I’m a multitasker, not in the sense that I can do two things at once but in the sense that I can’t articulate  a thought without a mental interruption that I sometimes share with a confused listener.  My husband says that I start every conversation in the middle.  I won’t lie…it’s probably true and I don’t think it’s helping my communication skills.  This makes me wonder why I agreed to direct a play after a 30 year hiatus.  A successful play that became a beloved movie.  A play during the time of Covid.

I lost the Covid 19 in 2020 and have so far been able to sustain the loss (Noom if you must know).  Last week, which was about a month before the play opens, I had a donut for breakfast and a hot dog for lunch.  While meeting with my co-director (Marla Frost O’Brien) yesterday evening I popped open one of the snack attack tubes for some faux barbecue Pringles chips.  In my defense there are about 20 of the cardboard “cans” on set.  We’re covering them with stickers that replicate 1980’s AquaNet hairspray cans.  Other, younger people are peeling the stickers and placing them on the containers.  What little hand eye coordination I ever possessed deserted me years ago. 

In December when Marla proposed this co-directing project for Riverfront Playhouse, it sounded like a good idea—doable.  Marla and I have directed together before and we share a similar style.  Or we did.  Marla has maintained the ability to express a coherent thought.  I have brought my confusing, three ideas in one sentence style into the mix and it is only the talent and patience of the six actresses and Marla that have gotten us this far.

I should’ve known, right from the start, that the virus would be a factor in the production of this play. In January we had a great turnout of masked and about 60% vaccinated women at auditions.  Our six actresses perfectly represent Shasta County’s response to the pandemic.  Three are vaccinated and boosted, three are not.  The unvaxxed ladies have had the Omicron variant.  For the first 3 weeks of rehearsals we never had the full cast.  This is a vigilant group so anyone, vaxxed or not, stays home after exposure or symptoms.  Since this is the very contagious variant that many believe all of us will inevitably get, Marla and I have an extra layer of tension as opening night approaches.  

A few days ago, as I took the stage for an ailing actress (headache and aches, oh my!), I wondered if I would end up playing one of the parts and for the first time I felt real fear.  We don’t have understudies.  Think about it.  More people, more people who can get sick. Marla and I and our patient male stage manager have played every role at some point.  In my “day” I could’ve played any of the roles; today I cannot pull off three-four of them.  I don’t know if I’ll ever act again but I certainly can’t direct and act.  I’m not even sure I can memorize.  And this is a tough play for memorization.  Everyone has a lot of lines and since the play was written by a man who clearly understood the free range nature of women’s conversations, the dialogue doesn’t always follow a logical progression.  In other words, the women talk like I do.  Dear God.

Maybe you aren’t familiar with community theater and don’t understand that directing means overseeing every element of the play.  The director(s) design the set, approve and in our case, shop for, costumes and props, help with publicity, and cajole actresses into wearing wigs and/or painting their hair.  And that list doesn’t include taping the stage floor with markers for rehearsal and getting flattened by a stage wall falling on you.  Because that’s what happened to me a week ago.  I wish I could say that the “flat” (the term for stage walls) was in the old style, which consisted of muslin stretched across 1×2” frames. Nowadays the flats are constructed with a 4×8’ sheet of plywood reinforced by a 2×4” frame.  Let’s just say that when it smacked me on the head and shoulder, it got my attention.

The first thing I thought of was that it was a good thing I had a massage appointment the next day.  There were many good things, in fact.  My time in the ER was blessedly short and X-rays and a CT scan showed neither breaks or bleeds. By the next evening I was fine.  In the chaos after being “flattened” (theater humor), I was surrounded by horrified set builders and Marla.  What I noticed most was the self-induced pressure I felt to be okay.  Thirty years ago I would’ve ditched the ice pack after 20 minutes and got back to work. (I didn’t say I was any smarter 30 years ago.)  Today I have a little better understanding of the limitations of my body.  

Inevitably these reflections reminded me of how the play underscores the issues of health and happiness.

