It has been brought to my attention that your daughter is either impersonating me or mocking me in her royal portrait. Exhibit A:
I’ve been rockin’ this look for years so I can only assume this is an act of aggression on her part. That’s why this morning I declared war on Germany. I try not to judge people for their parenting skills but I can’t help but think this is kind of your fault for not reigning your daughter in (Get it? “Reigning”? Because you’re a king? I kill me.) but lucky for you, I am a kind and merciful person and I have not called for an assassination attempt. Mostly because my minions can’t even manage to kidnap Tim Gunn properly. And also because I’m a pacifist. Sort of. Although I do believe in stabbing people if necessary. Like when my husband gives me that look. You know the one. The one that implies I did something questionable. Then he’s getting stabbed in the leg. But no one else has to. This is totally going to be a bloodless coup, probably. Unless you count nose bleeds, which I don’t. I can’t control nosebleeds. I’m not, like, telekinetic. If you get a nosebleed it’s probably because you need a humidifier, not because of me. I’m just a normal Texas girl who may or may not have threatened to dethrone your daughter. I guess it depends if threatening to dethrone a princess is legal. If it isn’t then I never said that. But it’s still going to happen anyway because I assume if I take down the German princess I get to take her place as the new princess and that would be totally kick-ass. Plus, I’m half-Czech so I’m kind of bringing together the world by joining your royal family. So basically I’m solving complicated diplomatic foreign policy situations AND I’M NOT EVEN TRYING. Does your current princess do that? No. She just steals my hair-roller idea. Which I own. (Patent-pending.) Anyway, I’m not sure how we need to do this. Perhaps some sort of cage match, or maybe I steal her shoe, or her husband? I don’t know how this Princess shit works. Please send me directions. In English, please. I don’t speak Dutch. Also, I apologize for saying “shit” to a king but you should probably get used to it because when I replace your daughter I’ll most likely say fucked-up stuff all the time. It’s kind of what I do.
Hugs,
Jenny, the bloggess & future Princess of Germany (and also probably Switzerland by the time this is all over)
PS. Please don’t be alarmed. I’m very diplomatic and open to suggestions if you have them. If you want to just make me an honorary Princess that would be cool. Or we could throw the current princess in jail and make her wear an iron mask so no one would know who she is. Except no one in jail wears an iron mask so it’s going to be conspicuous. I don’t know if you’ve been in jail recently but there aren’t a lot of masks around. They frown on that sort of thing. Especially iron ones because you can use the metal to make a shiv. Don’t ask me how I know this. Also, I’m assuming there isn’t a rule in Germany about not being allowed to be a Princess if you’ve ever been in jail. If there is we need to fix that shit before I get over there. And also I really like Houston so I’m going to have to telecommute. Please get me a laptop and a German interpreter.
PPS. I’m going to Japan in a couple of days so please get back to me in the next few hours or I might be tempted to do something drastic when we fly over Germany. Like maybe I’ll flush the airplane toilet a whole lot right over Germany. Or maybe I’ll moon you. Depends on if I have a window seat.
PPPS. My husband just told me that we don’t fly over Germany on the way to Japan because Germany is in a different direction. Clever move, Germany. You win this round.
PPPPS. I’m really serious here. I want to be a princess. Please send over some sort of royal decree and a dozen white horses. And a coach. And some glass slippers. But they need to be flats because I have arthritis. And also I need arch support. Plus, how are the slippers supposed to bend when I walk if they’re glass? Fuck that. Just send me some clear jellies. Do they make jellies in Germany? Is there a word for “jellies” in German? This is exactly why I need a German interpreter. Arg. These. These are what I need:
Like these but fancier, like a princess would wear. Maybe get me some with glitter in them.
PPPPPS. My husband just told me that you don’t speak Dutch in Germany and that “Deutsch” is just German for German. That is so fucking confusing. This is the first thing I’m going to fix as Princess. None of that “Deutsch” crap. My second decree will be “free beer for everyone”. I’m going to be the most beloved dictator ever.
PPPPPPS. Did I say “dictator”? I meant “Princess”. The dictator thing comes later. That’s part of my 5 year plan.
PPPPPPPS. Am I supposed to call you “daddy” when I get Princessed? Because that seems awkward. Can I just call you “sir”? You don’t have to answer that now. We can work out all the details after your daughter is in jail. Then? Party time! For us, I mean. Not for her. Prison is no party. Trust me on that one.
