NAME MY BOOK CONTEST

So, I'm working and reworking and reworking my query letter when all of a suuden it occurred to me that I'm seeking representation for a book that has no name. So, I'm enlisting the help of my five loyal readers to help me find a name.

So here it goes...

Riki Watson’s life was…well, boring. But it was hers and if she wasn’t happy then at least she could be content. So when exactly did her orderly life turn upside down? In the space of twenty-four hours she learns that her best friend, a woman for whom the word hoochie seemed to have been invented, has become involved with their boss, a man that would make any Trekkie look like The Fonz hanging out at Arnold’s on a Saturday night with two hot chicks on his arm. As if that weren’t bad enough, their sex life was apparently nothing short of Sexual Olympics. Added to these startlingly revelations is the fact that her entire family believes her to be gay. Well, sure she hadn’t had a date since Bush the First was in office but that had more to do with lack of opportunity than lack of desire. It was definitely not lack of desire.

A chance meeting in a bookstore brings Marsh Evans into her life. Riki knows from that moment that her life would never be the same. He was everything that Riki could ever want and nothing she believed she could have. Riki doesn’t believe that they have anything in common. Even if she disregarded the fact that he was White and she was of mixed heritage, there was still the fact that Marsh was drop-dead gorgeous and she was well…not. However, these obstacles don’t seem to stop Marsh in his pursuit of Riki despite her attempts to put distance between them. Eventually, Riki has no choice but to give in to the incredible desire between them.

There's more to the story but that's a general sketch. So people...

NAME MY BOOK!!!

And speaking of Jaye...

I was IMing my friend Jaye tonight and like always I enjoyed our 'conversation.' But it did get me to thinking. A dangerous occupation to be sure but one in which I engage in with startling regularity. Anyhoo, my good friend, who is also a romance writer and although I've not read her stuff her blog is enough to convince me that she's nothing short of brilliant (Please note that these comments are solely the opinion of this writer and were not in any way solicited or paid for by Jaye) and I were discussing telling people what we do now as our avocation although we hope to soon make it our vocation. And we both agreed that we're a little, shall we say hesitant, to tell people that we write romance.

Now, I know that I've written about this before and I've said that I'm proud to tell people that I write romance. And I am...after a bit of hesitation. And under the right circumstances. And to the right people. But the fact that I hesitate seriously pisses me off. Why should I hesitate? To be honest I think that it has a lot to do with the perception that what I do is somehow less than honorable or worthwhile.

And that's the problem. Our society has a grudge against not only romance but also 'popular fiction.' Which is somehow different than 'literary fiction.' Jaye described it as the difference between a huge Hoolywood blockbuster and a critically-acclaimed indie flick. And to all this I say...bullshit! There is nothing wrong with commercial success. Nothing wrong with bringing a good story with a happy ending to the public. Nothing wrong with a bit of brain candy. And by implying that writers of 'popular fiction' are somehow less talented that those that write the other crap sounds like a whole lot of jealousy to me.

And really how does one distinguish 'literary from 'popular' fiction? I know it's not the level of telent. So what makes it 'better'? I wish I knew, But I do know that those who write that type of fiction look down their snooty little noses at us lesser peons. But they can kiss my ass. I'm having way more fun.

Hasta Luego

Fat Fashion

I wish that I had the discipline to post everyday like my good friend Jaye (see sidebar for link, she's kick-ass!). As it is, I surf the internet for untold hours and get nothing accomplished. If I ever get an office in my home, my computer won't have an internet connection. It helps to have no distractions.

So...what great thoughts have I been thinking?

Well, number one is how hard it is to find sexy lingerie for big girls. C'mon designers! Big girls want to look good for their men. We want the crotchless panties. But not the edible undies. We'd go throigh like 10 packs in a day. Plus there's the added downside that most women have no desire to stick fruit roll-ups (or any other food product-see previous post) in our hoo-has. SIDENOTE: I should really look into all the euphemisms that I know for human genitalia.

