Friday, April 3, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
I don't like vanilla unless it has chocolate and sprinkles on it.
I tried to put my finger on it. Characters were drawn about as well as any can be in category length. Plot was fine. A few things weren't neatly drawn up at the end, which I kind of like. Not all problems should be solved. But a romance is, first and foremost, about the relationship of the hero and heroine, and this...just didn't cut it.
It wasn't just the absence of sex. I've read plenty of no-nookie stories that had heat. (And why can't we find a word for these romances? Sweet brings syrupy and childish to mind. Clean seems to accuse the others of being dirty. What do we call them?) I guess heat has become synonymous with sex, but I've never really suffered the loss if there's no bouncy-bouncy in the book. But I need there to be an intensity, where all the nerve endings stand at attention. I want to see the characters captured.
When they look at each other, I want to catch my breath with them. My breathing was not impeded at all with this story. There were a few good moments, such when he pinned her with his unblinking stare and declared that he'd get the truth out of her. Gad I love those stare scenes. I want to squirm right along with the heroine.
But when the relationship deepened, it got boring. And fast- too fast. Without that intensity- whether or not it leads to the bedroom- it's just boring. Get married, don't. I don't care.
Inspys have done this to me several times, and it just makes me furious. There are ways to show a captivating romance minus tea and crumpets if you do it right. Sticking in a few prayers and a church service doesn't make up for it, either. Gimme more.
Monday, March 16, 2009
A study of 500 teenagers found that 46% of them thought she brought it on. Provoked it in some way. In short, it's her fault that she walked into his fist.
Any guesses how many teens would think it's his fault if he walked into her knife?
I took a seminar on domestic violence, and several of the abused wives said that the abuse was cyclical- there was a gradual build-up of stress until an abusive episode occured that ironically relieved the tension. A number of the women admitted to provoking their abusive husbands when the stress was high, so that they could have some measure of control over when he blew. Knowing it was coming but not knowing when was almost worse than the actual abuse, so they pushed buttons they knew would burst the bubble.
I understand that. But even in these instances, IT WAS NOT THEIR FAULT. Good God, have we not moved past this by now? The discussion isn't even about why the abused stay with their tormentors- people, KIDS, still think it's somehow her fault that he's a coward and a bully?
Well if no one ever told you, I will. IT IS NOT HER FAULT. IT IS NEVER HER FAULT. I don't care if she is the biggest shrew alive with a voice that shatters glass. I don't care if she shoves her tongue down other men's throats. I don't care if she wrecks your car, ruins your credit, and lets your dog run away. Call the police, call her boss, call her a b*tch with a loudspeaker, but you are not justified to hit her. Never, ever, ever.
It's easy to blame the hip-hop culture, I suppose. Lyrics and lifestyles that promotes violence and objectifies women as B's and Ho's is bound to have an effect on the teen mind. But women get abused by rednecks, too. And gumbas. And just about every other segment of society. I just can't believe the generation with access to the most information than any other generation before them still has the nerve to think she deserved it.
Well she didn't. No one, man or woman, deserves to be afraid of their spouse. PERIOD. Chris Brown? He deserves to walk into a cast-iron skillet.
About ten times.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Sunday, March 1, 2009
I used to be the girl who rocked out. I loved concerts. Loved them so much that my hearing is now compromised. I'd sing, I'd dance, I'd jump, and I'd scream. Lord, did I scream. If you could talk the day after a concert, you just weren't doing it right.
My family loves to go to a concert tour every year called Winter Jam. A roster of 5 or 6 Christian artists comes to the local NBA arena, and it's always a fun time. Lately, the artists have been a little more hard-core rocknrolla, and I found out something.
I'd rather be home having a nap.
One of the bands, Hawk Nelson, had a light show. The lights started flashing- not slow enough to be ignored, not fast enough to be a strobe. My vision was blurring slightly, and I got dizzy. I felt like one of those Japanese kids that watch the fast cartoons and have seizures.
The volume was as loud as it always has been, I guess, but it affected me more than it used to. The bass THRUM THRUM THROB practically reset my heart rate. I felt sorry for the people who had pacemakers; they were probably twitching for hours afterward.
And of course, we sat right in front of an entire row of teenage girls. Why do girls scream? I did it. If you're a girl, chances are you did it too. I don't remember hitting decibels unknown to man, however. During intermission, I jokingly told them they had really good lungs. One girl smiled and said, "Oh, did you hear us?"
I did at first, but not by the last act. I had given up hearing by then to concentrate on voluntary brain functions without pain.
My husband had deserted us much earlier, since he's smarter than I am. When I joined him outside on the concourse, wonder of wonders! I can actually hear the music! I can understand the artists when they speak! In the arena, I basically got "GARGLEBLARKFOOSTUSDOO OKLAHOMA CITY!"
