Will, I am American.

I am such an American. I’m not sure if I have felt my American roots so much in the past two years since I saw my president speak in the center of Europe. (Of course, then his visit the natives of a time before the Velvet Revolution.)

Yes, I am talking about my current (re-)obsession with the British family. House of Windsor on my DVR, The Tudors and The Young Victoria both recently devoured through my Netflix queue, and just saw The King’s Speech.

As an American, I can’t help but have a fascination for the British Royal Family. I’ve come about long after our innate hatred of their imperial hold on us and the world, so I can fondly look across the pond to respect the historic lineage. Our presidents are great and all, but you can rig elections, and they’re always changing. Isn’t there comfort in knowing the monarch(y) is always there? Of course, like I said, I’m American; therefore, I love my democracy.

And I love knowing your princes’ love lives. I put them over Hollywood happenings.

I can’t help love the complete impracticality of the monarchy. I mean, really, Parliament does most everything, doesn’t it? While I know that there is strong opposition to the institution, I can’t help but insist that the British should embrace what they have and what the world, or just America, admires. What would happen to your church without its leader? I’ve read that my tourist dollars actually more than balance what their taxes provide. While I never fantasized of becoming a princess or dating a real prince (especially after attending an English university devoid of aristocracy), I can’t deny the fantastical desire to stand in the presence of someone with Divine Right.

As an American, I have been part of a culture that has fought against the notion for over two hundred years. And now I watch every period drama I possibly can.

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.