Sandra Tsing Loh struggles with the time change.
I'm not going to apologize. Winter is starting. It gets dark at four. Like half a million other Americans, I have Seasonal Affective Disorder. The waning of sunlight makes me depressed. But I'm fighting it off, doggedly. I'm putting a shovel or any other blunt tool I can find to Seasonal Affective Disorder's head, as though fighting off zombies in The Walking Dead, which I should not be watching.
I am ingesting large quantities of Hawaiian Barbeque kettle chips because of their tropical orange color. I saw Last Vegas the other weekend at a 4:30 matinee. I joined Michael Douglas, Morgan Freeman, Robert De Niro, and Kevin Kline at their Nevada pool party, and it was hilarious. I am going to go laugh my way next through Best Man Holiday, as soon as I locate my car keys and Extra-Large fleece pants and they get 10 more laughing people on that poster.
I am spraying my bed with a new product called, "Luxury Pillow Mist." It comes in "Summer Rain," "Contentment," and "Inspiration." My pillow smells of inspiration. My tween daughters joked that I should try some luxury pillow mists called "Towel," "Grandma," or "Monday" - They didn't get it. To demonstrate the healing powers of winter-onset aromatherapy, I took them to my new favorite smell boutique. It's one of those gleaming pastel-hued beauty stores full of hand-cut soaps and adorable tester lotions and whipped body crèmes-literally spelled c-r-e-m-e-s. The "flavors" ranged from rosemary Ylang Ylang to kiwi-pineapple to dark chocolate shaved vanilla coconut. It's like a Baskin and Robbins. What's next? Artisanal gourmet body fudge? Why not?
Now it was time to hunker down with a nice winter book. I don't know why they consider beach reading light. Really? Give me a week in August, white sand beach, tray of margueritas, and I will happily knock off that brilliant new 784-page Donna Tart novel or fantastic new Man Booker Prize winner, clocking in at 848. At my local bookstore, though, I found myself unaccountably attracted to a memoir-based on the popular blog - called "Chickens in the Road." It was by a woman who left the horrible city to buy a farm - everyone's dream! As she did so with her rugged cowboy-esque boyfriend, it promised love, fresh vegetables, animals in costume, and candlemaking, soap making, peach cobbler.
Unfortunately, it also became about trucks getting stuck in the mud in winter, financial strain, and a whole lot of kindle-carrying. And, most tellingly, a cowboy dude who got increasingly patient with, get this, the very length of her stories! Female blog readers like us enjoy step-by-step accounts about candlemaking-apparently that drives men nuts. Good-bye, cowboy.
Ah well. Luxury pillow mist for one? It's a GOOD thing!