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In Should I Even Be Talking About This?, The 60's on August 23, 2013 at 12:15 am




Me and Rob. I just won the tug of war for that book.

Me and Rob. I just won the tug of war for that book. And yeah- my hairstyle-it’s the ‘Eunice Higgins’



                       THE LADYBUG: PART ONE


    It was a Sunday. The sun shone brightly through the sparkling clean bay window, adorned in olive- green curtains with ruffles and matching cotton ball trim. The couch upholstery (presidential heads, covered wagons and old coins) was fluffed and pristine, the braided rugs freshly vacuumed, the coffee table lemon-Pledged.

My mother, Mary Jayne, worked the kitchen, replete in her cherry print apron, making h’orderves for the company that was set to arrive at any moment. The smell of vanilla and apple wafted from the oven. My brothers and I were in the Blue room (our den, named after it’s freshly painted sky-blue walls) watching ‘Casper: The Friendly Ghost’ (who I completely identified with as he struggled to fit in, but also envied because he could fly away at will and was barely visible…diaphanous in his ‘otherness.)

 My parents were having friends over on this crisp New England day in early May. Though it was still chilly outside, my father was determined to barbecue on his round charcoal grill, which he wheeled out from the cellar, cleaned thoroughly, then hoisted (along with a bag of Kingsford lump charcoal, and a can of lighter fluid) into the back yard.

  My mother filled the dining room table with platters of food- antipasto salad, deviled eggs, hard rolls, and two Lazy Susans-one with condiments: ketchup, mustard, relish and horseradish sauce- the other with finger-foods- black olives, green olives, baby gherkins, roasted red peppers. She’d also baked a ham, spackling it with brown sugar and pinning pineapple rings and cherries to it like badges. There was potato and macaroni salad in rooster adorned glass serving bowls and a vat of Boston Baked beans in a heavy, brown earthenware jug. I could always recognize a cooking-for-company frenzy by looking at mom’s two-tier wooden spice rack, the big gaps between the jars where multiple spices had been called to duty.   

  My Dad set up the drop-leaf rolling hostess cart with all kinds of liquors and mixes. There was a shiny silver ice bucket with tongs,  and a silver slotted plate with wedges of lemon, limes, maraschino cherries and cocktail onions. There were all of the fixings needed for Whisky Sours, Tom Collins and Martinis. He also filled a big white fishing cooler with beer (Rheingold, Ballentine, Schaefer) and ice. Waiting in the fridge was a colossal tray of hamburger patties, shaped and ready to go on the grill, along with links of kielbasa plus hot dogs for the kids. There was also a massive four pound steak, marbled with fat, a big bone running through its side that my father beamed at with loving eyes. 

    I was in dress clothes against my will.  A long sleeved white cotton shirt with a red Winnie-the-Pooh insignia on it’s turtleneck, red corduroy pants, white socks and black Mary-Jane style shoes, a black leather rose on each strap. (I was very impressed that my mother had a style of shoe named after her, but I wasn’t surprised. She was a very good walker!)  

My hair was painstakingly brushed (tangles ripped out in a hurry by mom as I wailed)- and held up by cherry-colored butterfly barrettes on either side of my face.  My two younger brothers had been scrubbed and shellacked within an inch of their lives as well, and were not very happy in their Ban-Lon shirts and dress slacks, cowlicks wet down, hair combed back. Not to mention the stiff, brown dress shoes they wore with the grace of tennis racket-shaped snowshoes, their slippery black laces constantly untying.

  Rob, who was five at the time, couldn’t wait to shed these clunkers for his faithful P.F. Flyers and sulked about the humanity of being forced to wear the stiff shoes. David, who was three, was far more honest with his feelings, and repeatedly pulled his off, hiding them under the couch cushions, then sitting atop them to further the ruse. 

   The visitors began arriving shortly after noon.  Some were familiar- neighbors from Muffin Lane, along with my dad’s work associates from his Insurance Company and relatives -including both Nannys (each bearing one beautifully frosted cake, and apple cake, respectively)

  My brothers and I were introduced to all of the unfamiliar adults and did our part being polite, putting on our ‘such good kids’ show in the living room, even though we were struggling with each other like the Three Stooges in the Blue Room. Pinching, slapping and wrestling over  jacks, super-balls and the tv guide, stopping abruptly at the hint of any bystanders. Eventually Robby’s friends, Johnny and Kevin showed up, and the boys went outside to watch Kevin’s older brother pop some caps and hopefully  ‘find some snakes’

    The company spread throughout the living and dining rooms, drinks and cigarettes in hand, the murmur of chit-chat cresting and falling, punctuated by squeals of laughter. About an hour in, while Frank Sinatra sang about a very good year, the front screen door opened with a screech, and in walked a girl about my age who was everything I was not.

   Her name was Melody, and she took my breath away. She had long, silky, white- blond hair that fell almost to her waist and big blue eyes, like puddles of turquoise. Her nose was small and upturned, her lips bowed. She wore a sky-blue velveteen dress, with long white puffy sleeves, lace ruffles and coordinating ribbon stitched into the wrist and bib, along with white frilly socks, and patent leather Mary Janes.

Her skin was golden, like she’d been kissed by the sun just so. When she smiled, I noted perfectly straight, white Chicklets, and cute dimples. Naturally, she was petite, like a fairy princess who slept in a walnut shell, using a flower petal as a blanket. To ratchet up the envy I was already feeling,  she was carrying a blue Kiddle Kase, swinging it from it’s white strap. 



   It wasn’t just me that was taken with her. It seemed like the whole room erupted in ‘oohs’ and ‘aaahs’ and the words ‘beautiful’, ‘doll’ and ‘precious’ were volleyed across the adoring crowd. I had only gotten a lukewarm response from all of them I now realized. Melody looked down as she was being fawned over- flattered, but obviously used to it, batting her eyes like Bambi and feigning shy. To me, the only thing missing from the reception was the offering of a sash and a crown.

  Melody was the daughter of one of my father’s business associates and it  didn’t take long before my father was fawning over her, too- congratulating her parents on such a beauty, complimenting her dress, curious about her Kiddle Kase and what was in it. (Never once had he asked me about my Kiddles or any ensemble I wore)

   If only I’d been born looking like her, I thought. How happy my father would be! There’s be no more ‘moo’s’, no more mean limericks, everyone would like me -my life would be perfect! 

  Could it be that this girl was the daughter my Dad had wanted instead of me? All of my dolls, all of the girls in my storybooks were pretty. Only the mean ones were imperfect. It reached beyond my family, beyond Muffin Lane and across the world. If life was a deck of cards, beauty was an ace. I wasn’t even a picture card.

  After several minutes the crowd reluctantly dispersed from around Melody. People did need to refill their drinks after all. Her father let her down  and she continued to be complimented, her head stroked here and there as she worked the room like a golden retriever. In truth, she didn’t really ‘work’ anything. All she did was walk by and exist. People were just drawn to her.  

