So I was on the phone yesterday with Evan "The Greatest Guy Ever" Silverman, V.P. Online at LifetimeTV.com. The guy who hired me. The guy I report to.
Anywayz, Evan's talking about the terrible tragedy of the bridge that collapsed in Minneapolis two days ago. (Thank you, btw, all who've written and called to check on my family. We feel very fortunate to all be safe, and horribly sad for the families who lost loved ones).
So, Evan makes reference to a CNN report about the collapse, and I say, "no, I didn't see it. I don't watch the news."
[Imagine extended, uncomfortable silence].
See, it's not that I don't follow the news. I just can't watch it; it gives me agita to view other peoples' pain. It's part of the reason I started reading romance.
When I feel reality pushing too hard, I generally pick up a romance. Love that little moment when the book's so good, you just sorta sink into the embrace of the good feelings that are gonna follow. And I like knowing it's gonna turn out happy, no matter whether the road there is rocky.
Some people speak anecdotally of women who've become addicted to romance. I've often compared reading it to that lovely little warmth of a nice I.V. drip starting to do its thing, but that's just me. I've met a couple women who said they gave up reading it cause they never could find in real life men what they found in the storybook heroes.
So, I've got two different kinds of questions. First: Do you think you're addicted or could become addicted to romance? I mean, for real? Second: What's the last thing you said to your boss you wished you could have taken back immediately? Finally: Have you got a weekend book escape planned?
Encore! Books I loved above are some of the historicals I've used to practice soothing avoidant behavior in the last week
Encore due! I was torn as to whether I should show you this piccie of Daniel Radcliffe from a recent London production of "Equus." Harry, em, Daniel's only seventeen, after all, but he does does deliver for God and Country, as it were, on-stage.
I'm showing you the photo not as one of my usual tasteful, yet sophomoric tributes to men with lovely bodies, but rather to show you how our little boy's all grown up. Anyway, and in a totally "I'm not a pervy older chick scammin on movie boys when I take my kids to a flick" way, I always thought the boy who taught Harry to play Quiddich in the first movie was much cuter.