Shameless Self-Promotion

Last night I took a flurry of pictures off my phone (which in turn had scores of photos from my last phone), so I submitted several pictures to some of my favorite blogs: Apostrophe Abuse, The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks, and lowercase L.

Overnight my photo of RMP's Policy's to Live (And Die) By was accepted! Yay! Check it out here.

How I Discovered the Impact of Beckham's Voice on Marriage

I've grown to love magazines in my post-education days. They're simple reading that requires no investment of my time, and half the time, I really only like looking at the 50 or so ads that precede the table of contents. It's perfect before-bed reading.

I have a subscription to Health; it was cheap, and I bought a copy for my Jackson Hole plane ride. I thought that I would be good at keeping up my health, but right now I'm enjoying cheesecake from Metrotainment Bakery's Sugar Shack and swearing that my reduced carbohydrate induction will reconvene tomorrow. (A weekend of posh wine tasting and drinking around a campfire gave way to a cold that could only be cured by carb-filled soups with grilled cheese.) However, Health can't fulfill all of my monthly needs.

I also love Real Simple, as all white chicks should cherish. I can't help it! I finally outgrew my legendary Cosmo collection when I decided to donate my 2000s-era US and UK editions via Craigslist. The Czech one from my time in Prague remains along with the stored and still-in-plastic-wrap 60s-era issue. One day I'll open it up for cultural exploration. That was the original point of a trunkful of magazines. But until then, I'm more interested in building a home than a why we love mama's boys. (Mamas'?)

My need for magazines currently came from recently finishing the magnificent Suite Francaise and refusing to read another novel or otherwise committing piece of literature until I finish sorting my life out.

(Sorting my life out = updating a blog or two for portfolio purposes and/or finishing editing the debut novel by this guy while he's out of the country.)

So when PYT went with his brother and girlfriend-in-law to Cleveland, Georgia, on my first camping expedition this weekend, I knew I needed new, mind-numbing reading material. I learned that when looking for quality monthly publications in Wal-Mart, you should go to the front checkouts, not the back for selections. (I'll be matronly enough for Good Housekeeping when I reach my self-deemed child-rearing age.) I picked up this month's Vanity Fair for when I wanted to read thought-provoking essays and Marie Claire for the cover story: Victoria Beckham. It was mere coincidence that I recently bought her book and revealed my love on the WWW upon the premiere of her cover story.

I can't help but love her. You can read the first part of the cover story and access the photo shoot and side interview here: http://www.marieclaire.com/celebrity-lifestyle/celebrities/exclusives/victoria-beckham-interview

My favorite part of the interview is not in the web copy. Please read below and note the bold:

There's just one more question about the marriage that I'm dying to ask. "Did you have to get used to his voice when you first met him?" I ask. "It is a bit disconcerting when you first hear it, coming, as it does, out of the mouth of such a strapping athlete. It's a bit pip-squeaky."

Beckham knowingly smiles. This time no smirk needs to be disguised. "I don't really notice that he's got a high-pitched voice. I just think he's so goddamn perfect that people have to find something wrong with him. We were about to go out somewhere the next day, and he was sending an e-mail. He was sitting at the end of the bed, and he had no clothes on whatsoever. I was getting out of the shower, and I just stood there looking at him. He was all tan. Has all those tattoos -- which I love. Hadn't done his hair. He just naturally looks good all the time. He never looks like shit in the morning. Never. So he's sitting there sending his e-mails, all ripped. Not an ounce of fat on him. And I thought, You done good, girl. I sure wasn't thinking of his high-pitched voice."

I am so glad to have read an article expressing what I have always found fault with Mr. Becks, aside from his questionable fidelity, and knowing how the Mrs. reacts and prioritizes her man.

Hell, she probably just tells him to shut up so that she can just look at him. Tell me you can't blame her.

Guilty Pleasures: Posh and Becks

I have a confession: I love the Beckhams.

Yes, he might possibly have been caught cheating on his wife (again) and has the worst English accent I have ever heard, and she was the most boring Spice Girl, but I don't care. I have her two first perfumes and now, the newest addition to my library, That Extra Half an Inch. I wanted to buy that book back when I first thought it was a diet guide but couldn't bring myself to spend $20 when I knew I could never actually look like Mrs. Beckham. (You say that you don't want to be that skinny, but really, given the choice, yes, you really do like it. And I don't discount Kate Winslet one bit for no longer being plus-sized.) You can imagine my surprise to have found it for less than $2 at Goodwill this past Saturday.

Actually I was surprised to find that That Extra Half an Inch is a fashion guide (where the extra length corresponds to the confidence from taller heels). It even credits the ghost writer! (You know Posh was too busy with children and travels to write the whole thing.) I haven't had the opportunity to learn anything except that the famous Gucci dress was actually Miss Selfridge (and even now, I have my doubts that she didn't just buy a fancier dress once the label picked up the Spice Girls). I look forward to learning exactly what pants or skirts look best to flatter my wide thighs and butt. She might not have the experience or claim to be an expert, but the rest of my life lies in the pages of her book.

Say she fails at flattering my booty -- I will at least smell delicious and . . . Intimately Beckham (both Day and Night).

I do also want to note that any female reading this should not purchase any of the colognes for her man; while Mrs. Beckham has fabulous scents, the Mr. most certainly lacks that sense. He is someone for visual pleasure, not someone to please your ears or nose. (He was blessed with a set of $150 million legs, if you will remember.)

Yes, I can't help but love Victoria Beckham so much that, had I the spare change, I would own this t-shirt as well.