The Queen of Sheba's Juicy Feast

Had a client in the morning, then I had lunch with my boo at Red Rock Canyon Grill, then another client in the evening. Now I'm home, supervising my kids' bathing.

Lately, my clients have been running to interesting themes. For example, the other day it was Parade of The Tiny People. I felt like Godzilla that day, looming over my eensy-weensy clients, clumsily hoping not to crush their itty little legs and feet that were not even as sturdy as my daughter's. That was wacky. Then, of course I received the antidote to that, thank goodness; it was the return of Mattress Man, the client who is so large that his back looks like a good place to take a quick nap. Mmmmm. . . naaaappp. Mattress Man's been hitting the gym -- his upper traps were larger than ever, which of course to my eyes only looked sorta like extra pillows on the giant mattress.

Well, today's theme was Huge Calves. My clients today had such immense lower legs that my hands seemed barely adequate to the task. What is that all about?! I love this Alice-in-Wonderland aspect of my job, the way everything is unexpectedly not the size you assumed it was.

One of my clients was a woman who seemed like a man to me. Everything about her just said, "testosterone" to me. Her face, the way her features moved, the way she looked at me -- giving me that funky feeling that you get when somebody checks out your stuff -- even her feet were manly feet. She was even sort of embarrassed to be in a spa, in that way that men often are shy about coming in contact with girl cooties. She may have had lady plumbing, but she was a man, baby.

And on that note, a big shout out to California. Yay, you're doing the right thing by your gay folks! Yay, even Governor Schwarzenegger is more-or-less behind it! Big Yay!

Happy Birthday, chaosvizier!!!

We all love you more than we can ever say. I hope you live ridiculously long, and go to your deathbed still spouting truly inappropriate remarks. I hope you scandalize the Hospice nurses until the very last moment of your long, long, long life.

I was supposed to go for a walk with my friend M, and then visit my friend T later. But M's remembered a blood work appointment, and T is still suffering from some awful coughing thing. Waah! My plans have gone poof. What is left to do now? Nothing but a mountain of laundry. And I don't even have anything interesting to say for myself.

I walked myself all over the mall today. All over Macy's, all over JCPenneys, all over everywhere. I saw a lot of nice things at Macy's, but nothing that really made me go, "ahhh. . . must have that." Plenty of things fit, some things looked hideous, some things were too big. But Tim Gunn says that we should only buy clothes that are "soul-stirring," and I'm inclined to agree, so I didn't buy any of the nice-but-not-fantastic things from Macy's. Whenever I violate this principle, I'm usually sorry afterward.

At my long-time fave store Lane Bryant, I checked out their new jeans sizing system. They now have three fits: Yellow for narrow-hipped types, Red for moderately curvy, Blue for the bootylicious among us. barbarienne, the Blue fit is for you. Remember how last time we shopped nothing would hit you at the waist? Well, the Blue fit will hit you at the waist and the pockets'll be right on your ass where they should be. For no reason I can figure out, LB has also decided to adopt a new numbering system for sizes, so where we once had 14, 16, etc., we now have 1-10. It's like shopping at Chico's, only even sillier, I guess.

As for me, I must have tried on a dozen pairs of jeans but somehow I was in-between sizes no matter what fit I tried. I was a "1" in one style, a "3" in another, a "2" in a third, yet somehow it was never right. The waist was too big or too small while the legs were right. Or the waist was perfect but the butt was baggy. And as for shirts, it was a parade of nothing special. SIGH! In keeping with the precepts of Saint Tim, I refused to compromise and did not buy anything, even though I desperately wanted to buy just one %%#$%#ing pair, just to buy something. I'm going to have to measure myself and order from Land's End, I expect. For the first time, I kinda found myself wishing that my ass was bigger. I guess if I live long enough I really will experience a lot of strangeness!

Also, as happens every year, I couldn't find any shorts that I wanted to own. Is it possible that my short-wearing years are over? Have I entered the long, dark, capri-time of the soul? Somehow that makes me feel so old! I vow that I shall devote more energy to finding some nice shorts to wear, because darn it, my legs are pretty cute.

Every day now, I do 10 pushups and a whole mess of crunches. How humiliated I was to find that I can only do "girl" pushups now, where I once could do real ones. But I've reached the outer edge of what I can accomplish through leverage alone at the massage table. To really hurt people, I have to get stronger. I hope that sometime next month or so, I'll be able to report an upgrade to real pushups. sksperry, please don't laugh too hard at me for my puny girl arms. I promise I'll get stronger soon.

