MURDER BY DESIGN

5 stars out of 5

Now that I’ve chuckled my way through this book, I’m really hoping it’s the first of a series. Both characters – former LAPD detective Edison Bixby turned insurance fraud investigator and his sidekick and story narrator Wally Nash – are nothing short of a hoot. UPDATE: Just as I was starting to write this review, my hopes were confirmed by way of a Facebook post by the author saying he’s in Singapore researching the next book. Hallelujah!

Bixby, you see, was a top-notch detective, at least until he got shot in the face. While it didn’t kill him, it did kill his ability to control what comes out of his mouth; and his often rude utterings don’t tend to sit well with other people around him. He’s managed to turn his experiences into a big payday and is a multi-millionaire and really doesn’t need to work, but he’s so good at being a detective that he willingly works for the insurance company. Still, that unruly mouth needs tempering; so it is that he needs an “assistant” to smooth things over when he crosses the verbal line of social acceptability (which is rather often).

Such assistants have come and gone, but the most recent is Wally Nash, a character actor wannabe who’s looking for that big break while landing a few similar jobs in B-level (or lower) commercials. Nash isn’t quite sure how or if he’ll be able to handle Bixby’s quirkiness, but he’s willing to try – and as narrator of this story, he lays out all his experiences for readers in often hilarious detail.

The duo start with a couple “warm-up” cases in which Nash marvels at Bixby’s amazing ability to solve cases in a short time by seeing details others miss – thus solidifying his belief that he’s the right person to partner with Bixby (well, that and a few perks offered by filthy-rich Bixby). That leads to one of their biggest cases; determining whether a woman’s death in an under-construction shopping mall was an accident or something more sinister. Bixby, you see, is a proponent of the theory that architectural design is, well, kind of alive; done wrong (or correctly, depending on who did the designing and why) can be a killer. Whoa – was that what happened here?

How all that turns out is a journey filled with chuckles, at least for me (yes, I’ve got a rather quirky sense of humor) – and both Bixby and Nash complement each other perfectly in that department. This also is where I call it quits for this review – the details are not for me to reveal. All I’ll do is repeat what I said at the beginning: when the next book in this series is available, I’ll try my darndest to be the first one in line. Oh, and I’ll say a ton of thanks to the publisher, via NetGalley, for giving me a few hours of delight by way of a pre-release copy.

Murder by Design by Lee Goldberg (Thomas & Mercer, June 2026); 239 pp.

DID I SAY THAT OUT LOUD?

4 stars out of 5

Reading a book on how to deal with the indignities of middle age for me is sort of akin to locking the barn door after the horse is out (I just celebrated, or more accurately, bemoaned, my 80th birthday). But curiosity got the better of me: Were my experiences similar to the author's? If not, how (and maybe why) were they different? Besides that, the book description included the word "hilarious." Far be it from me to pass up a chance to laugh - even if it's at myself.

And chuckle I did - sometimes out loud - and not infrequently (nor insignificantly) I was reminded of one of my all-time favorite writers, the late, great Erma Bombeck (a longtime syndicated newspaper columnist and best-selling book author who wrote very funny things about suburban home life). And for sure, I could identify with much of the author's experiences and insights; one that stood out in particular is being a very competent person - especially at work - but clueless about operating a TV remote. I've been saying for a couple of years now that should anything happen to my husband of nearly 60 years, I'd need help with just two things: How to work at least one of our five TV remotes and how to pump my own gas.

Still other points - like the dubious ability to break a toenail at the drop of a hat - are intimately familiar as well. For me, though, it's the whole toe - which comes as a result of refusing to wear shoes indoors (or outdoors, every time I can get away with it). Not a year goes by that something - like an errant bedpost - jumps out to nail one of my toes.

My favorite section, though, came at the end in the form of cautionary lists. Most are spot-on and yes, I've been there. Still, I couldn't resist adding a couple of personal notes that come from living a good 30 years longer than the author, to-wit:

Things that are annoying but unavoidable: Needing reading glasses to make dinner. Yep - or if, like me, you've worn glasses for many years, you'll suddenly need bifocals. And then, somewhere between age 50 and 70, you'll develop cataracts that render all types of lenses ineffective. On the plus side, cataract surgery can for many people, including me, mean you won't need glasses at all. How long that lasts, of course, remains to be seen: Stay tuned.

