Mini Book Review #3

In my continuing quest to keep track of all the books I've read this year (#1, #2), here is my third installment. Since I've been lazy posting my reading, I have four books to cover.

Something Blue by Emily Giffin is the sequel to Something Borrowed only told from the viewpoint of the villianess. Clever literary perspective. To be honest, I found the central character, Darcy, to be hard to like. For about the half the book I wasn't sure if I would get through it. Darcy eventually has to live up to her ways and the book takes a warmer turn. If you plan to read the two, start with Something Borrowed.

Spinster Sisters by Stacey Ballis tells the story of two sisters from Chicago who have a successful business. I want to live in the world these sisters live in! They're smart and have a wonderful group of women to work and live with.

I took a break from chick lit and read The Wordy Shipmates by Sarah Vowell. Vowell has made a career of taking American history and giving it an ironic and humorous, 21st century twist. Plus I learn a lot from reading Vowell's books. Did you know that the Puritans and Pilgrims were two different groups with different objectives for coming to the New World?

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows was given to me by a friend. I was sad when I finished it. These characters were so alive and real. And once again I learned something historical. The novel takes place just after WWII on Guernsey Island in the English Channel which had been occupied by the Germans for five years.

I would also like to give a shout out to the Madison (WI) Public Library for their great online order system. Yes, I waited four months for Sarah Vowell's book, but I can search and find other books to entertain me in the meantime. And they are delivered to whichever library branch is most convenient for me.

More to come....

One Cat's Holy Grail

Look at this cup. It was acquired by Hubby in 1984 at an establishment called Penrods on Fort Lauderdale Beach. Why would anyone hang on to this for all those years?

I don't know either. Except this is my water cup and it is always with me when I am at home. You never know when a thirst may come on. I don't want to be, say, 25 feet away from a source of water and have to actually get up.

So the Penrods cup and I are an inseparable pair.

Except there is someone that wants to make this pair a threesome. That someone is MJ the Cat. You see MJ lives to drink out of this cup. His whole existence revolves around sticking his schnoz into the cup and lapping up water. Never mind we have numerous bowls for his slurping pleasure. This is the only source of water that matters.

His feline ears can determine the moment water hits the inside of this particular cup. He'll come running over to survey the cup and assess:

1. -the water level in the cup
2. -the diameter of his head
3. -how far into the cup his head will go

"When will you learn?" Hubby clucks. "How many years have you two been battling over that thing? Which one of you is smarter anyway?"

I could part with my Penrods cup. But it would be like cutting off my own arm. We've been through so much together: the Reagan years, MC Hammer, Melrose Place. I've thought about replacing the cup with a water bottle. But where's the sport in that?

MJ and I will continue to maneuver over this precious water vessel; like a couple of weathered generals plotting their next move. Until Hubby grows tired of whole spectacle and throws the cup away.

Which, while logical, would be a sad day.

Do These People Make You Sleepy?

Are you drowsy? A little tired? Maybe just exhausted after a long day?

For Hubby these people are like Ambien. A few weeks ago we discovered CSI Miami reruns on A&E while desperately looking for something warm to look at on TV. After a long, dreary, snowy winter we will take our sun where ever we can find it. Even TV reruns.

Now here's the thing. In the first five minutes the mystery is set up. Someone dies. Someone looks guilty. The CSI Miami team arrives on the scene. Cue cool intro with The Who music. Cut to commercial.

Next to me is Hubby who has already dozed off. Mouth agape; hot chocolate recently quaffed; remote still in hand. Apparently he saw all the warmth he needed. However I am hooked and will need to spend the next 55 minutes with Team CSI Miami to see how it all evolves.

Night after night the same gig plays out. We tune in CSI Miami. He slips into unconsciousness.

Since one of us is actually watching the show I have some observations:

• See David Caruso in the pic above? That's the only time I've ever seen him smile. Plus, what is a pasty white guy like that doing in Miami? That being said, I love his character, Horatio Crane, and his one emotion.
• The science stuff is cool but a bit far fetched. I took enough chemistry to know that some of those things can't be done that quickly. But, strangely, I don't care. If I had a lab that cool I would have stayed in science.
• The stories get all twisty. You think you know who is guilty and then new evidence shows it might be someone else.
• It's not too touchy, feely. If I want warm and fuzzy I'll watch Grey's Anatomy.