Happy Birthdy, sksperry!! The world is a more interesting place with you in it.

I've had so much drama in my life the last week or so!! Let me address that briefly in the following prayer.

Dear Universe: Thank you so much for not letting me crash and die in a ball of flames on Rt. 95 when my brakes went out. Thank you as well for arranging that I have plenty of money to pay for the repairs and for my Amtrak ticket home! In addition, thanks for getting my daughter into the school of her choice next year, and thanks for my beautiful new kitchen appliances. I loffs dem!

And now, the sermon portion of our morning. Soon, it'll be Passover, the holiday where we all should contemplate how great it is to be free. I hope this weekend, you'll all follow ancient Jewish tradition and get a little drunk, while happily enjoying your liberty.

But are you, in fact, letting yourself be free? One thing I've noticed lately is that many people treat themselves as harshly as Pharaoh treated his slaves. Are you guilty of this kind of behavior? Do you mercilessly drive yourself onward, day after day, never taking proper care of your body or spirit?

People who would never dream of making their mother wait to be fed will think nothing of starving themselves until after lunchtime. People who would lovingly pamper a sick mate will turn around and not even give themselves an Advil or a cup of soup. Such people will search the stores tirelessly to make sure they have the right foods for their beloved pet, yet their own meals aren't half as nutritious.

Are you one of these people who places the welfare of Little Fluffy far above your own? Is your collection of Swarovski Crystal getting more care than your liver and kidneys? And if so, how did you get that way? Why do you think it is okay to abuse yourself in a way you'd never do to another living being? Snap out of it. You will not be getting a replacement body, believe me, and the picture is not any rosier when it comes to mental health.

So in honor of Passover, my loved ones, please take a hard look at yourselves. You belong at the apex of the pyramid of your life. Stop being such a cruel, hard-hearted master. Set yourself free! Treat yourself with the dignity, love and care that you deserve, and may the Universe bring all of us a multitude of blessings this season.

I encountered this poem on an exam in a freshman humanities class so very long ago, and of course I didn't take note of the author. It's sort of haunted me ever since. I can't express what a relief it is to have found it again.


Archibald MacLeish (1892-1982) "Calypso's Island"

I know very well, goddess, she is not beautiful
As you are: could not be. She is a woman,
Mortal, subject to the chances: duty of

Childbed, sorrow that changes cheeks, the tomb--
For unlike you she will grow gray, grow older,
Gray and older, sleep in that small room.

She is not beautiful as you, O golden!
You are immortal and will never change
And can make me immortal also, fold

Your garment round me, make me whole and strange
As those who live forever, not the while
That we live, keep me from those dogging dangers--

Ships and the wars--in this green, far-off island,
Silent of all but sea's eternal sound
Or sea-pine's when the lull of surf is silent.

Goddess, I know how excellent this ground,
What charmed contentment of the removed heart
The bees make in the lavender where pounding

Surf sounds far off and the bird that darts
Darts through its own eternity of light,
Motionless in motion, and the startled

Hare is startled into stone, the fly
Forever golden in the flickering glance
Of leafy sunlight that still holds it. I

Know you, goddess, and your caves that answer
Ocean's confused voices with a voice:
Your poplars where the storms are turned to dances;

Arms where the heart is turned. You give the choice
To hold forever what forever passes,
To hide from what will pass, forever. Moist,

Moist are your well-stones, goddess, cool your grasses!
And she--she is a woman with that fault
Of change that will be death in her at last!

Nevertheless I long for the cold, salt,
Restless, contending sea and for the island
Where the grass dies and the seasons alter:

Where that one wears the sunlight for a while.


Whew! The bees, the sunlight, the bird frozen in light, that painfully intense last line; it's all been hanging about my back brain for literally almost 20 years, oy vey. Thank you, Universe, for this gift. Enjoy it, folks!

Behold my newly shorn self!



I'm not really having a day of awesome hair here. What's amazing about this hair is that this is the way it just dries, straight out of the shower. Pretty neat! Almost like being a . . . man. Hee!

Let me state up front that I want abortion to be legal and available. I favor all humans having a high degree of control over reproduction for two reasons: I want all parents to be happy and I want all children to be loved and wanted.