  Meanwhile, my father had a grill to attend to, and in turn, men with open beers followed him out of the room like he was the pied piper leading them to the promised land.

  My curiosity got the best of me, and I approached Melody, asking to see her Kiddles. She sweetly agreed, and we sat at the bottom step of the stairs, where she struggled a bit to open the case. The zipper was caught, but after a good yank, it burst open. Kiddles sprung out,  falling onto the steps and the floor, where I quickly jumped to collect them. She had five- all good ones: Liddle Diddle, Greta Griddle, Bunson Bernie, Lola Liddle and Calamity Jane. They all looked new. But Melody didn’t seem concerned with the dolls, she was too busy petting a metal Lady-Bug, winding it up by spinning its wheels backwards, then placing it on the floor, where it flew into the living room, sparks flying. Melody giggled and chased behind it.

“This is Lu-Lu!” Melody announced when she got back, holding ‘Lu-Lu’ within inches of my eyes. I was busy admiring her Liddle  Kiddles, but  placated her by saying “Hi Lu-Lu!”in a monotone voice.

  This cracked Melody up a lot more than it should have. She stood up and again put the bug on the wood floor near the front door, aimed it towards the living room, and rolled it several times backwards with all of her might.

  She let it go, and Lu-Lu whizzed and sparked, careening into the living room, right through a set of panty-hosed ankles and pumps, and straight ahead where it hit the edge of the braided rug, flipped into air and rolled like a car in a cop show.

  Mrs. Phillips- whose legs had almost been clipped, jerked her head around to see who the culprit was, an annoyed look on her face. It also caught the attention of  my mother, who was standing by and looked at me  sternly.  But when  Melody scrambled over to pick up LuLu, she was being ‘oohed’ and ‘aaah’d again, Mrs. Phillips stroking her blond hair. 

“What have you got there?” she asked, sounding completely enthralled, and taking another puff off of her cigarette “Can I see it?!”

  Of course, Melody was only too happy to show off her bug, and soon a small crowd was again focused on the little girl with the sugar-spun hair. My mother made a pass by the stairs, where I sat with Melody’s Liddle Kiddles, examining them for flaws, of which there were none. Mom looked especially pretty in her light yellow pastel shell, a single strand of pearls, white pumps and for the first time all weekend- no apron. Her dark blonde hair was in a bun, her pretty face complimented by the style.

“You’d better be behaving yourself, missy!” she said.

  I squinted my eyes at her, scrunching up my face. What the heck did I do? Was it possible that Melody could break the rules and get me in trouble? Evidently it was: She ran Lu-Lu all over the house, and rather than getting reprimanded, everyone was delighted.

  Mrs. Jenkins, who lived on Sunlit Drive and sometimes yelled at kids to get off her lawn and away from her precious petunia beds, almost tripped on Lu-Lu as she navigated the living room. I saw her startle,  the familiar dark clouds moving across her eyes, and expected Melody would get her just do. Mrs. Jenkins could yell almost as good as my dad. But moments later-miraculously- Mrs. Jenkins was hugging Melody, and petting Lu-Lu.

   When she came back by the staircase I asked Melody if she wanted to go play in my room, but she said no, completely uninterested. I  was insulted. I told her I had 16 Barbies and a real Christmas manger hidden under my vanity (my mom would kill me if she knew, but the family crawlspace was through a door in my room, and stuffed to the brim with holiday fare. Last week I’d made several of my Barbies sparkly boas with silver garland for their imaginary trip to Las Vegas)

  I asked again a few minutes later and Melody still said no. I couldn’t admit to myself that even if she’d said yes, I was probably going to stick her with Tressy, and the old Barbie whose hair I’d cut with safety scissors, the one who had a wire coming out of her wrist inside a circle of green mold. 

Trust me-my Tressy could only aspire to look as nice as this one!

   It was right around this time that Melody’s mother insisted that Melody ‘eat a little something’. Of course, Melody was the kind of child who didn’t like to eat and had to be monitored lest she starve herself-perhaps wasting away on a tiny tufted satin fainting couch.

  A few minutes later,  my father had brought in a platter of hot-dogs for the kids, and we all gathered around, grabbing for them hungrily. Melody didn’t want hers, even after my father mentioned he cooked it ‘special’ for her. I checked mine to be sure it hadn’t fallen off the grill,  rolled in the grass or been nibbled on by a squirrel.  Because, obviously mine wasn’t cooked ‘special’.

You Can Do It, Honey!

You Can Do It, Honey!

   A few ladies lured Melody to eat with a tiny plate of choices:  two  olives on tiny plastic swords, a saltine, a petite orange melon ball and some left-over garnish. A crowd gathered around the dining room table to watch.

  It was an eating play-off of sorts between the plate and Melody. I decided to go get some tutti-fruity ginger-ale from the kitchen, and cut through the hall in order to avoid the clusters of company sitting and standing by, coaxing Melody, poor thing, to eat.

  That’s when I spotted her. Lu-Lu. Sitting by herself in the corner at the end of the hall.  Lifeless and unsupervised. Vulnerable. I looked behind me, and seeing no one in the hall, I approached the black-dotted  bug. I reached down and picked her up with what I thought was the intention of returning her to  Melody. I heard the phrase “what a good girl you are,  Melody!”and a spattering of claps (no one clapped when I ate an olive! Heck- I could eat like seven of those bad boys!) And just like that I put Lu-Lu face down in my front pocket and felt as she dropped down  to the bottom, out of sight.



The Lady Bug: Part 2 (of 2)

In The 60's on August 22, 2013 at 2:58 pm


This ladybug was short on good luck, no?

Not good Luck

 The beloved tin Ladybug was now burrowed in the front pocket of my corduroy pants. It created a lump by my hip, one I was sure would stand out and alert everyone, including the proper authorities.

  From the moment I plucked the toy up, I was overcome with nerves. And so it was shocking to me that no one noticed or paid any mind at all. I walked gingerly into the dining room- just as Melody was being rewarded for eating a single olive  (standing ovation! sold out crowd!) with a slice of Nan’s frosted cake, one of the prized pieces with a pink confectionery rose on it. Melody only ate the icing, whispered the adults- this news was passed around the table like Secret Service Intel. Evidently, it was not a known fact in the adult world that if they could get away with it-every kid in the world would prefer ‘frosting only!’ Melody was running a complete eating scam, and hers was cute and fascinating-unlike mine which got me yelled out and grounded.


   I was even less than pleased that one of Nanny’s cakes had been targeted to soothe Melody. Nanny’s cakes were special. I had intimate knowledge of how my grandmother made those roses- the piping bags, cardboard cones and metal decorating tips and nozzles.