“Steel Magnolias” is the only play I would’ve come out of retirement to direct.  And the more time I spend with it, the more I appreciate the honesty in Robert Harling’s tribute to his sister and to the strength of women.  The simple language is poignant and it exposes loss in a way that makes my throat tighten and eyes sting.  I have no emotional distance from the stories of these women; every rehearsal reminds me of friends I’ve loved and friends I’ve lost.  You may have seen the movie with its powerhouse cast but any good play with the immediacy of live performances is better.  Our cast and crew are amazing.  And Riverfront Playhouse needs the community to fill the seats and bring it out of the darkness of the pandemic. Is this a not-so-subtle suggestion that you should see the play? Sure. But it’s also a play worth seeing because it’s so funny, because the talent is stunning, and because it makes me cry at every rehearsal.

https://anewscafe.com

Today I wrote a response to an article published in a news cafe, an online news source to which I subscribe. I hope the link above will take you to Doni Chamberlain’s well-written and insightful article. Her words inspired many community members to respond thoughtfully and sincerely. It’s no surprise that virtually all of us have reacted to the recent rise in COVID-19 cases and deaths and many of us have opinions about current circumstances. For what it’s worth, here’s mine.

It’s gratifying to read your article, Doni, as well as most of the responses because your powerful observations and well defended position speak to the truth I see. There have been times during the last couple of months where my rage and fear, both inspired and inflamed by the “mask haters,” have overwhelmed me with bitterness and incomprehension. How hard is is to wear a mask? To put others before yourself? To think that “just in case the masks aren’t part of a larger left wing conspiracy, maybe I’ll wear a mask and cancel that family birthday party?” The answer must be “pretty damn hard;” otherwise why has something that seems so obvious, so small a sacrifice, become a battleground? While I would personally love to kick non-mask wearing butt, I can see that this issue reflects a much deeper problem, an essential divide and lack of respect on both sides,

I think we already know that very few of the folks who won’t wear a mask in Shasta County are going to change their behavior. Those of us who do can cast our “votes” by boycotting non-compliant businesses and supporting those that do comply. The reverse is also true. What I see is a near future of behaviors that fan the proverbial flames of outrage, again on both sides.

Where are the psychologists and spiritual leaders in this debate? Why aren’t we looking for the basis of these actions? It seems to me that both groups are motivated by fear. To me, not wearing a mask is short-sighted, selfish and dangerous. To “them” wearing a mask is weak, unpatriotic and dangerous. The rise in COVID-19 cases and deaths is proving different things to both sides. And the lack of inspirational leadership at all levels from local to national isn’t helping. As hard as it is, as awful and purposeless as it seems, (God help us) we need to start trying to understand each other.

Courage is what it takes to stand up and speak; courage is also what it takes to sit down and listen.” — Winston Churchill

When I wear a mask, I’m operating under two premises.  I’m protecting you by covering my face in case I’m contagious.  Also, in my heart, I feel safer from you in case you sneeze in my face while exercising your God-given,Constitutional right to not wear a mask and risk my life.

One thing I think no one would argue (but I’m naive that way and of course someone will always argue): the issue about wearing or not wearing masks is really about something else.  And that something else may vary from person to person.  I’ve spent the last 6+ years moving around this country to various medical communities in an attempt to keep my husband alive.  So, yeah, I wear a mask. You probably have a different reason. But I will say that it’s ugly the way people have gone crazy on social media about the mask issue.  It hasn’t been pretty, folks, and it may be hard for some of us to look in the mirror when (if) this is over.

And speaking of the mirror, here’s where an eye mask would come in handy.  Today I looked down on my newly showered body, something that admittedly I have a lot more time to do, and saw my mother’s legs.  It was inevitable but I think I could’ve ignored it for a few more years were I not trapped in my home with a freezer full of drumsticks (the ice cream kind).  I can still get into all of my clothes but now they leave marks on my body.  I could weigh myself, something I NEVER do (it’s a policy of mine) but I don’t want “getting on the scale” to be listed as my cause of death.

Some people say that the world will never be the same.  That’s not necessarily a bad thing.  One way I think things could improve is by slowing down our acquisition of STUFF.  The irony here, of course, is the reality that the USPS and UPS folks are now my best friends.  But even as I purchase more so-called essentials online, I am filling my guest room with the detritus of my life.  The stuff falls into various categories but a big one is all the things I bought when I was working and had 72 people working for me so I gave big parties.  So the roaster/three dish warmer is leaving my cupboard, where it has sat silent and hulking since 2012.  Also heading to the animal rescue thrift store are the griddle, the large and small punch bowls, many serving plates, extra utensils, and candles, candles, candles.   I also don’t need the 36 plates and 36 wine glasses I bought for fundraising events.  And the vases. I REALLY don’t need the 100+ vases I’ve received or collected in case someone asks me to do the flowers for his/her wedding.  No one has asked me to do more than a flower arrangement since 2014.  And for that wedding I decorated a dozen ball jars with lace, burlap and pearls and bought four large vases and pitchers, all of which I still have. I have to admit that most of these things may still “spark joy” because I loved giving those big parties and helping friends with theirs.  Part of me wants to keep the plates in case Molly needs them again for her Christmas Eve party with her grandma who hates paper plates.  Grandma passed I don’t know how many years ago so I guess the plates can go. 