But back to my point...I have been scouring the internet for said items (sans fruit panties) and have not been very successful.

And that leads to yet another related point. Why do fashion designers feel that all big girls want to do is wear MuuMuus? I know that there's been a shift, but for the most part, it's same ole, same ole when it comes to larger women. Did you SEE Project Runway? That design that Jeffrey made was made for a cow. Now I may be a heifer but I am not a cow.

What else?

My best friend just got engaged. And while I am very happy for her, I also want to gauge her eyes out.

Is this normal or am I more demented than I thougt?

Adios

Fat Chicks and Horror Flicks

Fat people aren't in horror flicks. Not that I'd actually want to be in a horror film but I'm saying that even if we were I wouldn't be much of a challenge. This is how I imagine the scenario:

A dark cabin in the woods during a thunderstorm. Six friends are on vacation. After a night of laughing and wine, the friends prepare for bed. Unfortunately, two of the friends are also a couple so they decide to make love. And as you all well know, sex is like a psycho magnet. Suddenly, outside the window, a crazed machete-wielding sociopath appears in the window with a flash of lightning. He silently makes his way inside the cabin while the unsuspecting friends sleep or bone. He goes for the sex monkeys first, slashing and slicing his way through the beast with two backs. The noise awakens the other residents who run toward the noise. (Which in and of itself is a huge mistake.) All, that is, except for the lone fat girl who decides to stay her happy ass exactly where it is. The others, upon seeing the massacre of flesh and blood, run toward the phone, whose service has been inconveniently disrupted due to the storm. They decide to make a run for it.

Now, where the sociopath is at this time is anyone's guess, he's off plotting his next move in his elaborate cat and mouse game.

They rush into bigt girl's bedroom. She waves them away, 'Nah, I'm good.' They look at her incredulously. Doesn't she know that a machete-weilding psycho is trying to kill them. Yes, she answers, she does. But there's also no way that she can outrun him so they should just go ahead and do what they do. She's just going to chill. They don't have time for this shit, someone yells angrily. Let that fat bitch die. Yeah, well it's not looking that good for you either you, dumb fuck.

So, the friends leave the big girl to her fate and run off to eventually get maimed somewhere deep in the woods because that's what usually happens in these movies. She knows that when they get outside none of the cars will work because true psychos are truly genius and he would have thought about that before starting with the dice-o-matic thing.

So, she waits. Kicking back, bowl of popcorn in her lap, reading a romance novel. The psycho burts into the room. Blood rnning down the wicked blade in his clenched fist. She looks up and in a bored voice states, Well, lets get this over with. Mr. Crazy Pants tilts his head as if in askance. Look, Crazy, Machete Wielding Psycho, you and I both know that there's only one way this will end. I'm too big to try to outrun you, even if you do do that slow walk thing that somehow always manages to catch unsuspecting coeds. So, I'll save you the trouble and myself the effort. I'll just lay here and you can go ahead and kill me. Just let me finish this paragraph right quick and then we can do this.

The psycho is clearly bewildered. She was supposed to be running. She was supposed to be afraid. He had a fucking machete for chrissake! To prove his point he waves said object. No deal. She continues to read her book, idly turning the page. Needless to say he's in a bit of a quagmire. He's a killer. It's what he does. But he's also a man so he likes the thrill of the hunt. She's not cooperating. Added to that, there were three other who were locked and loaded as it were.

Decision made, the psycho turns and leaves the room. She's no fun.

So, the fat chick is saved and uses her cell to call the police because she's apparently the only person that thought of that. And she looks very sad as she attends five funerals but deep down inside she thinks, that's what y'all get for all those fat jokes.

Of course I AM Black so these are all moot points.


Later

Crimes of Fashion

I've never proclaimed to be a fashion expert. I don't know DKNY from Chanel. But even in my limited experience I know that there are certain things that must never be done. Ever.

