"Where can I find an ashtray?" The woman's voice cut through the ambient noise, a static charge revealing her irritation.

"Well, not here." The bell captain aimed for a light-hearted tone. "This is the non-smoking part of the casino."

The crackle of a withering glare followed and I half expected to see a pile of ashes if I turned to look behind me.

We've just returned from a couple of days at the beach--nice weather, hard plastic chairs, lots of reading.

Putting the ongoing crick in my neck and lack of sleep aside, it was a welcome change of pace and scene.

The room was pleasant; the food abundant and mediocre (my husband blames at least part of this on my poor menu selections, and I would have to agree).

We viewed VANITY FAIR, STEPFORD WIVES, and people watched for entertainment.

I was grateful for the opportunity to see VANITY FAIR on a large screen. (We clung together for warmth in the chilly, sparsely populated theater.) The costumes, the sets, the acting -- magnificent. Although I don't remember reading the novel, I must have at some point because the characters and storyline felt so familiar.

Although I enjoyed the remake of STEPFORD WIVES it seemed a little flat (great costumes and cast, nice twist in the storyline). I remember the first movie having an eerie, scary element. The remake was definitely going for humor, which it sometimes achieved (Bette Midler's character in the pine cone scene).

Sigh, moving sale tomorrow. The weather forecast is predicting rain for both days. We probably should have just made arrangements with the thrift store of our choice.

Forget about psychic hotlines, I want to call 1-800-PERSPECTIVE.

"Hello? Perspective? I've suddenly, like, this morning, developed an attachment to the marbles my husband played with as a child. We're preparing for a moving sale and he placed several small jars of marbles with the items for the sale." (PJC)

"I see, and is your husband a collector of marbles?" (preferably the voice of Dr. Frasier Crane).

"No."

"Are you a collector of small glass spherical objects?"

"No."

"Why do you think you've developed an interest in keeping the marbles?"

"Um, because I like marbles?"

"Could it be that you are harboring some unresolved marble related conflict from your own childhood? Perhaps someone took your marbles?"

"Er, no."

"Perhaps, at the heart of the matter, this dilemma really isn't about marbles at all?"

"Maybe."

"Perhaps, in fact, if I may be so bold, your desire to keep the marbles reflects your own uncertainty regarding the move itself?"

"Um, no, maybe, I don't know."

"Ah, yes, we all have our 'marbles'-- items we didn't realize carried the extra burden of ensuring our peace of mind, comfort in these troubling times. Allow yourself to select your favorite marbles, talismans for your journey. Just because you are moving on doesn't mean you have to leave cherished friends behind."

Over a year ago, my sisters and I packed up the remaining items in our childhood home, and it was DIFFICULT. Now I'm repeating the task, on a smaller scale, and it's STILL hard. I do, however, love the idea of hanging on to cherished items and getting rid of the clutter.

It's just that I can be such a sap at times. When my nephews were toddlers they would give me things they found when we were exploring the farm where they lived. As a result of these adventures, for several years I kept small rusted pieces of tin in my car because they had given it to me.

In the Steve Martin movie THE JERK, a dim-witted but well intentioned fellow stumbles into a fortune and loses it. When he is forced to leave his mansion, he tries to let it go gracefully, and fails.

Although it has been years and years since I saw the movie, I can picture him in his bathrobe, saying he won't miss any of it, he doesn't need any of it, except for maybe this ashtray, and this lamp (and probably a few other items). He walks away, the belt of his robe and the cord of the lamp trailing along behind him.

It was funny scene, and everytime I find myself agonizing over a really minor decision, I think of that scene and try to just let the stuff go. Better that someone gets some use out of the item than I keep moving it from closet to closet.

**Road trip for part of this next week and then the moving sale, and so, alas, little blogging likely, but lots of possibilities for future topics.**

"I can't even watch you do that."

"Well, then DON'T!"

My husband, brandishing a can of Pledge and a cloth that isn't suitable for dusting, is attacking dust in our home.

On the one hand, I hate to dust and I'm grateful he is doing it. On the other, I hate Pledge and I would do things differently. And so I blog, prior to spending the morning in food preparation for company.