UPDATED: Kick-ass Hitler video by Telling Dad, who I’m totally going to knight just as soon as this princess thing comes through:
Conversation between me and twitter, who is kind of an asshole:
And that’s the reason why I don’t like twitter. Because it’s judgemental and it never goes away. It’s like your junior high boyfriend when you’re all “You hang up the phone first” and he’s all “No, you hang up” and you’re like “No, you hang up” and he probably thinks he’s being all romantic by not hanging up but you really want him to hang up because you have to pee and you don’t want him to hear you peeing. And that’s basically what twitter is all about. This is like a tutorial for people who are new to twitter. You should send new twitterers here so they won’t be all freaked out when twitter starts molesting them because if you’re not expecting it it can be very confusing. Like getting your first period. Basically this is the “Are You There God? It’s me, Margaret” of the twitter world.
PS. If people try to tell you that twitter doesn’t occasionally talk to you they are lying to you. Or perhaps they just aren’t observant enough. Or drunk enough. I don’t know. I’m not here to judge those people. I’m here to help you. You’re welcome.
Comment of the day: Thanks for the mention, poodle-muffin. What are you doing? ~ Twitter
"Other shit I did this week." (Translation, in case you don't read Dracula.)
You know how on Sundays I do a week-in-review about all the shit that happened to me that I didn’t write about here but then sometimes I forget to do it and instead I do it at the beginning of the current week and it gives everyone a headache? That just happened again. Honestly, I need an intern to help me with this stuff. I’d be all “Intern, I need to know what animal has claws and is scary but also has a funny name. Something with at least two syllables. And it can’t start with an “n” because it’s going to fight a ninja and I don’t want them to have matching names. Like, I’m thinking ‘bear’ except ‘bear’ doesn’t sing, you know? Is there a bear that has more than one syllable in it’s name? Like “polar bear”, maybe? Hang on. Polar bear totally works. So never mind about that. Scratch that off your list. Next assignment: Find out if there was ever a cowboy-monkey that rode around on a dog in a Dairy Queen commercial. I say it wasn’t a Dairy Queen commercial but Victor insists it was and he says that the lack of proof about it on the internet isn’t proof of non-existence so I need you to find a way to prove something that never actually happened. But be careful because that sounds like the kind of thing that could start a worm-hole.” And that’s exactly why I need an intern. Because instead I spent all morning tracking down the monkey myself and sending him emails. No response so far, by the way. I think that monkey needs an intern too. Totally lost? That’s why you should be reading me on twitter, y’all. Because then this would all make sense. Unless you read the monkey saga on twitter and didn’t understand it then either. Then I apologize for wasting your time. I will have my intern send you a dollar. When I get an intern. And a dollar. But now, onto the recap:
Last week in real life:
I got this in the mail:
Um...what?
The envelope is a gin advertisement ripped out of a magazine. No return address. Sent by “air mail”. The whole thing was covered in clear tape, probably to keep all the anthrax inside. Then when I finally got it open I found a piece of cardstock that had a picture of me with glitter glued to my curlers, paint and rhinestones on it, and my name glued to the side. And part of me thought it was very sweet that someone sent me this anonymous art work from overseas but the part of me that has an anxiety disorder assumed it was some sort of threat. Victor said that most threats aren’t pink and covered with glitter but technically if I was going to send someone a threat that’s how I’d do it because you hardly ever get arrested for sending a glittery index card with rhinestone hearts glued to it. That’s why I put it next to my computer and obsessed over it for like 4 days while I waited to die from anthrax poisoning, and on the 5th day I started picking apart pieces of the collage to see if there were any clues underneath and Victor was all “Dude. It’s a piece of paper, not the fucking Da Vinci Code” but right then it popped open and turns out it was actually a card that must’ve gotten glued shut during the collaging process. Which was a relief because inside was a very nice note from a charming British woman who just wanted me to check out her blog. Also, a direct quote from the card: “If you fuck this up you could potentially, single-handedly be responsible for the escape of up to 500 thieves, fraudsters and murderers. I hope I have made myself clear.” Victor says that what written inside the card was technically more disturbing than if it had remained sealed but obviously he doesn’t have my talent for imagination. Anyway, huge relief. Also, I don’t have anthrax yet. Yay me!
