Elevator Etiquette: Part 2
It's true. I can, on occasion, be grumpy in the morning. Those of you that know me have experienced this first hand (though I still maintain I do a fairly good job of being pleasant when required) but the more tired I am and the less I want to engage in the early activity required, the more grumpy I get.
I woke up this morning pounding on my alarm to shut it off. After a weekend of shenanigans, flying across the country, and grading papers where my young male students thought a wife cheating was justification for female genocide I really, with every quark in my body, did not want to get up and teach Hamlet at 8:00 am. Hamlet and I don't get along under the best of circumstances--see the "Ophelia" rant. But a person can't cancel class just because they hate everything and everyone.
I over slept a little bit, but I still made it to school on time. Coffee in one hand and bottled water in the other, I walked to the elevator sweating profusely and silently debating the suffocating humidity of my home state vs. the blast furnace weather of my current state. I could feel my backpack pushing my shirt against my perspiring back and my mood was less than elevated as I also considered how professional sweat stains are when discussing Hamlet. In the grand scheme of things, however, I hadn't peed on my skirt so I was still a step ahead of this time last year.
I hear the door down the hallway open and who comes around the corner but a young undergraduate fellow. His demeanor oozes disinterest and a smirk seems to be fairly plastered on his features. He eyes me as if I were a member of the ugly sorority and I felt my grumpiness toward the world intensify and zero in on his face. First off, the kid wasn't nearly good looking enough for the attitude he was sporting; this is not "the guy" that all the girls run after. This wasn't even a guy that most girls would notice. I wouldn't have noticed him if his raging case of I'm-nineteen-and-so-cool-it-hurts-itis hadn't more or less assaulted me when he came around the corner. Secondly I never to my knowledge look that unpleasant in public. In fact, I'm reasonably certain my unpleasant face is my most charming since every time I wear it random strangers want to talk to me.
The elevator arrives. This is the slowest elevator on campus by the by. We enter and I push 3. Two + floors is a perfectly acceptable elevator ride. He looked at me and I looked at him. Theme music from The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly whistled in the background. I said with my eyes, "Don't do it! I can tell you're a douchebag, but don't push 2! Don't be that guy!" I stood in a slightly aggressive posture blocking the number pad in such a way as to telepathically communicate my complete and total judgment of his character should he reach across on push 2. With a sneer on his lips and a vapidness in his eyes he reached over...and pushed 2.
I hate perfectly healthy people that ride the elevator only one floor.
Now, it's possible this young man had reasons for his behavior (the attitude, not the elevator). Maybe he woke up that morning, realized he was Oedipus, and was understandably befuddled by the new knowledge that he had killed his father and was sleeping with his mother. Maybe he was actually living a Quentin Tarantino movie and was on his way at that precise moment to assassinate someone. Maybe his mother never hugged him enough. I try to take these things into account, and to remind myself that not everyone knows the basic rules of polite society; you know the ones, don't belch in public, don't kick babies, don't ride the elevator one floor.
Here's the thing: nobody likes a whiner, and this kid was the archetype of a whiner. But despite all of that I never would have noticed or remembered him if hadn't ridden the elevator only one floor. It's a tough lesson, but one that I feel is worth learning.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Top Ten Reunion Moments
I went to my 10 year high school reunion this weekend. It was, I have to admit, surprisingly fun. I shouldn't say "surprisingly" as if I didn't expect to have a good time; I wouldn't have flown home if I didn't expect to have a good time. But I was surprised at myself--how much I enjoyed seeing and talking to people again; how nice it was to learn that people were happy and healthy; and last, but certainly not least, how totally sweet it is when a non-watered-down cocktail only costs $3.50. That last one possibly got me in trouble, but it wouldn't have been "just like the old days" unless I was stupidly ill in my parents' bathroom at least once.
It was requested, however, and I always answer my requests, that I offer up a top ten list for the weekend. It's okay, I know you want it. So here we go!
Top Ten Moments From Ye Olde 10 Year Reunion
10. Cockroaches in IL are blacker and jucier than cockroaches in NV.
So this one isn't technically "about" the reunion, but since you've all been with me in my recent cock-a-roach escapades I felt it worth putting on the list. I get home Thursday. Thursday night a friend and I watch Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (Alan Rickman, you know you love him). I get up for a drink and there on the floor if a GIANT black cockroach. I pick up my flip flop and kill him until he is dead. I return to the kitchen a little while later and there are TWO GIANT black cockroaches. I kill them, my martial-arts style technique impressive for even a prodigy of Bruce Lee, but before I can recover a THIRD GIANT black cockroach attacks from the side! The kitchen is now littered with carcasses, all oozing some stinky, yellowish-white substance and I suddenly remember why I hated killing cockroaches when I lived in that state. They're just so...juicy. At least out here they're dehydrated like everything else.
