Hey! I got to do a great Q&A. Check it out and give faboo Kela McClelland’s blog, Teardrops on My Book, some love!
Okay, I admit it—I have sorely neglected this blog over the past several months. Mea culpa. I could make some lame excuse about “doing real work” or “raising the kid” or “trying to get my novel published,” of course, but excuses are just excuses, after all.
But if you’re looking for a little sumpin’ from me, head on over to Chick Lit Connect, mkay?
I promise to come back here and freshen up this page soon. Really!
I’m a freak of nature. I’ve known that pretty much my whole life, but it’s days like these that just confirm the fact.
There I was, surfing the intertubes, reading the oh-so-essential entertainment news o’ the day, when I came across a shocking little tidbit. Seems some guy by the name of George Clooney broke up with his girlfriend.
Freak that I am, I sat back and uttered the profound observation, “Huh.” And moved on. Apparently I didn’t get the memo that I’m supposed to react with joy and rapture and renewed hope in my heart, along with millions of other women the world over (and, allegedly, on other planets as well), because now Mr. Clooney is “back on the market.” Rejoice!
As far as I can tell, this particular distinguished individual is supposed to be the pinnacle of manly perfection or something. But see, as a freak of nature, I lack the Clooney Lust gene. I will acknowledge that he is physically…proportionate and symmetrical (those are the secrets of attractiveness, right?)…and yet I look upon the man the way I view a fine antique, with appreciation but detachment.
Oh wait. I shouldn’t have said “antique”. I would never want to imply that the gentleman is old, as I’m pretty much of the same generation, albeit a few years younger. In fact, the grey hair and crow’s feet/laugh lines should be a turn-on for me. And yet they aren’t. I couldn’t even join in with the women posting all over the Webz today variations of “I’m free—can I be next?” and “George—call me!”
Quelle horreur! I’m a monster!
Instead, I started to analyze this Clooney phenomenon. I had to wonder…why? What is it that makes women go crazy for this guy?
After mulling it over for a while—truly, longer than I wanted to, but I was fascinated by the whole frenzy—I have come to a conclusion…and it ain’t necessarily pretty. Continue Reading »
Posted in Deep Thoughts, Rambling, Uncategorized | Tagged commitmentphobe, Deep Thoughts, Elisabetta Canalis, fairy tales, George Clooney, Harlequin, novel, Prince Charming, princess, romance, women's fiction | 2 Comments »
Sad news: Fusker, the fierce, inimitable kitteh who owned James May of Top Gear fame (and famous for his stolen Lego likeness) was hit by a car and killed. He will be sorely missed. Safe passage across the Rainbow Bridge, dear cat. Rest well, chase butterflies, eat tuna.
Addendum: Behind-the-scenes video at the TG site includes the lads discussing Fusker’s passing in their usual ham-fisted way. Enjoy(?)
All right, let’s get down to it.
My last blog post (from last September—sorry about my negligence regarding keeping this blog timely) was about my ongoing struggle with my weight, and my last-ditch attempt to drop pounds using the HCG (human chorionic gonadotropin) weight-loss program, Releana*. But I never reported back to let my devoted blog readers (all two of you) know whether it worked or not.
So…whaddya think, no news is bad news? Did she do it? Did she survive? Did she go bankrupt trying to pay for the thing? Did she lose weight only to gain it all back “and then some” and is now hiding in an ice cave in an undisclosed location somewhere in the Arctic Circle?
Okay, I won’t keep you in suspense. Ready? I…
Okay, this is uncalled for. I mean really. This is something up with which I will not put. I have been wronged, and I am pissed as all get-out.
Just yesterday I went to the doctor for my periodic check on my thyroid, that little gland that has been known to misbehave on occasion (or, okay, my entire life). I wasn’t apprehensive or anything. My thyroid has become accustomed to walking sedately on its Armour-controlling leash, so I wasn’t expecting any health-related surprises. Plus I actually enjoy going to my doctor. She’s smart, she’s nice, she’s mellow. And she saved my life by knowing how to recognize hypothyroidism when she sees it and, you know, actually treating my illness. (The whole sordid, thyroid-run-amok story is here.) Bonus happy-inducing goodies: her office is painted in wonderfully soothing shades of pale green and lavender, she sells great high-quality supplements, and her staff members are all friendly and caring.
Best of all, being weighed is optional. Seriously. My doctor likes to check patients’ weight every once in a while, but not every time we set foot in her office. Bless her.
But I had been on a low-carb diet to control my body’s unpleasant relationship with gluten, lower my blood sugar, and lose some pounds, and I was curious as to how I was doing. So I said sure, I’ll be weighed.
Big mistake. Big. Like my ass, apparently. Continue Reading »
Egad, I hate Friendly’s. You know, the ice cream place? Yeah that. Hate it.
No, not for any particular reason…well, more like lots of reasons. All through my life, it was always…there…and never in a good way.
It started when I was little. Back then, there were a lot of good ice cream places around, from soft-serve custard at Don & Bob’s down at the lake (mmm…fishy smell from the lake, greasy smell from the grill—what amibence) to Carvel (mmm Fudgie the Whale) to Skippy the ice cream truck with the bell going ding-ding-ding—or, if the college kid slaving away behind the wheel of the non-air-conditioned, worn-out pickup truck with a giant silver refrigerator unit weighing down the back bed felt chipper, ding-a-ding-a-ding-ding-ding.
Friendly’s, however, had ice cream sundaes with gobs of hot fudge. Black raspberry ice cream—purrrrrrple!—and black cherry, with giant cherry halves jutting out of the pink stuff. And it was just up the road from me. But it might as well have been as far away as Iceland for the frequency of our visits—or lack thereof. My family just didn’t do dessert. Ever. (Yes, I was a sorely neglected child, but my parents thought they were doing me a favor. Or something.)
So one of my strongest memories of my childhood—I’d estimate it at my sixth year, I think—was when the parents of my bestest friend across the street, Jennifer, asked my parents if I could go with them to Friendly’s for an ice cream cone. I was over the moon. Ice cream! And the invitation was bordering on exotic, because it was so late on a summer evening—the sun was actually starting to go down! I should’ve already been in bed! Continue Reading »