However, for the sake of discussion, let's turn our attention to analyzing ways to reduce the role abortion plays in managing reproduction. Who might wish to get an abortion? The obvious candidate is a woman who simply gets pregnant inconveniently, perhaps when she is too young or her life is too hectic. We'll call her Candidate A. Next up is the woman who has been traumatized. She has been raped or abused. Welcome aboard, Candidate B. Now we come to a much-less-scrutinized woman: the one who is in a stable relationship, perhaps even already having children, but simply can't see having another one. Candidate C is probably more common than people realize. And Candidate D has a fetus with very serious medical issues.

On the other side of the stage, we have a whole raft of people who would like nothing better than to get pregnant. I think that a successful anti-abortion campaign would in fact be a pro-adoption campaign. Moving the unwanted offspring from the Candidates to the other people would solve the problem pretty handily.

Here are some ideas I had:

For Candidates A and B, I think a couple of good things might help. One is to simply offer more help. Is Candidate A a young person? Maybe she can attend a sort of all-expenses-paid, best-care-available program where she gets a schmorgasbord of job training, psychotherapy and medical care, after which the child goes to adoption. The second half of this has to be a two-pronged approach. First, make adoption of American babies a little easier -- it's so unbelievably hard that people literally go to China to adopt. Doesn't that tell you that the process here is broken? Second, somehow we have to improve relations between biomoms and adoptive families, so that the biomom won't have to suffer a soul-crushing amount of guilt. A mom who gives up her baby for adoption ought to be regarded as a hero, a sort of saint, really. She does all this work and even risks her own life and future, but gets no payoff at all in the end, just a bucketful of tears. What can be done to make this more appealing to women? As a side benefit, attending to the needs of Candidate A might also help reduce poverty and crime. Similarly, Candidate B has really suffered enough already, hasn't she? Making it easy for her to choose to relinquish her fetus would be a blessing. I think she needs the all-expenses-paid program even more than Candidate A, especially the therapy part. Maybe she'd like to enter the Witness Protection Program for Biomoms and get a whole new life, far away from attackers and abusers.

Candidate C is a special case. She may need a lot of confidentiality. I don't necessarily favor partners making decisions without consulting each other, but I do recognize that this is a common thing and must be factored into analysis. For her, I favor some genius developing womb-to-womb embryo transplant. How cool would that be? We can already freeze and save fertilized eggs, can't we? Here's an idea: maybe the baby could be incubated by Nuns! Or by saintly young ladies who oppose abortion. Candidate C seems to me to be the most likely to seek an illegal abortion. She's already completely overloaded with several children, she doesn't feel supported by her partner, she may not be very well-off financially. If I had 6 kids already, I wouldn't be too happy to realize #7 was on the way. Two kids is pretty much a major strain on my budget.

And I believe that Candidate D should be able to have an abortion if she wants one, pure and simple, no guilt, no protesters, no harassment and definitely no guilt. But feel free to pour billions of dollars into figuring out how to correct fetal genetic defects like Spina Bifida -- 'cause I support fixing the problem medically too! Create jobs and save fetuses -- a win for everyone someday.

In short, my position is that simply prohibiting abortion won't fix the problem. The problem is the people, and they need more help and more options, not less.

And last but not least: could we please leave God out of the whole thing? I want this issue to be about human rights and needs, not ancient and highly debatable ideas. I don't believe in Jesus and I don't give a rat's patoot about His opinions about fetuses. But I do want to create better options for all human reproduction, and I want to do that in an atmosphere that preserves the separation of Church and State, thank you very much.

Discuss!

Oh, Insomnia, it's been quite a while since you came to sit at my bedside. I'd even dared to hope that you had left me for good. But here you are back again, riding a wave of anxiety and a too-late-in-the-day cup of black tea. Honestly, I don't know what else I can do to get rid of your bony ass.* I walked for about an hour and a half today, trying to calm myself down. I guess it is just my karma to be awake tonight.

( More musing about the poor state of my psyche. )
* This is a sterling example of unconscious association. Why do I associate insomnia with a bony ass? Do I hate bony asses? Is a thin ass something that means insomnia? What is that all about? Is this why I have been refusing to lose any more weight for the past 2 months? Hmmm.

This afternoon, my daughter's friends arrived for a slumber party. I'm busy making pizza and riding herd on the shrieking mass. Boy, they can make some noise!

