Insert clever title here

I hate it when I can't come up with an interesting title. I've been sitting here staring at a blank blog for several minutes, so screw it. Sometimes the Muse of Clever Openings goes into hibernation.

Hope everyone had a nice weekend. It was hot here, so John and I escaped to the mall yesterday afternoon/evening. He wanted to go to Nordstrom to buy some new dress shirts, and I had a special treat for him -- I wanted to go to Victoria's Secret.

I swear, we can't walk by a VS or a Frederick's without John trying to physically drag me in there. Personally, I think VS is kind of a ripoff. They're quite expensive, plus I found out long ago what their "secret" is: Their stuff looks fantastic on the models and mannequins, but on us mere mortal women past 20? Notsomuch. I have yet to try on a bra there that flatters me. However, they do have a very cute line of panties called Cheekies, and I wanted to take advantage of their "3 for $30" sale. Figured I could use something new and cute for my book cover photo. Besides, one of my favorite pairs from Frederick's finally fell apart last week. That's the trouble with lacy garments; they have a tendency to do that.

John, of course, wanted to look at everything in every corner of the store, the perv. "Sweetie, how about these? How about those?" I, however, didn't feel like spending too much time in there; that store makes me feel ancient and all too aware that I'm wearing mismatched underwear under my clothes. So I selected three pairs of Cheekies, paid for them and we were out of there. I did model one of them for him today. It was the least I could do, after all.

I was sad to read this weekend that Arthur Marx died. Who the hell was Arthur Marx, some of you may be saying. Besides being a prolific author, playwright and a TV writer (and one of my father's peers), he was Groucho Marx's son. (And if any of you say "who was Groucho Marx," I'm going to shoot myself.) Most of you know I have loved the Marx Brothers since I was a kid. They're all long gone, and now their kids are passing on as well.

I felt a sort of "six degrees" connection with Arthur Marx -- never met him, but my father knew him. Dad had two of Marx's books, both autographed, and tonight I dug them out of my bookshelves. For one of them, Marx interviewed my father, because the book was about the partnership of Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis, and Dad wrote for them. The inscription reads: "To [Dad's name], without whom this really couldn't have been written." Nice! In the other book, Son of Groucho, Marx wrote, "To [Dad's name], a man who speaks the truth in a world of liars." I'm not sure what he meant by that, but I like the sound of it. Dad was outspoken, no question about that. But he didn't BS you.

I saw the obituary in the paper as I sat having lunch with John and his mother, and I exclaimed, "Oh, no..." So of course, I had to explain myself. John's mom said, "Wow... your dad knew so many famous people. That kind of makes you famous by association!"

(rolling eyes) Uh...no, it doesn't. The only thing I'm famous for has nothing to do with vintage comedy. :-) And I know I've requested this before, but it bears repeating: When I start saying inane things like that, please, shoot me very quickly and mercifully in the head.

Tomorrow will be several degrees cooler, which makes me happy. Oh, and it's Monday. You know how much I love Mondays.