I peeked ahead in Emma Donaghue's LIFE MASK to see how the book ended. In the "Author's Notes" section she explains how the idea for the novel was rooted in real people, newspaper clippings and caricatures from the time, excerpts from a diary.

Egads, now the man is vacuuming, bless his heart. He sets the vacuum on the lowest setting possible, for bare floor instead of carpeting, and then vacuums the carpeting like a man possessed. It's almost frightening, yet our dog is asleep on my lap.

I, however, am suppressing a strong urge to shout "Stop it!"

While Emma Donoghue's LIFE MASK provides an informative and satisfying read, I'm about halfway through the novel and I'm wondering if anything is ever going to happen? (If it were a Henry James novel I probably would have thrown it across the room by now.)

Donoghue skillfully shares her knowledge of late eighteenth-century England. Details regarding fashion, art, theater and politics abound without slowing the pacing to a crawl. Aspects of the book, such as the rigid code of conduct for women, remind me somewhat of Edith Wharton's novels (an indicator of how slowly women's rights evolved).

Actress Miss Eliza Farren is struggling for access and acceptance in the upper echelon. Because she feels she can afford no breach with convention, she turns away from the closest friendship she has ever known in an effort to spare her private and professional reputation. Wealth and entitlement provide protection from scandal, but only to a point.

What will the friends do? Will they become saphists? Will they be ousted from polite society? Will Eliza surrender fame, wealth and marriage? Will I move on to a more contemporary novel?

Every week I go to the library and return with an armload of books. A recent journey resulted in Ann Patchett's BEL CANTO (which I still haven't read), Kent Haruf's THE TIE THAT BINDS, Haven Kimmel's SOMETHING RISING (Light and Swift), and the latest romps from Marian Keyes and Jane Heller.

Although my husband is accomplishing things on the packing front, I have noticed that I seem to be pulling things out of storage, spreading them around, sorting a bit, and then, leaving the room.

This is driving me nuts, I don't know how my husband is coping with it.

The wind kept me awake part of the night, either that or my random thoughts of packing.

That my husband and I have vastly different packing styles comes as no surprise to either of us.

I like to prepare for a move by removing items that are displayed on the wallspace and filling the nail holes with spackle. My husband would save this activity for last, which makes sense (but why would I let that stand in my way?).

Next I would group items for sale, donation, or packing. Then I would start packing the artwork, the breakable items, the things that need a little extra care.

Since we are hoping to sell the entertainment center that displays much of the artwork, it might be wise to empty that first. Instead, we started sorting items in the garage.

We are both archaeology enthusiasts, but sometimes when you are delving through your own stuff, your past, you discover items that earned their storage space and you are faced with the dilemma of now what are you going to do with them?

My husband used to be a serious mountain climber, an avid camper and fisherman. While he has gotten rid of most of his gear over the years there are still the inevitable odds and ends. Last week we had one of those, oh yeah, we've got a canoe moments. A canoe that we don't intend to move, and in fact haven't moved for a few years. We've become so accustomed to not seeing it that we forgot we even had it.

I had assumed that part of the artwork would be traveling with me in the car, but, no, as it turns out I will be transporting clothing. (?) My husband apparently likes to fill the car with clothing. When he mentioned this approach I did a doubletake, uncertain that he might be teasing me. No, he was serious.

Even though the concept is foreign to me, I can grasp the common sense. On cross-town moves I have just transferred clothing in the car. If you toss it into bags it will stay clean but get wrinkled; if you box it, it is just taking up space.

I've been wrangling with the decision of what to do with some furniture that has been in my family for, oh, about a hundred years or so (relatively young). My sister seems to be interested in it, but may not be able to get here in time to pick it up. I've come up with four alternative plans for transporting these items, and I have the sneaking suspicion that none of them will work out.

This morning, while my husband was working in the garage, I removed items from the walls in the guest room and filled the nail holes -- shh, don't tell anyone. Next I'm going to sort through linens, piano music and books. It's already driving my husband nuts that I brought the computer boxes into the house since that will likely be among the last items packed. Is it going to be a quick month, or a loooong month before we actually move?