Also, this morning an electrician came and fixed the lights in my kitchen. FIAT LUX! Golly, what a delightful moment to be able to switch on my lights. It's been about a year, folks. See how depression can ruin your ability to handle your "bidness?" But now, it's beautiful in my kitchen. And this weekend I shall order a new stove and a new refrigerator, and then the electrician will come back to install the correct outlets, and then I'll be cooking in my own little corner of Heaven. Oh, yeah.

In other kitchen-related news, I have purchased a little rice cooker and I LUUURVVVVVVV IT. Having fresh, perfect rice ready for me first thing in the morning is like the ultimate in luxury. Throw on some random asia-riffic toppings and I gots me a fabulous meal! Then I wrap up the leftovers with some avocado in sheets of nori and I got lunch, too. Mmmmmm. . . seaweed.

These thoughts are the results of some conversations I had with my daughter some time ago.

Before we were born, we didn't know what was in store for us. We were in a wonderful place, where our every need was taken care of before we even knew it. We never felt hungry, or sleepy, or cold, or lonely, because we were always perfectly embraced, perfectly cared for. Unbeknownst to us, huge beings were waiting for us, waiting very anxiously. These beings had done practically nothing but plan for our arrival since the moment of our conception. They couldn't wait to meet us! But we did not know they were out there.

What's more, being born is pretty scary. We get forcefully flushed out of our cozy little homes under a punishing hail of heavy contractions. It's painful, sometimes it is slow or horribly fast, and we do not get a vote in the matter. It's pre-determined for us.

Still, when we arrive, upset and yelling, wonderful people are waiting for us! It's the start of our lives, the start of a really amazing process.

I like to think that when we die, something similar is happening. Even though it is scary for us and very much out of our control, perhaps on the other side, amazing, huge, interesting beings are waiting impatiently for us to arrive. I like to imagine that when we pass through the big door, unimaginable hands are outstretched to receive our new forms; I like to believe it's just the start of a new and wonderful process.

I've learning about Japanese food lately, and it's been big fun. Searching for ingredients I ventured to my local H-Mart, and there I found something truly marvelous. My favorite dim-sum, the tender, tasty Turnip Cake, is available in a big, tofu-licious block! I took it home and fried myself up a couple slabs! It was so very tasty, folks. I was in Heaven.

More specifically Japanese things I've been able to make for myself include a simple Daikon Pickle, as well as Seaweed Salad just like what I usually get at a sushi joint. In an effort to keep things fresh for myself I've been enjoying asian-style breakfasts lately. I'll fry some slabs of tofu, top them with a little sauce made of sake, mirin and soy sauce, along with some crumbled nori and some roasted sesame seeds. Put some of that Seaweed Salad on the side, it's a meal and I feel like busting out with a chorus of "I'm Turning Japanese." (Oh yes, I really think so.)

This kind of meal has a very low Glycemic Index because it's high in protein, very low in carbohydrates, and a little bit sour. Hence, it digests nice and slow and I don't feel hungry or have any cravings until well after 12:00, typically. I'm sending out a big Arigato Gozaimashita to the whole nation of Japan for inventing this great cuisine!

In other news, my honey and I celebrated Valentines a little early due to scheduling conflicts. He got me a waffle iron! I've been wanting one for a long time. Also, he presented a HUGE box of chocolates. Mmmmmm. . . tastes like luuuuuuurve. I prepared a meal featuring mashed sweet potatoes, mixed vegetables, pasta with a creamy sauce and delightfully rare, tender steaks. I rocked the kitchen! Sadly, I got a couple burns on my hand from hot, poppin' fat. People! Respect the Fat! Ow, hurts.

Here are my recipes:

Bake the sweet potatoes for about an hour. I baked three; they were medium-to-small spuds. Then floop the flesh out of the crispy skins, scraping any extra out with a fork. Throw in a couple TBs of unsalted butter, splash in some milk, a couple pinches of salt, a spoonful of brown sugar. Mash, then kinda whip up with the fork tines. I did this early in the day and reheated it in the oven while the pasta and steaks were cooking.

Put your water on to boil. Heat your iron skillet to Medium High, add a couple TBs oil.

