Yes, I know I just got back from Scotland a month and a half ago, but vacations wait for no woman and I am heading back on the road to visit my Jalapeno and her new little one in B.C.

I bought about 10 dozen books while I was in Scotland, as trade paperbacks are the same price there as pocket, so even with the exchange we're looking at $15 as opposed to $25. Plus, they were buy two get one free so it was more like $10 a trade! Sweet!

My neighbour C has been showing up with chicklit books the past couple weeks, and I plan to take each one she gave me with me to B.C. there is nothing better than reading an entire book on a flight, and chicklits are wonderful for that. I will be taking Swapping Lives by Jane Green, The Bachelorette Party by Karen McCullough Lutz and Good in Bed by Jennifer Weiner. The latter is the only one I've ever heard of, so I'm not sure what to expect.

I will also bring Sebastian Faulks' The Girl at the Lion D'or, a book I've been dying to read for years but have never been able to find on this side of the pond. Bless British bookstores for stocking British authors.

I am currently reading my first man-authored book since GGK's Ysabel: Kim Stanley Robinson's The Years of Rice and Salt. It's sci-fi, which I read only rarely (okay, just Douglas Adams), but it comes highly recommended and so far is pretty intriguing. Plus, hopefully I'll get a new GGK convert in the recommendation bargain. And I'm guessing Jalapeno's hubby is going to dig this one too, so I'll lend it his way once I'm done. It's like I'm arriving bearing gifts (beyond the yummy essential oil soap I picked up for my girl on Skye, that is)!

(It's not my fault I haven't posted in nearly a month. Blame Facebook and too much work. Well, mostly Facebook.)

So I'm heading out to sunny, balmy Scotland (a girl can dream) in five days for a two-week car trip to the Highlands and Western Isles, with a few days in Edinburgh, Stirling and Glasgow. This is the trip I've wanted to do my entire adult life, and I can't hardly wait to get started.

I headed to the local Costco this evening to pick up some yummy treats for a couple friends of friends I will bend an elbow (of Tom Collins) with while I'm there. I didn't find what I was looking for, but instead picked up four books, three of them trade paperback, for less than $50.

I just finished read Reay Tannahill's The Seventh Son, a historical look at Richard III, my favourite of all England's kings (she doesn't think he did it either!), and had nothing on tap for my trip, so the find came at a great time. I picked up Suite Française by Irène Némirovsky, which has won all sorts of awards; The Other Boleyn Girl and The Queen's Fool by Philippa Gregory, which were $9.99 each for trade; and a Canadian chicklit called The Continuity Girl by Leah McLaren.

And which one do I want to read first? Not the harrowing Second World War epic that the National Post calls "a masterpiece on the page." Not the two prequels to The Virgin's Lover, which I finished only one week ago.

Nope. It's the chicklit.

I blame the weather. As soon as I no longer need a jacket on my morning walk to work, I lose all ability to read complex novels.

So I've been on vacation for two days now (officially; with stat holidays I've been off since Tuesday), and instead of getting back to my blog with a vengeance, I've gone the opposite way and spurned technology altogether. Though it's not for lack of inspiration, or from no desire. In fact, for the past three weeks or so, my hands and arms have been tingling. Never a god sign when work is slowly crippling you.

My neighbour C and I went to see The Devil Wears Prada on Friday night. She's a big fan of the popular chicklits, like the Shopaholic series and books like that; ones that I avoid like they are on fire. (I'll read the genre, but only stuff that other people don't. Even in chicklit, I'm a snob.) So when C and I saw a five-minute preview for Prada when we were at The Break Up, I was intrigued and she was excited. She lent me the book immediately after, but I was too busy reading MaryJanice Davidson's latest Undead books (one of which can only be described as werewolf porn. Though, to be fair, her porn is much, much less vulgar than Laurell K. Hamilton's), so I didn't get around to it before we saw the movie.