Last week we revisited the scene of the crime. (Okay, maybe I have read enough detective fiction for awhile.) We participated in an inspection of the house we intend to purchase. Unexpectedly, this became something of a circus event.

The current owner was present, along with her two dogs. The dogs have been known to bite; I suspect the owner is also capable of such behavior.

She attempted to restrain the dogs and keep them away from our entourage, which included one inspector and associate, a pest inspector (no, I'm not being rude, that's what he does), the owner's realtor and associate, our realtors (a lovely wife and husband duo), and my husband and myself (we wisely left our dog at home).

The inspectors were a hoot. I felt like I was caught in an episode of reality TV, a show that was a cross between that crocodile guy and This Old House.

The good news: the house is more spacious that we had remembered and seems to be structurally sound.

The bad news: it could stand a bit of updating, the current owner is a really heavy smoker, and the road behind the lot is busier and noisier than expected.

Regarding the updating, my husband thinks I'm nuts. "Why do you want to buy the place if you don't like it?" Okay, fine, for the record I just want to say that the master bathroom is hideous (it has all the charm of a public restroom). We have agreed to disagree (I will attempt to paint in there at some point; quite possibly while he is golfing, wish me luck).

While most of the rooms have been painted this past year and the carpeting cleaned, a caramel-colored tar deposit runs around the edge of every room. (Yep, if you are a smoker you can just apply that visual to your lungs.) Every room also had a deodorizer plugged into an electrical outlet and there were two, not one, but two air purifiers running in the main living room area.

We agreed on a short list of items in need of repair, mainly dealing with the roof, and the current owner has agreed to have the repairs completed. We are also compiling our own list (my list is much longer than my husband's, sigh).

We may be approaching detente regarding the furniture situation. I still anticipate the act of crossing our living room akin to leaping hurdles (not an area of expertise and likely to result in bruises and bad attitudes).

I know, I know, celebrate the abundance. Cherish the signs of a life well lived. And, as my dear friend Raincoat Girl has advised, find new and creative uses for bubble wrap.

When you move to a different region nature's going to teach you a thing or two. You may not know where, you may not know when, but you've got to try to beware (and, if possible, informed and carrying a first aid kit).

One ordinary morning during my first year in the southwest, I was doing some yoga in the den when I noticed something that looked like a large dull gray nail--a moving nail. Perhaps it was a centipede?

It was a difficult "removal" due to my over-abundant surge of panic (embarrassingly out of proportion for the situation) and the dense carpeting. Fortunately there were no witnesses and I eventually stopped twitching.

The following year I noticed a slight shadow in the kitchen one evening. A glance at the fluorescent lighting fixture suggested the presence of something like a worm. Wrong. CENTIPEDE. My husband deftly remedied the situation at dawn.

Early one morning this week I groggily wandered into the bathroom, and there, stretched and crawling along the side of the sink: CENTIPEDE. BIG CENTIPEDE -- we are talking serious inspiration for science fiction here.

Apparently my next lesson is likely to deal with scorpions. "If you go out in your back yard at night and shine a black light on them you'll see them." Okay, and why would I do this?

I couldn't muster the same level of enthusiasm as the house inspector. Large glowing, biting creatures that know no boundaries. I envision myself wrapped in protective layers of clothing and wearing steel-toed boots around the house.

British author Anna Maxted is probably tired of being compared to Helen Fielding, author of BRIDGET JONES' DIARY, so how about Iris Murdoch?

Okay, it might be a bit of a stretch, but both authors explore, in vastly different manners, how people tend to be self-absorbed and lack awareness of the world around them.

When I first encountered Murdoch's novels there was an element that captivated me. I doubt I would have the same reaction if I were to read one of her books today, and that thought may prompt me to engage in a little exploration.

If you are new to Murdoch, and curious, I would recommend her earlier novels as a starting point. I read a later work a few years ago and it was like wading through a swamp in ballet slippers. It might have been due to my own distractions at the time, or the fact that Murdoch was suffering from Alzheimer's. Aspects of her life are depicted in the film, IRIS, starring Kate Winslet.