Season the steaks on both sides with salt and pepper. When the skillet is really nice and hot, gently lay the steaks in it. (if you are not gentle, you will get TEH BURNZZZ.) Fry two minutes each side, doing absolutely nothing else to the steak or the pan. Get out a couple big sheets of aluminum foil. After the 4 minutes have passed, your steaks will be nice and brown on the outside, really rare on the inside. Place the steaks in the foil, wrap them up snugly in two layers and let them rest at least ten minutes on the warm stove-top. I got this method from Nigella -- she rocks. When you unwrap them, watch out for the meat juices; dribble them over the plated steaks.

While the steaks are resting, boil your pasta. Lest you be too impressed with me, I must state for the record that the creamy sauce was from a jar and of course the mixed veg were simply a frozen mix. Keepin' it simple, that's me.

Enjoy!

Just for l_l_u_w_d, because she asked.


If you are on my friendslist, I would like to know thirty-six things about you. Whether we've known each other for years or never met in person is irrelevant. Copy the questions from here and reply here. When you're done, repost the unanswered list of questions so you can learn more about me and everyone else on your friendslist.

1) Are you currently in a serious relationship?

2) What was your dream growing up?

3) What talent do you wish you had?

4) If I bought you a drink what would it be?

5) Favorite vegetable?

6) What was the last book you read?

7) What zodiac sign are you?

8) Any Tattoos and/or Piercings? Explain where.

9) Worst Habit?

10) If you saw me walking down the street would you offer me a ride?

11) What is your favorite sport?

12) Do you have a Negative or Optimistic attitude?

13) What would you do if you were stuck in an elevator with me?

14) Worst thing to ever happen to you?

15) Tell me one weird fact about you.

16) Do you have any pets?

17) What if I showed up at your house unexpectedly?

18) What was your first impression of me? (hmmm...careful!)

19) Do you think clowns are cute or scary?

20) If you could change one thing about how you look, what would it be?

21) Would you be my crime partner or my conscience?

22) What color eyes do you have?

23) Ever been arrested?

24) Bottle or can soda?

25) If you won $10,000 today, what would you do with it?

27) What's your favorite place to hang at?

28) Do you believe in ghosts?

29) Favorite thing to do in your spare time?

30) Do you swear a lot?

31) Biggest pet peeve?

32) In one word, how would you describe yourself?

33) Do you believe/appreciate romance?

35) Do you believe in any god[s]?

36) Will you repost this so I can fill it out and do the same for you?

Ah, American Idol. Without you, how would I ever get to see people like Carly Snitzen? This lovely, talented young lady came to America from Ireland about ten years ago. She and her soulfully gorgeous husband own a tattoo shop together in LA. They're the very epitome of a hot-n-sexy 20-something couple, she with her creamy complexion and thick dark hair, he with his elaborate Maori-style facial tattoos and sad eyes.

Carly first tried out for Idol in Season Five, but was disqualified after being accepted due to a Visa snafu. Oh, the pain!! The agony of it all!! The tears she cried!!

Well, she's back and this time she's legal. Woo. Hoo.

Why am I not happy for her? Because here's what she had to say for herself. I am quoting verbatim, thanks to my TiVo.

Upon entering the audition: "I always think, like, they're going to say no 'cause I've had such bad luck."

Afterwards, in the confessional scene: "Everything's been, like, right there in front of me, and I just haven't been able to hold on to it. [...] I think this is my year."

No wonder her husband looked so sad. His wife's a completely ungrateful hoor who seems quite incapable of appreciating how excellent her life is! Young, emigrated, married, owns her own business. Thin, gorgeous, talented too. Oh, boy, honey, you really HAVE had bad luck. What a shame, how nothing has ever worked out for you. You silly little twit. I mean, I'm SOOOOOO sorry that you were denied a chance at stardom due to a paperwork fuck-up. That is intensely annoying. But don't go acting as if you've been living on a dungheap like Job. You have a life that others could only dream of. Why don't you try being thankful for the wonderful blessings that you do have, instead of pining after the dubious charms of stardom? Aaargh.

As if there were any doubt. . .

Men See You As: A Difficult Challenge

You must be an incredible hottie... Because it's the only way you can pull of the ice queen act You're the type of woman that men love to chase But if you don't stop running, you'll never get caught!

Oh, the love. I am feeling it! Thank you all for your posts. I can't ever express how much it means to me when I feel how you are all sending me your good friendly affection through the tubes of these Internets. Thank you ten million times. If you were all here, it would take me all evening to kiss you as much as you deserve. I love you all.