Things that aren't worth it: Trying to open clamshell packaging without using scissors. I second that (with painful cuts to prove it) and add that I've lost count of the number of fingernails I've broken a fingernail trying to open any cardboard packaging before I see the spot designated "Open Here." So keep the scissors handy as well as your glasses (unless you've had cataract surgery).

Things that will always be confusing: How sometimes leaves on a plant turn yellow because you're underwatering and other times because you're overwatering. By the time you're my age, you stop caring. I just water mine every six months whether they need it or not; yellow leaves simply mean they better match my kitchen walls. Brown is quite another matter and kind of fun; I get to  toss the whole plant and start again.

Things you learn along the way: Eventually you will have too many scented candles. Also knick knacks, frayed dish towels long since relegated to cleaning rag status, sheets that don't fit any bed in the house, plastic shopping bags stuffed with dozens of other plastic shopping bags and, with a tip of the hat to the COVID-19 pandemic, toilet paper. Don't believe me? Just ask our daughter, who grows more concerned every week about how she'll get rid of all that stuff when I'm gone.

All told, this is a delightful and entertaining book that I don't hesitate to recommend to all ages. Mid-lifers can commiserate (boy, how you'll commiserate), while spring chickens can learn what to expect and seniors like me can have the satisfaction that comes from saying honey, you ain't seen nuthin' yet. Thanks to the publisher, via NetGalley, for providing me with a pre-release copy to read and review. Well done!

Did I Say That Out Loud? by Kristin van Ogtrop (Little, Brown Spark, April 2021); 336 pp.

FIFTY THINGS THAT AREN'T MY FAULT: ESSAYS FROM THE GROWN-UP YEARS

5 stars out of 5

I'm not sure which I did more of while reading this wonderful book: chuckle out loud or wipe away tears. It helps, I suppose, that I was a huge fan of the author's long-running "Cathy" comic strip. Perhaps more important, while I'm older than she is by nine years, I, too, was a champion of the feminist movement (still am, as is she) and was for a time sandwiched in between parents and a daughter, all of whom were growing old, and up, way too fast. Sadly, my parents are gone now - and my daughter has become the "stuff" inside the Oreo of life, caught between a grown daughter of her own and her aging parents (which, Lord help us, means me and my husband).

In any event, oh, how I can relate - and I'm quite sure all but teenybopper females will do so as well. These essays were written, Guisewite says, at a time when she's trying to "declutter" her own life (hmmm, I'm pretty sure that's a word that passed through our daughter's lips last time she popped in for a visit). Feminist though she may be, Guisewite admits to feeling torn between Betty Crocker and Betty Friedan (conjuring up decades-ago memories of whipping up a casserole so my family wouldn't go hungry while I attended a Gloria Steinem lecture). I choked with laughter - and frustration - as she recounted getting "stuck" in a sports bra; as a gym newbie, I can tell you it's not fun (though worse, perhaps, is the embarrassment over having to call someone to your rescue). And before I caved and joined the gym, I, too, resisted the call to exercise, rationalizing that "I exercised yesterday and I don't look any different."

There are far too many other shared feelings and experiences to mention here (especially since I don't want to spoil the fun for other readers). In the end, she sums up the dilemma we're in perfectly: "My whole generation is reeling from the stunning truth - that we, who are way too young and hip to ever look or act old, are not too young to pass away." Aha - maybe that's why I glance proudly at the year-old Aristocat tattoo on the top of my flip-flop clad foot as I open the morning newspaper first to the obituaries pages. Torn indeed!

In short, I love, love, love this book - highly recommended. Many thanks to the publisher, via NetGalley, for the opportunity to read and review an advance copy.

Fifty Things That Aren't My Fault by Cathy Guisewite (G.P. Putnam's Sons, April 2019); 336 pp.

