A minor treatise on women who lost their personalities in a parking lot somewhere, possibly outside Pottery Barn Kids.

There's a scourge invading our homeland. No, I'm not talking about Kardashians. It's worse.

I'm talking about the once-normal women who have morphed into 1-dimensional, perfect little fembots. I call them The Talbots.

These women are well-dressed in completely unobjectional attire. Their highlights are always within the bounds of good taste. Their husbands are well-employed and their children look like something out of a Tommy Hilfiger catalog. The homes? Pottery Barn and Restoration Hardware, but of course.

So, that part is annoying. And boring. But the real issue I have with The Talbots? They talk. All the time. About nothing at all.

Small talk is the game and your neighborhood Talbot is the grand champion. She will talk your ear off about what kid is going to what school and did you hear about her friends that you don't know, well they sold their house, and isn't it just great? It's all just great.

Here's the thing: there are some people who are just superficial, or dead inside, or whatever. And that's their thing, and it's cool - although I've never met anyone who said, "I'm dead inside and it's cool."

No, the rub is that the Talbots I know weren't always like this. They used to be interesting, engaged, educated women. Now?

Now, I want to stab myself in the eardrum when I see them coming.

Tell me what you're reading. Tell me a dirty joke. Tell me how the dog had diarrhea and half the family walked through it. Tell me anything that's real and authentic. But don't tell me everything is great and perfect and wonderful and also great. I don't believe you. In fact, I feel sorry for you.

I know it's easy for women to get lost in the roles of mother and wife. But it seems like some of my peers haven't so much gotten lost as turned into Stepford succubi completely devoid of personality.

I recognize that we are constantly reinventing ourselves, even when we have no idea what comes next.

But I also know that I miss some women who are here physically but mentally have left the building.

Be ugly. Just be real. And don't be a Talbot. The world needs you - the real you.

Book review: Let's Just Say It Wasn't Pretty

If we go way back - and I hope we do! - you might remember that I once reviewed Diane Keaton's autobiography, "Then Again." And you might also remember that I haaaaaated this book. I listened to it, and it didn't translate well to audiobook. It was hard to keep track of what was what.

But, I'm nothing if not a saint. So, I gave Diane another chance. I recently listened to her new book.

"Let's Just Say It Wasn't Pretty" is kind of a series of meditations on beauty. Written by someone who has been called both a style icon and someone who has "let herself go" by Hollywood standards, this should be a pretty good read, right?

Well ... kind of?

I found it comforting to read that she both stands by her style and beauty choices (Turtlenecks! No plastic surgery - at least not yet!) and feels conflicted by them. Movie stars - they're just like you and me!

But reading an entire book that jumps from confidence to "oh, shucks, I don't know" over and over again can be ... exhausting.

Listening to this audio book, I enjoyed the author reading her own work. So many times it doesn't work, but here it totally did. Diane Keaton is someone I'd love to sit near in a restaurant so I could eavesdrop. I'm not so sure, however, that I'd actually like to be at the same table. I don't think my little introverted heart could take a multi-course meal with her. I'd be exhausted.

So, the book. I loved her talking about how Victoria's Secret is so great because it encourages young women to love their shapes and have fun. I didn't love the in-depth description of shopping there with her daughter, complete with a rundown of what her daughter purchased with a gift card. This "yes, but I could have done without ..." theme kind of sums up my feelings on the book as a whole.

Make no mistake: I love Diane Keaton on screen. I'm so thankful she's (gasp!) aging like a normal human, even though she's in Hollywood. Here, she makes some great points and has some interesting stories. But this book? I found it to be a mixed bag.

I give it two mixed bags of dogs. Dogs that don't necessarily match.

Have you read either of Keaton's books? What did you think?

Hanging out in bars is good for your marriage.

I wasn't aware that we needed a marriage tune-up. But I guess we did. And we got one. And it was glorious.

The other night, we went to a concert. We saw My Celebrity Boyfriend Dave Grohl in all his broken-leg, sitting-on-a-throne glory. I knew every song and felt - dare I say it? - cool.

My Guy felt pretty happenin', too. So, we did what cool and happenin' folk do - we went to a bar.

Now, you might say it was a tactical error to go to a bar not near the concert venue, but near our house. And you might be right. Because our local watering hole was kind of deserted. We sat at a table for about 10 minutes before we realized that the waitress had gone home and the bar was our only option. Not that any of the 4 bored bartenders loitering about actually told us this. We figured it out on our own.

So, we bellied up to the bar and ordered ourselves some Miller Lites. Because cold Miller Lite is the nectar of the gods. And if you don't believe me, there were about a dozen drunk people at the bar who would fight you for disagreeing.