1. No booty shorts in church- even if they are the 'classy' ones that look like a pair of nice plaid pants that some hoochie chopped off just before they reached the lower curve of your ass. Now while I have no problem with this at the club. In fact, I think it's quite cute. But don't wear them to church. God's house deserves more respect than your half-moon. For that matter, there are any number of things that you shouldn't wear in church. T-shirts that say 'I'm with Stupid' or 'Co-ed Naked Volleyball.'

2. Men should never wear cut off shorts. EVER. Not unless you live in rural Alabama and are sitting in front of your trailer, cigarette dangling from your mouth with a can of Budweiser in a beer cozy. If this happens to describe you, then go on with your bad self. If not, then can I interest you in a nice pair of bermuda shorts, or a pair of Dockers perhaps?

3. Fat people- including myself- should not wear clothes that cause the following body parts to hang out: belly, ass, or thighs. Now if you want to play up your assets, more power to you. Let those titties run free. Ain't no shame in your game. But at all time, remember, classy can be sexy. Honestly, those looks aren't even all that on skinny bitches.

Now, I'm sure that there are more Crimes that I haven't reported. What's on your Most Wanted List? Better yet, What are your Pet Peeves?

Ciao

FINALLY!

...well not yet but soon. It's official, I've fulfilled my occupational obligations. I took my licensing exam and I passed. Thank you very much! Now I can concentrate on what's important. So you can expect an update to my story VERY SOON! I swear. Thanks to everyone for being so patient.

*Peeking my head out*

Yeah! There really is a 'real' world out there. Not that I get to see much of it these days. I hope y'all know that I'm not avoiding you. I've just been really busy studying for this test that I need to take for my job. In 12 more days, the test will be over and I can get back to my real life and my real world. Writing.

I was talking to a friend today and he was commenting on some of my blog entries and he told me the sweetest thing. He said that I should get a collection of essays together and he would buy them. Now he wasn't talking about my romantic writing but my funny writing. He told me that he'd been showing my blogs to friends and he was very impressed with me. I thought that was the sweetest thing he'd ever said...and if you knew him, that's saying a lot. He's not exactly the soul of kindness. But he's fun and quirky and an asshole so I love him.

Now, if y'all couldn't tell from my previous writings, I'm a tortured artist which means I'm massively insecure and in constant need of validation.

Part of me wants to be the next Nora Roberts while the other half wants to be the next Dave Barry. I want to write romance novels and have a weekly column in the New York Times. Is that too much to ask? I am nothing if not a study of polarities.

So I thank everyone who reads this blog and appreciates both sides of my personality.

And to those who check to find the next installment of 'On Business' I know I've said it before and I've meant it every time, it's on its way. I think there will be two more and then it'll be done. But never fear, another will soon take up the torch.

Making like a gopher,

Me

P.S. Speaking of polarities and talent, I think I'll take a cue from my pal Jaye's blog and posit something: Does talent transcend genre? If you're good at fiction would you be equally fabulous at say being a columnist? Answers appreicated.

Human Root Cellar?

WARNING: FUNNY BUT SICK HUMOR AHEAD

Ok.

I admit it.

I have never had the urge to mate with a fruit. Or a vegetable. Or sausage.

Or really any food stuff in general

Odd topic for a blog you say?

Definitely.

Do you, CV, spend a lot of time thinking about vegeatility? (It's supposed to be a play on beastiality but it's two am here in CO and I'm not about to pull out Roget and find a cleaver new word for vegetable. Is there one?)

Actually, dear reader, I do not. But I was recently listening to Howard Stern on my SIRIUS satellite radio. (The BEST investment I ever made, by the way.) When his ever-annoying sidekick Robin Ophelia Quivers announced that when she was younger she was (and I quote) "Like a rabbid dog" with lust that she would raid the refrigerator--IN HER PARENT'S HOUSE- bto look for suitable items to pleasure herself with.

NASTY ASS!!

She then proceed to lead a detailed discussion about the process of finding just the right 'material.' A cucumber was too 'girthy' and a carrot wasn't 'girthy' enough. She then moved to the freezer. A hot dog, which needed to be defrosted, wasn't the right size so she moves on to the sausage. Finally a match.