LESSONS FROM LUCY

5 stars out of 5

How do I love thee? One of the ways is making me laugh. And nobody does that better than this author, who has been a favorite of mine ever since somewhere in the early 1980s (if memory serves me well) when I began reading - and giggling my way through - his syndicated newspaper columns. Several books have crossed my reading path as well, the latest being this one. It's a bit more introspective than others have been - after all, he's getting older like the rest of us (for the record, he's about seven years younger than I am). Nonetheless I chuckled, chortled and, on occasion, belly laughed my way from beginning to end.

Subtitled "The Simple Joys of an Old, Happy Dog," the center of attention here is Barry's aging dog Lucy. From watching (and clearly loving) her, he has derived seven "lessons" that everyone - not just those of us for whom the years ahead are far fewer than those we've left behind - would do well to consider. That's largely because Lucy has always known how to be happy; if we follow her examples, we, too, can live out the rest of our years as happier individuals with fewer regrets. Each chapter presents a new lesson (No. 1: Make New Friends (And Keep the Ones You Have), followed by his observations of Lucy's behavior and his conclusions as to why we humans would do well to be copycats.

Did I mention cats? That reminds me to mention Barry's often wry humor runs rampant throughout the book, including a reference to cats, who he claims "have the morals of Hannibal Lecter." My personal favorite is his take on the burden of Social Security costs that is being passed to younger generations: "I view this as payback for what the younger generations have done to music."

Both amusing, yes; but the "no spleen" story had me - quite literally - doubled over and in tears (you'll just have to read it for yourself).

Now that I've finished the book, I'll offer one of my own life lessons: Never underestimate the importance of laughter. It will - trust me on this - serve you well through the best of times and the worst of times. This book provides a wonderful reminder of that - and I thank the publisher (via NetGalley) for the opportunity to read and review an advance copy. It's rare that I say this, but I really, really didn't want this one to end.

Lessons From Lucy by Dave Barry (Simon & Schuster, October 2018); 208 pp.

STOP LICKING THAT

4.5 stars out of 5

No matter what the generation in which it happens, parenting ain't for sissies. My indoctrination - the first of two - happened way back in 1963. Unlike the author, we got one with outdoor plumbing and one with indoor; and they were nearly five years apart instead of just two. Still, with the exception of not having ultrasound readily available during pregnancy, many of her experiences with childbirth and rearing mirror mine - and, I suspect, those of most parents, at least if they're honest about it.

Right up front, though, I'll warn that this book isn't for everyone; the language is both colorful and frank. I know women, for instance, who would jump in a vat of hot oil before allowing their kids to watch them pee (or, for that matter, use the word "pee" in front of them). So if that describes you, well, perhaps you should skip this one. As for me, I was rocked by several belly-laughs throughout; like the author, I've got a mouth like a truck driver (with apologies to those drivers who are far more well-spoken than I). Also like the author, while I tried really hard to keep my lips zipped around our kids, sometimes (okay, make that fairly often), the heat of the moments got the better of me.

The book begins with a somewhat bawdy description of her pregnancy and then moves to some of the more, shall we say, enlightening mileposts that happened once her first kid made an appearance (somewhat rapidly followed by a second, bringing even more complications and yuck-yucks from me). And even when I couldn't identify with a specific behavior - honest to God, neither of my kids ever licked anything more potentially mess-making than a three-scoop ice cream cone - the concepts hit bullseyes for me just about every time. And always, the focus is on loving, nurturing and protecting her boys - how could any mother argue with that? 

There's a bit of more serious "stuff" sprinkled around, including dealing with her parents' split for a rather unconventional reason. She also emphasizes that the book really is about her, and how difficult, yet important, parenting is for her. The only time I took any issue at all is when she spanked one of her sons. Not a Martha Stewart good thing? Agreed. But it happened only once and she immediately concluded that spanking is a no-no. Now, though, it's way past time to stop dwelling on it; a one-and-done certainly won't scar the kid for life.

There's a helpful appendix with parenting tips here as well - making the whole thing both entertaining and educational. Thanks, Ms. Mitchell, for sending me a copy to read and review - good job!