The crowning moment to this story is that the following morning when I told my dad he seriously needed to invest in some roach motel real estate he replied with, "if you walk hard enough you never see them." Thanks Dad. As always your logic is impeccable.
9. Narrowly avoided face-plants, trips, and other classy kung-fu moves on my part.
I'm feeling good; I'm feeling pretty. And then I missed the last step at the bar housing our official "reunion" and nearly face planted in front of several former classmates. It's hard to contain awesomeness such as this. Nothing says "I'm a fully grown classy lady" like breaking a fall with your face.
8. Some random dude from the bar I used to go to thinks we're friends.
Many (many) years ago I frequented a bar in my hometown. I frequented said bar almost every night of the week for two years because my roommate and I were what a professional might describe as "alcoholic" but what I like to simply term "fun." Many (many) other people frequented this bar because it was a popular place amongst the college students. A year or two ago I was sitting in a different bar in my hometown, over Christmas break I think, having a beer dressed nothing like the ho I once was and a fellow tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I used to attend this previously described bar awhile ago. I said yes and we chatted amicably for a second and then his friend hauled him away. I had a brief seizure as I attempted to remember what acts I committed in that bar that made me memorable six years later from all the other college girls that went there. This would make a find story in and of itself. But Saturday night, one or two years after our last encounter, he was at the bar the reunion was being held and tapped me on the shoulder. He said hi and we chatted amicably some more before I boogied out of there. I'm perplexed by this. It didn't seem like he wanted to sleep with me (it's been awhile, the radar could be off) and it didn't seem like he wanted to get to know me so what the hell? Like the homeless man who kissed me or the other homeless guy that asked me if the street we were walking on was the "road to nowhere" I feel my pheromones mock me by only attracting unfathomable situations and wildly inappropriate men. This doesn't actually have anything to do with the reunion either, but the story was too inconceivable not to share.
And really...if there are pictures of me somewhere doing something in that bar please burn them. I learned the lesson about no cameras while drinking WAY too late.
7. Once a geek, always a geek.
I feel I have the best high school senior prom date story ever. Only time I was asked to dance was by a friend and it was for the senior prom. My friend said, "Would you like to go to the prom? I thought about it and I figured you would be the most fun girl I could go with." And it was a great night. Fast forward ten years, this friend was at the reunion which was fantastic, and we fell into a conversation about the Watchmen, Transformers, and various other geeky endeavors. Those around us politely excused themselves and I thought this is why we always had such a good time together. Deep down inside, no matter how serious our jobs, or how grown up we have to be, some of us will always enjoy ourselves most while debating comic books and philosophy. T'was awesome.
6. I got to say where I lived.
It's shallow and it doesn't matter. It's not like I live anywhere more special than anywhere else (trust me I know, I live here) but I'm not married and I don't have kids and while I'm not any fatter than I ever was I'm also not any skinnier than I ever was. Getting to say I lived in a big city known for being a good time at least let me play the "I can carry alcohol on the street as I walk from penny slot to penny slot" card. It's not something that would make my mother proud and isn't like I saved a baby to get here, but it was something.
5. If you have a wedgie any attempt to fix it will be caught by someone turning the corner at the exact wrong time.
I wore the wrong underwear. Sort of like nearly face-planting this was my other crowning achievement. I'd like to think it's the universe's way of keeping me humble, but more likely I'm just a dumbass. So you step into a dark corner; you look left, right, and left again. You reach back for the quick tug and...someone walks around the corner and you're totally caught. Bastion of class. Right here.
4. If you didn't have anything to talk about in high school chances are, no matter how well meaning you both are, you will have nothing to talk about ten years later either.
Everyone is adult, or at least mostly adult. We all know how to carry on pleasant conversations. But once you say hi and run through what you're doing now there really isn't anywhere to go. And a couple of times as I stood awkwardly with my awkward smile pasted on my face I thought, "why can't I talk to this person?" I can talk to homeless guys, and carnie guys...I have even talked pleasantly with people that believe the Earth is 6,000 years old. But perfectly nice, sane people I shared four years of my life with...I've got nothing. A few of us lamented our social ineptitude together, but what could be done? If we aren't talking books, movies, the undead, or music I'm out. I got nothing.
