my neighbor Brian for a few weeks—but ultimately we were fated to be a couple. Our not being together is like a manicure without a pedicure—sick and wrong and not of the Lord.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlso, his real name is Martin Connor, but everyone started calling him the Duke of Hurl back when we were seniors at Lyons Township High School in La Grange, Illinois. His clueless family still believes it’s because he was a quarterback with a golden arm, and not due to the night he mixed Jack Daniel’s, Jolt cola, and Jägermeister. Seriously, do you know long it took my dad to get the smell of vomit out of my car? I had to drive with the top down for a solid month!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhile I mentally cycle through my wardrobe for the perfect dress, the timer dings on my machine. “Woo, one point five hours! Yay, me! I just burned one thousand and eighty-three calories!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich should make up for the three lattes I had this morning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(I hope.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Listen, I want to catch a little peak tanning time, so I’ve gotta bounce.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Shouldn’t you get back to the office soon?” Nicole sounds characteristically worried. If fretting were a sport, she’d be a gold medalist.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Um, thanks for your concern, \u003ci\u003eMom\u003c\/i\u003e, but it’s fine. I told my boss I was going to a meeting, and that’s not really a lie. This place is filled with potential clients.” I glance over at the Bulls girls. “I mean, escort services need publicists, too, right?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Still, maybe you should make an appearance.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI blot the thin sheen of sweat from my unlined brow . . . TGFB! (Thank God for Botox.) “Please, I can do whatever I want in that place. They love me there. I’m kind of a legend.” After all, I brought in so much new business during the dot-com era that they hired me an assistant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf course, that assistant eventually became my boss, but that’s only because I refuse to be an ass kisser. “Later!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hang up and step down from the elliptical, staggering for a second before I get my legs back. One of the Bulls sluts smirks and I may or may not make an obscene gesture back at her. I head to the locker room to change into my bathing suit (a tasteful tankini, natch) covered with the sheer floral sarong I bought in Bora Bora on my honeymoon, and I run up the stairs to the rooftop pool.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is my favorite spot in all of Chicago. I love being here during the workday because it’s practically deserted. The deck’s all done up in just-bloomed hibiscus bushes and prairie grass and there’s nothing but empty loungers as far as the eye can see. The pool is placid, with wisps of steam rising from it, making it warm enough to use even though it’s still early summer. The sky’s an impossible shade of blue today, and because the club’s next to the river, none of those pesky office buildings casts shadows and blocks my sun. It’s heaven . . . if heaven served cocktails. (\u003ci\u003eOf course\u003c\/i\u003e there’s a bar in this gym. You think Oprah would join a place that didn’t boast every amenity?)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI arrive at the check-in area and present my club ID to the buff teenager working the desk. “Hey, James, I’ll be in my regular seat. Bring me extra towels, a piña colada, and an order of fries.” He taps in my information and an odd look crosses his face. “Oh, please, I’m not going to eat them all. I just want a few.” (“Moderation” is so the new “binge and purge.”)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJames gets all flushed and flustered, and he keeps a king fu grip on my card when I try to grab it back. “Um, Mrs. Ryder—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ms.,” I correct him. “It’s \u003ci\u003eMs.\u003c\/i\u003e Ryder.” I’ve always been hesitant to let go of the name I had in high school. Otherwise how would anyone even know who I was? Were I to call myself “Melissa Connor” on Facebook, everyone would be all, “Who?” But Lissy Ryder? Queen of the Belles, the best clique in school? No one forgets her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJames clenches his jaw. “Ohhhh-kay, Ms. Ryder. There seems to be a problem with your membership.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI nod. “Um, \u003ci\u003eyeah\u003c\/i\u003e, the problem is I’m standing here without a cocktail.” He continues to tap in information for so long that I attempt—and fail—to wrestle my card back. Listen, we’re burning daylight, and if I don’t get color on my shoulders I can’t wear my new Akris goddess-sleeve dress tonight. So I may or may not lunge at him to speed the process.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ms. Ryder! Please! Stop that!” he exclaims, launching into bitch panic mode.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA steroid-addled trainer waddles over to us. His legs are so muscular he moves in tiny, mincing steps. “What is going on over here?