So, last night I cried so much that my head felt like it would explode. Ugh! Not fun! I had to put a huge icy gel pack on my face to make the throbbing stop. (I love my gel pack. I use it like every other day. Best $11 ever.) I had to do meditation exercises to calm myself down: "I'm feeling sad. . . I release that. . . I'm feeling afraid. . . I release that. . . sniffle. . . I'm feeling despair. . . I release that. . ." I was surprised to find that it worked pretty darn well. Thanks, Pema Chodron!

I've never been more grateful to fall into good sleepy darkness.

I still felt kinda shaky this morning. My eyes were really puffy. Deep breaths, more exercises. But wow, there was no room for emo-fuffle in my life today, because I did not get 15 minutes of break the whole darn day. Six clients, at an hour apiece -- yeah, six straight hours of rubbing. But, ever-merciful and ever-abundant, the Universe sent me my very favorite thing: a huge, hairy man client. He was like a big purring black leopard. His deep, even breathing was so soothing that I just went right to my happy place. Thank you, Universe! Now send me some clients for Friday! Mama needs Benjamins for her trip to NYC next month.

When I came home, I made the kids hotdogs. When my daughter came in and made a negative remark, I told her that I am a delicate flower and I have feelings. I told her we should make a deal: I would try not to hurt her feelings, and she would try not to hurt my feelings. So far, so good. She is unwinding in a nice warm bubblebath now, so here's hoping we all have a pleasant evening!

I think I'll go to bed early tonight. Tomorrow is another busy day. I'm getting ready for our New Year's Pizza-n-Poker bash, plus I have a client in the afternoon. Busy, busy, busy!

In between discouraging my children from bothering me, I managed to read a charming little novel called Playing for Pizza, by John Grisham. Yes, you heard me, a charming little novel from John Grisham. His other novels may be taut, gripping thrillers, but this one is coming from some other part of the Grish-man’s psyche.

Playing for Pizza is the story of a man who washes out of the NFL in spectacularly humiliating style. He finds a new place in life playing American-style football in Italy. Overall, the plot closely mirrored many a chick-lit novel I’ve read, with a protagonist who’s staggering from the slings-and-arrows, and slowly realizes all the goodness available under the toasty foreign sunlight, and of course finds a little love. I call this the "European Awakening." It was quite interesting to enjoy this classic old-school story in the hands of a master writer who’d never call his “friend” a “BFF.”

Although the underlying plot reminded me of many girly books I’ve read, Playing for Pizza was clearly written by a man, for men to read. Fully two-thirds of the book was consumed with play-by-play descriptions of football, along with practices, coach speeches and so forth. Oddly, I enjoyed this very much although what I know about football wouldn’t fill a finger bowl. Compare this to the sports-themed stories from Susan Elizabeth Phillips – they’re all about football and the men who play it, but she’d never blow that many pages on actual play description. Not when she could instead spend those pages on describing somebody’s awesomely sexy dress/boots/haircut/walk/whatever. Neither way is better in my eyes, but it was so very different reading this story written Grisham’s way.

Another big difference I encountered in Playing for Pizza was the opacity of the hero’s inner life. I won’t say that Grisham avoided the topic completely. But it was sort of like reading the Bible, or maybe Hemingway – this story is all about action verbs, baby. Eating, driving, running, sweating. Not so much with the thinking, feeling, dreaming. To be fair, though, there was crying. By the hero. So sad! But it was literally only one sentence. Not even a whole paragraph.

This determined avoidance of the emotional/inner side of life made the whole romantic subplot really odd. The hero falls for a hot opera singer, but it doesn’t work out. She blows him off and has too much drama anyway. Is the hero sad about this? Dunno. But he gives her a marvelously terse email kiss-off note. In the meantime, he hooks up with a sexy American coed. She gloms onto him and begins dragging him all over Italy to look at cathedrals, and eventually even moves right into his apartment without even really asking his permission. He’s completely passive about all this, completely accepting it as being okay for this cute little girl to take over his life this way. She has hot legs, therefore she = good.