We live in a very large house built in 1958.  It’s not a mid-century gem with cool, carefully preserved  glass bricks, interesting room dividers, and plaster walls.  Rather it’s a ruthlessly redecorated and renovated ranch style home that was stripped of personality and “beiged” into a paneled, neutral nightmare in the late 1980’s.  So, many of things I’ve acquired or spent money on have fallen into the category of redecorating.  And if I hadn’t gone through an inexplicable “farmhouse” period, there would be fewer ball jars and bread boxes to donate.  Right now I’m having two plaid chairs recovered to fit in with the bohemian/mid-century style I aspire to but never achieve.  If I hadn’t already ordered fabric and paid for the reupholstering before the quarantine, I wouldn’t do it now.  I would donate those damn chairs or just cover them since Mike is unnaturally attached to them.  The most embarrassing thing about this purge is that this house has tons of storage and we have used it all. The second most embarrassing thing is that I know better than to load myself down with all…this…stuff.

When I was six my family moved from Spain, where my father was stationed, to Maryland.  None of my toys and prized possessions made the trip stateside.  Gone was the doll with the handmade bridal dress and trousseau, gone were the china dogs my dad brought home from the countries he flew to, gone was the tiny silver tea service a friend of my parents had brought me from Germany.  You might assume that this scarred me for life and maybe it did.  As a child I had no collections because I knew what happened when you collected things.  As a young adult I could put all of my possessions in my car and move in a day.  As a new teacher I emphatically resisted the lure of classroom decor, even as students repeatedly gave me macrame owls.  I finally put one up in my classroom just to ward off future owls. I once moved into a classroom with an entire wall of windows covered with macrame curtains (I guess that’s what they were).  I called the previous, now retired, teacher whose room it had been and asked if he wanted the “hideous macrame coverings.” Guess who made them? Yup, another moment in faux pas history. 

So, anyway, when did all this “travel light” philosophy go down the drain? Partly it was because of my students.  I would purchase stuff and put up bulletin boards in the summer and then I was done.  For the year.  My students, depending on their level of kindness, would either ask me if “anything was ever going to change” in my room or bring me things to put up on my walls.  But the main reason my resistance to acquiring things broke down was marrying a collector.

When I married Mike in 1995 I was already lugging around literal baggage from my deceased husband who (no exaggeration) saved everything he ever owned.  Mike seemed to be fairly unencumbered, but that turned out to be misleading.  Just like how he told me he wasn’t addicted to sports, but that’s another story.  Early in our marriage I found out how much Mike liked antique furniture and books.  Okay, I had antique bookcases so that was good.  But then the collecting started.  First Mike was interested in Art Deco because I had a lamp and a mirror he admired.  So he started collecting Art Deco clocks and then radios.  That expanded into any clock or old radio including large, floor models (we have three).  There have been other obsessions, I mean collections, but they all have one thing in common.  They never go away.  Even worse, I have been lured into participating.

We were visiting friends in Seattle and I purchased a beautiful blue and gold tea cup and saucer.  I casually mentioned that maybe (maybe is the operative word) I would get tea cups from places we visited.  It seemed like an innocent remark.  The following month was December and for Christmas Mike presented me with a large collection of antique tea cups and saucers in both traditional and demitasse sizes.  I think there were more than 20.  After that my sister foisted—I mean generously gave—me the cups my mother had foisted on her.  At that point I had 30+ cups and no place to display them.  Plus I didn’t want to display them.  I started a collection of tea things for the daughters of one of my friends and, among the teapots, cozies, and spoons, I managed to offload some of the cups.  But the majority of them are stored in a sideboard and never see the light of day.  

