Emmaprovement Continues...

When people ask me what I miss most about home (Vancouver, Canada) I say the ocean. That isn't really the truth. The real truth - my dirty secret - is that I miss The Oprah Show the most.

It's just too lame to admit you miss a TV show. Even if it's one that basically raised you, taught you all your values and makes you cry each and every time you watch it.

So imagine the sheer joy in discovering that Oprah is on TV. HERE. Granted it is a 10:25 in the morning and therefore I can never get a full-time job again, but, whatever, it's Oprah. She's basically God incarnated. And lately, on Oprah, everyone's been mentioning "The Secret". Seemingly "The Secret" is the real reason why Miss America got her crown and how men get rich and how women land the boyfriends they deserve.

Now, I've sworn off self-help books after "He's Just Not That Into You" caused an alarming period of sexual drought in my, and all my friends, life. It took years to stop judging men for not steeping up and proposing on the first date - because that's what he'd do if he was "into you". But The Secret seemed to be a different kind of self-help book, and Oprah knows her
stuff so I decided to read the book.

Notice I said "read", not buy. I made our editor Taryn go buy it, because there is no way I am buying a self-help book. Please. That's humiliating. The good thing is: it's short. It's also possibly the worst written book in the history of literature. And total crap.

Like many US trends, there's a possibility it might travel the Atlantic soon. You might hear people whispering the Secret's mantra "Ask, Receive, Believe". But like "He's Just Not That Into You", the mantra is generally clearer and better than the book. The Secret is all about your thoughts
controlling your future. By concentrating on what you want, you'll get it. Then there is a bunch of anecdotes from people about cancer curing, loves found and millions made simply by "asking the universe" for what they want.

So, here it is, I'm asking the universe for Prince Harry. I'm not going to concentrate on the fact that I'm common Irish-Canadian gobshite and Catholic, that he is, what, a decade younger than me and seems to prefer trashy blondes (no offence, Chelsy, I'm sure you're a really nice, smart
person).