Last week on my sex column (which is satirical and vaguely safe for work if your boss isn’t a total a-hole):
I made it on the front page ofSalon.comfor like a minute. And it was awesome.Also, according to one commenter, I’m probably a troubled, gay, impassioned activist. I only knew about the “troubled” part. Conclusion: Salon.com is educational.
Coming soon: I’m leaving for Japan. No really. Japan. Like, in a few days. Victor asked if I was packed and I was all “No. But I made a banner!” Then he walked off kind of disgusted. Probably because he doesn’t understand the importance of banners. And because I think he realized it took me like 8 hours to make it and so that’s why I didn’t clean the house again. Which is precisely why I need an intern. One that’s good at making banners and living in my hall-tree.
More on this Japan stuff later. Unless I get distracted. In which case I’ll just go missing for awhile and people will think Victor stabbed me. Which, if we’re being honest, is probably going to happen no matter what Country we’re in.
Comment of the day: Okay, so, here’s the thing. I’m sure there are eleventy thousand other people who are going to be all “I’LL BE YOUR INTERN,” but fuck that. I’m going to be the best intern in the galaxy (See what I did there? I just up and decided that I’m going to be your intern. Because that’s what interns do, they’re helpful and they anticipate your needs and bring you a cookie in the shape of a giant vagina when you’re having a bad day because who doesn’t love chocolate chip labia?) And the answer to your question is a falcon, because they have claws and a two syllable name that doesn’t begin with the letter “n” and are scary as hell because things that can fly are scary and they’d put up the best fight for a ninja because ninjas like to be stealthy and falcons are known for their insane vision and in fact, one species of falcon has even been found to have a visual acuity of 2.6 times that of a normal human.
PS – You better believe I just researched falcons for you. PPS – I have absolutely no idea what “visual acuity” means, but I could find out. Or I could just MAKE IT UP. Either way, you win. PPPS – I should probably send this entire comment to you in an email as well, in case you don’t read all of your comments due to how overwhelmingly busy and in need of an intern you are. PPPS – My next job as your intern is getting you to read this list of 10 Extraordinarily Useful Japanese Phrases for Travelers. Particularly #3, which translates to: “Oops! I meant to fart but poop came out.” Yeah, you’re welcome. ~ nicole antoinette
The day before yesterday I got invited as a “member of the media” to go to a Planned Parenthood thingie. I think it was a fund-raiser or a plan to picket them or something. I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention to that part because all I really wanted to do was meet Joan Walsh, Editor-in-Chief of Salon.com, and they said if I showed up I could go to a special blogger/media chat afterward with her. I got there about five minutes before the Planned Parenthood presentation ended and snuck into a back table and nodded solemnly while people talked about something that was probably important. Then the presentation ended and I expected to get wooshed into a room with like a hundred media people but turns out it was just eight of us. Which is terrifying because you can’t hide in the back and play on your phone with only eight people in the room and it was even worse because there were like six important Planned Parenthood people milling around to help us, plus some guy who looked CEO-ish, and Joan Walsh and her handlers and this is when I thought I was going to have a panic attack and I thought about hiding under the table but instead I just made my way as far from Joan’s side of the table as possible so I’d be less noticeable if I suddenly freaked out but then after everyone sat down I realized that we were at a board-room style table and I was heading one end and Joan would be on the other and she’d be looking right at me and would totally realize I was wearing a wig and would probably think I was some sort of stalker and would throw me out. Awesome. This is when I started to sweat a lot and took some xanax. I only remember pieces of the rest but luckily I wrote most of it down so I’m just going to transcribe what I wrote in my journal at the time. Also, I like to think that this is probably exactly the sort of thing Dan Rather is writing when he’s taking notes at important press meetings. From my journal:
Everyone else at this table has laptops. I have a broken camera that I’m pretending is a tape recorder so I’ll look more professional. No one is buying it. Also, I’m writing in a Smokey and the Bandit journal. With a pencil. Hi, I’m eight.
Media-lady -in-charge just said “Since you’re all online you can check out our sex education link at http://www.blah-blah-I-didn’t-write-the-url-down-because-it-was-long and then she came around to help everyone find it on their laptops and totally saw Smokey. She’s looking at me strangely. Probably because she wonders where you even get a Smokey and the Bandit journal. I lean over and whisper, “I have connections“. I don’t think she understood though because she looks unsettled. She probably thinks I’m in the mafia now. Which? Kind of awesome.