The flick was great. I really like Anne Hathaway (especially that she's a dark-eyed brunette. I spent more than half the movie checking out what colour eye shadow she was wearing so that I could emulate the look), and Meryl Streep was wonderful. The story held together, and then ending, though very chicklit in nature, was satisfying. (C pointed out that Anne isn’t in for much of a career if she gets a makeover in every movie she’s in.)

I started the book (compare and contrast, class) on Saturday morning and finished it last night. It was better than the movie. The ending was much more satisfying, and the out-of-character things Andy did in the movie weren't even in the book. I was pretty surprised to discover that some of the popular books have more going for them than "girl meets boy, girl loses boy, girl gets boy back." This one had "girl meets boy, girl treats boy like shit even though it's not her fault and really what could she do differently, girl and boy try to stay friends." Neat.

Wow, one blog entry done and my rambling is more pronounced than ever. I blame it on my numb arms and fingers.

P.S. How thrilled was I to hear Bitter:Sweet in the flick? I've been rocking to them on my Pandora stations since I heard them on Morning Becomes Eclectic three months ago. Good on them!

Just a quick post today before I head out for the weekend. I finished Marian Keyes' Anybody Out There? and Kelley Armstrong's Broken. Both good reads and both worth shelving Possession for. I think I'm done with that one for the time being.

A couple weeks ago, I watched Happy Endings. I loved it. It made me cry and gave me such a headache that I had to go to bed at 8 p.m. that night. Tonight, Elena and I are going to see Akeelah and the Bee. I'm hoping for good things, even though it's rated G. At least there shouldn't be any teenagers in the theatre to talk through the movie. I hate those meddling kids!

I have decided that I really like The Rosebuds' Birds Make Good Neighbours. I picked up the album a couple months ago, but only recently put it into full rotation. I think "Boxcar" may make my Best Of CD this year.

Wow. I really did have nothing to say. Have a good weekend!

My friend Alan and I have been arguing this week about whether bands like Neko Case and Jenny Lewis are "country." Alan argues that they are, while I vow that they aren't. He compares them to Patsy Cline and Johnny Cash, while I suggest that they're nothing like Garth Brooks and Faith Hill.

Being Scottish, Alan can't see what the big deal is about country music, and why I—and Sh, who brought the CDs in and started this whole debate—would be offended by labelling things we listen to as country. He doesn't get that to most Canadians, country equals redneck, and what he would refer to as country—sweet, twangy music that feels organic and earthy—is just plain folk music.

So folk it is, regardless of how their record label might categorize them.

I'm reading: I started A. S. Byatt's Possession for the first time a week or so ago. I got about 150 pages into it and discovered that Marian Keyes has a new book out, called Anybody Out There? I was finding Possession a dense read (Jana says to skip the poetry—who knew?), so I shelved it for now and read the new Keyes novel. It was lovely. The ending made me tear up on the train. How embarrassing. Now I'm on to Kelley Armstrong's Broken, and then after that, the newest Charlaine Harris paperback, Dead as a Doornail.

Damn, I'm craving frothy chicklit again. Must be the warm weather!

My iPod crapped out on me tonight. 4GB of music, all gone. I'm so depressed. Oh well, like any good hard drive, I suppose it needed a nice reformat.

I'm listening to: Many, many things. I'm totally digging the new Death Cab album, and have been rediscovering my love affair with Mark Lanegan, both through old Screaming Trees albums and his solo work. God, what a voice! Also seriously digging on Azure Ray and Orenda Fink. And Goldfrapp. And Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.
 
I'm totally not reading: Any of the Shopaholic books, no matter what the guy sitting next to me on the train might say. I totally didn't grow to like the lead character and was totally not rooting for her to land the hot rich guy and take New York by storm. And I certainly don't want my neighbour to bring me the third book in the series, whatever she may tell you.