  I loved nothing more than ‘helping’ my grandmother with her cakes, standing on a wooden step-stool, wearing one of her hand-me-down aprons. I’d watch in awe as she placed a small square of wax paper on a small plastic spindle, twirling it with her fingers while dropping frosting onto it, spinning butter cream frosting in a halting but precise pattern creating beautiful roses, like magic.

  I was fascinated by her paint brush and little bottles of food coloring, how she could lay two or three colors at a time out of those piping bags. I loved how she’d ‘accidentally’ get flour on her cheeks and nose, sending me into fits of laughter. She’d always play surprised –now how did that get there?-and call me a little rascal for not telling her sooner.

  But the best part of the cake making was when she would open up her special case of cake decorations, which she stored high on a shelf in the kitchen. Inside, lay a treasure trove of plastic figures and novelties: pink ballerinas, seals balancing balls on their noses, cowboys, several renditions of Santa Claus, reindeer, jack o’lanterns, witches, bunnies- even a Cinderella Pumpkin coach and an Apollo spaceship. I loved the clatter as they spilled out onto the table, the examining and sorting, all that went into making and presenting the perfect cake. But I’d always assumed this labor of love was exclusively for our extended family- not strangers like Melody.


  Meanwhile, with the lifted item in my pocket, I was acutely aware of everyone in the house and tried to read their every expression, knowing I’d committed a crime and trying to sense if anyone was wise to it. I’d never stolen anything before, and I didn’t enjoy the buzz of adrenaline rushing through my veins that made me feel extra awake, extra focused on my discomfort.  

  Yet no one paid attention to me in the dining room, which seemed impossible -couldn’t they see the boulder in my pocket? I made my way around the house, in and out of rooms filled with guests and still, no one paid me much mind. I got a few  winks and’ hello, sweeties’ but that’s about it. I considered putting the Ladybug back in the corner of the hallway where I’d found it, no harm, no foul. But what if somebody saw me? I felt stuck with my racy decision. 

   It was right about then that I heard the shriek. I’m not sure if Melody was crying out ‘Bug!’ or ‘Dad!’ but either way, her tear-filled voice filled the hallway. I stood in the living room near my grandmother who sat on the couch chatting with guests. I froze. Though other conversations went on, and much of the company had yet to hear about the bug-snatching, my ears were trained on the distant voices of Melody and her parents, like a dog to a canine whistle.

  Within a minute or two her parents were helping her look for Lu-Lu.  Before long, an ‘official’ announcement was made, and almost everyone joined in, eager to be the hero that returned Melody’s toy to her.

  My grandmother moved to the side as couch cushions were checked, and lifted her legs for the under-couch inspection. My father and his friends scouted outside, asking the boys if they’d seen the toy, shaking bushes, peering under picnic tables and porches.

    I noticed my grandmother remained seated, calmly sipping tea, not joining in with the hunt, and  suddenly I craved her company. I wished we were back at her house, baking, and cleaning, and taking a break to watch a little ‘I Love Lucy’, having lunches of liverwurst, cottage cheese and dill pickles. I scooted up on the couch next to her, and leaned against her gently, careful of her teacup and saucer. She smelled heavenly, like baby powder and Sen-Sens.

   “Hi Honey!” she said “Aren’t you going to help the girl find her toy?” 

   “No” I said, wondering how sad Nan would be if she knew I was a robber. Tears came to my eyes, so I looked up at the ceiling, hoping they’d plop back in. Melody came through the living room, held on her father’s hip, all red-eyed and sucking her thumb, her silky hair disheveled.

   “She’s got a nice dress” I said to Nan, testing her loyalty. Maybe Nan liked her better, too. She put her cup on the end table and hugged me closer.

   “Yeah, well…..bully for her!” my grandmother said, rolling her eyes. “She couldn’t hold a candle to you” 

  I couldn’t have loved her more in that moment. Even though I pictured Melody literally burning me with a candle, and was glad to hear it was off limits, my grandmother was choosing me! She reached down and picked up her cream colored pocketbook from the floor where it sat. Unclasping it, she asked “Sour Ball or Sen-Sen?” I went with the Sen-Sen like a self imposed penance. I needed cleansing.

   Eventually, the interest in finding the Ladybug waned- after all- a child had  lost a toy- not a limb. More people returned to the living room, and my mother announced she was readying the coffee and dessert table.

  A big silver percolator, perched on the kitchen counter, safely out of the reach of children, began to bubble on top. I knew this because by now, I had wandered into the kitchen to test my mother’s reaction to me and my plight. Surely she would notice the bump in my pocket and save me from myself. But mom was busy, running around, carrying cakes and pies to the dining room, and setting out small pitchers of cream and milk,  white milk-glass bowls of sugar, harvest yellow cloth napkins, and fancy, gold-leaf dessert plates. When we made eye contact, she suggested I go outside and play- she’d call me for in for dessert soon. 

Mom had a show to run...

Mom had a show to run…

   “Do my pants look good?” I asked, pushing  my hip out at a weird angle in an effort to expose Lu-Lu. 

   “Oh for heaven’s sake, you look fine! Pretty soon you can change into something else, so please- just be a good sport about it!” Earlier in the day I’d scoffed at wearing the corduroy pants, and had wanted to wear dungarees instead. 

   Realizing that if my own mother didn’t sense my guilt or notice my bulging pocket, no one else would either, I decided it was time to take the real litmus test. I passed through the dining room, where I noticed all of the lovely desserts spread out like a picture in a magazine, except for Nanny’s rose cake- which already had a slice removed for Melody. The once perfect cake now looked like it was missing a tooth. What a shame.

  I exited out the back door, walked down the porch stairs and kept to the perimeter of the crowds manning the grill. I heard adult laughter, the clinking of ice, and the whoosh! of lighter fluid being poured onto the flames. I kept on through the backyard, and down the steep hill until I came to the stonewall.  I scaled the wall as I had a hundred times before and walked up to Jenni’s  back porch. The screen door opened with a screech, then slammed with a whack once I was inside. I knocked on the inner door.

   Jenni answered and I could tell just by looking at her that she going somewhere. She had a bow in her hair (which I knew she didn’t like) and was wearing a pretty flower print dress (which I knew she didn’t like), white tights (again, no like) and patent leather Buster Browns (these, we liked…the boy and his dog under our heels).  

  I’d been shopping with her and her Mom when she got them. Afterwards we went to Kiddy-Town and looked at all of the beautiful dolls behind glass-the kind of dolls you weren’t supposed to play with, as Jenni’s mom informed us- which made not a lick of sense to us. What’s the point of a doll you can’t play with?

  But this was weeks ago, back when I’d been a good girl- before I’d gone gangster. I’d probably play with those special dolls anyway if I had one. I was lawless.

   “Where are you going?” I asked, deflated that I couldn’t just cocoon myself in Jenni’s room and read books until everyone left my house. 