Today I find myself in house full of things that somebody else will hopefully like, use, and then pass on to another person, thereby extending the time before it arrives at the landfill.  And that is why my guest room is crammed with donations and why I will keep adding to the piles. I’m at the point where I don’t want anything unless I can eat it, drink it, or plant it.  And after 73 days of being in my house or yard, I am overwhelmed with a lifetime of buyer’s remorse.  When I take these things to the thrift store I will be happy to give and a little ashamed of all I have.  And I will be wearing a mask.

I’ve had bad experiences with decorators. Several years ago Mike and I hired a consultant to give us advice on dealing with the overwhelming beigeness of our then new home. We were doomed from the start. Turns out this very same decorator had guided the former owners of our house into neutral paradise about 15 years before. As we walked around the house she asked if we had known the previous owners who “had such great taste.” Uh, oh. She examined Mike’s collections of vintage and antique radios, clocks and books and cringed at the sight of the blue and pink floral sofa and love seat. (I was with her there, those Laura Ashley nightmares had come with Mike when I was too besotted to bar them from my house.) As we returned to the living room to hear her verdict, Mike “remembered “ he had forgotten to lock the door to the school and dashed out. Most of the rest of the visit is a blur but I do remember her saying that we had some interesting “things” and it was time to get some furniture. About the time she suggested putting up a half wall and creating a “receiving area,” I knew she had completely misread us. When I pointed out that wasn’t our style, she told me we didn’t have a style. Prophetic words as it turned out.

Nevertheless,I recently had an epiphany about my decorating style. Whenever I take one of those quizzes that’s supposed to identify your style I get something like “elegant beach cottage” or “casual eclectic traditional.” Real helpful. Recently I was sitting on one of the navy wingbacks admiring the new rug and how well it works with the gold leather couch and repurposed walnut mid-century coffee table and antique end table and burnished gold and glass display case. You see the problem. So I decided my style is bohemian, which seems to mean anything the hell you want it to mean. Pretty sure that people who acquire things just because they like them and then put them all together are bohemian. That’s my story/excuse. I guess the big question is why I care about having a style. I blame it on media. (I blame everything on media; it’s the one thing I have in common with he-who-shall-not-be-named.)

Everything from magazines to television to Amazon shows us what we should do. The more things there are to do, the more things we take on. A case in point: remember when you were a kid and company came to stay? I know my mom put clean sheets on the pull out couch for my aunt and uncle. As for the kids (at least 6), they slept on floors and were lucky if carpet was involved. There was a lot of cooking going on while the guests were sightseeing in D.C., but usually an aunt or uncle stayed around to help. My mom stressed because that was her personality but the whole event was so casual, so relaxed for everyone else. Now there are endless Pinterest boards and online articles about “getting ready for company” — entertaining could be a full time job. And let’s face it, nowadays we don’t have 8 people coming to visit; it’s usually a couple, right?

This whole “creating a comfortable, inviting space” for visitors has bled into parties. I admit my guilt here. I enjoy setting the table with my French tablecloth and napkins, white dishes, and crystal. Then I put (the piece de resistance) sprigs of lavender (that I grew) on each napkin. If I’m feeling really French, I’ll include lavender in the meal. Sometimes, usually around Christmas, I’m feeling very British so I make puddings (dessert) like millionaires shortbread and Victoria sponge. Actually I haven’t made a Victoria sponge (layer cake) yet but I’m addicted to the Great British Baking Show, so it’s just a matter of time.

All of the preceding, not very funny prose brings me—finally—to my point. The more we find examples of how other people do stuff better, the more we up our own games. This applies to virtually everything, including cooking, decorating, dressing, gardening, the list goes on. You can say it’s always been this way and that’s true. When Old Ma Smith tasted Old Ma Johnson’s superior cornbread, she was inspired. Maybe she just made better cornbread for her family, or if she was competitive maybe she entered her cornbread in the county fair, knocking Old Ma Johnson’s entry down to second place and losing a lifelong friend. Who knows? What is different today is that we are constantly bombarded with examples of improved whatever (see list above). In the past only friends and acquaintances motivated us in that particular way. And you know what? We didn’t have to work as hard as we do now.

