As a rule, I tend to avoid self-help, woo woo crap. I’m all for empowering oneself and lord knows I’ve watched a TED talk or two or eight hundred, but if someone uses the phrase “inner goddess” they’re going to see my inner lunch on their shoes. I like my advice like I like my men: straight, clean, and gets the job done.
But I have an inexplicable soft spot for Oprah’s magazine, O. There is usually a handful of paragraphs that make me groan and roll my eyes, and after hearing someone describe Dr. Phil as a shaved bear I can’t unsee it (you’re welcome), but I’ll be damned if I don’t buy it when I’m standing in line at the grocery store. It’s just so pretty and glossy! And honestly, Martha Beck’s column is worth the cover price alone. And it has some pretty good writing. So, if it wants to help me accomplish my dreams, I’m all for it. Though, my dreams mainly consist of wearing clothing made only of cashmere and hanging out with Oprah in her house that probably smells amazing like the inside of a Williams Sonoma store, drinking wine and dragging out our vowels when we talk (“Jooooohn Traaaavoooooltaaaa”. “A brand! new! caaaaar!” “May I have some mooooore wiiiiiine pleeeeeease?”)
Plus, her gift guide is so delightfully bonkers. It exists in a land where ordering $15 cinnamon rolls from across the country is a total normal thing to do and everything has a wonderfully absurd description:
Oh, Oprah – if I had a beloved, we would be drinking our wine immediately after opening the bottle because we got it for $10 at the Rite Aide down the street and that shit does not keep. But you stay you.