   “Old McDonald’s Farm” Jenni answered. Lucky! This was a petting zoo/amusement park/restaurant on the other side of town that Nanny sometimes took me to. They had a train ride, and lots of cute animals. Baby chicks and ducks, little turtles, ponies.   

   “You can come in till we leave” she said, and I wanted to hug her. We went to Jenni’s room, which was off the kitchen. I walked directly over to her window, glancing up the hill to my house, on the lookout for traces of the police. I could see gray smoke rising from the grill, and the boys playing catch with a football. Ah- to be my innocent like my brothers!  

   I turned to Jenni, holding my arms out at my sides, like a scarecrow. 

   “Can you see it?” I asked her. 

   “See what?” she asked, as she was packing up her Little People Bus for the trip. 

  “The Ladybug!” I huffed. I was beginning to lose my patience with everyone’s weak powers of observation. Jenni stepped closer and closer, squinting her eyes, scanning my sweater and pants up and down, and across.

   “Where is it?” she asked. I realized she was searching for a real ladybug, which was Jenni and my favorite bug, even though, technically, she’d called it first, on the day we played  favorite bug. I’d settled for dragonfly, reluctantly.

   I reached down into my pocket and pulled Lu-Lu out. Where once I’d seen an innocent red-and-black Ladybug, I now saw something sinister- like a spider atop a ticking time bomb. I quickly put her down onto Jenni’s glossy wooden Mother Goose reading table. Jenni reached over and picked her up. She immediately began revving her up, the wing-ding-ding sound painful to my ears, the sparks signaling the tempers that would flare once I was found out. She eased the spinning wheels onto the table, and once they gripped on, Lu-Lu raced across the table, flew off the side into the air, and landed right in one of Jenni’s Keds sneakers, sitting over by the radiator. She was face forward, back wheels still spinning. Jenni laughed and pointed, but I couldn’t take it anymore- I had to confess!

    It was then that Jenni’s mother opened the bedroom door, purse in hand, all dolled up in a yellow mini-dress with long puffy sleeves. She wore huge sun-glasses and looked like Marlo Thomas in ‘That Girl’. She greeted me warmly, then told Jenni they had to leave right away- Jenni’s dad had the car running, and was waiting for them in the driveway. I picked  Lu-Lu up, carrying her in plain sight, hoping Jenni’s mom would notice and question me, so I’d have to spill the beans. But she didn’t.

  Jenni gathered up her Little People Bus and carried it like a baby towards the front door. Her mom placed a dark blue knit poncho across her shoulders, insisting it was too chilly to go without. Jenni sighed, and we stepped out into the crisp air.

  The Jag hummed in the driveway, steam rushing from it’s tail-pipe, it’s shiny black-onyx paint gleaming in the sun .I could hear ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ from inside the car. I knew Becky would be squished into the back of the two seater, but her Dad loved that car too much to switch it out for the larger family car. He liked to go fast.

  I waved good-bye to them and looked back as I heard the familiar crunch of the pebbles on the driveway, as the Jag’s back tires gripped the gravel fiercely. The brake lights went bright red, as they reached the end of the driveway, where the car stopped short to check for passing vehicles, before  roaring off down the road, ‘Let me take you down, coz I’m going….’ still audible. I walked around to the side of the house and climbed back up the stone wall.  I placed my feet on the proper rocks (which I knew by heart), hoisting my right leg up and over, gripping Lu-Lu in my right hand.

The climb was harder than normal to do in patent leather. I shoved Lu-Lu back into my pocket once I was over the wall. Even though the party crowd was high up on the hill, I wasn’t taking any chances. As much as I’d wanted to be caught (just to get it over with!), I now had my preferences on just how I wanted be caught, and by whom.

I didn’t want to be caught by Melody, her parents, or my father. That would involve yelling. I didn’t want to be caught by my other grandmother, whom I loved dearly, but who was far more intimidating than Nanny C. In later years I would describe her as ‘Maude Findlay.

Jenni's mom's doppleganger

Jenni’s mom’s doppleganger

   I couldn’t have articulated it at the time, but the situation had spun out of control- and it no longer had much to do with Melody. It was about me, and my perceived slights and assumptions about what other people were thinking.

  I would come to find out in later years that, indeed, my father and I had very different senses of humor. Whether it was malicious or not no one could say for sure, but through my own actions I had let myself become jealous and petty. I crossed a line- and it wasn’t going to change my father or Melody- it would only change me!  And not for the better.

   I  slowly walked up the hill, skirting the grill crowd- mostly my Dad and his friends drinking beer and flipping hamburgers, and a few tipsy aunts dancing to the a.m radio as it squawked out a tinny version of ‘Georgy Girl’. My Dad called out to me: “Hey Annie!” but I couldn’t bear for him to be nice to me now, and ignored him. He had no idea the burglar he’d spawned. He’d really be cheering for Team Melody once this caper was exposed. It was also inevitable I  would be seeing (and feeling) the Fanny Whacker before sundown.

   I climbed up the porch steps, and pressed my face against the screen door. My mother sat at the head of the dining room table, sipping coffee with my grandmothers and various lady friends flouting bouffants , flips,  pastel colored dresses and capris, as they willed spring to arrive via fashion. (The same thing the men did by breaking out the grills)

  A heavy, gold glass ashtray sat in the middle of the table, filled with lit cigarettes, their smoke intertwining, having a dance, then swirling towards the ceiling,  A few dirty plates sat off to the side, remnants of cake slices and pieces of pie put out to pasture. My mother glanced over at me, no doubt seeing my face imprinted against the screen door like a stocking faced robber (most appropriate) and demanded: “Lisa! Stop that!”

I pulled my face away, and slowly opened the door, plodding over to where she sat. I leaned against her and fidgeted, hinting for attention, but she was engaged in lively conversation with the ladies.

Spring has Sprung!

Spring has Sprung!

   “Mom?” I asked, full-on moping.  I turned and tried to rub my pocket against her leg. Nothing. I was now getting desperate. The bug was beginning to feel like a hot potato. I left the table and went to the front door.  I walked out and down the cement steps, grasping onto the scrolled iron railing listlessly, then slowly followed the slate path across the front lawn to the street. I walked down the hill, dejectedly kicking a small stone, head down in shame, to the bottom of Muffin Lane.

  I stopped when I got to the sewer grate. I peered down into the dark, muddy bottom. I pulled Lu-Lu out of my pocket and looked at her closely- for the first time noting her pretty painted eyelashes and cute smile. I felt awful about what I was going to do. I held her over the sewer, closed my eyes- and let go. I heard a loud ‘ping’ and opened my eyes just as she shot off the grate, then landed on top of it. I had to step over and nudge her into the abyss with the tip of my Mary Jane.