Much of Murdoch's work could be classified as bildungsroman (which I am probably using incorrectly). WEBSTER'S defines this term as "a novel about the moral and psychological growth of the main character." (As a result of bad planning, my literature textbooks have been on a separate journey the past few years and are currently in storage in my sister's basement in Minnesota.)

Murdoch taught philosophy prior to pursuing writing full-time. Her manuscripts reveal a method of development that I can only ponder in awe (the University of Iowa library has a number of them). She would plan a novel entirely in her head before picking up a pencil and committing the story to the front pages of a spiral notebook (the back of the page allowing space for possible revision, a rare event). In my own writing pursuits I rewrite, a lot.

I don't recall a Murdoch novel ever making me chuckle, although she likely made some wry observations. With a Maxted book I'm fairly certain that if I hang in there (she excells at depicting harried protagonists), I will be rewarded:

". . . I considered whether the woman in front of me could possibly have a larger head. Not content with that, she'd blow-dried her hair into peaks. Perhaps after the interval she'd return wearing a top hat" (189).

"As it was, it took us another half hour to chance upon the hotel. Just modern enough to be depressing, the place screamed 'conference center,' but alas, not loud enough to help us locate it" (345).

The bride ". . . had chosen a strapless corset dress with a massive skirt, it seemed to have been inspired by the costume of a seventeenth-century infanta and was wide enough to have doubled as a road sweep" (345).

This last quote reminds me of one of my favorite scenes from the movie HERE COMES THE GROOM, a classic Bing Crosby/Jane Wyman vehicle. There is a confrontation scene between the two where a dress becomes central to the conflict and humor. She is wearing an elaborate evening gown that is creating an effective physical barrier, and throughout their heated discussion, whenever he attempts to approach her, she warns him to keep off the dress. Frustrated, he finally exclaims (loosely paraphrased): Keep off the dress, keep off the dress--why I'd have to leave the state!

I probably should be packing, or writing . . .

"Step a-way from the truck."

We were attempting to remove the "lid" that covers the back of our truck (there's probably a more technical term for it). We had never taken it off before and it was proving to be more perplexing than anticipated.

What you really want, when you are in the middle of a challenging and potentially dangerous task, is a well intentioned senior citizen sticking her head in the wedge of space by the hydraulic hinge like a curious bird about to experience a surprise beheading.

I was assigned the role of catching the top if it moved unexpectedly (later discovering that I could have done no such thing). Our neighbor needed to STEP AWAY FROM THE TRUCK. She ignored this directive.

My husband figured out which clamps needed to be removed and began sliding the lid in the only feasible direction, toward the neighbor, who was insisting on helping.

Envisioning a different sort of maneuver, my husband had conveniently placed a pile of debris at the entrance of the garage. From my angle, I could see our neighbor backing into the netting placed on top of small cardboard boxes placed on top of a four-inch piece of foam rubber.

"Your feet, watch your feet!"

She daintily stepped out of the netting that had ensnared her ankles and we edged our way into the garage. We rested one end of the lid on the floor but needed an object to lean it against so the hinges wouldn't warp.

My husband, the strain of holding a heavy object apparently restricting his ability to speak, glared as me as I offered various and sundry objects, most of them cardboard. He was able to nod his head toward a corner of the garage.

I examined the area--more cardboard, some screening, "WHAT?"

It finally became evident that he was hoping I would wheel the shop-vac into place. The lightweight, plastic shop-vac.

So far, it's holding.

GROAN, my husband wants to have a moving sale.

When I was a kid my mother participated in collective garage sales with the women from the office where she worked.

A frenzy of housecleaning generally led up to the sale (during which it was wise to keep the door to your bedroom closed at all times and hide cherished items lest someone mistakenly assumed you had outgrown it).

My presence was requested for the cleaning of the garage, the pricing and labeling of items, and arranging displays on racks and tables (although this was pointless because some hovering adult inevitably changed it).

After all of that there was still the actual sale to endure and the clean-up.

The entire ordeal was kind of a DRAG.

I could spend hours prowling through the local antiques stores but garage sales, not so much.