Laura Mayes is sitting beside me. She’s dressed like she’s straight out of Mad Men and looks super professional. I’m wearing my red wig so that if I embarrass myself I can run out and whip it off and come back in saying “Who the fuck was that red-headed chick that ran out of here screaming about fellatio? Do you people even do background checks before you let someone in here?” Then I’ll roll my eyes and be all “Carry on, Joan” like we’re old friends and she’ll be all “Do I know this woman? Why is she wearing the same outfit as the girl before? And why does she have a knee-high on her head?” It’s not a knee-high, Joan. It’s a wig-cap. You wouldn’t understand because you have good hair and aren’t emotionally unstable. This is when I take another xanax.
That Pete/Peter guy just said he has a blog on Mom Houston. “I HAVE A BLOG ON MOM HOUSTON!” is what I say in my head. In real life I was very quiet and acted unimpressed because this is how you act when you are on lots of xanaxa professional.
Joan Walsh = totally smart. I don’t even understand half the stuff she’s talking about. Like, she’s the kind of chick who could make a turbine engine out of palm trees if she had to. I’m just looking at her with a raised eyebrow like I may or may not agree with her because I kind of suspect that she’s just making shit up to see if I really belong here. Clearly I don’t, Joan. But everyone else here is smart too and they seem to be agreeing with her so I may just be paranoid. I’m tempted to take another xanax but I just reread my notes and I’ve already had two and that’s my limit. Thank God for Journals. This is probably why Dan Rather hasn’t OD’ed on xanax yet either.
Note to self: Joan Walsh does not swirl around in her chair like I do. How does she not do that? Maybe she purposely looks for a non-swirly chair to sit in. It’s taking all the strength I have to not push back from the table and just twirl around and around in this chair. Maybe she’s in a different chair than me. Hang on. Surreptitiously dropping my pencil to look under the table. Nope. She totally has the same chair as me. Fuck. Plus, now I think she thinks I just looked up her skirt. Awesome. I will never get invited to work at Salon.
We’re halfway through this interview and all I’ve written about is twirly chairs. Everyone else is asking questions about “torte reform” and “the cesspool of legislative something-or-another” and “abortion legislation”. I cannot contribute intelligently to any of this. I’m tempted to say that I had an abortion just so I could join in the conversation but it was actually a D&C and it was medically necessary so I’m not sure it counts. It should though because it totally sucks. I do not recommend. Also, people tend to stop talking when you bring up your D&C, especially at fancy press conferences with strangers. Trust me, I’ve made that mistake before.
Someone just asked about something that I don’t even think was in English. I think we just moved to Latin. I’m fucked. I’m not following any of these questions. Instead I’m just going to make up answers to imaginary questions. Just like the pros do it.
It’s kind of a shame really because I did actually have a question, sort of, because when I was high school I would go to the local Planned Parenthood and the lady at the front desk always had a fishbowl of free condoms, which was awesome, except that she’d stapled the Planned Parenthood card THROUGH the condom so it wasn’t actually awesome at all. And I was all ” There’s a staple through this condom” and the lady at the front was all ” Yes, the card’s there so you’ll remember to use it” and I’m like “No. There’s a hole. In the condom. From the staple.” And she looked at me like I was an idiot and she was all “The condom is sealed, so it’s protected” and I’m all “But you stapled though the package!” and then she told me to go sit down and kept stapling condoms and she was probably responsible for like ten thousand teen pregnancies and I was going to ask Joan if she could call that Planned Pregnancy and explain to them how staplers work since she obviously has some pull with Planned Parenthood but then I realized that that was like 20 years ago and the woman at the front desk is probably dead now so I didn’t bring it up. But if you are a teenager reading this and someone gives you a condom with a staple through it, for God’s sake, don’t use it. That’s my special message to you, slutty teenagers.
Important people are still talking about important things. I’m counting how many times I’ve swirled in my chair vs. how many times Joan has. 178 to 0 and counting. I’m winning. Or losing. Depends on what we’re being judged on, I guess. If it’s “form”, I’m totally in the lead. I’m kind of kick-ass at twirling in my chair.