As I listened in my car, parked outside my apartment building as neighbors peeked out their windows, I could feel my jaw drop as the story unfolded. It was one of those things where I don't want to listen but I couldn't turn ot off.

She told the story, it was in a weird second person way. She kept on saying 'You look in the fridge to see what might work' or 'You decide that hot dog doesn't work.' And all I could think about is 'Don't lay your shit at my feet, bitch.'

In my head I imagined a young, blonde Robin rifling through her parents' refridgerator like some sort of perverted Goldilocks.

A cucumber? Too big, she decided.

A frozen hot dog? Too small, she decided, her vaginal lips starting to turn that purpley-blue tint that us Black folks get when we get hold.

A Polska Kielbasa? Just right, she moaned in ecstasy.

Sick.

So, a few days later, I decide to tell my mom and dad about this phenomena. To my horror, neither of my parents were surprised.

'Girls do that all the time," my mother says, my father shaking his head in emphatic agreement.

I'm thinking what nasty hos do my parents be hanging out with.

'You'd be surprised,' my father chimes in.

Hell, yes, I'd be surprised. Never once in my like have I considered sticking meat into my cooch. (No jokes please)

Or any vegetable for that matter.

So, I get to thinking. This must be a generational gap. I mean, I grew up in an age of dildoes and vibrators. They had the potential to be easily accessible. I even got one from my oh-so-generous-sex-shop-employee cousin for my eighteenth birthday.

Then I started to feel a little sad for all of those poor women who came into their sexuality at a time when it was still a dirty thing. Who reduced themselves to fucking bananas. Who quivered in ecstacy at the sight of a cucumber. Who's only way of releasing all of their pent-up frustration was to stick a sausage in their womanhood.

But then I thought, 'You had your hands and fingers, you nasty bitches. They were invented like 10 million years ago. Use them.'

I am proud to say that I have never desired to be a human root cellar.

I have never placed groceries in my poon.

God Bless America!

Ciao

P.S. I can tell you this though, I now look at my parents' friends in a whole new light. Mrs. Walters definitely has the look of a woman who's molested a pickle. Or a prune. At least if the saying 'You are what you eat' also refers to your nether lips as well.

Sparkle Moments

It's hard being a genius. I mean, the pressure alone is enough to break lesser persons. You, the average reader, would be amazed at all of the positively brilliant things that I think everyday.

The problem is that I never remember them.

Seriously, out of the blue, I'll think of something funny and I'll want to blog it.

But as quickly as the idea comes to me, it leaves me.

Now, if I were a smarter person, I would carry a notebook to catch my sparkle moments as I just now thought about calling it. Well, the problem with that is that I would have to remember to carry it and then I would have to remember to write it.

Now, I said I was a genius, I didn't say that I was smart. Intelligent maybe, but smart, not always. Did you know that Einstein couldn't tie his shoes and Howard Hughes never bathed? That didn't stop him from getting laid on the regular, but then again he had money. Women and men have done a lot more for a lot less. It's no hardship having sex with a smelly person. C'mon, you know you've done it for free. You probably won't tell anybody, but it was probably the best screw you ever had. I tell you, I would so do Bill Gates, that troll looking dude simply for the fact that he's the friggin' richest man in the world. Does that make me a whore? Probably. However, I was already having issues around being a slut so we're just talking semantics, here.

But I digress. Which, of course is another one of the perils of being...

yes, a genius.

Ciao

Celebrity Obsession

Okay, I admit it. I'm obsessed with celebrities. Not in the I'm-going-to-stalk-you-until-you-realize-that-we-should-be-together-forever way. More in the I-think-it's-really-funny-when-bad-things-happen-to-famous-people. I think that we all are. Americans in general relish the misfortunes of others. It's what we do. Now do we do it because we're jealous? Probably. Do we do it because it's fun? Definitely! I have to say that when I hear that a celebrity is going into rehab or lost all their money to unscrupulous business managers, it puts a smile on my face. C'mon, you have to admit that you feel the same way.