3. A videocassette is still in existence that would make my mother cry.
New Years Eve 1999. Never EVER imbibe something illegal and then say yes when someone asks if you want to stand in front of the video camera. Ten years later it will come up. Seriously. Never. Ever.
2. The Breakfast Club was alive and well.
It was like the lunch room in high school. All of one type of kid on one side of the bar. All of another type of kid on the other side of the bar. I stood back in amazement as everyone gravitated towards their respective social hierarchy and I was amazed. I don't think it happened because anyone intended for it to happen--see #4.
As an addendum, an even better example of this happened as I stood in the bathroom waiting for my friend and three stall doors opened up, and three gorgeous women walked out. All in satin, mid-calf, black cocktail dresses. All with (almost) the same shade of blond hair. All with (almost) the same tan. All with fantastic shoes. I almost ducked into a stall, but it was too late. There was no way to avoid being rude. And again, I thought, why is this so uncomfortable? I think it's cause pretty people scare me.
My friend took forever getting out of the stall because she was laughing at me and didn't want to come out.
1. Everyone (apparently) was surprised I engaged in activities that are unhealthy.
Sometimes I engage in activities that come with the Surgeon General's warning on the box. Multiple people were shocked by this. All I gots to say is the only reason I wasn't breaking the law in high school is because no one showed me where the parties were. For everyone that really knows me, every time I do something that is unhealthy, stupid, or just plain dangerous my name is said with a sense of resignation that said activity was always inevitable. Did I really come off as that much of a good girl in high school? Lame.
I went to my 10 year high school reunion this weekend. It was, I have to admit, surprisingly fun. I shouldn't say "surprisingly" as if I didn't expect to have a good time; I wouldn't have flown home if I didn't expect to have a good time. But I was surprised at myself--how much I enjoyed seeing and talking to people again; how nice it was to learn that people were happy and healthy; and last, but certainly not least, how totally sweet it is when a non-watered-down cocktail only costs $3.50. That last one possibly got me in trouble, but it wouldn't have been "just like the old days" unless I was stupidly ill in my parents' bathroom at least once.
It was requested, however, and I always answer my requests, that I offer up a top ten list for the weekend. It's okay, I know you want it. So here we go!
Top Ten Moments From Ye Olde 10 Year Reunion
10. Cockroaches in IL are blacker and jucier than cockroaches in NV.
So this one isn't technically "about" the reunion, but since you've all been with me in my recent cock-a-roach escapades I felt it worth putting on the list. I get home Thursday. Thursday night a friend and I watch Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (Alan Rickman, you know you love him). I get up for a drink and there on the floor if a GIANT black cockroach. I pick up my flip flop and kill him until he is dead. I return to the kitchen a little while later and there are TWO GIANT black cockroaches. I kill them, my martial-arts style technique impressive for even a prodigy of Bruce Lee, but before I can recover a THIRD GIANT black cockroach attacks from the side! The kitchen is now littered with carcasses, all oozing some stinky, yellowish-white substance and I suddenly remember why I hated killing cockroaches when I lived in that state. They're just so...juicy. At least out here they're dehydrated like everything else.
The crowning moment to this story is that the following morning when I told my dad he seriously needed to invest in some roach motel real estate he replied with, "if you walk hard enough you never see them." Thanks Dad. As always your logic is impeccable.
9. Narrowly avoided face-plants, trips, and other classy kung-fu moves on my part.
I'm feeling good; I'm feeling pretty. And then I missed the last step at the bar housing our official "reunion" and nearly face planted in front of several former classmates. It's hard to contain awesomeness such as this. Nothing says "I'm a fully grown classy lady" like breaking a fall with your face.