  My heart dropped as she fell. I assumed she would fall endlessly and out of site, but she landed in the mud about four feet down. She stood out like a flower growing up through a tenement sidewalk. She looked so pretty, so innocent- and now she was cold, frightened and dirty! I burst out sobbing. I was the worst person ever.

  I thought of God, and Mary and the lambs, and Nan’s ominous church- and knew that I was a sinner from now on. And not just that: Batman, Robin, Superman, Courageous Cat- they would all hate me…I was a villain. I was Dr. Smith! I was on the wrong side! How was I going to live like this? How long did life go on, anyway? I hoped not too long.

“Holy Ladybug, Batman! Look at that bad girl”

   Still bawling, I ran back towards my house, up the porch stairs and into the living room. Melody sat on her mother’s lap in a chair, still  red-eyed from all of her crying,still sucking her thumb but now looking exhausted as well. I blew by her and made a bee-line to my Mom. Once there, I buried my face in her lap and sobbed even more loudly. 

   “What on earth is wrong?” my mother asked, standing up and pulling me towards the kitchen, away from the crowd at the table. Once there, she crouched down and looked me in the eyes. “What is it?” she asked gently, wiping my tears away with her upturned thumbs under both of my eyes.

   “Mommy!”…. I said, in between big breaths- “I TOOK IT! I TOOK IT!” 

   “Took what?!” she asked, holding me by the shoulders, trying to find a lower angle and meet my down-turned eyes. I just couldn’t face her after I admitted what I did. Shame washed over me in waves.

   “Melody’s Ladybug” I said, then dissolved into tears once more.

   “Where is it?” mom asked, all business.

   “Outside!” I moaned. 

   “Show me!” she said.

   I led her to the front door.  The ink was barely dry on the confession, but the wheels of justice were moving swiftly. And so would the fanny whacker. I felt phantom pain on my rear-end as I walked across the front yard, leading my mom to the sewer grate. I pointed down into the sewer, where Lu-Lu still sat with her cute little smile, and fancy lashes. Smiling at her assailant! You couldn’t beat the nice out of this bug!

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Lisa Anne!” my mother said tersely, shaking her head “What in the world inspired you to do something like this?”

   I shrugged my shoulders, bit my trembling lower lip, and said “It fell” before breaking down yet again. Snot bubbles inflated then popped from my nose,  my turtleneck  damp from the succession of tears.  

   Of course, we had to tell my father, who- along with his  buddies, went to the end of the street, lifted the extremely heavy grate, and fished Lu-Lu out with a metal rake. I ran to my room, and continued to cry, occasionally checking on the progress of the rescue from my second floor window. Lu-Lu was brought into the house, cleaned off in the sink and given back to Melody with much fan-fare and some applause.

  I overheard my father downstairs alluding to a certain ‘walloping’ that was in my near future. I hid under my blankets, fully dressed, anticipating the punishment. I was unable to resist leaving the door to my room open though, to hear the buzz about myself and my fate.

  I overheard several well-meaning theories- that maybe I was just trying to roll the Lady-bug down the street, and since it was a hill,  it got away from me, landing in the sewer. The truth was much worse- I was a monster. And yet- even at the age of six, I  felt something I can only describe as relief…relief  that I had confessed, relief that I was no longer carrying the burden of guilt in the form of a toy in my pocket, relief that Melody would be getting her favorite toy back, and that cute-little Lu-Lu was okay, after all. Had I known the word ‘redemption’ I would have also been relieved to know that it existed, and that it would be offered up to me-eventually-, by my parents, and their friends, and my Nannys, and maybe even Melody, though I never saw her again. 



  I don’t remember the fanny whacking or the punishment I more than likely got that day, but I’ll never forget the weight of the guilt, and how cumbersome it was to carry. I would remain a person who moved far more freely without the weight of guilt, and one who couldn’t rest until it was absolved. Which of course meant I would never become a great leader, performer, celebrity or politician, but oh could I sleep! I could sleep like a log.


In Frayed Connections on August 20, 2013 at 6:19 pm




 With the advent of Facebook, Twitter, texting and e-mail comes a terrible plague that exposes a dark underbelly of our society. It’s not adultery, money scams, id theft or even foodie instagrams.

It’s about spelling. It’s about how few people can actually spell the basics, words used everyday.  I’m sure it connects somehow to the demise of books and bookstores, and the general dumbing down of our culture, but I’m no anthropologist.  I’m also no librarian, English major or former spelling bee champion.

In fact I’m an aspiring, unpublished writer who writes about teenagers smoking pot in the woods and the trouble they get into  (Lofty I’m not.)

I’m not a person who would ever publicly correct a person’s misspellings either. Not even (or maybe: especially) people I am close to. For years I misspelled the word ‘course’ with an ‘a’….and I use that word a LOT!

 Maybe that’s part of the problem- no one wants to call anyone out and humiliate them.  I am (for all intents and purposes) only marginally educated (public high school, some community college) so if I’m noticing theses errors, it’s bad.

    I don’t want to embarrass anyone, or start a fight. I’m simply stating that before we get on the front lines to argue about women’s rights or gay marriage -so as not to have to discuss the economy and politician’s salaries, we should take a good, hard look at the way we are exposing our ignorance every single day.

  Again,  I am talking the basics. Stuff you should know  fifth, sixth grade, tops. I can’t tell you how many times I see college educated people (good schools!) misspell the simplest things! It’s jarring. Correspondence from large companies, billboards, hand-written signs in public places- spelling has gone into the ditch.

   The incredibly obvious ‘Your’ and ‘You’re’ lead the pack. I have not experienced a single day (since the advent of the internet) where I don’t see this mistake. “Your coming over today, right?”-wrong! ‘You’re coming over- as in ‘You Are!’ Next in line: Their, they’re and there. ‘They’re sure that their students know how to spell, and so they now attend the middle school over there.’ And guess what? “We’re, where and were’ are not interchangeable! 

   Rather than bore you to tears with a lecture I’m going to write a few sentences, using actual spelling from Facebook posts in composite sentences.  I am avoiding any that may have been typos: 

   Last night, we grilled stake out on the deck. The whether was nice, and a gental breeze blue. I new it wood be good. I was afraid I’d loose the spatular, so I kept an eye on it. ( me: Vampires hate stakes!)

   I don’t know weather you know that I bread dogs? (me: Panko bread-crumbs are best on dogs!)

   Kids have no manors these days! (me: It’s the economy!)

   My friend, the genious that she is, left the door unlocked and someone stold the cell-phone! It cost more then mine! (me: Alrighty, than!)

   We have three cat’s. (Are they kitten’s?)

   Did you loose your mind, man? (I’m trying to tighten it, actually!)

   Are we aloud to go to the beach after sundown? (Only if we whisper)

   Now- we’re not even going to go into your post-worthy life, and ask why you think we care about the fact that you’re grilling and bragging about it like the cave-man  who first discovered fire,  but shouldn’t you’ NO’ how basic words are spelled?