Yes. We had stumbled into Drunktown.

There was the guy in the baseball jersey who had clearly been at the bar since the baseball game started some 6 hours earlier. He was holding court, but was in danger of falling off his bar stool.

Then there were the 3 guys who are probably good dudes but who had just enjoyed a little too much Miller Lite.

There were 2 old dudes who just looked sad, as you do at a bar at midnight if you're alone and over the age of 60.

And then there were two women. They both had a distinct "I have a few ill-conceived tattoos" vibe that did not promise stellar emotional well being. And lemme tell you: when those girls approached the bar, it was like throwing raw meat into a den of lions. All the menfolk were all over them.

Meanwhile, My Guy and I sipped our beers and studied the scene, like anthropologists. It was fascinating.

Baseball guy zeroed in on the broken woman with the ratty hair. She seemed to be on a mission to get him to buy her as many drinks as she could slam in a short amount of time.

The other broken woman bounced between the old guys and the probably normal guys, touching their arms and flipping her hair around. I was never good at flirting, but even I saw this as pathetic.

My Guy put his arm around me, partly to whisper in my ear and maybe also to let the leaches know that we were an item.

"Hey, babe?" he said. "You're a really attractive woman. But these girls make you look like a 13."

We laughed. I looked at him, and I looked at the drunken, desperate mating melee in front of us. "Thank God we're married," I said as we clinked glasses. "My appreciation of you grows stronger by the minute."

I looked into my beloved's eyes, and he looked into mine. We both glanced over as the baseball guy finally fell off his stool and managed to bring the ratty-haired woman down with him. Drinks were spilled. The desperation was palpable. And My Guy and I just sat in our smug nest of security and love and ordered another round.

Book review: In the Unlikely Event.

I'm bad at librarying. I'll reserve a bunch of books, and they'll all become available at once, and you can't renew books that have a waiting list, so then I'll end up with this high-pressure "read all the books at once" marathon of reading and listening to audio books and it all just calls for a stiff drink.

I get greedy. I love the library. They give you books! For free! Sometimes I overestimate my own reading potential and underestimate my need for sleep.

Anyway. I reserved Judy Blume's latest at the library. I waited a few months for it to become available, and then I picked it up right before I went out of town. And then I was reading another book, and then, pretty soon, I realized I had 4 days to start and finish the book before it was due. It was pretty high-pressure.

But dammit if it wasn't worth it.

"In the Unlikely Event" is a book for adults, but the main character is a 15-year-old girl. And dammit if Judy Blume can't write young people.

Reading this book took me back to devouring Judy's books for kids. I'd get my hands on a new-to-me Judy Blume book and I was lost to the world until it was done. Her characters spoke to me - they had horrible thoughts and things they didn't tell anyone else - just like me. It was a revelation, and seemed crazypants that An Adult wrote such things. Adults clearly didn't know anything about being a kid.

Har har.

"In the Unlikely Event" gave me that throwback reading experience, but it's also just a well-written book. It's engaging, with a plot that keeps you guessing and doesn't leave everyone living happily ever after - kind of like life.

My inner 10-year-old ached for the perfect happy ending. But my outer 40-year-old was thankful for such a fun read. All told, I give it 4 airline ground crew dachshunds.

What's your favorite all-time Judy Blume book? If forced to choose at gunpoint, I'd probably say "Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself." You?

Book review: A Lucky Life Interrupted.

There has only ever been 1 newscaster in my life, and that man is Tom Brokaw. I lurve him. I wanted Brian Williams to be Tom Brokaw Jr., but that didn't quite pan out. But it's OK, because Tom is still doing special assignments and writing books and we can still spend quality time together. Because Tom is going to live forever. I decided this, and it's fine.

So, when he was diagnosed with cancer, it really messed things up. What about meeeee, Tom?

Actually, I think Tom was thinking, "Meeeee?"

And then he wrote about it in this lovely book.

A Lucky Life Interrupted: A Memoir of Hope is Tom's reflection on his cancer diagnosis and treatment, and coming to terms with his own fallibility. It's not a downer of a book, and it's not a "AND NOW EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE FOREVER" work of self-deception, either. It's honest and pragmatic. And Tom ...

(God help me, I can't stop referring to him by his first name, because I truly feel like I know him after 40 years together)

... acknowledges how lucky he has been in life, and how lucky he was in his health care options. The man's on the board of the Mayo Clinic, after all. And he can pick up the phone and call specialists and get the very best of the very best. He acknowledges this, and is humbled by the luxury.