Don't tell Hubby what CSI Miami is about. At this point he thinks it's a travelogue about South Florida.

Zzzzzzzzzz.......

My Slice of Pineapple Express

I spent the past week in a drug-induced haze…by legal means. Don’t ask me what happened in the world or how work went. I have no idea.

Bet you’re wondering how you can get your hands on this stuff. It’s pretty easy. Just go to your doc and tell him/her that you need seasonal allergy meds. Then sit back and watch the pink elephants fly.

It started last weekend when I began my preparations for the onslaught of spring pollen. Prescription nasal spray. Check. Prescription antihistamines. Check. No sense of time or space. Check-a-rooney.

Monday was a little hazy but I chalked it up to the Monday blahs. By Tuesday I was still fuzzy but didn’t care much about anything. That intensified on Wednesday but I thought it was me just being tired of winter. However, on Thursday I knew something was wrong because…uhm…like….I couldn’t…well… string two coherent thoughts together. I also couldn’t complete any task no matter how mundane.

Task required: Print spreadsheet, go to the printer and retrieve.

Task completed: Wander to the drinking fountain. Grab some Cheetos from the vending machine. Look at the shiny insides of the vending machine for awhile. Marvel at how the vending machine can hold all that food and drop it at precisely the right time. Find my way back to my desk. Play with paper clips on desk. Wonder what happened to my bag of Cheetos.

This is why it took two days to complete a project.

“There’s something wrong with me,” I whispered on the phone to TJ. “It’s like I can’t complete a thoug…. Hey, are you guys going out tonite?”

What I felt like was the dude from Pineapple Express whose name I couldn't remember for two days.

Later that night I lay in bed while Hubby snored peacefully at my side.

Maybe I have a brain tumor.

Or early onset dementia.

Or a brain aneurysm like that woman on Grey's Anatomy who died while the baby lived even though her husband told Dr. McDreamy to save his wife if he had to choose between the two and McDreamy wouldn't put his scalpel down and got into a fight with Addison that the Chief had to come to the ER and resolve.

Staring at the dark ceiling I used all my skills of concentration. Perhaps...just maybe...the problem is the pill I started taking at the exact same time these symptoms started.

Hmmm. Could be the issue, I suppose.

So I stopped the seemingly cannabis-infused meds and, just like that, started to regain my super powers of focus and concentration.

And that, kids, is why you just say no to drugs. At least until the doc prescribes something new next week.

The Unexpected Confessioner

I may have alluded to a trip I took last month. I was lucky enough to go to Prague, Czech Republic with a women’s travel group. Beautiful city. Affordable. Nice people. Great architecture. But me being me means there were some amusing stories, mostly at my expense.

And with that I give you story #1: Linda Accidentally Goes To Confession.

Prague has a plethora of churches that sat idle and neglected during the Communist regime. Since Communism’s fall in 1989 many of the churches are being used as originally intended. Others are for public gatherings such as concerts and festivals. And a few are solely for historic significance.

A few in our tour group wanted to go to Catholic Mass. We heard that a nearby church had outstanding acoustics and a musical Mass. The idea of live entertainment on a Sunday morning was intriguing. So our merry group of worshippers, about dozen women in all, set out to attend the 10:30 am Mass even though the majority of us were going solely for the live band, er, musicial liturgy.

I was raised Catholic and know the drill: the holy water at the entrance, the genuflecting before sliding into the pew, the being quiet. However, the being quiet part became my problem. My big, loud American-bull-in-the-china-shop ass slid to my spot in the pew and casually used my foot to flip up the kneeler. No kneeling of any kind will occur today, kids. I’m a professional Catholic and will work to make the other non-Catholics more comfortable.

Except the kneeler was not hinged to be flipped up. In fact it was never intended to be moved out of the way. My little foot flip trick caused the kneeler, which was as long as the pew, to lurch up and then down with a loud thud.

Did I mention the acoustics in this church?