Awww! Don't we all?

Awww! Don’t we all?


   On the other hand, who am I to talk?  I have no smarts when it comes to punctuation regardless of how many instructional books I read.  No one is perfect, but I think if we all read more books, it might help!

Reading doesn’t  always help me spell words correctly, but I often recognize when something’s not right, bringing attention where it’s needed. I’m not a spelling Nazi, but I do wince when I see intelligent people making horrendous spelling mistakes. Unless they’re bragging, or being bullies. Then I just laugh. Because I love my whore family, too!


They Might Be Hanging Out Without You

In Books, Television on August 15, 2013 at 2:32 pm

Right off the bat, I’ll make it clear that I am not a huge Mindy Kaling fan, though I  thought ‘The Office’ was well written. Mindy was co-executive producer of the show, and wrote many of the episodes (including ‘Niagra, a personal favorite) She was also a cast member, playing the insufferable Kelly Kapoor, a girl who just doesn’t get it! Therefore, I do respect for her career achievements, and I’ve fulfilled the ‘say something nice’ part of my opinion piece. haha.

I first really noticed Ms. Kaling   when I became aware of her book “Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?’ which was heavily promoted even before it’s release, and had an avalanche of great press afterwards. I remember thinking: ‘This must be some book! Either that, or she knows a lot of heavy-hitters in the publishing industry!’ Although I found the character she played on ‘The Office’ extremely annoying (as she was written)- it wouldn’t be the first time someone ratcheted up my opinion of them based on their writing skills, and sense of humor.

i heart it


In any event, I got my hands on the book, and settled in for an enjoyable, funny memoir, as I had no reason to suspect otherwise.  The book was high on all the non-fiction best-seller lists, and was selling up a storm. However,  from the get go, I got my back up, when Ms. Kaling casually compared her book to Chelsea Handler’s ‘Where Are You Vodka, It’s Me Chelsea’-a book I thoroughly enjoyed, and which stayed on the top of the best-seller lists for over a year. (Chelsea, though not a ‘writer’s’ writer, has several very readable books written in her deadpan delivery style and has been at the top of the New York Times bestseller list several times.. no mean feat!)

This being the case, I found it a little presumptuous of Mindy to just throw herself in the mix, like it’s something she thinks secretly, but probably shouldn’t say.  She also tries way too hard to assume a familiarity with the reader that she hasn’t earned. Similar to  when someone says ‘I know what you’re thinking’ and it’s not even close. But about half-way through the book,  I stopped reading, looked at the cover- just to be sure I had the right book, and thought ‘This is what all the hoopla is about?!’ Not only was it lacking in the ‘here are my interesting stories’ department, it also presented Mindy as a classic, high- school mean girl, very  clique-y and judgmental, and not all that nice. (Women don’t have to be ‘nice’- but there’s a certain self-effacing quality that I appreciate-the all important ‘down-to-earth’ quality)

In her book, Mindy trashes her friends in high-school- going as far as to say she hoped an equestrian loving ex-friend found a great horse to marry. I mean: Rrrearrr! She talks about how unpopular she was in high school (she wasn’t) and how high school doesn’t even matter- but she’s still really angry about not being the center of attention there. Which of course, happens to everyone on the planet, but famous people, I notice, are often very bitter about the first decade-and-three-quarters when they were treated like-God forbid!- everyone else!   When the world failed  to clamor around them, recognize how special they were, and shower them with adoration..  The bottom line is that I felt Mindy Kaling’s book was over-rated, and was disappointed because of it.  And it didn’t help that she seemed oblivious to the cattiness of her stories, like completely unaware.

People love this girl! I am clearly in the minority with my opinion. It’s to such a degree that I wonder if my initial impression is ‘off’. There are just too many good books rolling off the presses, for me to try hers again (and she has a new thing: a card game full of topics to talk about with your girlfriends. I can’t imagine needing to fish for topics, but I guess it beats another round of Monopoly) I will say,  that my initial review of ‘Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me’ -wherein I point out how underwhelming this book is- has gotten way more ‘likes’ on a certain book reading site than the rest of my reviews combined- with a few ‘finally someone said it’ comments as well.

The above Flavorwire article about Ms. Kaling’s recent tv show (“The Mindy Project’ which I haven’t seen)  defends her personality based on the fact that she’s a woman- and says, in effect, that a man (who’s an asshole) would be applauded for the same things Kaling is criticized for. Alec Baldwin notwithstanding (they keep insisting he’s a pretentious bore and a jerk to boot- but I can’t stop loving him) I don’t think difficult men are revered- I think they are tolerated if they have creative powers. I believe people much prefer a John Ritter type (who I understood was a kind man) over a Charlie Sheen any day of the week. I don’t know the fate of Kaling’s show, but I do wonder if it is as overrated as her book.

I guess the point I’m making is that, according to the ‘Let Mindy Kaling Be An Asshole’ commentary, there is nothing obnoxious or arrogant  she can do or say that can’t be explained away by sexism. She’s got a license to do whatever she wants- like a foreign dignitary! That just because some successful men are pricks, women should be, too. Lean In and annihilate! Strap on your armor! Swing your big stick! Etcetera! But  I don’t buy it. As my mother used to say, in cliche-but-true mom-speak: Two wrongs, don’t make a right!….. And emulating the stereo-typical, brazen, self-serving jack-ass (think Donald Trump) does not seem the path to fulfillment! And it’s definitely not something to strive for.

Ladies-we’re better than that!

Bad Boys: *SIGH*

In Should I Even Be Talking About This?, Television on August 8, 2013 at 7:09 pm
'No thanks- i don't need a ride' said NO GIRL EVER!

‘No thanks- i don’t need a ride’ said NO GIRL EVER!

The subject of Bad Boys (and why some women like them) has been discussed ad nauseam, and yet I will throw my two cents in anyhow. I got to thinking about this after seeing a spot for ‘Sons Of Anarchy’ on FX ( a bad boy channel, if you will…along with SPIKE)  Jax Teller, the head of the SAMCRO affiliated biker gang, is my current ‘Bad Boy’ crush. This is a guy who’s killed over a case (at least) of people (and that was just last season)-and is a bonafide gangster, yet I swoon inside as I watch him. Even his walk is hot! But he’s a murderer! I know, it’s weird…..I usually frown on murdering. So what gives? 



Part of it began when the show first started, four seasons ago. Jax presented himself as ‘deep’…sitting atop a roof, reading his dead Dad’s letters, reflecting on his life. The way that he read those letters aloud- the fact that he could read- these were all pluses in a hot guy! He even kept a journal, which might mean he can even spell! Combine brains and brawn and I don’t know about you, but I’m over the moon! As the show progressed it became clear that he was truly in love with his girlfriend, Tara, and he has since married and stayed faithful to her (despite what I imagine are offers left and right to ‘get busy’-including an adult-entertainment side business and joint ownership of a brothel) A man who is true to his woman is a big turn-on to me. (A lot of us are self-serving like that.)