My sister loves garage sales. A couple of years ago she called to share the news of her lastest score: an Army issue ammo box AND an evening gown. I'm hoping she never finds the opportunity to utilize both for the same event.

When I finally moved into a house (after years of living in second story apartments), I celebrated by studying the classified section in the local newspaper.

I circled an ad for a garage sale that had a piano listed and showed up at the scheduled time (knowing full well that others were likely in line hours or days before). Immediately spotting the piano, and only the piano, I walked up to it and introduced myself by playing a chord. Nice resonance; pedals and keys worked. I asked if anybody would be able to deliver it. They did.

It was a great piano, heavy, solid, a fine piece of furniture full of character, with a loose, friendly keyboard and the ability to hold pitch even after being turned on its side to get it into the next house I moved to. I don't know where it may reside now. I bequeathed it to a musician friend who became the new tenant when I moved out of town.

One of our realtors told us that the average person moves every five years. I'm anticipating a lot of wicker furniture in my future, or, at some point, actually paying someone to move my stuff (I know, I know, regular people do it all of the time--I'm just showing my working class/middle class roots).

Prior to my last move I purchased a full-size electronic keyboard, which I enjoy playing and can lift (although not simultaneously).

Several of the house listings we recently saw displayed lovely baby grand pianos. I confess to harboring the secret fantasy that we'd purchase one of these homes: "piano negotiable." From my perspective that is both an oxymoron and unlikely, but a good dream, particularly if you're willing to surrender a sizable portion of your living room and don't need to do any heavy lifting in the process.

Shopping for a home with time and distance constraints adds an edge to the level of panic that may result in tunnel vision: you do the exterior sweep and I'll check the interior. Ready, okay, switch; meet in the foyer, compare succinct notes, next.

There's a tendency to notice specific features that you like or dislike--loved the skylights, hated the barren back yard. Some things you can change--landscaping, paint, flooring, countertops--but it can be a deterrent.

Do we really want to pay that much for a house that has a lot of square footage and crappy flooring that we will want to replace? And just what are they trying to cover up with that overwhelming incense? Forget about looking at the house, get me out of here before I need an inhaler.

Often there was one feature that tugged at us. I'd like to take the floor plan from house G and combine it with the square footage of house D, add the view from house C and put it in the community of house A.

Some houses begged to be updated. There was an intriguing one that tugged at my consciousness for awhile but it had had such bizarre modifications that it would have cost a major chunk of change just to make it normal, and where's the fun in that?

The realtor got kind of jazzed about that place. "Look at that tile, all of those windows, the fireplace, the ceiling fans." We looked, and all we could come us with was "WHAT WERE THEY THINKING?!"

One house had some really nice upgrades, marble in the shower, beautiful tile in the kitchen, a kitchen island that matched the wall of cupboards. A wall of cupboards. Cupboards, ceiling to floor, ran the length of the kitchen and dining room. Nice wood cupboards with pull-outs. The realtor wondered why the house hadn't sold in a few months. I replied, "Excessive cupboards."

It could have been that, it could have been the fact that the backyard consisted of a small boxed in slope of glorified gravel. While the house had some good features, and we could have moved some of those cupboards somewhere else, and I tried to talk myself into it, I think it might have been the lot itself that didn't appeal to us.

I know prospective buyers had similar reactions when they toured our home--did you notice all of those storage containers, was every wall lined with furniture?

Things that I'd never given a second thought to suddenly jumped out at me as I tried to view my surroundings with new perspective (resulting in a couple of trips to the Salvation Army, with more to follow).

My husband is probably grateful that I have a healthy fear of electrical wiring and chain saws or I would have been up on a ladder changing exterior light fixtures and thinning the wooded part of our acreage.

One of George Carlin's classic comedy routines describes how people have a natural tendency to acquire stuff, and then they need a larger home for their accumulated stuff, and they need new stuff for the new place and so they get more stuff and . . . I forget how he wraps it up, probably with a toothbrush and a bar of soap.

Our offer on a large walk-in closet, oops, I mean "house," has been accepted and we are officially freaking out. After only two days of riding in the realtor parade we made a commitment for a major change in lifestyle. Although we are hoping we didn't act from an emotional state of "I can't take one more day of this," we barely recall the features of the home.