I finished Lucy Sullivan is Getting Married this afternoon. I really, really need to write my own book. I jeep reading these chicklits and thinking that I can totally write better characters than the ones in the books. I understand that you can't just have the heroine meet the hero and realize that she loves him straight away and not telegraph it to the reader, but at least make it look like the heroine isn't unbelievably stupid not to pick up on the signs.

Anyways, the book was fine. I needed more space between it and Rachel's Holiday, since they cover the same subject.

Maybe it's time to dust off my old manuscript and actually write something besides love scenes. And by love scenes I mean sex scenes. Saucy!

So, my week and two days of vacation are almost over, and though I'm sad to be going back to work, I'm kinda glad that I'm getting out of the house. See, my ReplayTV is almost out of recorded shows! I only have movies left, and some of them have been on there since last July. Really! I wanted to see Pirates of the Caribbean someday, but apparently just not in the last 11 months.

I have, however, managed to read two more books: Marian Keyes' The Other Side of the Story and Sushi for Beginners. I really liked the former, and pretty much liked the latter. Sushi, in my wise friend J's opinion, we a little "too contrived." She recommends I pick up Rachel's Holiday, which I will probably do after my movie this afternoon.

I'm gearing up for a week and a half of vacation by going on an orgy of CDs and books. Well, three CDs and two books. Five can be an orgy, right?

I will be reading: Haunted by Kelley Armstrong. It's Book 5 of her Women of the Otherworld series. I dig her not only because I really like sexy novels about hot muscular blonde werewolves, but also because she's a local author. And also because I bought her first book, Bitten, solely due to the fact that the female lead was named Elena, my friend Elena's favourite pseudonym.

I will also be reading: The Other Side of the Story by Marian Keyes. See previous posts.

I am listening to: Blonde Redhead, Misery is a Butterfly. I also bought The Forgotten Arm by Aimee Mann and Beautiful World by James Bryan, my friend's brother. I listened to an advanced copy of this album for months; it only seemed fair that I buy one now that it's out. It's stunning and super fab to dance to. In fact, I think I'm going to listen to it while I'm reading The Other Side of the Story. Damn, that was a smooth segue.

Well, I finished reading Cross My Heart and Hope to Die. Very underwhelming, yet infuriating at the same time. An interesting mix, but hardly what the author could have been going for.

What Claire Calman was going for, I couldn't say. In her author's notes, she makes a joke about writing 45 drafts. As a reader, I got the impression that the book was heavily rewritten. Plot points came up from nowhere, leaving me with the feeling that I'd missed a page, or even a chapter. And the Big Secret (all Calman books have a Big Secret) was obvious within the first quarter of the book, leaving me waiting for 300 pages while the characters caught up with me.

And the protagonist of the story . . . what a piece of work this bitch is. Wow. No wonder her partner is so snippy with her. If I were dating her I'd have killed myself after six months. The back cover describes the "Fair Miranda" as "beautiful, bold and baffling." How about "slutty, shrill and passive-aggressive?" Works for me!

All in all, what I take away from this book is the thought that I could have bought two more Marian Keyes paperbacks for the money I spent on this trade.

It's 5:30 on Monday evening and I have not yet gotten out of bed. God, I miss lazy long weekends. Read the last 500 pages of Last Chance Saloon today. I enjoyed it a lot. I'll have to pick up some more of her books this summer.

Ever since my chicklit friend J lent me Claire Calman's I Like It Like That two months ago, I've been reading nothing but. Every book I read is interesting, and satisfying, but it's like I've eaten fast-food. I feel full, but crave more from my experience. According to J, you never really get the whole experience from this type of literature.

But why not? Why can't someone write something modern and "girlie" that actually says something? Why does it always have to fade out when Girl Gets Boy Back? Why does Girl Go Back on Longly Held Beliefs and Have 2.3 Kids With Her Proudly Beaming Formerly Estranged Mother Standing By? Why can't we see that life's not always summed up in the epilogue?

I blame Renée Zellweger.