8. Some random dude from the bar I used to go to thinks we're friends.
Many (many) years ago I frequented a bar in my hometown. I frequented said bar almost every night of the week for two years because my roommate and I were what a professional might describe as "alcoholic" but what I like to simply term "fun." Many (many) other people frequented this bar because it was a popular place amongst the college students. A year or two ago I was sitting in a different bar in my hometown, over Christmas break I think, having a beer dressed nothing like the ho I once was and a fellow tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I used to attend this previously described bar awhile ago. I said yes and we chatted amicably for a second and then his friend hauled him away. I had a brief seizure as I attempted to remember what acts I committed in that bar that made me memorable six years later from all the other college girls that went there. This would make a find story in and of itself. But Saturday night, one or two years after our last encounter, he was at the bar the reunion was being held and tapped me on the shoulder. He said hi and we chatted amicably some more before I boogied out of there. I'm perplexed by this. It didn't seem like he wanted to sleep with me (it's been awhile, the radar could be off) and it didn't seem like he wanted to get to know me so what the hell? Like the homeless man who kissed me or the other homeless guy that asked me if the street we were walking on was the "road to nowhere" I feel my pheromones mock me by only attracting unfathomable situations and wildly inappropriate men. This doesn't actually have anything to do with the reunion either, but the story was too inconceivable not to share.
And really...if there are pictures of me somewhere doing something in that bar please burn them. I learned the lesson about no cameras while drinking WAY too late.
7. Once a geek, always a geek.
I feel I have the best high school senior prom date story ever. Only time I was asked to dance was by a friend and it was for the senior prom. My friend said, "Would you like to go to the prom? I thought about it and I figured you would be the most fun girl I could go with." And it was a great night. Fast forward ten years, this friend was at the reunion which was fantastic, and we fell into a conversation about the Watchmen, Transformers, and various other geeky endeavors. Those around us politely excused themselves and I thought this is why we always had such a good time together. Deep down inside, no matter how serious our jobs, or how grown up we have to be, some of us will always enjoy ourselves most while debating comic books and philosophy. T'was awesome.
6. I got to say where I lived.
It's shallow and it doesn't matter. It's not like I live anywhere more special than anywhere else (trust me I know, I live here) but I'm not married and I don't have kids and while I'm not any fatter than I ever was I'm also not any skinnier than I ever was. Getting to say I lived in a big city known for being a good time at least let me play the "I can carry alcohol on the street as I walk from penny slot to penny slot" card. It's not something that would make my mother proud and isn't like I saved a baby to get here, but it was something.
5. If you have a wedgie any attempt to fix it will be caught by someone turning the corner at the exact wrong time.
I wore the wrong underwear. Sort of like nearly face-planting this was my other crowning achievement. I'd like to think it's the universe's way of keeping me humble, but more likely I'm just a dumbass. So you step into a dark corner; you look left, right, and left again. You reach back for the quick tug and...someone walks around the corner and you're totally caught. Bastion of class. Right here.
4. If you didn't have anything to talk about in high school chances are, no matter how well meaning you both are, you will have nothing to talk about ten years later either.
Everyone is adult, or at least mostly adult. We all know how to carry on pleasant conversations. But once you say hi and run through what you're doing now there really isn't anywhere to go. And a couple of times as I stood awkwardly with my awkward smile pasted on my face I thought, "why can't I talk to this person?" I can talk to homeless guys, and carnie guys...I have even talked pleasantly with people that believe the Earth is 6,000 years old. But perfectly nice, sane people I shared four years of my life with...I've got nothing. A few of us lamented our social ineptitude together, but what could be done? If we aren't talking books, movies, the undead, or music I'm out. I got nothing.
3. A videocassette is still in existence that would make my mother cry.
New Years Eve 1999. Never EVER imbibe something illegal and then say yes when someone asks if you want to stand in front of the video camera. Ten years later it will come up. Seriously. Never. Ever.
2. The Breakfast Club was alive and well.
It was like the lunch room in high school. All of one type of kid on one side of the bar. All of another type of kid on the other side of the bar. I stood back in amazement as everyone gravitated towards their respective social hierarchy and I was amazed. I don't think it happened because anyone intended for it to happen--see #4.
As an addendum, an even better example of this happened as I stood in the bathroom waiting for my friend and three stall doors opened up, and three gorgeous women walked out. All in satin, mid-calf, black cocktail dresses. All with (almost) the same shade of blond hair. All with (almost) the same tan. All with fantastic shoes. I almost ducked into a stall, but it was too late. There was no way to avoid being rude. And again, I thought, why is this so uncomfortable? I think it's cause pretty people scare me.
My friend took forever getting out of the stall because she was laughing at me and didn't want to come out.