Expect for death. I draw the line at death.

Unless it's a funny death. Like they died while on the toilet jacking off to kiddie porn. I'm sorry. I don't care who you are, that's just funny.

Except for the kiddie porn. That's sad.

And what is this thing with mashing celeb couples' names together. TomKat or Brangelina. That's just stupid and wrong. Do they have no other identity? Will they forever be entwined? And it's a recent phenomenon. Brad and Jen weren't called Braden or Jenad. It's a sad commentary on our country today.

I mean can you imagine going to a dinner party and introducing yourself as "Moniken." (Monica and Ken---get it?)

I seriously spend too much time thinking about this shit.

But like I said, it's an addiction. I can't help but lapping up gossip like a drunk man with his last bottle of rotgut.

Later

My week in Hell

Well, it wasn't really hell and it wasn't really a week, but close enough. As those of you who read my blog may or may not have noticed, I've been less than active this last week. Well, there's a reason for that. I've been in California visiting my Nana. She's sick and has to go on Dialysis.

So, for the first time in years, my family decides that we need to take a road trip. The result: seventeen hours in a car with my parents, EACH WAY. And that's not exactly a trip ANYONE wants to take. What you have to understand is that my mother is crazy. I don't mean eccentric or wild. No, the woman is literally insane. Her diagnosis: my money would be menopause sprinkled in with a dash of undiagnosed Bipolar Disorder (Manic-Depression for my lay readers). All in all, it makes for a tasty crazy concoction. And then there's my dad. He's not crazy or insane, but he feeds off of my mom's crazy. They've been together for twenty-four years and their interactional pattern in pretty much set.

And then there's me, pretty normal, average gal (quite a feat considering my role models), well on my way to committing acts of murder. And it's not being cooped up in a car with them, no. And it's not sharing a hotel room with them. No, the reason for my homicidal rage was quite simply that they can't fucking drive! As you all well know, I have road rage issues, and when my parents decide to go 50 mph, in a 75 mph zone, I tend to get a teeny bit irritated. Like to the point where, as we're snailing through the Utah desert, I think to myself, "Huh, a person could drop off a couple bodies here and no one would be the wiser."

It was a comforting thought.

Later

My hot night with Three Guys

So Saturday was a red-letter day for me. I spent it with not one, not two, but three men. One of which even wanted to sleep with me.

#1 Man
Name: Sam

I met Sam when I was out at a bar to hear my friend's band play. He's a friend of a friend and my friend told him that I was an aspiring author. Sam is also an aspiring writer. He's going to grad school to get his MFA.

So we chat for a few minutes on and off throughout the evening. He's getting hammered. And then the time comes when he asks me what I write. I tell him honestly that I write romance. And then he sends me a look. Like I'm doing something wrong, like it's a sin. And then he tells me that I need to write 'real' books. 'Literary fiction,' he intones over and over again.

At first, I'm embarassed. I mean I love writing romance. And I'm damn good at it. But there are times when I get embarassed to tell people what I write. Then I started thinking, why? Why am I ashamed of the books I love so much that I want to write them?

And then I got mad. Fuck him! There is nothing wrong with my craft or the genre I choose to embrace. Just because we're writing romance does not make us any less talented than any other 'fiction' writer. We are just as talented, just as imaginitive, just as creative as any of them. I'd like to see James Joyce write a really good romance novel.

Good Luck, buddy!

Man #2
Name: Tom

So, I'm on my way out of the bar when I feel a hand on my arm. I turn to find this average-looking white guy holding on to me.

"Hello," I say, perplexed.

"I have to tell you that you're hat is dead sexy."

I almost faint. He had the sexiest Irish brogue I'd heard. And what was one an average guy os now like ten-times hotter. So, instead of walking away, I stay and talk. I'm no fool.