Unable to sleep last night, I ran through numerous furniture arrangements in my mind and NONE OF THEM WORKED. I'm terrified that my husband is going to try to cram a four bedroom household into a two bedroom house. (That, and I don't want anyone I know and love moving the heavy furniture--I AM REALLY SERIOUS ABOUT THIS. We own several pieces of furniture that are ridiculously heavy; I would pay someone to remove these items and put them in the museum or resort of their choice.)

Now we have six weeks of trying not to hold our breath while the various escrow procedures occur (hopefully as planned). At one point it looked like would we need to be in two places at once, or disappear completely for a four-day period.

My husband wants me to focus on my writing while he packs up the house (FOCUS?), which he thinks he can do in a week. It makes me nervous when people rush a task: THIS IS NOT A TIMED EVENT, our goal is to transport our belongings in a manner in which they can actually be of use again.

Maybe he is right. I have moved so many times I can't even imagine not doing this myself (I'm willing to admit that I may have a few control issues).

Just read an interview with author Mark Spragg in the September edition of BOOKPAGE. I am intrigued by both the novel and the movie (starring Robert Redford and Morgan Freeman, and, oh yeah, Jennifer Lopez, due in theaters in December).

AN UNFINISHED LIFE is Spragg's second book. His wife, Virginia, a therapist, began writing the screenplay before the novel was completed. They spent six years of road trips discussing the novel, developing the characters and plot.

The story apparently focuses on relationships and forgiveness. An embittered man grieves the loss of his son and blames his daughter-in-law for the accident that killed the young man. A major part of the novel deals with the friendship between two men who have worked together for about fifty years.

Spragg is friends with Kent Haruf, author of PLAINSONG, another writer whose work I'd like to explore (the list is loooong and always growing).

Joseph Finder's PARANOIA provides a satisfying read. Granted, I was more than willing to suspend my disbelief a few times because the character development and pacing kept me so engaged in the storyline.

Initially I thought I wouldn't care for the novel because of the protagonist, but then the author added context which created empathy for the character and I was hooked.

Finder knew which details to include and refrained from extraneous exposition. His research and background led to a plausible depiction of the atmosphere and functioning of American high-tech corporations and facilitated the complex plot.

Now I have moved on to Anna Maxted's new book, BEING COMMITTED, about a woman who has no desire to get married. I'm not sure I'm in the mood for a lightweight, entertaining romp just yet, but I do appreciate her fresh, irreverent sense of humor.

The opening chapter was deliberately choppy due to the jumbled thought process of the first-person narrator, but by the end of the chapter Maxted had me laughing over a description of a marriage proposal gone hopelessly awry. (Skip the next two paragraphs if you plan on reading the book and prefer to experience the narrative personally.)

The would-be fiance faints in a hotel bathroom, trousers about his ankles, and when he comes to and sees the anxious face of his beloved, he pops the question. Her response was probably not the one he was hoping for: "Come away from the toilet."

Next he produces a ring that she doesn't want: ". . . I recognized his grandmother's engagement ring. He'd shown it to me before, and it reminded me of a big wart. Encrusted with red and black stones, it reeked of evil and belonged to a dead woman. Not my thing."

My husband discovered James Lee Burke's novels this summer and has been steadily devouring them. The author lives in Louisiana and Montana and his novels are set in those areas. He has been quite prolific, having written at least 24 novels. I hope to read either IN THE MOON OF RED PONIES or maybe JOLIE BLON'S BOUNCE before too long and get a sense of his style.

I checked out far too many wonderful novels during my most recent trip to the library, and with this sudden 'gotta find a home' push I haven't been getting enough writing done (which always makes me cranky). There will likely be little blogging this week unless we have a CHANGE OF PLANS.

Much of today was spent cruising MLS real estate listings for homes. (I don't know what MLS stands for, so don't ask, I'd just have to make up something. It reminds me of the MLA, Modern Language Association, which is of course just a hop, skip and a jump from a real estate listing service.)