1. Everyone (apparently) was surprised I engaged in activities that are unhealthy.
Sometimes I engage in activities that come with the Surgeon General's warning on the box. Multiple people were shocked by this. All I gots to say is the only reason I wasn't breaking the law in high school is because no one showed me where the parties were. For everyone that really knows me, every time I do something that is unhealthy, stupid, or just plain dangerous my name is said with a sense of resignation that said activity was always inevitable. Did I really come off as that much of a good girl in high school? Lame.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
I took a facebook quiz because I wanted to better understand the hidden depths of my soul. The quiz was, "What Shakespeare Character Would You Be?" And my answer was:
"Ophelia. Young and vulnerable, you are in love, but are obedient to the thoughtless powers who command your life. You must play the parts demanded of you, but cannot understand how your complicity can so quickly turn your lover's tenderness to hatred and contempt. Where to turn? Whom to trust? Can you even keep your grasp on reality? Surely the love in that tormented heart can be returned...but will it be too, too late? Shakespearean kindred spirits: Hero, Desdemona, Cordelia, Imogen, Hermione, Hermia, Lady MacDuff, Banquo, Troilus."
Now--this is worth writing about for a couple of reasons. First, I am, perhaps, the least Ophelia-like person I have ever heard of. Second, the "kindred spirits" are not all like Ophelia...at all. The simple fact that these other characters are mostly females from Shakespeare's plays do not make them kindred spirits to Ophelia. Hero and Desdemona are true women wrongly accused. Cordelia has daddy issues. Imogen outsmarts everyone; Lady MacDuff gets sliced and diced at home when her husband more or less abandons her. Banquo's a slightly sketchy "friend" who may or may not support regicide.
So who wrote this stupid thing? Shouldn't a person have to understand Shakespeare to make up a quiz about Shakespeare? And, considering how many Shakespearean characters there are, shouldn't there be some sort of sorting quiz to get you in the right genre and character type? For example, do you 1) crave power; 2) crave abusive love; 3) want your usurped position back; 4) like to hurt people; 5) enjoy wearing clown make-up; 6) just want to love and be loved in return? We have to narrow the pool a little bit here I think.
And, AND--one of the questions on this silly quiz was, "what book are you most likely to read next?" My answer: A Vindication of the Rights of Women. Do you know what book Ophelia would read? Names and Household Uses for Wildflowers. So the next step in narrowing down your (gianormous) pool of Shakespearean characters is establishment of reaction to life changing and/or threatening occurrences. If someone tries to rob you of your freedom, agency, or life do you: 1) kill yourself; 2) attempt to kill them; 3) cry a lot and wait for someone else to kill them; 3) take charge and prove your innocence/independence; 4) wander around incessantly and debate the meaning of life, the universe, everything; 5) take your bat and ball and go home?
I'm incensed (INCENSED) that someone could equate me with Ophelia--even a facebook quiz. That's like being equated with some homicidal dictator responsible for genocide but without even the coolness of being a homicidal dictator responsible for genocide. At least if you kill (or are capable of killing) hundreds, thousands, or millions of people are fascinated by your evil. That's tremendous, fascinating, addictive in its horror. But if you're just a girl who likes indecisive, emotionally abusive men, can't stand up to Daddy, and prone to self-mutilation and/or suicide to escape the soap opera drama your life has become nobody cares about you. They feel sorry for you. They try to imagine a world or a perspective where you're not quite such a loser, but they have to make it up cause pretty much all you do is wander around and be pathetic.
Do I wander around and act pathetic? Am I devoid of identity and voice? Am I incapable of kicking Hamlet in the balls when he tells me to "get thee to a nunnery?" Does my dad speak in bad clichés and suck up to those of higher social status? Am I even capable of falling in love with a guy like Hamlet to begin with? Do I find extreme moodiness and indecisiveness attractive?!
I'm having an identity crisis here. I go to facebook quizzes for relaxing fun because obviously 10 questions made up by a random stranger reveals an unknown truth about my existence. But I don't like the truth revealed to me this day. I think I'm going to go find a man to marry and talk him into murdering someone. At least then when I go crazy it'll be because I DID something.
"Ophelia. Young and vulnerable, you are in love, but are obedient to the thoughtless powers who command your life. You must play the parts demanded of you, but cannot understand how your complicity can so quickly turn your lover's tenderness to hatred and contempt. Where to turn? Whom to trust? Can you even keep your grasp on reality? Surely the love in that tormented heart can be returned...but will it be too, too late? Shakespearean kindred spirits: Hero, Desdemona, Cordelia, Imogen, Hermione, Hermia, Lady MacDuff, Banquo, Troilus."