Each of us was given a shiny golden envelope with “Planned Parenthood” written on it. I want to open it but no one else is opening theirs so I won’t. I get Laura’s attention by waving the envelope and I whisper “I‘ve got a golden ticket! All the abortions I want!” She moves to another seat further away from me. Probably because she’s never seen “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”.
Interview is over. Thank God. My eyebrow muscle is spasming from raising it suspiciously for so long. Laura came back and explained that she moved because of her computer and she demands that I go talk to Joan since that’s the whole reason I came. While we wait for the room to clear a bit I push back from the table and twirl around a lot. Then Laura takes a picture of me pretending to be professional. We’re both a little shocked at how well I blend in:
I'm like if Murphy Brown had a daughter. And then gave her up for adoption. And she was raised by bears in the woods. Never mind.
Me: Hi! I’m Jenny. I’m a huge fan. I’m not really smart enough to follow all those other questions but the whole time you were talking all I could think about is the fact that you never swished in your chair.
Joan: Oh! Uh…what?
Me: You know…swished. Twirled? These are twirly, spinny chairs and you never spinned even once and it was all I could do to keep from spinning around to see how many cycles I could make with one push (my record is 11) but you NEVER twirled at all and you looked way smarter than me and probably part of it was because you don’t twirl and I was just wondering how you did it.
Joan: Oh.
Me: Like, do you look for a chair that doesn’t twirl so you aren’t tempted ,or do you put a clamp on the chair so it doesn’t move or do you just tell yourself “DON’T SWIRL, JOAN”.
Joan: No. It’s just the valium.
Me: Dude. That is the best answer ever. High five.
Then I high-fived Joan Walsh. All this is true. Then she looked worriedly around and was all “Am I going to regret this answer?” and I assured her that no one ever believed anything I wrote anyway and everyone else in the room agreed and I was kind of proud that my reputation preceded me and also a little bit insulted. BUT THEN! Joan Walsh told me that I should cross-post this on Open-Salon.com and I don’t know what that means I think it means I just got made Assistant Editor or something. Except that I don’t know how to post to Salon-Open so I think that means I just turned down the position. Except shouldn’t the Assistant Editor position come with a secretary to publish this shit for me? I think so. So basically this is all my secretary’s fault. You are totally fired, secretary. Collect your last paycheck from HR. But first tell me where my office is. I don’t really need it because I work from home but I’ve got a lot of stuff in a storage unit I’d like to move over there because spending $40 a month to store old comic books and broken furniture is bullshit.
I just looked through my phone for a picture I took of my professional journalist set-up during the press conference but I can’t find it. I blame the xanax my secretary. But I just recreated it here for you. You’re welcome.
Ignore the cat though. The cat's mine. She just horns her way into every picture I ever take because she's kind of an asshole. They didn't have cats at the press conference. That would be ridiculous.
The end.
Comment of the day: Is it just me or does this post remind anyone of what a Planned Parenthood panel with Hunter S. Thompson on it would be like? Including the drugs and (in all likelihood) the wig? ~ Mae
You know what would suck? If you taped a brick of cocaine into the inside of the toilet tank in your hotel so that the maids wouldn’t find it but then you forgot it when you checked out and remembered it when you got back home and now you can’t even call and ask them to send it to you because it’s fucking cocaine. I bet that happens all the time. That’s why I always check the inside of my hotel room toilet tanks for left-over cocaine from the last people who stayed there. I never find any. Those people must have better memories than me. Not that I forget my cocaine in hotels. I usually just forget my laptop charger. I only check the toilets because I don’t want to get busted for having someone else’s forgotten toilet coke in my room, not because I’m personally seeking out toilet cocaine. I don’t even do cocaine.Ever. Except one time I did it accidentally in college and it gave me a horrible migraine and I threw up a lot. In all seriousness, that shit sucks. Avoid. My point is though that I’m forever leaving behind my laptop cord in hotel rooms even though it’s always in plain sight plugged into the wall so I have no excuse for forgetting it, so I imagine that trying to remember the cocaine you hid in the toilet is probably way worse. That’s why I’d hide my cocaine on the ceiling. That way the maids wouldn’t ever notice it when they made the bed but the first thing I’d see when I opened my eyes in the morning would be a brick of cocaine duct-taped to the ceiling and then I’d be all “Oh yeah. That’s where I put that.” Actually, I should probably start doing that to my laptop cord. Except that it’s white and hotel ceilings are always white too so I probably still wouldn’t see it. It’s like the hotels *want* me to leave my charger behind. The laptop people should make cords that are impossible to overlook when you’re packing. I would buy a million of those. Or I guess just one actually because I’d never lose it again. That’s probably why no one has ever invented one. No profit in it.