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s going on is that I’m losing my tan by the minute! And he won’t let me have my French fries!” James turns the computer monitor toward the side of beef in gym shorts standing next to him. I bet this guy hasn’t seen a carb since the Clinton administration. Or his nut sac.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen, in a manner far less gentle than merited, Captain ’Roid Rage takes me by the arm and escorts me to the membership service desk three floors down. I suspect the manhandling might be due to my inquiry on exactly how small his marble bag is. (Hey, I watched the MTV \u003ci\u003eTrue Life: I’m a Juicehead Gorilla\u003c\/i\u003e special, and I’m well versed in exactly what anabolic steroids do to your junk. I can’t be blamed for merely stating what everyone’s thinking.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen we get to the membership office, some minimum-wage desk monkey tells me my membership hasn’t been paid in three months.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh, I know \u003ci\u003esomeone’\u003c\/i\u003es accountant who’s about to be fired.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(Do I have an accountant? I should check with Duke.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI slap my well-worn Visa on the desk. “Put whatever I owe on here. But make sure my fries are ready when we’re done with this nonsense.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe desk girl runs my card. “It’s been declined.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUm, that’s an awful lot of smug coming from someone who makes six dollars an hour. “Run it again,” I demand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I already did,” she replies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs a shit-eating grin appropriate at this time, really?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the next ten minutes, I’m a lot less haughty as each of my cards is systematically rejected. And when she takes out an enormous pair of scissors and snips my prize gold AmEx, I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUm, what’s happening? Duke makes plenty of money, despite the current economy, and we’re always on top of our finances.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI mean, aren’t we?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI kind of can’t be bothered with all that stuff. Numbers. Ick. My mom always said I was too pretty for math. But this has to be a mistake. I keep dialing Duke’s office number, but each time the phone goes straight to voice mail.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’m summarily escorted out of the club without even being allowed to change from my bathing suit. When I get down to the parking garage, my Infiniti is missing. The parking attendant blathers something in Mexican about a tow truck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhat the hell?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI immediately dial Nicole and tell her to come get me. I give her explicit instructions not to drive the van, but when she arrives twenty minutes later the family truckster is full of little bastards watching a show about a big gay dinosaur.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe side door swings open and I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the stench of Cheerios. I point at her demon spawn. “Why are they here?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Because I’ll end up on \u003ci\u003eDateline\u003c\/i\u003e if I leave them home alone,” Nicole cheerily replies. “Hop in!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI attempt to climb in the front, but Charlotte’s already stationed herself in the shotgun position and makes no indication that she plans to move. She pretends I’m not standing there while she busies herself sending texts about important shit like Justin Bieber’s most recent haircut. When I try to nudge her out of my seat, she plants herself and rolls her eyes while Nicole grins at me like there’s nothing wrong with this scenario.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReally? We’re letting the fourteen-year-old stepchild run the show now?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eFine\u003c\/i\u003e. I’ll just get in the backseat like some snot-nosed little asshole on her way to T-ball practice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI attempt to launch myself into the back of the hateful van, which is almost impossible with this slim-cut sarong. I hike it up and try again. Ugh. This place smells like juice box and desperation. As I attempt to clamber into the far back row in order to avoid the sticky hands coming at me from car seats on all sides, I catch a glimpse of an enormous blob in the side-view mirror.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUpon closer inspection, I realize the big, fleshy moon eclipsing the mirror is actually how my ass looks while I’m bent over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePerfect.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303142084837,"sku":"NP9780451416858","price":26.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780451416858.jpg?v=1767728963","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/here-i-go-again-isbn-9780451416858","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}