When are people going to realize the cost of our “conveniences?” Let’s trace the evolution of the garage door that used to be pulled down by a rope, thereby providing a little upper body toning. The electric garage door opener ruined all that and led to all sorts of crimes and misdemeanors. Garage doors became fancy so the garage itself became another area that needed decor—color coordinated tool chests, shelves and cupboards, and perfectly clean, preferably painted, concrete floors. My poor husband would be happy to improve our garage. His dream would be a garage with finished, painted walls and ceiling, IKEA units and a work table that is perfectly empty with the exception of an artistically angled hammer. Unfortunately he’s married to me so practically the only garage amenity we have is the automatic opener that we can operate from our cars. Poor Mike. He has attempted to upgrade our un-sheet rocked walls and exposed rafter ceiling with standing cabinets (unpainted particle board, alas) and various rolling, metal tool chests. Currently he’s contemplating building a shed on the south end of the garage to provide the space to store the boxes, bikes, and camping equipment housed in the garage. He thinks this will make his garage “pretty.” It won’t. Sorry Mike, but the garage needs a complete makeover beginning with a Pinterest page followed by decisions about style and bringing in the guys from “Queer Eye” for the finishing touch. Since I’m always updating my so-called style inside the house, the garage is destined to remain functional rather than beautiful.

By the way, here’s an update on my official style. It’s Minimalist Mid-Century Traditional Bohemian. And if you don’t believe me, check out my Pinterest page.

Once in awhile, about every two to three years, my body screams stop and I listen. I tend to forget that my allergies can lay me out, moving from their usual spot in my sinuses and taking over muscle groups, temperature control, and digestive functions. This only occurs when I achieve the magic combination of fatigue, stress, dramatic changes in barometric pressure, and bad timing. So instead of hanging out at the hospital with Mike and providing relief from boredom, I’m in bed in the hotel room, under the covers because I’m cold, watching “Say yes to the dress” and weeping. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen this show—it’s my first time—but it is your typical, manipulative, formulaic, so-called reality show. There’s the bride, obviously, and among the cast of characters is a relative or friend who is opinionated and kind of snarky. For some reason everyone listens to Ms. Bitter Unmarried Sister or Mrs. Holds the Purse Strings, or Mrs. My Son is too Good for You so Try to Look Like a Princess . There are men at these showings but they fall into two categories: indulgent daddy and daddy who is appalled at the low cut dresses his little girl is trying on.

You may be wondering how it is that I’ve figured all this out. Well. Apparently this show is on for (at last count) 3 consecutive hours. The producers make a genuine effort to include (very) different kinds of brides. My favorite so far is the body builder who chose a dress to accent her arms and shoulders and orange tan. There have been many enhanced breasts, really scary, but I think if I take another decongestant I can stop the flashbacks.

Almost as horrifying as some of the dresses are the constantly repeated commercials. Dr. Pimple Popper heads the line up, with a veritable buffet of lumps that you never wanted to see. I’ve been forcing fluids so this commercial allows me to take bathroom breaks every 11 and a half minutes.

So why am I still watching this? It’s a cross between horrified fascination and waiting for the inevitable tear jerker element to surface. There’s often a sob story (dying relative, horribly burned relative) but what gets to me is when the bride finds THE DRESS. It’s not my fault; I’ve been conditioned to tear up during sentimental commercials. The first (manipulative) station break I can remember is the commercial where the soldier comes home from WWII and the whole family is having a hamburger at McDonald’s for some reason and then the returning hero shows up. Yes, McDonalds that opened in the 1960s, which, hello, is two decades after WWII ended. Did that knowledge stop me from tearing up? No way! It was a soldier and there was sad music playing. I was overcome with patriotism, sentiment, and irritation that I’m so easy.

Okay, I’ve had a surfeit of unreality and now I’m going to turn off the tv before there’s a news break, drink some more tea, and attempt to sleep sitting up.

Several hours later. My no-fail treatment for allergy attack (decongestant, nose spray, vitamin C, herbal tea, red vines, and mindless television) has worked and I should be fully recovered by tomorrow morning. Now that I can breathe, sleep seems like an option. I’m going to skip the two hour documentary on Ted Bundy (yikes), power down the electronics, turn off the lights and thank God for world class medical treatment.

Just spoke with Mike and he is counting down to his last two infusions. He called to see how I was feeling and to say good night. Did I marry the right man or what?!!

You’ve heard of reading for pleasure but how about reading for pain? From the time I could read I’ve used books to escape from emotional pain. Let me be clear that I wasn’t escaping from anything more toxic than being a middle child in suburban America during the innocent early sixties.