Now--this is worth writing about for a couple of reasons. First, I am, perhaps, the least Ophelia-like person I have ever heard of. Second, the "kindred spirits" are not all like Ophelia...at all. The simple fact that these other characters are mostly females from Shakespeare's plays do not make them kindred spirits to Ophelia. Hero and Desdemona are true women wrongly accused. Cordelia has daddy issues. Imogen outsmarts everyone; Lady MacDuff gets sliced and diced at home when her husband more or less abandons her. Banquo's a slightly sketchy "friend" who may or may not support regicide.
So who wrote this stupid thing? Shouldn't a person have to understand Shakespeare to make up a quiz about Shakespeare? And, considering how many Shakespearean characters there are, shouldn't there be some sort of sorting quiz to get you in the right genre and character type? For example, do you 1) crave power; 2) crave abusive love; 3) want your usurped position back; 4) like to hurt people; 5) enjoy wearing clown make-up; 6) just want to love and be loved in return? We have to narrow the pool a little bit here I think.
And, AND--one of the questions on this silly quiz was, "what book are you most likely to read next?" My answer: A Vindication of the Rights of Women. Do you know what book Ophelia would read? Names and Household Uses for Wildflowers. So the next step in narrowing down your (gianormous) pool of Shakespearean characters is establishment of reaction to life changing and/or threatening occurrences. If someone tries to rob you of your freedom, agency, or life do you: 1) kill yourself; 2) attempt to kill them; 3) cry a lot and wait for someone else to kill them; 3) take charge and prove your innocence/independence; 4) wander around incessantly and debate the meaning of life, the universe, everything; 5) take your bat and ball and go home?
I'm incensed (INCENSED) that someone could equate me with Ophelia--even a facebook quiz. That's like being equated with some homicidal dictator responsible for genocide but without even the coolness of being a homicidal dictator responsible for genocide. At least if you kill (or are capable of killing) hundreds, thousands, or millions of people are fascinated by your evil. That's tremendous, fascinating, addictive in its horror. But if you're just a girl who likes indecisive, emotionally abusive men, can't stand up to Daddy, and prone to self-mutilation and/or suicide to escape the soap opera drama your life has become nobody cares about you. They feel sorry for you. They try to imagine a world or a perspective where you're not quite such a loser, but they have to make it up cause pretty much all you do is wander around and be pathetic.
Do I wander around and act pathetic? Am I devoid of identity and voice? Am I incapable of kicking Hamlet in the balls when he tells me to "get thee to a nunnery?" Does my dad speak in bad clichés and suck up to those of higher social status? Am I even capable of falling in love with a guy like Hamlet to begin with? Do I find extreme moodiness and indecisiveness attractive?!
I'm having an identity crisis here. I go to facebook quizzes for relaxing fun because obviously 10 questions made up by a random stranger reveals an unknown truth about my existence. But I don't like the truth revealed to me this day. I think I'm going to go find a man to marry and talk him into murdering someone. At least then when I go crazy it'll be because I DID something.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
You know what's not hot? What is never, ever attractive in any way, under any circumstance, or fantasy? Besides the mullet or fanny-pack? Rape. Here I am, reading the latest trashy romance, and I'm stopped, flabbergasted, confounded by the two most offensive sentences ever published in one book. And you know I've read some offensive books. Sentence one: "A husband can't rape his wife." Sentence two: "Rape or seduction, he would take either."
NOT HOT!
The worst part is, I kind of liked this book. It's about shape-shifting dragons; the heroine is strong and the hero is Alpha (oh yeah, she describes him as Alpha. Probably that should have tipped me off to the caliber or writing I had gotten myself into, but I cut a lot of slack when it comes to these books). But when the "hero" (notice the ironic scare quotes) says he's going to marry you and RAPE you, but it won't be rape because you really want it--in what twisted, Nora Ephron world is this romance? This is like some freakish woman's fantasy who grew up on James Bond films and never actually tried to live one of those scenarios out.
It looks really good when the man is all uber-masculine and fighting his need to ravish her immediately; it adds to the sensuality of the moment if we are all very aware of how the only reason she isn't naked and panting is because he has so magnanimously chosen not to use his superior strength against her. And nothing tops of a sex scene quite like the knowledge that if she weren't into it he still wouldn't stop. Cause that's exactly what I want from my husband/hero/super spy. I want to know that if I'm weeping or silent or stiff or protesting or trying to get away he'll push ahead because he knows that's what I really want.