We flirt, and laugh. He seizes his opportunity to put his head on my breasts (longer story). And as we talk, it becomes more and more clear that this man is angling for some sex. And I found that I was not above giving it to him.

Then in the way of all great lovers, some of my friends come to say goodbye and his attention gets pulled away at the same time. And before you know it, the moment's gone.

SIGH

I really wished the night ended differently.

Man #3
Name: Asshole in a Cab

So, I'm driving home and I pull up to a stoplight. Next to me is a cab. I look over to see two drunken assholes in the back seat.

Suddenly, one flips me off.

Now, normally, I would chalk this up to drunken randomness, but this night I was feeling more than a little frustrated. And like the lady that I am, I yell:

"Yeah, fuck you too."

My window was down.

So was theirs, and not one to take things lying down, they yell back,

"Fuck you, you fat black bitch."

To which I reply,

"Back at you, drunken white asshole."

All in all, the most exciting Saturday night I've had in a while.

SIGH...Tom

Later

My Two Cents

Penny #1
Is it just me or does this whole 'immigration' debate seem sort of racists. I mean all the talk is about 'illiegal immigrants' but they're really talking about Mexicans. The debate is about Canada. We;re not thinking about building a fence to keep the Canadians out (and why would we? Who would supply the quality comedians?)

Now I know what you're going to say...most 'illegal immigrants' are Mexican, plain and simple. I do agree. However, my point is why are we making it so hard for Mexicans to come into the states? Our border with Canada allows for Canadians to enter our country willy nilly, whenever they want, no visa needed. You don't armed guards at the Canadian border waiting to snatch those dirty Canadians before they cross Lake Superior and enter the country where they'll take low-paying jobs that most Americans, even those that are poor as shit, wouldn't take. No, just those brown-skinned, hard-working Mexicans.

And that, to me, is uber-racist.

2nd Penny

LET GAY PEOPLE GET MARRIED YOU STUPID (GOV'T FAT CATS) FUCKERS

Seriously, how sanctified and holy is marriage when you can go to Vegas, get married and annulled all within the space of 54 hours (yeah, I'm talking about you, Ms. Britney Spears Alexander Federline)

CREATIVITYVACUUM HAS SPOKEN.

A Lament for the Damned...

Well, if you've read my previous post, then you'd know that I'm going to hell. I mean, don't you go to hell if you spend part of your time in church on Sunday lusting after your pastor? Because that's exactly what I did these past two Sundays. It's not love, and it's not really lust, but there are times during his sermon that I look at him and go, 'Wow, he's hot.' And he is. I think that what's getting me is that he's really funny. I mean, he's cute, but he's also almost 60 at least. And while this may have horrified me at 20, as I near my 27th birthday, it doesn't seem all that insurmountable. And he looks good. So, in addition to lusting after my pastor, now I wonder when did 60 become not old. Huh.

But anyway, is it wrong to admire a man at church? I mean lots of people go to church to look for available men. But doesn't it seem weird and a bit creepy to feel that way about your MARRIED pastor? It does seem weird, but knowing that I'm going to hell anyway, it kind of makes it easier to take.

Later

P.S. If you're following the story, a new chapter should be up in the next couple days. And thanks for reading my ramblings, but the title should have warned you.

Guess who's Coming To Dinner?

I was watching this movie tonight and I have to say that it's one of those movies that is always relevant. Sidney Poitier is a genius as well as Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy. However, that's not what this post is about, This movie did get me thinking. I'm a big proponent of Interracial/Intercultural relationships. In fact, all of the stories that I write feature IR romances. Now the good news is that these books and storylines are becoming increasingly popular, especially with e-pubs. And because e-pubs are now venturing into print, these stories are now creeping into bookstores, at a slow pace, but a steady pace.

Here's the bad news. 'Guess Who's Coming to Dinner' was almost 40 years ago. 40! That's longer than I've been alive. Yet, as groundbreaking as that movie was, it really did little for this type of storyline in the Hollywood media. And I can imagine how controversial that was. An older Black man with a young white girl. WHAT!?! That's crazy. And it was a movie that dealt with the subject matter in a frank, sensitive manner. It's a classic example of great filmmaking.