Updated: OH MY GOD I JUST HAD A BRILLIANT IDEA. Next time I’m at the hotel I’m going to zip up a jacket around the cord and then it’ll be totally obvious. Or if it’s too warm for a jacket I’ll put a hat on it. The point is that I’ll totally notice it and will remember to pack it later and also the hotel maids will be all “WTF? Why is she dressing up her laptop cord? Somebody check the toilet for drugs.” Which is why it’s good that I don’t hide coke in toilets. Because sometimes “genius” is mistaken for “drug-induced delirium”. That’s why if Thomas Edison was alive today he’d always get hassled by the drug dogs at the airport.
Updated X 2: I wasn’t sure if you actually buy coke in “bricks” and I didn’t want to get made fun by the hipsters for using the wrong nomenclature so I googled it and this is the first thing that popped up:
"How much does a kilo of *bacon* cost?"
Awesome.
Comment of the day: I once left my Mother in a hotel room. Totally forgot her. My wife and I left with all the rest of our stuff, and we just forgot she was sleeping in another room. Man, was my face red. You know the funniest part? We, like, totally looked around the room three times thinking we’d forgotten something, and we found my toiletry bag and were like, “Oh my gosh, imagine if we’d left that! What a relief!” ~ Fuiru
I have a ton of embarrassing shit to write about this weekend in Vegas even though most of the time I hid in my hotel room but God knows if I’ll ever finish it so instead here’s a video of me at the BlogWorld Expo Closing Keynote in Vegas, sharing a stage with Kevin Pollak, Darth Vader’s little brother and Guy Kawasaki. (This is where I would have embedded the video except for some reason it starts playing immediately and I didn’t want you to get fired for having your speakers on too loud. Because I’m compassionate.)
PS. It’s really quite long but surprisingly worth it and also this video will teach you about (insert whatever your job is here) so it’s totally okay to watch this during work time because you are increasing your value to your company.
PPS. If you are blocked from watching it at work I’ll summarize: Zombie Apocolypse breaks out, we start a swine flu epidemic, and “Cats have made me sexually aroused since I was 12”.
PPPS. In case you’re wondering where I am, I don’t come out until minute 56. Swear to God. The keynote was scheduled to last one hour. Pretty fucking clever on the part of the organizers except that I was drunk and refused to stop talking so we just go way over our alloted time and they start sending out notes telling us to wrap it up. Those notes were ignored. I’m kind of a little surprised we’re not still there.
PPPPS. Vegas is weird:
Me and Snoop. He was "sippin' on gin 'n juice" and I was just "sippING on gin and more gin", because juice gives me heartburn, and also because *I* enunciate.
Comment of the day: I love that you opened with doing zombies instead of handjobs. Wait. That sounds different than I intended. ~beth aka confusedhomemaker
The Mack Files: Digesting life in bite-sized pieces through the lens of clichés, quotes & “truisms”. Often irreverent, always honest.
Barking at the Moon: If your dog is your furry child, you will laugh out loud at Tracy Beckerman’s book about her family & a one-dog wrecking ball named Riley.
Wonder and Joy for the Wired and Tired: Feeling wired, tired, and stretched too thin? You’re not alone. Re-ignite your sense of childlike wonder, joy, and well-being with this enlightening and entertaining book by Dr. Pam Stephens Lehenbauer, well-being thought leader and author of the blog, Mother Nature’s Apprentice.
Stuff and Thangs from Xanaru: A mostly funny stuff about my quest for happiness through stories, art, friendship, Great Danes, one naked weirdo alien cat and indiscriminate swearing.
How the Hell Did I Not Know That?: Humorist Lucie Frost shares daily Instagram reels with learnings of the day—words, music, whatever–with plenty of laughs and all the curse words.
Beautiful Writers book: Writers! This coming-of-career memoir (w/ the BEST advice from celeb authors, real shit you haven’t heard) is life. A page-turning beach read doubling as how-to. #Magic
