I am starting a new website. It is called:
I wanted to start a web magazine that women of all ages will find interesting. That was full of creative art, writing, viewpoints, cool stuff for the home, clothes, boots and bags and laughs.
If I have faltered on the regular posts for this site, it is because I started putting my energy into lollydoodle. I am so excited.
I guess I grew sick and tired of magazines for women over 40 talking about recipes, practical jackets for work and illnesses.
I like my magazines big, glossy and fun. So join me at
It starts tomorrow, December 15. That’s my birthday. I figured that was a good place to start.
This one always cracked me up.
My favourite lines:
at the art gallery: I adore Kandinsky, don’t you?
at the dogpark: Where do you have him clipped?
at a sporting event: What’s the score?
I usually tried the ‘Go to a bar and drink’ method.
A whole journal filled with hilarious articles from women’s magazines.
I loved One Day At A Time. Bonnie Franklin just died. I wanted to be Valerie Bertinelli, have a rock star fiancee, wear his band symbol on a necklace around my neck.
Adelaide was home from school just before the holidays, in bed with a bad cough and headache. I went out on some errands, came home with one of her choice gossip magazines.
I gave it to her on the condition that she not read anything about Selena/Taylor/Demi etc to me. She said Okay.
Later, though, I sat on her bed with her and we started leafing through the pages together. I chose my favourite One Direction band member. No it’s not Harry.
My kids wake up, get dressed, make their beds and head downstairs for breakfast before I have pulled my sorry rump out of bed.
They prepared schedules the night before.
From 715 until 230, they are booked.
I need to go grocery shopping. I am told, as they head downstairs, that if I plan to make their lunches, I need to be back by 1130.
It’s some weird Freaky Tuesday.
I get out of bed.
Every now and then, my husband brings me a surprise magazine home. One of those unexpected ‘Ooooos’ that you need on a blah day.
Reading about Tom Cruise and scientology and Katie getting out was fascinating (more, please).
We all have our faiths that keep us grounded on this rotating earth but scientology seems especially wrapped up in celebrity and status and I haven’t even mentioned the whole alien thing.
Tom Cruise is treated like a supreme being by those around him. I wonder when he ever last did something for himself.
He interviewed handpicked (by other hands, not his own) women to decide who might be his next “girlfriend”. Katie knew what she was getting into which made me wonder, why did she?
Remember ‘Taps’? ’All The Right Moves’? ’Rain Man’? I miss 80s Tom Cruise.
And don’t get me started on John Travolta.
I had already bought three, four magazines in September and I thought: Should I?
I told myself, no Vogue this year. Really, what do you know about Lady Gaga anyway?
Then I walk into Neighbours to pay for my gas, maybe buy a latte and there before me on the stands, the only one, the last one. Vogue.
I took it as a sign. I bought it.
I just finished a book on Kate Moss – her career, her influences, her outfits. Tons of pictures.
I love her. Tiny thing that she is, English and ballsy and no pretense. A career that spans 24 years.
Looks better now than she ever has.
I buy the first of many September magazines.
They sit, fat and shiny and colourful, enticingly fanned out on the racks before me and I ponder which I might purchase next.
Vogue? Harper’s Bazaar? Kate’s on the cover of Vanity Fair in their attempt to get this month’s crowd.
Miley? Katy? Penelope?
I love September.
After a swimming lesson, we head over to our most-liked library. This one has tons of dvds (tv and movies), lots of graphic novels, books, music. Plus stuff for sale.
I stumble over a pile of magazines brought in by a subscriber somewhere in the city. Their address has been clipped out of the front of each magazine. I don’t want to be greedy, but I pile my arms with Country Livings (my favourite), Chatelaines, Martha Stewarts. Pay a quarter each and cart them out to the car.
It’s like a pile of candy waiting for me.