Amongst women, there is much discussion about men, and how they tend to be shallow- how the way a woman looks is so important to them, even though it’s what’s on the inside that counts. But ladies- please! Are we not the exact same way? When we are attracted to a guy, aren’t his looks a big part of it? The way his hair falls softly over his forehead, the Alaskan Husky blue eyes, that deep, scratchy voice even-maybe even- dat ass? Especially as young women, weren’t most of us attracted to the ‘babes?’ And so, as much as I like Jax’s monogamous ways, and soulful journaling- isn’t the fact that he’s scorching hot the reason I’m really attracted to him? After all, his buddies- who do exactly what Jax does- well, let’s just say they aren’t in my day dreams.

So what if I wrote this whole essay just so I could post these pics of Jax?

So what if I wrote this whole essay just so I could post these pics of Jax?

The first time I can remember being attracted to bad boys, was when I was a very young girl. My grandfather was watching the news and started railing at the television. I put down my Barbies and walked over to the tv to see what had made him so mad. There, on channel two, was Walter Cronkite reporting on Vietnam and the numerous protests going on around the country. One of the clips, from San Francisco- showed a bunch of teenagers and young adults in really cool clothes holding up signs. Then a sound bite from the cutest guy…with long hair, talking about ‘the war’. My heart did a few somersaults. My grandfather growled, the vein on his forehead throbbing: “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Men with long hair! Like a bunch of girls! This country is going to hell in a handbasket!” His face was red.  Meanwhile,  CBS cut to another clip,but  I was hoping they’d go back to that first guy. I waited through the commercials (‘Chock Full Of Nuts is a heavenly coffee…) and even stuck it out through the weather and sports, but alas, the heartthrob never returned.( And that’s the way it was…)

But I knew he was out there somewhere, growing his hair, wearing beads and waving a sign. And from then on, anytime I heard the words ‘Vietnam'”War’ or ‘Protest’ on my grandparent’s tv, I would strategically loiter behind my grandfather’s chair,maybe rolling a matchbox car across the headrest of his chair as a decoy and watch for the ‘no-good hippies!’ (By the way, I also thought the ‘hippies’ were the nice ones- because they wanted to stop the war, and from the footage I saw of actual Vietnam, war seemed like something we should all be against. But I digress)

Mick Jagger invented cool

Mick Jagger invented cool

From there, it was easy to see my route veering towards Bad-Boy Ville. I preferred Mick Jagger by far over Paul McCartney (McCartney was okay, but I could sense those Wings songs blending inside him, like vanilla milkshakes). Mick Jagger was the kind of guy who did things at night. Stayed up and smoked cigarettes and called up his girlfriends who were wearing fur coats and nothing else.  I was a born night owl, and could rarely sleep before eleven at night even as a child. And Bad Boys roam the night.

I  often stood up for the under-dog,and went against the grain. I wanted to paint my room black (or deep purple) with a big rainbow on the wall when I was nine. This was immediately vetoed. My father bellowed: ‘It’s a bedroom, not a god damn art project!” I ended up with red roses decoupaged on my all- white furniture, with matching shams and spread on my canopy bed. I’m surprised little dwarves didn’t gather around me while I slept, while cartoon blue-birds swirled around my head. But my room decor didn’t stop ‘Honky-Tonk Woman or “She’s A Rainbow” from blasting out of my Realistic stereo.  

My mother jokingly gave me an orange 8-track by Alice Cooper (“It’s a guy!” she marveled “What a goonie bird!”) Little did she know, ‘Killer’ was right up my (dark) alley- and I couldn’t get enough of it. In fact, the whole glam scene- with its long hair, platforms, turquoise bracelets, silky bell-bottoms and guy-liner spoke to me. Add guitars and turn it up, and I discovered the meaning of being in my element. 

I also liked guys who rode harleys  (especially choppers) guys who worked on cars, and wore leather jackets. At thirteen, my uniform became hip-huggers and halter tops, and platform shoes in suede. I loved headbands and anything with fringe. I was sending out Bad-Boy smoke-signals whether I knew it or not. You really don’t find a lot of guys macho enough to wear bracelets and earrings on the high school football team. At least not during the day and in public.

So while a lot of girls were trying out for cheerleading, I was wandering the halls between classes looking at the back of boy’s heads, searching out guys whose hair grew past their collars, making sure that my notebook was positioned with my New York Dolls and Deep Purple stickers facing out. I fell in love with bad-boys in movies,  in books…(.most notably Ritchie, in The Wanderers) and  though I was rooting for the ‘good’ guys, Randall Flagg in ‘The Stand’ was far more interesting than any of the good-boy heroes.

Snake Plisken is another fine example of the North American Bad-Boy

Snake Plissken is another fine example of the North American Bad-Boy

There is however, a big difference between a bad boy and a jerk. A bad boy might be a man of few words, but he doesn’t lie. A jerk lies even when he doesn’t have to. A bad-boy might not coddle you 24/7, but he’ll never lay a finger on you- or any other woman. A jerk is on familiar terms with his inner Chris Brown. A bad-boy has a work ethic- and knows how to fix stuff. He does things the right way, even when it’s tedious. A jerk works sporadically (if at all) and can’t be bothered with pride or standing behind what he does or says. Shortcuts are his thing. His whole life is a game of Chutes and Ladders, always searching out the easy way. A bad-boy is loyal, to his girl and his family and friends while a jerk hurts, uses and deserts his girl, family and friends. A bad-boy is someone you hold hands with in public (subtly) and a jerk is the guy you lie about even dating (out of embarrassment) But, most importantly, a Bad-Boy can grow up to be a good man, but a jerk will never grow up, period. And trust me, someday you’ll want him to.

Michael Beck played my favorite Bad-Boy in "The Warriors"

Michael Beck played my favorite Bad-Boy in “The Warriors”

Of course, when you live by the sword, you die by the sword. Over the years I’ve had my fill of bad boys and jerks and I’ve had some tumultuous, crazy relationships because of it. I’ve had my heart smashed to smithereens, and I once cried from sundown straight through to the next morning, positive I would die without him. (I’m talking non-stop full-throttle balling! Turns out you can’t run out of tears)  I’ve written bad poetry the likes of which make me blush just by remembering. Though I must admit: I do have lots of stories.  

But when you choose a hot guy with a bad-boy streak who’s mysterious and as cool as dry ice, you can’t expect to be the only one who’s noticed. And if you’re looking for real passion, you can’t go in half-assed. Sure, it might not work out- but then- what if it does?  And the few times I tried to go against my type, and date someone a little more, um- suburban? I felt lost and lonely. Like I was in another country and didn’t speak the language. The truth was- I just couldn’t date the Richie Cunningham type, as nice as he might be. Because I can’t spend my life hovering behind chairs, waiting for the news to come on. The best I could do was sort the bad-boys from the jerks, and hope to get lucky for the long haul.