Is this really what it is like to be a man? Sexy = good, therefore thinking = over? Grisham shows us how the hero gets bored of the cathedral tours and really just wants to take a nap. But he doesn't show us how their love grows. They just hang out and then have some sex. Offscreen, too -- no hot love scenes in this book. Not even a real kiss scene. By the end of the story, the hero’s starting to think about settling down with the girl – and yet she remains quite a mystery to him, and he’s okay with that. Does he love her? Does she love him? Will he be able to cope with her rich-girl-drama? We don’t know, because Grisham barely glances at these issues. We can clearly see that if those two ever marry, it’ll be because the coed makes it happen. The hero will be as passive about that as he is about everything in his life that is not football.

I won’t say I’ve never moved through my life with this kind of thoughtlessness – I surely have. But I don't think I've read any other novel that had such a light, gentle storyline, yet that showcased this approach to storytelling. Grisham, however, has sold millions doing it his way and I guess you don’t mess with success. I haven’t read any of his other books, so I don’t know if all his heroes are like this one.

Grisham did respect the other trope common to “European Awakening” stories: he lavished attention on the food and really made me drool. And I’d like to close with a round of thanks to Mr. Grisham for avoiding some of the things I’ve come to hate in “European Awakenings,” in particular home renovation stories, protagonists with strangely well-padded bank accounts who are not working (Frances Mayes, I’m looking at you) and sexual awakening with an experienced European. I particularly hate the way annoyingly vague contractors that we would wish to KILL KILL KILL here in America are somehow charming and funny when they are French or Tuscan. Why did you have to go to Europe to enjoy contractor hell, huh? You privileged dorkwad! So thank you very much, Mr. Grisham, for staying far away from the stuff I hate, and for delivering a delightful, light-hearted, sweet little book.

All this year I've been wondering. Who will win the coveted "Don't Let This Man Near Your Family" trophy? Well, wonder no more, folks. Here he is:

Ronnie Nelson: The Stupidest Waste of Sperm in Creation.

Normally, I can't let myself get too angry when somebody kills somebody else. This world is a sad, sad place, and I'm not giving myself an ulcer over it. But this guy's really a cut below the average wife-abusing asshole. For those who didn't click on the link, let me just quote from the article. Mr. Nelson had just fought with his wife at around 3:30 and pushed her to the floor, where she hit her head:

His wife lay on the floor while he fixed himself a drink. After 10 to 15 minutes, he moved her to the couch. At 6 p.m., he had intercourse with her while she was unconscious, though he was unsure whether she was alive. Afterward, he had another drink and fell asleep watching television in the same room.

Yes, you read that right. He screwed her limp, unresponsive corpse, and then had a beer right next to it! It's like "Weekend At Bernie's Whorehouse," my sweet Lord. How completely selfish, how utterly lost to all human decency would a man have to be to hump his wife's body without even being sure she's alive. She was unconscious for 3 hours, dude! And your only thought was, hey, I can bust a nut without having to talk to her!

He awoke at 7 a.m. Monday and tried to awaken his wife. He left the house to buy a six-pack of soda, and when he returned, she was still unresponsive.

Between 11 a.m. and noon, Nelson called 911.

He didn't call 911 until the next day! I don't understand how a person as subhuman as this ever got married in the first place, I really don't. I never thought anybody could take the crown from Newt "Ditched My Cancer-Ridden Wife" Gingrich, but this guy is some kind of savant of awfulness.

My prayer for us all is that we never ever encounter this man or any of his creepy subhuman ilk at any point in our lives. Amen.

A dear friend sent me this little gem, no doubt under the impression it was funny.

WHY MEN ARE NEVER DEPRESSED:
Men Are Just Happier People-- What do you expect from such simple
creatures?
Your last name stays put. T he garage is all yours. Wedding
plans take care of themselves. Chocolate is just another snack. You
can be President. You can never be pregnant. You can wear a white
T-shirt to a water park. You can wear NO shirt to a water park. Car
mechanics tell you the truth. The world is your urinal. You never have
to drive to another gas station restroom because this one is just too
icky. You don't have to stop and think of which way to turn a nut on a
bolt. Same work, more pay. Wrinkles add character. Wedding dress
$5000. Tux rental-$100. People never stare at your chest when you're
talking to them. New shoes don't cut, blister, or mangle your feet.
One mood all the time. !
Phone conversations are over in 30 seconds flat. You know stuff about
tanks. A five-day vacation requires only one suitcase. You can open
all your own jars. You get extra credit for the slightest act of
thoughtfulness. If someone forgets to invite you, he or she can still
be your friend.
Your underwear is $8.95 for a three-pack. Three pairs of shoes are
more than enough. You almost never have strap problems in public. You
are unable to see wrinkles in your clothes. Everything on your face
stays its original color. The same hairstyle lasts for years, maybe
decades. You only have to shave your face and neck.
You can play with toys all your life. One wallet and one pair of shoes
-- one color for all seasons. You can wear shorts no matter how your
legs look. You can "do" your nails with a pocket knife. You have
freedom of choice concerning growing a mustache.
You can do Christmas shopping for 25 relatives on December 24 in 25 minutes.
No wonder men are happier!

