Friday, April 3, 2009
See You In A Bit
Been having internet woes, so I'm typing this in the library. my service should be up and running again on April 16 or 17, so I'll see you then!
Thursday, March 26, 2009
I'm Strange
But you knew that. I just finished reading an inspirational romance, and...meh. Seriously. I know the author, and I've liked other stuff she's written, but this was vanilla.
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.
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
You CANNOT Be Serious
Okay, y'all. I am mad. Lobster-faced rage monkey McFurious. We all know about a certain singer who was beaten senseless by her singer boyfriend, right? If the tabloids are to be believed, she took him back. Which makes her stupid. But what makes the blood shoot from my eyeballs?
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.
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
Harlequin, You Make Me Wonder
You make me wonder how in one month you can go from OH YEAH!
To OH, NO!
To Oh, GOD, no.
Mystery, indeed.
To OH, NO!
To Oh, GOD, no.
Mystery, indeed.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
I've Accepted It...Sigh
I'm OLD. Ancient crone old. Dried up prune hag old.
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.
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
Hey There...
How YOU doin'? I was thinking maybe we could check out the life raft on this tub. You bring them little crackers with the cheese- not the fish eggs, they're nasty- and I'll grab a bottle of champers. Meet ya there!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)