Feeling a bit obvious, I decided it would be a good time to get up, walk around and check out the historical aspects of the old church before Mass began. Photography wasn’t encouraged so I concentrated and tried to memorize the details and store them in my brain:
*Baroque style
*Lots of religious figures painted on the walls and ceiling
*Huge pipe organ way up in the balcony
*Stations of the cross and other interesting artifacts along the wall

It was the artifacts that caught my attention. Statues, stained glass and gold relics stretched along the wall. It must have been the shiny things that drew me in. My focus was on the bling, not what was right in front of me. As I turned to my left to see more of the pretty, shiny things, I walked right into a door.

A door that led to the confessional.

Where the priest was sitting waiting for customers.

And he spoke only Czech.

Just five minutes in the church and I had two bloopers to my name. And, heck, I’m staring down a priest in a confessional. Bless me, Father. I have created a ruckus in your beautiful church. Please forgive me for being the neck-craning American tourist that I am. And, by the way, when does the music start?

Instead I quietly slunk to back to my pew, hands clasped in my lap, until the Mass began. Father Confessional was also the priest leading the mass. From the back of the church the pipe organ sprang to life along with a choir. The acoustics lived up to the hype. Even though the Mass was conducted and sung in Czech, the beautiful old Baroque church was being used in way the founders intended. And the American tourists appreciated that fact.

The band was pretty good too.

Heard At The Health Club Tonight

Location: Women's Locker Room

Me: Putting on my shoes

Six Year Old Girl to Her Mother: "Mommy, but how does the baby come out of the stomach?"

Mother: "It's just magic!"

Me: Quickly shuffling toward the exit while not making eye contact.

25 Scary Things About Me

On Facebook the current rage is to write 25 random things about yourself. Mind you, that's about 15 or 20 items too many. I struggled to make it to 25 because, let's face it, I'm just not that interesting. But I did s-t-r-e-t-c-h it out. One item I included was the scariest moment of my life.

It could have been a near car accident or a fashion disaster. Maybe a really bad haircut; wearing the wrong shoes after Labor Day. All these things are scary, at least to me. But the one gut-wrenching moment that I remember is January 17, 1994 --- the Northridge earthquake in Los Angeles.

There is a book out called The Survivors Club by Ben Sherwood that looks at which people have survival instincts and who becomes a deer in the headlights. If my survival skills are reflected in how I handled the Northridge earthquake, then I am screwed!

It all began at 4:30am. I was in L.A. on business and staying with a college girlfriend in the Los Feliz area...just over the hill from the Valley. I was asleep on Nic's couch. My plan was to get up about 5am and catch a flight out of Burbank to Phoenix for more appointments.

Then the house jolted up and down and around. I could hear things crashing to the floor as I tried to keep myself from being flipped off the couch. I put my one arm over my head because I was sure the ceiling was going to come down on me. Being L.A., hundreds of car alarms went off blaring the obvious. I had previously lived in L.A. and knew what an earthquake was. But of all the ones I endured, this was the most violent.

It lasted forever! (But later I heard it was less than 30 seconds) I understand the 'time stood still' stuff.

Once it was over, my true nature came into play. Nic yelled for me. Her first concern was that I put something on my feet because there was broken glass and who knows what else. She checked the electricity and found it was out. Then she instructed me to stay put as she found her flashlight and came into my direction.

I, on the other hand, have one overriding thought in my head. One gut instinct that helped guide me into my own crisis and survival mode.

"I have to get the f*&# out of here!" As in get out of L.A. Get out of earthquake row. Go to a place where the earth doesn't move around in a freakish manner.

Nic checked out the damage and was being, well, really calm. Calm! She saw her computer monitor had fallen on the floor; china was broken; books toppled.

I, rushing into my own assessment, was looking for my clothes and shoes because I'm determined that I am getting the hell outta there. I'll sleep on the curb or beach in another town -- somewhere where the walls and ceilings won't fall on me.

Nic comes over to me to see how I am. Am I hurt? Am I alright?

"I'm not hurt," I say. "But," I pause, clutching her arm.

"What is it?"

"I have to lay down. I'm having an anxiety attack!"