Looking at homes on the web is great, unless the photos are lacking and you have no idea what the bedrooms look like, or the view from the back yard, and you start wondering, was this a deliberate choice, an error of omission? Is it really worth my time to go see a home where they neglected to show me the bathrooms or the lighting in the living room looks like perpetual twilight?

One of the listings had only two photos, the front exterior of the house and a massive fireplace in the living room (we are talking BIG). It was a nice looking place, from what little I could actually see, but let's face it, just how important is an enormous fireplace to my everyday functioning? Will I be roasting a pig or canning tomatoes at some point?

Another listing had four versions of the same photo of the house (oh that makes such a difference). Maybe they were trying to fill up the blank spaces until they get more photos; maybe the agent showed up and nobody was there to let her/him in for the interior shots.

I can empathize with the technological challenges of taking decent photos and getting them uploaded to the website. (Maybe I can find an agent who is adept at this and get some help with my website?)

In our current home we have been spoiled with a lovely view. Now we find ourselves looking at homes with enormous cinder block fences and I keep thinking, now there's a prison motif just begging for a bit of landscaping, or paint--a mural of a garden or a forest.

Or, in a nod to Bing Crosby, maybe I'll be going over the wall. In Rosemary Clooney's autobiography she shared stories from the filming of WHITE CHRISTMAS. Crosby was probably at the height of his success at this time and apparently not afraid to push the envelope. If he had had enough for the day he would let her know that he was leaving with a simple aside, "I'm going over the wall."

He pulled this one day when the set was visited by European royalty. The cast performed the recorded title song from WHITE CHRISTMAS with Rosemary lip-synching Crosby's baritone lines.

Not much of a segue-way, but I needed it, because back to the listings I go.

A few months ago I gave my sister two exercise balls. (While they are great for stretching they also take up a lot of space, and nothing says "hi, welcome to our home," like a large blue ball in your living room.)

I couldn't find the nozzle/plug for the smaller one but I figured it would turn up when I cleaned the closet. I finally discovered the missing piece in a tray of pens. I taped it inside a notecard and mailed it to her.

The envelope appeared in my mailbox several days later.

I had asked the post office to hand cancel the envelope, hoping to avoid any machine malfunctions, torn envelopes etc. There was a label attached which asked me to add $.12 to cover the price of hand cancelling the item.

Okay. I added $.12 postage and once again mailed the item.

The following week my sister e-mailed me, thanking me for the lovely card and the good intention, and informing me that the post office had confiscated the nozzle/plug.

I paid the precise amount of postage; I followed instructions.

And now my sister is the proud owner of a large, useless, bright blue piece of deflated rubber.

Sigh, these are the times we are living in. Did they fear explosives? Wasn't it possible to return the item once the letter had been opened?

I should have just sent the darn thing in a box.

At times I felt like I was reading a bodice ripper but THE OTHER BOLEYN GIRL held my interest throughout the book. (I don't think I'll dwell on what that probably says about me.) Author Philippa Gregory holds a Ph.D. in 18th-century literature and has written 14 books, including a New York Times bestseller.

In a Q & A at the back of the novel she described how she prepared for writing THE OTHER BOLEYN GIRL by reading the major historical works dealing with the Tudor period.

For her protagonist she deliberately chose a person who was at court and about whom only the barest details were known. Mary Boleyn was the queen's lady-in-waiting and the king's mistress.

Gregory mapped out the movement of the court during the years covered in the story, providing the historical structure for the novel. I haven't read much about this period but it certainly had all the elements for a story about greed and manipulation.

I've moved on to Joseph Finder's PARANOIA. Finder is the author of four novels, including HIGH CRIMES, and is a member of the Association of Former Intelligence Officers. I haven't read his work before but judging from the list of notable periodicals he writes for many others have. I'm anticipating a plausible and intriguing novel.

Last night I watched the debut episode of FATHER OF THE PRIDE. It takes 9 months for them to create this type of computer animation, and while that astonishes me, I'm not sure how I felt about the end product. It was, um, different. There was some humor, some vulgarity--it definitely needs to be in that later time slot. Although a lot of talented actors are lending their voices to the characters and the scripts are likely quite clever, I didn't feel drawn to it enough to warrant tracking it down again.