Sonny Crockett was a Bad-Boy. Plus, he had a pet alligator!

Sonny Crockett was a Bad-Boy. Plus, he had a pet alligator!



In Books on August 7, 2013 at 3:12 pm


Books have always been my best friends. Even before I could read, I loved to look at the bright, colorful pictures and strange configuration of typeset (when you are three, and not yet a reader, English looks exactly like SPAM from Thailand) I would beg anyone taller than me to read me the stories, and when that didn’t work I’d make up my own story, basing it on the illustrations.

‘Girl plays with kitten Aww!! Now she run! ( Turn page.. gasp! Look! She came back!) Heady stuff. I’m told I had an imaginary friend, Annie, until I was about four. I used her to blame stuff on, and as an audience to my stories. So it wouldn’t be unusual to walk into a room and see me with a book in my lap, animatedly talking to no one, my arm draped over the non-existent shoulder of my invisible best friend, discussing the latest release in the Golden Press line. (I adored their hologram covers and puppet photographs! Or should I say “we” adored them…)

This just might be my favorite book ever...

This just might be my favorite book ever…

Learning to read was like mastering time travel: with the turn of a page, off I would go to other lands, and other lives, other generations, other universes! Backwards, forwards, upside down- books could go anywhere and do anything! I could live a million different lives if I could read as many books! To this day I don’t understand how anyone gets through life without reading all of the books they can get their hands on (and then some!) but I’m so grateful to be one of the lucky ones who’s hooked on books. Yeah- I could swoon about books for hours, but I’d like to talk about the best places to get them, and how I manage to get the most mileage-and bang for my buck- out of reading.




This is obvious- keep the book stores alive! This is how I do bookstores on a budget: When an author I really like is coming out with a new one, I make an effort to buy it from a bricks and mortar bookstore. It’s sporadic, but I purchase what I can, and I happily add these books to my permanent collection, on route to filling yet another bookshelf. Not only do I get a nice hardcover, but I also support my the wonderful existence of bookstores.


The library is essentially a FREE BOOK STORE! Think about it: if Barnes & Noble announced they were having a 100% off sale this weekend (‘We’re Giving It All Away!”) would you be there? Would you maybe sleep in the parking lot overnight to be among the first in the store when it opened in the morning? Of course you would! And this is why I can’t believe there are people out there who DO NOT use the library! You can get free DVD’s as well- and the selection is surprisingly good. You can use their computers, you can buy hardcover books for $2.00 or less! you can read the latest magazines for free-and even check out and bring home the back issues. The Library is Utopia.

The path to great places...

The path to great places…

The library website is a treasure trove as well. You can put books on hold (My hold list is never empty. I also currently have seven books checked out. At my local library, you have SIX whole days to pick up your holds. (Again, this would be like calling the book store, ordering a book, and picking it up for free! Amazing!) On the library’s website you can also access many resources, like Consumer Reports (free!) a plethora of Art and various niche magazines-even  Chilton’s Auto Repair manuals. You can even order free downloads of books, movies and music, which they will zap right over to your Smart- phone, Kindle or laptop. (Though why anyone wouldn’t actually prefer to walk into a giant building filled with books is beyond me! Every time I pull into a parking space at my library I think: ‘This  spot shouldn’t even be available. This place should be so full of people, I should have to park around the block!’) I adore my Library!




LibraryThing is a book website that I would recommend to any avid reader. Here, you can list all of the books you’ve read, are reading, or want to read- and you can even create a virtual library using the covers of said books. You can read and write reviews, and if you want you can interact with other readers. But the really great thing about LibraryThing is that they have an ‘Early Reviewers’ Program, which allows you to select soon to be published books, and win them in exchange for a review (you only need write a sentence or two, not the on-and-on I usually do) In five years, I have won 60 Early Reviewer books (!) with one on the way as we speak! The Early Reviewer program runs once a month, and you choose which books appeal to you. You then have a chance to be picked to receive a free copy.  I’ve gotten autographed books, as well as book bags and other ‘book swag’ from Early Reviewer books! In addition, there are also author giveaways (more freebies), book recommendations based on your likes, and a whole host of other book-related information and activities. LibraryThing is free for you to list up to 200 books, and after that they have a sliding scale of prices per year- from $3.00 and up- you can literally pick your own price. It’s beyond worth it if you are a serious reader. I LOVE LibrayThing! To see my book list, read my Early Reviews or just say hi- I’m listed as ‘Litgirl7′ (that stands for literature, not keg stands…although…I’ve been in the vicinity of a few keg stands…just sayin’)



Thrift Stores are an excellent place to find cheap and interesting books. If you have young kids, you can buy used copies of their favorite books (sometimes 4 for $1.00!) and let them go to town with their messy hands, drooling, crinkling and tearing.  It’s a great way to not have to hover over a $15.00 kids book that you’d like to keep in their collection sans teeth marks. Many of these books are in great shape- if not new!

Also, If you have a fondness for vintage books from the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s, the thrift store is the place for you. Not only can you find some childhood favorites, but in many cases you’ll be amazed at the absurd book titles, advice, and trends from the past- and all for a song! How else would I have found ‘The Drinker’s Cookbook’ from 1961, chock full of boozy recipes and comics about the hilarity of driving drunk? Or Cookbooks for Dads who Barbecue, with advice such as ‘pick the steak with the most fat’ and ‘keep the wife away from the grill?’ Or ‘Naughty Cakes’ with the step-by-step directions for ‘booty cake?’

Fabulous Bloody Mary recipe....

Fabulous Bloody Mary recipe….

If you’re crafty, you can buy cheap books and use the pictures or text for all kinds of projects (though it pains me to destroy a book, and I’ll always try and scan it first, then print out what I want to use, but sometimes a book is too busted for repair) You can make personalized cards for friends, wrapping paper, use pictures on your blog- the list is endless. You can also buy ‘gag’ gift-books for the the holidays. Say, a 1965 ‘I am a Beautician’ for a hairdresser friend’s birthday, or “Jerry Springer’s Wildest Shows Ever!” for your T.V. snob friend, or “Your Youth: Getting The Best Out Of It” circa 1971 for a 40th birthday. You might even stumble upon first editions of old favorites, like ‘Blacky The Crow’ or ‘The Lonely Doll’ series. Sometimes, you’ll even find notes or old  photographs tucked away inside! (This, to me, is nirvana!) Though it’s hit or miss, it’s a rare trip to a thrift where I don’t find something! 

In conclusion, books are everywhere, and they can take you everywhere as well. When I hear people say they are bored I think to myself: That will never happen to me. As long as the world has books!

I hear deer urine works...

I hear deer urine works…

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