I recently bought one of those self-help books that promise to infuse-your-life-with-indescribable-joy-and-abundant-riches. (I know: Its hard to believe I would interrupt the days of my life for this kind of wholesome reading matter.) But in my own defense, Id like to point out that I was driven to this act of desperation when I had an oh my goodness don't tell me that this is all my life's about attacks brought about by smelly socks, dirty dishes, and a fridge that was harboring enough unidentified organisms to start a biological war in the backyard.

Desperate for some hint of salvation, I went into the local bookstore, grabbed a you too can find inner peace and serenity book and vowed that from now on, things were going to be different. I read the whole book from cover to cover and get this: I even took notes. After pondering my fate for about 30 seconds, I decided I was actually going do some of what the book recommended. (Mostly the parts that didn't involve major lifestyle changes or actually having to do anything that might cause me to perspire.)

Its funny, but nowhere in the book did it mention that eating a wholesome fiber-filled meal before sitting down for my daily meditation was likely to result in gastrointestinal rumblings that did nothing for ones inner peace. In fact, when your bowel is trying desperately to process all that healthful (read: tasteless) mush, it causes the kind of noisy disruption one hears just before the kitchen plumbing gives in.

Its all very well telling people to put aside quality time to get in touch with their inner being. But where, oh where, in the normal suburban household can you find refuge from the football scrum of everyday life? And why is it that they always scream Mom when one of the pack takes possession of the remote control and wont give it back (you little!@#@!!)? Will somebody please tell them that Mo-oooo-mmmm is not a mantra? Or an SOS signal? In fact, try saying this: Dad! Dad! Dad! Daaaadddd!

It seems that while the path to hell is paved with good intentions, the path to serenity lies through affirmations, a new age way of describing self-induced brainwashing that is supposed to lift you to a new level of consciousness, or at the very least, keep you from yelling at the kids while you're doing it.

After a few weeks of repeating I am filled with an abundance of energy I had a revelation. Yep. A revelation. And I'm going to share it with you so that you don't waste your time telling yourself fibs when you could be watching your favorite soap opera and stuffing yourself with tasty nibbles (low-cal, of course). Here it is: No amount of insincerely telling yourself that you are filled with energy is going to help when you feel like as sprightly as limp, overcooked cabbage. Lets face it lying there on the bed (while all hell breaks loose around you) telling yourself that life is wonderful wont make it so.

Frankly, if I cant have inner peace, Id settle for a fire-red Ferrari. I cant afford to find myself in the Himalayas and with my luck, would wander off the path less taken and find myself taken prisoner by ferocious forest dwellers who take pleasure in devouring well-ripened, plump women for their morning appetizer.

I can see it now: Me in the middle of a cooking pot being seasoned by savages. My hair is attractively tousled as I glare defiantly at my captors. At the very last minute, an incredibly handsome hunk swings in on a branch to save me from my fate and carries me off to his stronghold (read: penthouse suite). What's that? I'm out of touch with reality? You bet. This is my fantasy and I'm going to enjoy it. From now on, I am going to star in my own show. Write my own script. Boldly go where I've never gone before (with spare knickers and a toothbrush in hand). But right now, I have to do the dishes.




Liane Shalev