It's a good thing we have stories like this to remind us that real men will "take care of us." That's right. I used the scare quotes again. You know why? Cause it's scary.
I'm flummoxed. What editor let's this get published? What writer imagines it heightens the sexual tension of the scene for the reader to know her hero is capable of raping her heroine? HELLO?! You know what it is? This is a woman that watches Sleepless in Seattle and says "that's romantic." This is a woman who imagines that any manner of behavior is excusable so long as genuine "love" provides the motivations. This is a woman who gets smacked across the face and when her man says he's sorry and he only did it because he loved her believes him and cooks him dinner so he won't feel so bad.
Sometimes I try not to judge, but I'm judging now. There is a very big difference between I want you so much I can't slow myself down and I want you so much I'm gonna rape you. One of those is hot. The other is only sexy if you're a hot mess of a human being who is so broken she can't even conceive of fantasy as different than reality.
Why is it so hard to find a good love story any more? Why can't I, just once, get a sexy, dark, brooding hero who isn't emotionally abusive or fighting an inner-struggle against his own rape tendencies? I mean for craps sake here people. Is the literary bar for genre fiction really set this low or do I just have to worst luck picking out easy reading?
Stupid, stupid book. I'm totally going to burn it and use it's flaming pages to kill roaches. Then at least it would be good for something.
NOT HOT!
The worst part is, I kind of liked this book. It's about shape-shifting dragons; the heroine is strong and the hero is Alpha (oh yeah, she describes him as Alpha. Probably that should have tipped me off to the caliber or writing I had gotten myself into, but I cut a lot of slack when it comes to these books). But when the "hero" (notice the ironic scare quotes) says he's going to marry you and RAPE you, but it won't be rape because you really want it--in what twisted, Nora Ephron world is this romance? This is like some freakish woman's fantasy who grew up on James Bond films and never actually tried to live one of those scenarios out.
It looks really good when the man is all uber-masculine and fighting his need to ravish her immediately; it adds to the sensuality of the moment if we are all very aware of how the only reason she isn't naked and panting is because he has so magnanimously chosen not to use his superior strength against her. And nothing tops of a sex scene quite like the knowledge that if she weren't into it he still wouldn't stop. Cause that's exactly what I want from my husband/hero/super spy. I want to know that if I'm weeping or silent or stiff or protesting or trying to get away he'll push ahead because he knows that's what I really want.
It's a good thing we have stories like this to remind us that real men will "take care of us." That's right. I used the scare quotes again. You know why? Cause it's scary.
I'm flummoxed. What editor let's this get published? What writer imagines it heightens the sexual tension of the scene for the reader to know her hero is capable of raping her heroine? HELLO?! You know what it is? This is a woman that watches Sleepless in Seattle and says "that's romantic." This is a woman who imagines that any manner of behavior is excusable so long as genuine "love" provides the motivations. This is a woman who gets smacked across the face and when her man says he's sorry and he only did it because he loved her believes him and cooks him dinner so he won't feel so bad.
Sometimes I try not to judge, but I'm judging now. There is a very big difference between I want you so much I can't slow myself down and I want you so much I'm gonna rape you. One of those is hot. The other is only sexy if you're a hot mess of a human being who is so broken she can't even conceive of fantasy as different than reality.
Why is it so hard to find a good love story any more? Why can't I, just once, get a sexy, dark, brooding hero who isn't emotionally abusive or fighting an inner-struggle against his own rape tendencies? I mean for craps sake here people. Is the literary bar for genre fiction really set this low or do I just have to worst luck picking out easy reading?
Stupid, stupid book. I'm totally going to burn it and use it's flaming pages to kill roaches. Then at least it would be good for something.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
I am under attack from the GFRS--Giant Flying Roach Squad. You remember last spring don't you? When I declared war on the roaches? It was a hard season for the war, but I was ultimately victorious. But the roaches are back...and this time they brought the big guns.
It all started a week or so ago when I came home and went into my bathroom late one night. There on the floor playing dead was a member of the GFRS. I wasn't fooled. I knew he lay there on his back to offer the illusion of death so that I would lean in close providing the perfect opportunity to spring into flight and dive bomb my head. I walked into my closet, picked up a large shoe, returned to the bathroom and smashed the shit out of the fucker.
I had been right. He wasn't dead. But he was when I was done with him.