And that, folks, is how I handled a crisis situation: attempted to flee the scene and lie down to feel the waves of panic rush over me.

I don't remember much after that. We did go out looking for bottled water but the 7-11 and grocery stores were closed. The sun eventually came up to reveal a beautiful California morning.

And one unifying thought kept pounding through my brain:

"Gotta get out of here. Gotta go. Time to leave."

The car radio had news coverage for those stations still on the air. All I cared about was whether the Burbank airport had reopened. I even considered driving the 8 hours to Phoenix but soon realized that many highways were closed due to damage.

"Gonna leave. Gonna leave soon. Yep, getting my ass out of here."

We went back to Nic's and started to clean up the mess. She was rational and completely pulled together. When the aftershocks occurred she patted my hand supportively.

Being a good Angeleno she had a battery-operated radio. So I kept a quiet vigil on the status of the Burbank airport. LAX was a mess but I kept praying that Burbank would pull it together.

After a few hours I heard the news I was almost ready to sacrifice Nic's cats for: Burbank airport is reopening.

And there was Nic sitting on her bed, soothing her rattled cats. Calm, Zen-like.

"Honey," I started. "I gotta go. Maybe I can get to Phoenix after all. If it doesn't work out I will come back. Will you be okay if leave you alone?" (What a cad I was! Leaving a friend to deal with the aftermath of The Day The Earth Opened Up and Swollowed Us Whole)

She encouraged me to go and told me she was here if I couldn't get out.

So quick like a bunny I packed up. I realized I hadn't showered or even brushed my teeth. But time was of the essence. And the voices in my head wouldn't stop until I there was some distance between me and the floor of the Los Angeles basin. Somehow I made it the airport to find a sea of refugees just like me. Unwashed, dazed and frantically trying to get out town.

I made it onto a Southwest flight bound for Phoenix. Across the aisle from me was a woman whose hand was wrapped in cloth and bleeding. Someone else had a bandage on his face. For the most part we were quiet and beyond eager. And when the wheels finally lifted off the runway we broke into spontaneous applause.

For the first time since 4:30am I exhaled. And realized what a total wuss I was. For years afterward Nic and I would call each other on January 17th and wish each other a Happy Earthquake Day.

And now, 15 year later, I flip through the Survivors Club and wonder how I would handle it if I found myself in a crisis situation again. Ugh! I shudder to think. Once a wuss, always a wuss.

Touching Marital Moment, Take 2

Tonite at dinner:

Me: Oooh...I haven't told you about that thing that happened at the Prague airport last week.

Hubby: Why don't you save that story until bedtime? It will help me fall asleep.

Me: Sigh. Never mind.

Mini Book Review #2

On a recent trip (which I'll write about later) I read two books. They are both 'chick lit' and were lots of fun to read while sitting on airplanes.

Remember Me? by Sophie Kinsella is about a woman who loses her memory after an accident. In fact she's lost several years of her memory and awakens to a husband she doesn't know and a life she doesn't remember. Think Samantha Who? with a British twist. Kinsella is also the author of the Shopaholic books.

The other book I read was Something Borrowed by Emily Giffin. I expected a breezy chick lit-style book but was pleasantly surprised at how well Giffin describes what it is like to fall in love. Giffin's abiltity to describe emotion and feeling made this book much deeper and relatable that I expected when I read the back cover. In fact I cried reading the last few pages. That's not to say this wasn't funny, witty and a great read.

Still mulling over my next book choice. Looking for ideas.

Sick of Being Sick

Here I sit with my umpteenth sinus headache. I thought a cold was suppose to get better after a week. This has been getting worse each day.

Enough wining. What is the upside of a cold?

• Nyquil! How can this stuff be available w/o a prescription? I sleep like an angel when I do Nyquil shots.
• Soup. I feel like I'm 8 years old when I'm home sick and make soup for lunch. Then I can nap while the soaps are on TV.
• Afrin. World's best nasal spray. If Afrin could clear my mind as well as my sinuses I would be a Zen master.

Uh, that's about all I can think of right now. I think I'll look up the recipe for a Hot Toddy...hope it has Nyquil in it.