But when was the last time you even heard about a movie with an IR storyline? I know when I did, but the truth is that Hollywood rarely make movies with IR couples. Why is that? After 40 years are Americans still so offended by the thought of two people of the same race being together? It can't be more 'taboo' in America's eyes than a gay couple, yet I see more of those in movies and on television than I do IR couples. What up with that?

Later

P.S. And I don't mean that funny but irrelevant Bernie Mac/Ashton Kutcher schlock, 'Guess Who?' I admit that I enjoyed it but watching the original, I see that they did that movie a grave disservice. What's even sadder to me is that I can't even find IR couples on soap operas. There used to be a time when all of them had at least one IR couple. Not so anymore. However, if you want to see a quality romantic comedy featuring an IR couple, I'd suggest 'Something New
starring Sanaa Lathan and that Hottie McHotterson Simon Baker.

Sans Sex

So, as the two people that read this blog know, I am an aspiring romance author. Unfortunately, lately I'm not feeling very aspiring or inspired and have therefore resorted to the old standby...research. Which basically means that I'm reading a whole lot of books. Fortunately, I'm a fast reader. And now, biting the idea from a friend of mine, I'm making book recommendations. I'm currently reading a series of mysteries by David Handler, the Berger and Mitry mysteries. It's about a New York film critic living in Connecticut (slight thought break, has anyone ever met anyone from Connecticut? I was thinking about that last night, and I can't say that I've ever had the pleasure. Do people ever immigrate from Connecticut? I know that tons of people visit there or settle there, but I don't think they leave. Could Connecticut be the most inbred state in the country and we just don't hear about it? Think.) who meets a Black State Trooper and they fall in love. And solve mysteries. Hence the subtitle "A Berger and Mitry Mystery."

Now, I have to tell you that I'm digging these books. Which is surprising considering it is rare that I read a book that has no sex. I'm strictly a romance, romantic suspense, romantic thriller, or romantic mystery type gal. Do you get that I love romance? But I've got to say that I am definitely expanding my repetoire. They really are enjoyable, a little slow, gentle, and not too much violence, and nothing graphic. So if that sounds appealing, y'all should definitely check them out.

I really should get a ratings system. Hmmm...what would I do. I read a lot of romance and increasingly a lot of erotica. Maybe instead of stars, I should use batteries. Get it...batteries. I know you do. And when I'm evaluating mysteries, I should use little magnifying glasses. It's definitely something to think about.

Later

BTW...the first two books in the Berger and Mitry series are called "The Cold Blue Blood" and "The Hot Pink Farmhouse." Both of which rate 3 out of 4 little magnifying glasses.

Call me Old-fashioned

So this is going to be a bit of a rant but I promise to keep it short. This particular rant has to do when the evening news. I watch it, I like to stay informed. But I have to ask, when did this annoying habit of newscasters laughing and flirting with each other develop? I hate it. I want to watch the news, not two people who probably hate each other trade witty repartee. I didn't ask for your opinion and I don't want to watch senseless banter. If I did, I'd be watching 'Will and Grace' not the evening news. I long for the good old days when news was unbiased and newscasters were somber reporters of daily events, not pedantic and trite. The days when newscasters could be dependent upon to be honest and trustworthy and not necessarily chosen for their Hollywood good looks.

(Humming 'Ms. Robinson' by Simon and Garfunkel)
So here's to you Peter Jennings, a nation turns it's lonely eyes to you, whoo-whoo-whoo
Where have you gone Ted Koppel? Everyone has left and gone away, yeah yeah yeah
God Bless you Please Walter Kronkite, Jesus loves you more than you will know, oh-oh-oh

(They're the last journalists that I believe had any integrity, but I could throw in a Dan Rather or Tom Brokaw...son los mismos)

*Sigh*

So in the immortal words of Edward R. Muro (another one of the greats)...