But Tom also grumbles about how cancer took a few inches off his height. And how he hates the idea of not being able to go fly fishing, and the times he stupidly pushed his physical limits to disastrous consequences. He's honest, even in the ugly, "poor me" of being ill.

When my mom was sick, I wanted to make a t-shirt that said, "My mom has cancer, so fuck off." I'm a little touchy about magical unicorn books about illness, or woe-to-me outlooks. Honesty? Honesty is my jam. And my man Tom delivers.

I give this book four cancer-fighting labradoodles.

Important side note: My pal Alice once talked to Tom at a Starbucks and he was engaging and wonderful. Because he's from the Midwest. Ladies? If you want a nice, decent guy? Move here. We raise 'em right. Well, not "we" - I still can't totally potty-train my dachshund. But Midwestern ladies who have male human children? They do a good job.

Book review: Rebecca

Friends? Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again AND IT WAS AWESOME.

So, yeah. I read Daphne du Maurier's "Rebecca." I'd seen the movie a gajillion years ago, but had never read the book. And so, on our recent vacation, I sat by the pool, enjoyed a few adult beverages, and became completely terrified of Mrs. Danvers.

At one point, My Guy looked up from his Kindle and asked how my book was.

"Ohmigod, honey, it's crazypants," I said. "See, there's this kind of lady's assistant girl, who works for this horrible rich old lady, right? And she falls in love with this rich older guy and they get married, but when he takes her back to his estate, it turns out the housekeeper is completely obsessed with the dead first wife! And she died in a boating accident, but not really! And the evil housekeeper tries to get the young new wife to jump out the window!"

My sweet husband interrupted me. "And this is a true story? What the hell?"

Oh. "No, it's a novel."

My Guy sighed. "Oh. OK, then. Carry on."

But really, if you try to describe the action in this novel, it sounds like something out of Jerry Springer, but somehow classier because the characters are rich and have British accents. I don't think you could have a British accent and appear on "Springer." It just wouldn't work.

At any rate, I loved this novel. If it's been a while since you've read it, I'd encourage you to pick it up. Also? Here's a really interesting interview with du Maurier's son.

On a scale of 1 to 5, I give "Rebecca" 5 haughty dachshunds.

Have you read "Rebecca?" What did you think?

Set adrift on memory bliss.

I was trying to be cool, working on my laptop at Starbucks. But I'm pretty sure I blew my own cover when I started belting En Vogue's "My Lovin' (You're Never Gonna Get It)."

Call it a hunch.

See, Big Doodle had his cancer treatment today, or as I like to think of it, BLADDERRAMA!. And BLADDERRAMA! takes place at the holistic vet office that's a solid 45 minutes from our house. Last week, I dropped him off, drove home, then turned around and picked him up, then drove home through rush hour. It was not efficient, unless my goal was to get all road ragey.

So, today, I packed up 57 pounds of laptop, notebooks, and printouts, and camped out at Starbucks near BLADDERRAMA!. I am not typically a work-in-Starbucks kinda gal. I don't drink coffee, and it's so easy to just people watch. So, I guess I was out of practice and ill-prepared.

I just wasn't ready for Starbucks to be blasting the music of my youth, the tunes of my peoples. Instead playing some horrible CD they were hawking, they had some sort of Pandora station set to the 90s. Oh, the 90s - when I graduated from high school and college. When I wore flannel shirts, body suits, and high-waisted jeans and considered Bud Light the ultimate classy beverage.

In the grand scheme of things, I feel like the 90s weren't that great of a time to come of age. The one time in my life I had a rockin' bod, the style was oversized everything. I weighed less than 100 pounds and wore XL sweatshirts. It was just morally wrong. Plus, I didn't remember the music being that great.

Until today.

I was trying to write a website about Medicare. But then, I was all bopping along to Jamiroquai. And trying not to sing along to Big Head Todd or Deee-Lite or New Radicals. I realized there were probably a gajillion girls who lost the big V to Mazzy Star's "Fade Into You" - although I wasn't one of them. And whatever happened to Lisa Loeb?

I really was trying to write about Medicare. But writing that website was a concern of Adult Becky. And Adult Becky had left the building. In her place was College Becky, who rocked those high-waisted jeans and hoped she could find a date to hayride. College Becky was really into "Counting Blue Cars" and knew on some level that these were good times that she'd look back on with fierce affection.

The thing about musical memories is that trying to share them is like forcing someone to listen to your dreams. It just doesn't translate. Musical memories are intimate, yours and yours alone.

Although I will tell you that "Counting Blue Cars" makes me want to stick my hands out of a sunroof and sing at the top of my lungs. Like you do when you've just turned 21 and everything is great and will be indefinitely.

What song triggers memories of your youth?