Being Ordinary

This week we saw a new president sworn in. (Well sorta sworn in. Thanks, Mr. Chief Justice.) I had many thoughts going through my head about the history and significance. But I also had another thought that still hasn’t gone away:

Barack Obama is my age. He went to high school when I did. He even married the same year we did.

There’s something profound and yet sad about seeing your contemporaries rise to power and significance. It makes me wonder: how did I get to be a middle-America-cubicle-dwelling-Dancing-With-The-Stars-watching nobody? I had a good upbringing and education. I had the smarts and potential. And I chose to live an ordinary life.

So instead of bumming myself out with deep thoughts about my inadequacies (which is a little hobby I can pursue in my spare time), I’ve chosen to focus on what the new president and I have in common.

· We both listened to REO Speedwagon, Stevie Wonder and Journey in our youth.
· We know what show the phrase “Dy-no-mite!” came from.
· We made some bad fashion choices in the 70s.
· We wondered how it all went wrong for Michael Jackson.
· We still ponder why anyone thought the AMC Pacer was a good automotive choice.

So I take heart that the leader of the free world has the same frame of reference and maybe some of the same childhood experiences as I did.

Or I can put a headset on my cat and pretend he is my Secret Service detail.

Mini Book Review #1 – Garlic and Sapphires

One of my lame New Years Resolutions is to do a quick write up of books I’ve completed in 2009. I say lame because it’s not going to make me healthier, thinner or richer. But it will give me a chance to keep track of what I read and, hopefully, give you some book ideas.

My first completion of 2009 is Garlic and Sapphires by Ruth Reichl. This book was given to me by a friend who is a major foodie. Ruth Reichl was the food critic of the NY Times in the 1990s and went on to be editor at Gourmet magazine. She wrote three books about her life in food; this chronologically being the third. I decided to start with this one because my friend told me Ruth dressed up in disguise to review restaurants…plus there are recipes!

The author does an amazing job describing food so that you can practically see and taste it. She also analyzes the ego that surrounds the NYC restaurant scene. What I liked the most, though, was how she chose her disguises and the personality she was attempting to channel.

Garlic and Sapphires is a quick read and great fun. I admire how foodies and food critics must be ‘adventure’ eaters since brains and organ meats make me queasy. (Adventure eating for me is seared tuna.)

I have Ruth Reichl’s two other books and look forward to digging in.

(BTW, my other lame New Years Resolution is to floss my teeth. Now don’t you feel better about yourself?)

Touching Marital Moment, Take 1

Location: Our kitchen
Time: This morning over breakfast

Hubby: "Honey, you have something on your chin. "

Me: "It's a zit."

Pause

Me: "I'm going back to bed."

Fab Five Forever!

Recently while channel surfing I came upon the Fine Living Network. Much to my surprise and delight FLN is rerunning Queer Eye For The Straight Guy. I forgot how happy this show made me.

I HEART Kyan, Ted, Carson, Jai and Thom! This show featuring the Fab Five ran from 2003-2007 and gave straight men “make-betters” to improve their grooming, food, fashion, home and cultural habits. Apparently I have seen just about every episode. Now that FLN is on my TV radar I try to tune in whenever Queer Eye is on. Even after multiple viewings I still enjoy the episodes (which is more than I can say about reruns – and original airings — of Private Practice).

So who is my favorite of the Fab Five? I can’t choose.

Kyan is hot(!) and was so cuddly during that episode with the toupee guy. (Kyan convinced him that the toupee wasn’t worth the bother.)

Ted is my hero of all things food and wine. I probably appreciate his advice more now than when the show originally aired. (I have become the proud owner of stemware and fine cutlery.)

Carson is the funniest of the group and encourages men to try fashion that is out of their comfort zone. (Dude, are you available to help Hubby move beyond black slacks and button downs?)

Jai is like the successful brother who knows all about theater, music and how to conduct yourself in public. I’d like to bring him to work for a day just to see how my department would manage a discussion about Broadway.

And Thom, my guru of interior design, you can makeover my house any day.

