i've stopped buying stephanie plum books. sure, i still read them, but now i wait for weeks and weeks to get them from the library instead of shelling out good money for crap fiction.
this one was pretty not good.
first, the beginning chapters read like a warped version of the babysitter club series where stephanie introduced us to each and every person in her life as if we hadn't been there with her for the last 19 installments.
this is lulu. lulu dressed like a ho. but lulu ain't no ho. except lulu is considering become a ho again so she can get an expensive purse.
to each their own, i guess.
i don't recall evanovich ever just listing her exposition in a fucked-up little litany of who is who before. but maybe i just usually skim those parts more.
it has been awhile since i've read one of these.
if i were grading this novel, in the margins, i'd have written "show, don't tell!" about 24249 times, so, maybe the introductions were the least of her problems.
i recently wrote a review about comedy in literature being written like it's amped up to eleven. if that's the case generally speaking, here, it's amped up to at least thirteen. stephanie is, perhaps, even klutzier than usual - maybe because of bella putting the "eye" on her - or maybe because she's getting a little too old to be traipsing around trenton, getting shot at and blowing up cars that don't belong to her.
of course, the mystery here is so phoned in as to be ridiculous. i'm sorry, but if you don't figure out the calling card way in advance of stephanie and joe, you deserve to read the rest of these. the giraffe was a surreal little touch, but, of course, most of us are still reading these for the morelli-ranger-plum triangle.
for an almost engaged woman, stephanie sure kisses ranger an awful lot.
also, isn't it about time that she and morelli take another break so us rangerphanies can get ours a little?
thanks ever so much.
not that i'm anticipating hurrying to read the next installment. these are going the way of the sookie stackhouse books, only with no hint to an end in sight. which is a pity, because when evanovich is on, she's on! it's just not really happening here for me.
2 stars - a few laughs, a quick read, but some awful exposition and hyperbolic comedy.
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Monday, January 6, 2014
Friday, January 3, 2014
FiftyFiftyMe: Where'd You Go, Bernadette? (Book #1)
This is my first book of 2014, a year in which I hope to read more than every Fancy Nancy or Stephanie Plum out there.
I mean, I'll still read those other books, but I kinda hope I read some stuff that resembles "real" literature, too.
First, a caveat: I feel the need to be spiritually pure for as long as possible this year, and, sadly, that means being honest in my reviews. Not that I usually lie, because I don't, but that sometimes I will say mean things. I will try not to be mean for mean's sake (unless I feel like the book deserves it) and I will make no personal attacks against the writer.
Unless some garbled up piece of fanfic gets mainstream popularity again.
Did I already break my book resolution?
I say this because I'm not really sure how I feel about this book at all. And, considering I've read it and thought about it for a while now, isn't probably a good thing.
You need to understand: I get satire. I teach AP Lit to brilliant 12th graders. Or, I used to in a semi-former life (I'm on sabbatical). I'm not so rusty that it eludes me. This doesn't feel particularly like satire, unless Maria Semple is a mean girl who hates the Hollywood machine and Seattle housewives everywhere.
And I don't think she does. Or I hope she doesn't. Because feminism! Or something.
So, if she's not trying to make fun of reclusive geniuses everywhere or their aesthetically-minded, neurotic neighbors...I guess I'm not entirely certain what's the point.
There is a distinct black comedy vibe here; and, with comedy, an author runs the risk that what you think is funny does not mesh with what another person deems hilarious. It's actually even worse in literature because everything has to be amped up to eleven (one does not simply fall into a lake in books; one trips on one's overly long pants thus causing them to spontaneously rip up the side revealing one's undergarments as one spins wildly out of control culminating in a ceremonious drenching in a local waterhole that happens to be populated by nuns and schoolchildren). If the reader is not on the same wavelength, comedy, sometimes, reads as "What the fuck?!" and that's not good for anyone.