Now, normally I don't get too riled up about sexism directed towards men. That's their look-out, as Miles Vorkosigan would say. However, this gem of sexist pablum is so very hideous to both genders that I couldn’t let it go by.

On the theory that we ought to stick up for our loved ones, let me just spend a moment on the sad treatment this little wad of crap doles out to men. Maybe I ought to start with the title. “Why Men Are Never Depressed.” How awful is that? As if men don’t have enough difficulty getting in touch with their feelings, now this author has to act as if they don’t even really have them? Men are supposed to be so strong, competent and tough, always so in control. I can’t even imagine how much pressure that puts on a man. Women are allowed – or maybe I should say encouraged – to wallow about in their feelings. Some of us don’t choose to do it, but we females all know that it wouldn’t be any shame to cry, to wail and be miserable if we wished to. But according to this author, men don’t do that. And if they ever felt the urge – well, apparently their lives are so darn amazingly good that they ought to be ashamed to feel less than perfectly happy. Yes, that’s the real underlying mission of this piece: shaming men for any feelings of sadness they might have. If I had nuts, they’d be shriveling in the face of this dreadful essay. Because men don’t have to shave their legs, they don’t have the right to feel agony when they receive the awful blows that life can deal to us all? God, what swine produced this thing?

But it’s not any better when the other shoe drops. This piece isn't just annoyingly sexist toward men. It's also a sadly lame pity-party about how HARD IT IZ 4 TEH WIMMENS. Don’t misunderstand me: I’m well aware from personal experience that it’s no walk in the park being a woman. I’m not out to slag my sistahs. But let’s take a closer look at the things this author implies that women are envying:

If someone forgets to invite you, he or she can still be your friend. Did I miss that memo in Ladyland? There are rules about when I have to cut my friends? No, actually, I can choose to be gracious and forgive my friends and continue to love them. The author is implying that men have deeper, more forgiving friendships than women, or that women are nastier to each other than men. Sorry, author – you get the sexist pig trophy for this remark alone.

Your underwear is $8.95 for a three-pack. Three pairs of shoes are more than enough. Wedding dress $5000. Tux rental-$100. New shoes don't cut, blister, or mangle your feet. These three are all part of the same theme: that men are simple and practical, while women are somehow forced to spend too much money on dresses and shoes, which hurt our feet anyway. Actually, nobody is forcing us to do those things. Any woman is free to go right out and buy comfortable shoes right this minute. And my wedding dress was a hand-me-down and cost me exactly $30 in alterations. (If you don’t choose to free yourself from your expensive wardrobe, well, please don’t whine about how much it sucks to have a beautiful wedding dress. How ungrateful!) So, in this case, the author is either a) a sexist for saying that women MUST do those things because they have vagajajays, or b) a fool for not realizing that women can quit those things whenever they choose. Or maybe. . . both.

One mood all the time. And here we are back at the true ugly heart of this piece. Not content with shaming men for having feelings, the author now wishes to imply that having feelings is also a huge burden to women! Apparently, both genders ought to be feeling regretful and shamed about their own feelings. Why is this author so hostile toward normal human emotion? Did we shoot through space and land on Vulcan while I was sleeping?!

I’m not trying to deny that a serious power imbalance exists between the genders today. That’s real, and it’s bad, and talking about gender issues is my way of striking my own little blow against that huge machine. But that’s not what this piece claims to be about. It claims to be about happiness. Well, in 38 years, I haven’t seen the slightest evidence that men are happier. The best I can say for the manly life is, they do indeed earn more money, and they can pee standing up. Other than that, meh. So to all my male friends and loved ones: allow me to offer my sincere apologies. Please feel free to be as sad as you like! I’m sure you’ve earned it. And to my female friends and loved ones: please ignore this pig and buy some comfortable shoes right now. 90% of all foot surgeries in America are performed on women. Save yourselves!