It's an Obsession... and I'm Wiped.

Where's MY book deal? Huh? Why am I not getting paid to write trite phrases about the kickiness that is my life?

Here's my confession... I read Leah McLaren's book last year. When I heard my numero uno imaginary enemy wrote a book, my green-eyed monster roared it's head and I had a hissy-fit. I wanted to read her crappy book so badly, but I refused to buy it. Re-frigging-fused. I was NOT going to pay money that I worked hard to earn to line the pockets of the likes of that snippet. But then I heard McLaren's book wasn't doing too well. Since it was Canadian chick-lit, I thought her publisher might send her on a nation-wide tour to drum up interest in the pre-Christmas months. And since I was living in a real city by then (farewell, Yellowknife!), I figured she would be stopping in Edmonton. So my plan was this... get the book from the library, read it, hate it, and when she came to town on her junket, I could go to the reading and scold her publicly for writing such cack. I realize this took a lot of effort and brain power on my part, and wasted precious time, but it soothed the savage beast inside me. I read it. I hated it. I waited for her book tour in vain. And I still hate the book.

I doubt Icky is going on a book tour, thank god. But I have just reserved "Knocked Up" out of the library, just in case. I am number 5 on the waiting list. Number 5!?! Really? Are there that many people who want to read this? Or are they like me and have this sick urge to read what Icky thinks is her own original tale?

On a happy note... The mangiest window washer is perched outside my office window right now. I thought he was a goner for a second there, when he splashed himself in the face with the washing water. I think he got his mullet wet.

Hysterically Yours,
xoxoSallyt