My mother was a great reader and gave me her old Judy Bolton mysteries to read after I’d devoured the insipid Nancy Drews and cloying Cherry Ames stories. (I’ve often wondered about the psychological impact on female America from reading about those perfect girls. Not good I’m sure.) Anyway, Judy Bolton was complicated and smart and a little bitchy but in a good way. Setting aside that I couldn’t fathom anyone getting engaged at 16 (Judy and her friends did that a lot), I loved the mysteries because they were gritty and real and consuming.

I used to say that my mother never restricted my reading choices but now I think she was too busy raising and worrying about us kids to monitor what I was reading. Like reading “The Carpetbaggers” and “Valley of the Dolls” before I’d reached puberty. Confusing to say the least but the narratives were great. Aristotle said that plot is what compels us to read, although he said it more eloquently and in Greek. Humans need to know what happens next. It’s that simple and that complicated. It’s why the worst, most puerile made for TV movie will capture us as we scroll through the channels. It’s why Mike watched the entire, saccharine “Mistletoe Inn” Hallmark movie the other night while I frosted sugar cookies and swore. I had deliberately saved a mediocre and manipulative Christmas movie to play while wrapping presents and abusing baked goods. I can’t use a good movie, say “Love Actually” or “The Bishop’s Wife,” because I get pulled into the film. The same principle applies when I save a book by a favorite author for uninterrupted enjoyment or choose a book I can stop reading when I know I’ll be busy.

Of course reading has caused me pain as well.

Recently I sprained my good ankle. Long story about the bad ankle, but this was the good ankle. I did it walking down the single step in my ranch style home. I’ve always been clumsy and add to it I bruise easily. And I’m unlucky. It takes a certain talent to injure yourself when frosting sugar cookies. Who knew that red food coloring would stain my fingers so easily? Who knew that scrubbing those fingers would tear my skin? Now I know. I blame all of this on reading because I sprained my ankle and cut my finger while listening to audio books. David Sedaris has a lot to answer for. But I digress.

I’ve never been able to control my thoughts, which are scattered in a way that is hard to describe. For instance, right now as I write this I’m calculating my time and mentally reworking the long list of pre-Christmas errands and chores. I’m not using my injured right index finger and I’m elevating my right ankle. In a few minutes I’ll dress in jeans (with pockets) so I can listen to an audio book with my currently charging phone in my pocket. Sweats (my pajamas) have no pockets— a definite oversight of the manufacturers. I’ll plug in to a Jane Austen mystery, pack up cookies to deliver and not think about the things I don’t want to think about. See? Easy.

I won’t think about having a lot to do and not enough time. I won’t castigate myself for hurting my ankle and being so far behind on preparations for two consecutive dinner parties. I won’t fret about the weird mini seizure my beloved Fiona had a few weeks ago. I won’t feel guilty about not sending biscotti to various friends and family members. I’ll shove down the constant, inchoate fear about Mike and his health. Instead I’ll listen to a mystery read by a British narrator. Mysteries and British literature are my favorite and Jane Austen is my favorite writer (I’m not a crier but I wept when I was in Bath at the Jane Austen museum.) So this book, set in the early 1800s with Jane Austen as the main character is me pulling out the big guns. It takes this to quell my worries, shut down my mind for a few minutes, and get me through the Christmas season.

Why does everything seem worse this time of year? Is it because it’s the end of a year of natural and unnatural disasters that I hope never to repeat? Or maybe the overlay of memories of childhood anticipation and pure joy dull adult experience. Objectively I can say this has been a tough year: international threats and national scandals, a nightmare medical diagnosis for a relative, the death of a beloved student, infernos, wind, floods, and he who must not be named but always is. I grow weary of tweets and insincere outrage. So tired of thinking and worrying. So I read.

It’s my drug; I admit it. With the advent of electronic readers I am never without a fix. In line at the pharmacy? Listen again to ”Holiday on Ice”—hysterical. I don’t care if people eye me nervously when I laugh out loud at (apparently) nothing. On a boring freeway? “Britt Marie Was Here” makes those miles enjoyable. Waiting for the love of your life to return from another medical procedure? Well, it takes a really good writer for that: Elizabeth George, Ann Patchett or Ian McKuen.

Another benefit of this particular addiction is that reading in public discourages people from engaging you in conversation. If you listen to a book while simultaneously knitting or playing solitaire on your device, you can be almost completely impervious to the real world. I recommend it.