Will you kids ever do a reunion? Please?? I can offer up some males so you can do your magic. Just meet me at work in the cafeteria around noon. There’s a plethora of subjects for you to choose from. And if you can’t decide, I’ll bring forward a couple of the most needy who think khakis and golf shirts are da bomb in fashion.

My Shiny New Year

2009 has arrived and I don’t feel much different than I did in 2008. Except for the staying up to midnight part, it is just Thursday today (with no work, yay!). And therein lies my problem. I’ve become less enamored to the charms of the holiday season….or as I like to call it the Holiday Vortex. HolVor is no doubt a special time of year when usual schedules and rules don’t apply.

For example, take this week. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday followed by Saturday which is followed by a Monday and then another Saturday. No wonder I scratch my head each day and search out the newspaper to figure out what day it is. What I should do is pin a note to myself with the day written on it.

I’ve eaten my weight in holiday cookies. Plus I’ve had more meals after 8pm than the typical European. (How do they do that and then function like a normal person the next day? I feel like a more rotund, slightly crabby version of myself after those late meals.)

So, yes, the HolVor does affect me somewhat. But there are other aspects that don’t. I don’t travel to see family this time of year. Hubby and I have jobs that don’t make it easy to hop on a plane and fly hundreds of miles with other merry travelers. Years ago we accepted that what makes the holidays special is to be together, quietly in our home. It’s not what most people opt to do but it makes us happy. So while I’m sitting in my quiet house my friends are caught up in their own HolVors. In a day or two I’m going to issue missing persons reports. Where the heck has everyone been?! People I talk to and see on regular basis have been AWOL; victims of HolVor. I’m getting lonely, dammit!

My last official HolVor act was last night. Hubby and I went to a neighborhood party. We lasted until midnight. (How did we do this in college every weekend?) He fell into a deep sleep that led to an epic snoring binge. The cat and I fled Mr. Snory McLoud for the guest bedroom.

The HolVor will end abruptly on Monday. Then we can get back to our normal, less festive, holiday cookie-less lives. Not as interesting to be sure.

Religious Experience

I had one of the best meals in recent memory the other night. In fact I can’t remember the last meal I enjoyed more. This put me into an out of body experience where it was just me and the flavor of the meal dancing in the ether. Everything around me faded away as I focused on my senses of smell and taste.

Earlier in the day when I asked the hosts what I should bring, “Something simple,” they replied.

I brought a bag of lettuce.

And a tasteless hot house tomato.

Did I mention how great this meal was?

We had beef sirloin that was pan seared in butter, lightly seasoned and put into the oven just long enough to provide a nice medium-rare doneness. Delicious! That was paired with big-ass prawns that were grilled to perfection. The flavors of the two were indescribable. Wonderfully paired, melt in your mouth, gastro-perfect delight.

Sitting on the table in a bowl, all by itself, having seen fresher days, was my lazy-assed salad wilting by the minute. Of course everyone took some…out of politeness. But it was clear that this so-called side dish was far outclassed by the main event. It was like bringing Cheez Whiz to Martha Stewart’s house. Like hanging a black light poster in a Donald Trump condo. Like wearing Birkenstocks to a Sex and The City movie.

You get the drift.

Next time I’m invited to dinner I think I’ll just bring the salt.

The Upside of Down Dog

Just got done doing a yoga video that a friend recommended. It was a great workout...challenging to the point that I got all jelly-legged and shaky. It worked on strength and flexiblity and made me centered and peaceful. Great, huh? But I wonder if this DVD is really geared toward yoga enthusiasts or pervs.

Why?

Because the production quality made it look like a soft core porn video.

The 'class' was made up of both women and men all dressed in white. The women wore traditional yoga gear while the men were all bare chested and wearing underwear (or it sure looked like underwear). One guy had boxers, another had those briefs that came down to mid-thigh. The lead instructor has this long curly hair and a calm speaking voice.

My problem was (1) should I just sit back and watch this thing or (2) actually follow along? Since I had a hankering for yoga I chose to follow his voice and not gawk at the TV screen very much. What a killjoy I am! In one section the instructor had his arm wrapped around the waist of one of the female students while he encouraged us all to deepen our stretch.

Uh, right.

