Keep it light,
Keep it funny,
Keep it winsome,
Like a bunny.
I thought of that while brushing my teeth. And so now, in an attempt to keep my ablution-brewed promise, here are a few things that are amusing (or at least to me).
First, I read a fun new author this week. Her name is Laura Levine, and she writes cozy mysteries about -- what else? -- a sassy sleuth with a cat. There's something special about Jaine Austen, and I don't just mean her misspelled literary legend of a moniker. Jaine (not unlike her namesake) is a freelance writer who never met a takeout carton that didn't make her swoon. With a cushy advertising gig and a jerk of an ex-husband (she calls him The Blob) in her rear view mirror, she's armed with only her cantankerous cat Prozac, her trusty elastic waist jeans, and her wits to navigate the often shark-infested waters of Los Angeles. I laughed out loud as Jaine dealt with bylines and bodies with equal parts chutzpah, all the while trying not to feel like I was cheating on Mary Daheim's Judith and Renie, my up-until-now unopposed favorites in the category of fictional quirky crime-fighters. Jaine's capers are made all the more captivating by her single-girl snafus and her frills-free lifestyle, both of which provide endless fodder for the self-deprecating humor that is at the heart of her first-person narratives. If I ever write a novel, then I'd want it to be like these, a quippy account of self-effacing fiascoes, unpaid credit card bills, and siren-like snacks. Because when you get down to it, isn't that what life's really about?
On the subject of food (because somehow it's always the subject), the husband and I were watching some Food Network show in which one chef grimly grinned through a mouthful of another's kale-covered cookies when the husband said, "They should have a cooking show where chefs say what they're really thinking instead of pretending to like everything. They could call it "The Roast."' I agreed but thought that it should be called "That's So Rare" or maybe even "What's Your Beef?" (you know, if it was meant to be raucous). Oh, how the meatballs would fly.
And finally, here's the last kernel in this cornucopia of crazy. I don't think people would call the boss the "head cheese" if they knew what head cheese actually was. Or maybe they would, given the way some people feel about their bosses. No . . . wait. They wouldn't say "head cheese" at all. They'd say "head honcho" or "big cheese." Those, now that I think about it, are the sayings.
*I mean no disrespect to the good people of Kraft. Their products are topnotch and not at all like head cheese.