Stop Licking That by Karin Mitchell (Amazon Digital Services LLC, February 2017); 277 pp.

ALIENATION OF AFFECTIONS

4 stars out of 5

Well, if I've learned anything after nearly 55 years of marriage, it's that when in divorce court, never trust a living soul. At this point, though, I'm in full agreement with the wife of the philandering husband in this, the second book in the author's Family Court series: I've invested far too much time in the one I've got to get rid of him now.

And in this case, that wife - Martha Grimm - is willing to pay handsomely to accomplish exactly that. But what she wants to avoid at all costs is suing her husband. When she puts that challenge to her attorney, though, the initial reaction is something like, say what? Putting their heads together - and realizing that no solution to their client's request means no fees - the attorney and her associates come up with the notion of putting the state's little-known (and probably never used) law called "Alienation of Affections" into play. As such, the firm can sue the wayward husband's mistress - herein known as "The Floozy" - thus taking the husband out of the equation and allowing for a trial by jury instead of the more typical judge's decision.

What happens behind the scenes in divorce court is revealed in this very short novel (I read it in one sitting and one-and-a-half glasses of a decent sangria). But most interesting to me were the characters, beginning with the Floozy, who's desperately trying to dress the part in court (using her paramour's credit card, of course) and the height-challenged judge who's just trying to get in 10 years so he can retire with a hefty pension for life. Then there's the Great Negotiator, a.k.a. Floozy's lawyer, who always delivers results (whether or not he'll manage that here I'll never tell). Even "The Dress" - the ill-fitting number Floozy picked for her day in court - plays a significant role.

All in all, it's a fun look inside the workings of divorce court. I thank the author for providing a copy for me to read and review.

Alienation of Affections by Portia Porter (Cheetah Press, August 2016); 141 pp.

BEST. STATE. EVER.

5 stars out of 5


From my days as a spring chicken to now, when I'm officially an old hen, one thing has been a constant: I love to laugh. And one person on whom I can count to make me yuck it up - whether via a syndicated newspaper column or one of his books - is Dave Barry. So when the publisher offered me the chance to read and review an advance copy of his newest effort, I said bring it on.

It is, thank goodness, rather short - I finished the whole thing in a couple of hours. Had it been much longer, I'm sure I'd have been banished to the basement while I read. Almost from page one, my chortles and guffaws started - annoying the heck out of my husband, who sat in his easy chair across from me trying to watch TV or read a book of his own. 

This time, Barry takes on Florida, where he's lived for 30 years. Much of that time, he says, he's been getting calls asking what's wrong with the Sunshine State, and the laughing has grown even worse since the 2000 Presidential election fiasco. So, he's decided to clear things up, taking himself - and now readers - to the best that Florida has to offer. He includes a brief but enlightening history ("...nothing much happened in the seventies, unless you count disco, which sucked as much in Florida as it did everywhere else," he writes).

Actually, one big event did happen in the '70s - Walt Disney World - and tourism hasn't been the same since as visitors began heading straight to the Orlando paradise, skipping the once-popular roadside attractions. Now, though, we learn what we've been missing lo these many years: Places like Cassadega, known for ghosts and all things spiritual; The Villages, the world's largest retirement community that's chock full of tricked-out golf carts; and Gatorland, the Allligator Capital of the World (no further explanation needed).

The places on the list are almost as offbeat as his humor, which is sometimes tongue-in-cheek and often irreverent - just the way I love it. Put another way, Dave, you've still got it - it's been 24 hours since I reached the end and I'm still chuckling. 

Best. State. Ever. by Dave Barry (G.P. Putnam's Sons, September 2016); 240 pp.

FOREVER ERMA

5 stars out of 5

Waxing nostalgic usually isn't my thing. If nothing else, when you're as old as I am, the past stretches back so far that details become a little muddled - so why bother? But when I saw this book on sale at Amazon, the memories really did come flooding back and I snapped it up. Besides getting a good deal, I needed a dose of comic relief from the psychological thrillers and grisly murder books that are my standard fare and figured this one would provide it. And I was right.