Apparently he had only been a scout. War was declared at midnight on June 5th, 2009. My roommate, quiet and unsuspecting turned to see what she thought was a moth flying around her bedroom. It was not a moth; it was, in fact, a bomber from the GFRS. Understandably upset at this mutated monster circling her room she killed him dead, but no sooner was he gone and another took his place. It's been three days now and the fighting has been rough. Their side bears many casualties, but our side is not unscathed.
Earlier this evening while watching Quarentine, a movie I didn't expect to scare me half as bad as it did, I heard (HEARD) Red Leader push his massive frame through our air conditioning vent and launch his attack. Petrified from the movie, unprepared for so bold a maneuver, we screamed in surprise and I barely jumped off the futon before vile spawn of Satan landed right where my head had been. Measuring a solid four inches in length, the antennae extended another two, twitching as it attempted to discern my whereabouts. Assessing the situation I decided such an unwarranted attack on my person could not be ignored and I picked up a tennis shoe and screamed my bloodthirsty screech of anger as I beat the life out of it.
Their trying to wear us down. Haranguing us day and night we are offered no quarter, no rest as we never know from which direction the next attack will come. I have heartburn from the stress of trying to keep my spirits up as I attempt to snatch a victory from the jaws of their vastly superior numbers. Right now I estimate they have us outnumbered approximately 1,000 to 1. It will be a close battle, but I'm still hopeful we can persevere.
I write this war journal now in case we lose the front. If my body is lost under the swarm of the GFRS I want there to be record of my existence and the bravery that took place in this small, modest apartment. Courage has been seen here and true heroism. The human spirit has been tested and proven its worth. We are an apartment of English majors and we bleed text. We won't go down easy, but if we can't find a way to get rest--just a few moments here and there--they might overcome. If that happens don't mourn. Cheer for all the evil we destroyed in our battles and pick up where we left off. Don't let them take the apartment. Promise you won't let them win. More than just our home is at stake here, the very values by which we live could be threatened.
Good night and God bless.
It all started a week or so ago when I came home and went into my bathroom late one night. There on the floor playing dead was a member of the GFRS. I wasn't fooled. I knew he lay there on his back to offer the illusion of death so that I would lean in close providing the perfect opportunity to spring into flight and dive bomb my head. I walked into my closet, picked up a large shoe, returned to the bathroom and smashed the shit out of the fucker.
I had been right. He wasn't dead. But he was when I was done with him.
Apparently he had only been a scout. War was declared at midnight on June 5th, 2009. My roommate, quiet and unsuspecting turned to see what she thought was a moth flying around her bedroom. It was not a moth; it was, in fact, a bomber from the GFRS. Understandably upset at this mutated monster circling her room she killed him dead, but no sooner was he gone and another took his place. It's been three days now and the fighting has been rough. Their side bears many casualties, but our side is not unscathed.
Earlier this evening while watching Quarentine, a movie I didn't expect to scare me half as bad as it did, I heard (HEARD) Red Leader push his massive frame through our air conditioning vent and launch his attack. Petrified from the movie, unprepared for so bold a maneuver, we screamed in surprise and I barely jumped off the futon before vile spawn of Satan landed right where my head had been. Measuring a solid four inches in length, the antennae extended another two, twitching as it attempted to discern my whereabouts. Assessing the situation I decided such an unwarranted attack on my person could not be ignored and I picked up a tennis shoe and screamed my bloodthirsty screech of anger as I beat the life out of it.
Their trying to wear us down. Haranguing us day and night we are offered no quarter, no rest as we never know from which direction the next attack will come. I have heartburn from the stress of trying to keep my spirits up as I attempt to snatch a victory from the jaws of their vastly superior numbers. Right now I estimate they have us outnumbered approximately 1,000 to 1. It will be a close battle, but I'm still hopeful we can persevere.
I write this war journal now in case we lose the front. If my body is lost under the swarm of the GFRS I want there to be record of my existence and the bravery that took place in this small, modest apartment. Courage has been seen here and true heroism. The human spirit has been tested and proven its worth. We are an apartment of English majors and we bleed text. We won't go down easy, but if we can't find a way to get rest--just a few moments here and there--they might overcome. If that happens don't mourn. Cheer for all the evil we destroyed in our battles and pick up where we left off. Don't let them take the apartment. Promise you won't let them win. More than just our home is at stake here, the very values by which we live could be threatened.
Good night and God bless.
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