I love my book club.
That's The Geez Louise International Book Club to you, bub. AKA "GLIB."
And I beg to differ with Motoko Rich, who writes in the Times ("The Book Club With Just One Member"), that there is a "different class of reader" — people who are more serious about reading — who don't join book clubs. People who feel that "their relationship with a book is too intimate to share with others."
HA! Actually, I don't beg at all. I loudly proclaim my right — and the right of book clubbies everywhere — to differ like hell!
Our book club consists of the usual suspects: Louise (hence the Geez), Betsy, Sharon, Diana and me. We had Silvia, but when she moved back to Italy, we kept International in the title. Because we could. We are (or were) all involved with publishing — as writers, editors, consultants, and yes, even publishers. We all love books. We lived for them, literally.
 Like Ms Rich, as a child I read books by flashlight, or even the light of the radio. I knew there were secrets in those pages (They were!) that the grownups weren't telling me (They weren't!). The experience was all the more delicious for the naughtiness of it all.
But that was then, and this is now.
I still stay up late reading, but I use a book light. Now that I think of it, though. . . flashlights were a favorite prop of Nancy Drew, whose books my company produced for over a decade, although she usually used it for detective work.
Nancy very conveniently had no mother and a very indulgent father, so only Hannah the Housekeeper could stop her from staying up all night with her favorite novel. If Nancy had wanted to use a flashlight, Hannah would have brought some extra batteries and some freshly baked cookies. That women, bless her heart, was a real pushover.
Now, The New York Times may think that my love for Nancy (shared by Justice Sotomayer, among many, many other prominent women) makes me unserious about reading.
Unserious! Moi! You wouldn't say that if you saw my apartment . . (Go to Read More)
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 I am so lonely.
Some crazed woman was here yesterday to clean out my closet, if not my act, and she left here toting 6 large shopping bags headed for Goodwill.
She got in there and dragged things out I didn't know I had, made all kinds of piles, had me try on things to decide which pile they went in to: a whirling dervish on a mission.
My closet is neater than it has ever been in the history of me, amazingly organized, and I am thrilled and happy but a bit unnerved. I truly do understand the concept: clutter is not just bad for your closets, it's bad for your head. Maybe even your karma. Don't want to have bad Kloset Karma. No way.
Besides, the more you have jammed in there, the more you tend to wear the same three things day in and day out. Am I right?
It's a good idea, especially in these financially trying times, to "shop in your closet," instead of going forth to Macys or Bloomingdales, where you inadvertently buy the same thing over and over because you don't remember what you have. Of course, I advertently buy the same things all the time, but that's another story.
Now. If you're going to shop in your closet, it has to look like a store, not a warehouse. Sigh. I so get it, I really do. But I feel a little . . . empty. I mean, it's unnatural to have spaces between your clothes when you live in a New York apartment.
We've all seen this kind of closet cleansing on Oprah and Queer Eye and What Not to Wear, but when it happens to you, you need to be brave . . .
(Go to READ MORE.)
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 I don't want to multi task.
I don't even want to task.
I'm a girl, so I just wanna have fun.
Take doctors. Please. (Sorry about that.) Sometimes, I just want them to tell me what to do. I may not do it. In fact, I probably won't. But I want an opinion, not a bunch of options, which will necessitate yet another task in my life: doing the research.
Oprah says that this is what we all must do with hormone replacement therapy, among other things. And who can argue with Oprah?
But HRT: What a can of worms! According to the "experts," it could be good, it could be bad, it could be sorta good or sorta bad, or good in some ways but not in others, and good for some women but not for others, or maybe it's only good for Jackie Mason . . . And in the final analysis, you have to figure it out for yourself.
It's like playing doctor – without benefits . . .
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Why are all the shows I love on TV on vacation? I'm not. Why should they be?
Take Bored to Death. It took me two or three episodes to get hooked on the improbably loveable characters and to find myself humming the theme song even though I don't quite get the words — and then, just like that, the season was over. Sure, I can watch it on HBO On Demand, but I want a new episode!
Then there's Mad Men. And Entourage. Don't even talk about In Treatment. Reruns do not cut it. Yo, Gabriel. I need a session! Badly. You ARE coming back, aren't you? Do we even have an appointment? You can't just go and cancel therapy like that: we're all neurotic enough as it is.
 Life is SOOO annoying.
We're not being Bored to Death — just Annoyed to Death.
In the post, Earth To Willard Scott, about trying to get my parent's 75th anniversary on the Today Show (talk about annoying!), I said that although people are now living to 100 on a regular basis, I seriously doubt that WE will. Why? You have to ask?
Life is just so much more complicated for us these days — beyond annoying, if you want to know the truth. And it won't get any better as some of us we inch our way towards a century of living.
Here are a just a few of the things — besides not being able to see a new episode of Gossip Girl — that could annoy a person to death. Any one of them alone can make you want to tear you hair out, but taken as a whole, the results could be, well, fatal . . .
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 For some weird reason, dogs love me. On Christmas, a white bundle of fluff named Bella was all over me (in front of the children!) and before that, a boxer weighing slightly less than I do jumped into my lap, then followed me around, wagging and whimpering. The dog, not me. Go figure: I'm not even a dog person. But I am a writer and I like to think up names.
So when my brother Gary got this adorable puppy and wanted to choose a name, he called to talk about it.
His first choice was "Scout," which I personally love.
Scout: for the heroine of To Kill A Mockingbird, or for Girl Scout (the doggie is a female), or talent scout, or . . . Tonto's horse! (You remember "Hi, ho, Silver, Away! Well, Scout was right up there with The Lone Ranger.) The name Scout: it's all good.
Except for one little thing: When training a dog, "Scout" sounds a lot like "Out." Uh-oh. "Out, Scout?" I don't think so. And "Out, out, damned Scout" doesn't even make sense.
Besides, doggie experts say that a dog's name should have two or more syllables.
H'mm. The dog is dark brown and white and wonderful. What else, we wondered, is brown and white with positive vibes? Too bad about Tiger Woods. Rotten timing. Oxfords? Nah. A hot fudge sundae? Getting warmer. . . Wait a minute! How about our all-time favorite cookie, the one we obsess about and will take no substitute for, the only cookie that has a "season" because it's real chocolate and would melt in the summer — the one, the only, the Mother Of All Cookies:
Mallomar! He could call her Mallomar! We once named Nancy Drew's new lab Chocolate Chip, and that worked.
And yet. We do so love the name Scout. . .
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