Good night and Good luck

Funny Shit

So, my family and I are crazy close, like almost to the point of being psychotically enmeshed, but that's neither here nor there. The point is that we spend A LOT of time together. And when you spend so much time together, you sometimes forget that you're not hanging out with your friends. Especially myself. That being said, another thing that you need to know about me is that I LOVE to curse. I use fuck and shit and bitch and mother fucker and ass on a regular basis. Except when I'm at work...not good to curse around children under six. Now there are people that believe that cursing is the sign of a weak mind and to them I say 'Fuck you. I've got a whole fucking lot of education so you can kiss my ass bitches." (Like that? Yeah, I know you do.)

Anyhoo, the point I'm trying to make is that I have a really bad habit of cursing in front of my parents. Yeah. I know, but I can't help it. And twice in the past week I've cussed in front of people and they've looked at me and said, "I didn't know you cursed." To which I laughed hysterically and said, "My parents would disagree with you."

But, it's not like I learned this shit on the street. My parents used this exact same language in front of my sibs and I during all of our formative years. So, they only have themselves to blame. The sad part is that should I ever be blessed enough to actually have kids, I'll probably do the same thing. So if you see an adorable three-year old going through daycare laughing and saying, "This is some funny shit." That's my kid.

Later

Post Note: The other night my parents and I were hanging out (again!) and we were talking about what we'd do if we won Powerball. My Dad and I want to buy Harleys and my mom says to my dad, "If you get a trike, I'll be your biker bitch."
More funny shit!

So the question becomes...

...Is no sex better than bad sex? I mean really bad sex. The kind of sex you can only have with a virgin who's lived in Mongolia all his life and hasn't even had the occasional blow job or hand job in the back seat of his parent's car. I know most men's response to this, 'Bad sex is like bad pizza-there's no such thing.' But au contraire my penis-having friends. The same cannot be said for woman. For us, there is such a thing as bad sex and a remedy. It's called 'Faking an Orgasm just so he'll get the fuck off of me,' It's simple but effective.

So we know that there is bad sex but is bad sex worse than no sex? I mean yeah it's bad, but at least you're having it, right? And then there's all the accoutrement (look at me using those fancy college-like words) that go with having sex. I mean, you may be in a relationship with a really wonderful man whom you care for deeply despite his lack of sexual prowess or you may be doing it so that your light and heat don't get turned off. But whatever the reasons there are distinct advantages to having sex, regardless of quality.

And are we really so shallow as to base our relationships on sex? Do we really value sex so much that we would value it over simple things like companionship and heating our homes? Have we really become that jaded?

My answer: Give me my vibrator and shut the door on your way out.

Later

A Mother's Kind Words

So, the other day I was hanging out with the fam and as is often the topic when you're edging towards thirty, the subject of my love life came up. My brother for some reason believes that I'm going to marry a white man. For my part, I have no problem with that. It's been so long since I had a date, I wouldn't care if he were green. Hell, I'm probably green.

Anyhoo, so whilst my brother and I were debating the merits of Interracial dating (FYI, he has 'issues' with Black women, but that's a post for a different time), my mother turns to me with a quizzical tilt of her head and quite seriously, she tells me, "You know, I don't see you married at all." My eyes widen and my jaw drops on to the floor as she continues "Oh, I think you're going to have kids but I don't think you're going to get married." Now this of course comes from a woman who tells me at least once a month that she has dreams of my getting married. Most of the time, I'm married to some Jewish doctor or a Canadian or some such conjuration of her imagination.

My brother and I stare at each other for a minute. He of course recovers quickly and burts into laughter. So I say to her (and please take this for the sarcastic commentary that it's meant to be) "So, what you're telling me is that you see me as a whore. Is that it? Am I to be yet another sad statistic? What you see me with four kids and five Baby Daddies? Is that what you're saying?"

My mom shrugs nonchalantly and says "No, I just don't think you're going to get married."

At that my friends is a mother's kind words.

Later