If there had just been a video feed somewhere, it would have been perfect. That, and a small drink that didn't cost six dollars.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
How Mark Harmon can still be so blasted cute
The appeal of the Jonas Brothers
Friday, February 6, 2009
Her husband had been in very poor health for a few months- cancer surgery, cardiac trouble and pneumonia. She had welcomed him home the last week of January; a joyous time in spite of ongoing problems. But Feb. 3, he passed on.
For those who know and love Bernita and haven't posted your condolences, please do. And if you haven't had the pleasure, please check out her archives. You'll be enriched.
This is all I can do, little as it is. As helpless as I usually feel with family and friends, I feel doubly so with a cyber-relationship. So strange to completely adore a woman I've never met, isn't it?
Sunday, February 1, 2009
My daughter and I were doing laundry, and bored, so we perused the selection on On Demand. I felt like some mindless fun, so we rented Mamma Mia. Cute movie; not a classic. Meryl Streep is a freaking mutant. She looks fabulous and I was surprised at how well she could sing. Hearing Pierce Brosnan try to sing was painful, but he's still so pretty to look at, who cares? That's what the mute button is for, right?
Beth said after the Dancing Queen number, "I'm so jealous of your time. Your music was just so fun."
I reminded her that we had our envelope-pushers, too, but she replied that at least the majority of 70's-80's acts weren't shoving their crotches in your face. I have to agree.
And just in case you ever wonder: dancing around the living room with your kid to songs from your teenhood is absolutely priceless. So crank this up and have fun!
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
It's the fact that it gets cold, but it hardly ever snows. All we get is wet little pellets that can charitably be called sneet. And our poor little truck fleet...er, fleet-lette, I guess you could call it, pours sand and salt. Which melts it just enough to let you drive on it, which melts it a little bit more, which freezes solid overnight.
Or we just cut out the middleman and get ice rained down on us. Having worked in retail for lo these many years, I've never understood people's reactions to weather. In short form, the Oklahoma guide:
A heat wave with temps over 100? Shop til you drop and make sure you close up your car. After letting it bake for a few hours, be surprised when your shorts-and-tank clad self comes into contact with the leather seats.
A small, warm, gentle rain? Do not go out under any circumstances.
Thunderstorms? Go about your daily activities.
Tornado watch? See thunderstorms.
Tornado warning? Grab your camcorder and stand in the street to get footage. Your neighbors will be out there, too, so find a good vantage point. Important: sell your footage, don't just upload it to the local station's website.
A blizzard that is more ice than snow? Wait for two hours, until the officials declare a state of emergency. Then decide you have a fatal case of cabin fever and head immediately for the mall. Ignore the mall employees who will glare at you because they want to go home before dark. When the cabin fever has passed and you go home, forget that you live in a predominately warm weather state, and curse all the people on the road who don't know how to drive in ice.
So the sleet started shortly after I got to work yesterday morning, and my boss told me to finish up only the important stuff- the billing, because, you know, we like money- and go home as soon as possible.
Have I told you how much I love that man?
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Joaquin Phoenix will eat your soul
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Well, I have some One-Finger neighbors that have the most obnoxious dogs on the face of the earth. Seriously, I'd rather deal with the turkey-stealing Bumpus hounds from A Christmas Story. One is a Heinz 57 mix of Akita, Chow, and Satan; the other is a Napoleonic Dachsund. We have leash laws in our town, which are obeyed about as frequently as you think they are, and these dogs Own. The. Street.
When they are let out for a potty break (there's no fences in the back yards) the owners just stand there on the porch and hope for the best. If you happen to be out, the Dachsund will zero in on you like a tiny black yapping missile. He'll completely ignore the shouts of his people and run at you full speed until he reaches your leg, whereupon he quivers and growls. It's like facing a small junkie on a bad trip.
The other one is slower and not as loud, but he will stand about five feet away and stare at you. I kid you not, he'll just stare at you. Spookiest thing I've ever seen. The owners are pretty good about coming right over to take the dogs home, but just once I'd like to go out and get my mail without spying the land for hostiles first.
My little diva can be annoying; she hates big dogs, cats, and squirrels and she'll be all Barky McYipperson if the wind blows hard. But when I take her out I have her on a leash, a plastic baggie for her mess, and I don't let her bark very long. If she does manage to intrude on someone's rose bush, I apologise and try not to go past that yard again. But these One-Fingers? "I'll be right there. You better not move."
No. You'd better get a chain. If that Black Terror hallucinates that my leg is a big Milk Bone, or if your spook sacrifices a chicken on my front porch, I'll feel free to give you a different kind of one finger salute.