For those who don't know, humorist Erma Bombeck penned more than 4,000 syndicated "At Wit's End" newspaper columns from 1965 to 1996 - and I'm quite sure I read most of them as well as a couple of her books. Her primary intent was to make women laugh - often at themselves - and she pulled that off in fine fettle. And just for because it's meaningful to me, I'll note that she's a native of "my" state of Ohio, growing up and living for years in a town not far from my parents' small farm.

This book is an anthology of those columns. Are they dated? Absolutely; I doubt they would be nearly as funny to mothers of today. Then again, some things never change; my newfangled digital washing machine withholds socks just like the old one did (they tend to reappear, of course, just after I've given up waiting and throw away the mate I've been saving for months). 

For those who might  complain about female stereotypes, I hasten to emphasize that I was then, and still am, a staunch feminist. But I also had a husband, two kids and, after both were in school, a career. So no matter how many times I paraded in the street with sign proclaiming "Adam was a Rough Draft," it was into my hand, not my husband's, that my kids spit their chewing gum as we sat in church.

Besides making me laugh, Erma assuaged my "bad mom" twinges when I used TV - and a box of way-too sugary Fruit Loops - as a Saturday morning babysitter so I could have an hour or two of relative peace and quiet. She even made me feel less guilty on the days I threatened to take them both to a winery, stick them in kegs and come back to pull the plugs when they were 21.

So for me, a golden oldie who grew up in the '50s, these columns are a treasure trove. Browsing through this collection, I did exactly what I did back then: I smiled, giggled, chortled and hooted out loud. And yes, I teared up on occasion; her "Mike and the Grass" column in May 1973 tugged at the "Sunrise, Sunset" strings of my heart, and I sniffled my way through the words in her final column, written not long before she left this world. Love you forever, Erma, and I know without doubt that if there is a heaven, you're in it - telling the angels how it really is and making them laugh until they (well, you know).

Forever Erma: Best-Loved Writing From America's Favorite Humorist (Open Road Media, 1st edition, January 2013); 293 pp. 

A DIRTY JOB

4.5 stars out of 5

Have I mentioned that I have a truly warped sense of humor? Nothing is sacred to me when it comes in the form of a joke - not life, nor religion, nor death. And trust me, not one of those three topics gets short shrift in this book (I'd give it 4.5 stars if that were possible).

Because I enjoy the dark side of funny, it stands to reason I love Christopher Moore's books. Back when I read Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal, I giggled so hard and so often that I had to move away from my usual reading spot lest I further annoy a husband who was trying his best to read a book of his own. This time, my intent was to read Moore's latest, Secondhand Souls; but a good friend and fellow Moore fan advised me to read this one first and I paid attention.

The whole thing begins as Charlie Asher is enjoying his life with a beautiful wife and infant daughter. But suddenly, everything goes to hell in a handbasket - somewhat literally. People begin to drop dead, and he "sees" people and things no one else does. Soon, he learns he's become a designated Death Merchant - a person charged with collecting the souls of the dying, keeping them away from the Forces of Darkness that threaten to take over the world so Charlie can transfer them to the bodies of other living folks. It's a dirty job, as his Death Merchant instruction book (and the  title of this book) say, but somebody's got to do it. Actually, Charlie is a natural for the job; as a Beta Male, he's described as leaning toward timidity and paranoia - both tendencies quite evident at least in the early parts of the book - but on the other hand, he'll "never be a bug splattered on the smoky windscreen of dull imagination."

The book follows Charlie as he tries to better understand and deal with his rather bizarre fate. Sometimes, he's called upon to explain his strange actions (not to mention his daughter Sophie's suddenly acquired pair of humongous black bodyguard dogs and his every-so-often sightings of shadowy "beings" that pop up from the San Francisco sewer system).  Like everything else, those explanations are served with a big dose of humor:

"So, from what you guys are saying, there are thousands of humans walking around without souls?" a lady friend asked.

"Millions, probably," Charlie replied.

"Maybe that explains the last election," was her retort.

Ah yes, definitely my kind of book.

A Dirty Job by Christopher Moore (William Morrow, reprint edition, October 2009); 400 pp.