I meant to write something under here yesterday. It was going
to be about my love/hate relationship with magazines. I grew up
in a house with every magazine subscription known to man. It
was a great way for my family to emulate spending quality time
together when in fact we were really just sitting side by side
drooling over the glossy pages of other people�s exciting lives.

When I left home I went to an all women's college. My first
class was taught by an amazon New Orleans woman who made
a mean gumbo and encouraged the class to work on an assignment
that involved ripping up magazines into a collage of sorts.
The theme was how badly magazines portray women. For a
couple of years the project and images my classmates
chose to glue to poster board stuck in my head. A hand
reach for a Vogue suddenly turned into an automatic
response-an electronic shock of sorts. I was too shameful
to buy mags anymore and thanks to the money I saved my
pride made me a rich woman.

A nice story-but it wasn't long until I was back on the
Magwagon again. Currently in my house I have more trashy
mags then I'd care to admit. While E pretends to hide
them away it is him I find laughing at a photo of Mike
Tyson walking to his car with TP coming out his pants.

Trashy mags break the ice. After a few beers at a party
they can be a great topic of conversation. Men pretend
to be bored by it all but trust me when I say they are
right there in it. When family comes to town and there
is no more wine and cheese there are always enough
trashy magazines-common ground for all to talk about.

All I know is yesterday sucked and if it hadn't been for
photos of Scarlett Johansson chewing with her mouth open
at the Ivy...I don't know what I might have done.