After my workout I shared my impressions with Hubby. He admitted to watching morning workout shows with chicks in bikinis. So I guess there is the perfect workout video for us all. And we don't even need to exercise (in the traditional sense).

People Who Need People

Every Friday I engage in my guilty pleasure. It isn’t sordid or something I hide from others. (At least not consciously.) I peer into the mailbox and there it is! This week’s People magazine. I can enjoy the next 60 minutes or so in my form of escapism. Forget reality TV or video games. My way to unwind after a long week is to gawk at celebrity pictures and read snippets about their lives.

The way-too-smart-for-her-own-good part of my brain says I should feed my mind. Maybe I should aspire for higher-minded fare. Aww screw it! I spend Monday through Friday working for ‘the man’. Friday nights are for my People.

And what people they are. Frolicking on beaches and far-flung foreign lands. Playing with their kids in NYC and LA. It’s not that their lives are more fascinating than mine. (Hello, Delusional, table for one) My attraction to People is pure and simple – I like the pictures and brevity of the articles. It’s a children’s picture book for adults. It’s pretty and shiny and easy to read. No jargon; nothing to memorize and learn; don’t need to create a PowerPoint and report its contents to management.

Granted there isn’t much new I learn in People. What I like is the celebrity news I may have already picked up online during the week. But there’s something about the presentation and layout that make it candy for my eyes. Plus People isn’t mean-spirited like some other celebrity mags. If I’m in a grouchy mood I can pick one of those up at the grocery store with my pint of Ben & Jerrys and bottle of Pinot Grigio.

A friend of mine said she switched to another mag because the feel-good articles about regular people irritated her. I guess when you’ve had a bad week warm and fuzzy can be annoying.

The guilty pleasure magazine of college and my 20s was Cosmopolitan. I recently glanced at the cover and realized how much of a prude I’ve become. I guess that goes to show that guilty pleasures change over time.

So it’s off into People-land where everyone is attractive, rich and happy. That will be followed by my Wii bowling tournament. I broke 100 the other day!

End of Days

Check this link out. I swear if Nordstroms goes under I will lose my will to live!

Maybe we can start an over-under game on which retailers will actually die off. (One's I'd like to see gone include Toys R Us, Dressbarn and that junky party store.)

My Advice Vice

See if you can determine the problem….

My friend TJ screwed up her knee and will need surgery. She’s been hobbling around with a knee brace which is no fun. I don’t envy her at all. It's hard to walk. She can’t work out. Plus she needs to carefully determine what she is going to wear each day. (Skinny jeans and knee braces are a fashion DON’T.) This has been going on for weeks while she awaits the opportunity to have surgery.

TJ has been putting on a brave face and taking this all in stride. But she recently cracked and complained about her situation. Good, I thought, she’s going to vent and get all the frustration out of her system.

“I’ve probably gained five pounds since this happened,” she wailed.

“Oh, honey. It’s ok,” I replied in my supportive voice. “If it gets really bad you can always take up bulimia.”

Stop the tape. Rewind.

Did I really suggest that barfing after meals would solve her problems related to her suck-y knee injury? Yes I did. Why?

Because I don’t have a filter in my brain to get rid of the stupid, garbage advice-thoughts I have. I just blurt them out. (And then feel pretty damn good about my unique problem solving skills.)

This has been a long term issue for me. And I have yet to learn my lesson. Fortunately I have good friends who take my advice with a grain of salt.

Some other gems uttered from my pie hole:

To the friend whose teenage son was acting out: “Send him to military school.”

To the friend who was dealing with major anxiety about her kids and marriage: “Get your doc to give you some drugs like Percoset or Vicodin -- something good that people get addicted to. Oooh, valium would work too!”

To the college friend who hadn’t been with a man (in the biblical sense) for a long time: “You know, becoming a nun could be a good thing. It’s quiet and you don’t pay any rent.”

Yep, I’d call my nationally syndicated advice column: Bad Advice to Good Friends. Just give me a problem and I can pair you up with a vice or ridiculous recommendation. You have a solution… and I have entertainment for months to come.

Fortunately, TJ isn't listening to me. No one should.