I didn't know much about this book before I borrowed it from the library. I knew that it had an almost four star rating and that my aunt was sort of iffy on it while my cousin recommended it violently. Those were all pretty good indications I'd like this one well enough. The premise seemed a bit...dramatic...to me "reclusive architect disappears and brilliant teenaged daughter tries to find her".
Let's just say, nothing particularly screamed "COMEDY!" to me. And so imagine my surprise when that was what I was faced with.
This, obviously, worked against the novel for me. It was until about 100 pages in when I turned to my unsuspecting husband and said, "Huh. I think this is supposed to be funny." Which was better than thirty pages before when I told him I just didn't get the point.
There's a lot going on in this one that is beyond the absurd: genius parents, art vs. science. social anxiety, stilted creativity, boarding school, Antarctica, lawsuits, interventions, TEDtalks, affairs, the Russian mafia, a house-destroying mudslide, unplanned pregnancies, drug rehabilitation wilderness camp, and an uncle named Van.
This is a world where people act erratically and cash seems limitless. It's also a world where forgiveness and disappearance walk hand in hand, apparently.
I get the overwhelming greater message about creativity and being who you are and acceptance and love. I do. And, once I stopped trying so hard, it was much more fun to get lost in the crazy escapades of Bernadette and her kin. But no one here was particularly likable. First, Bernadette, who is our shining star, is batshit crazy. And, yeah, I know that genius and insanity are often a subtle dance held barely in check by creative outlet and the right combination of medication, but that's not what is happening here. I sympathized with her abhorrence for social interaction and nothing there seemed wildly out of sync with my preferred reality (which is probably saying something very telling about me). Obviously I'm way higher functioning than Bernadette ever was but it was not the off-putting part to me. Her reliance on the internet drone was weird, particularly that, for a genius, she was so quick to give away highly sensitive information like social security and bank account numbers.
There is no way the Russian mob would have waited that long to take all of her cash.
And I get why she leaves. The end sort of worked for me on that level. But she's not ever really approachable in scope. She feels, way too often, like the victim. A self-centered, highly neurotic, quirky, artistic victim that her husband indulges, her neighbor hates, and her daughter reveres.
And Bee was one of those precocious book children that reads as impossible. And then her dad called her a little bitch and I got indignant until she agreed he was right.
Plus, what the hell was up with the Josh Groban thing?
I'm sure we were meant to laugh at Bee, while she weeps and tries to turn herself into the reincarnation of Jesus while listening to Christmas carols and sporting a bandanna advertising The Hangover, but I just couldn't do it.
I'm not into that level of absurdity.
And this is before I get into Elgin, Soo-Lin, and Audrey.
Nobody seemed happy here. And maybe nobody really is. Was that the point? We are all weird locally-sourced architectural designs and when we fail it is because we designed ourselves to do so? Because damn that's bleak. But that's sort of what the first 2/3 of the book felt like to me. Like I was that damn house on the hill, just waiting for the bulldozers to come.
Then we went to Antartica and the tone shifted and we were light as blue ice and restored with hope and reunion.
And that just confused me more.
"Bernadette" is an interesting, if not at times upsetting, read. There are genuinely funny moments here, but, too often, absurd and cruel ones.
3.5 stars - an inauspicious start to a new year.
I mean, I'll still read those other books, but I kinda hope I read some stuff that resembles "real" literature, too.
First, a caveat: I feel the need to be spiritually pure for as long as possible this year, and, sadly, that means being honest in my reviews. Not that I usually lie, because I don't, but that sometimes I will say mean things. I will try not to be mean for mean's sake (unless I feel like the book deserves it) and I will make no personal attacks against the writer.
Unless some garbled up piece of fanfic gets mainstream popularity again.
Did I already break my book resolution?
I say this because I'm not really sure how I feel about this book at all. And, considering I've read it and thought about it for a while now, isn't probably a good thing.
You need to understand: I get satire. I teach AP Lit to brilliant 12th graders. Or, I used to in a semi-former life (I'm on sabbatical). I'm not so rusty that it eludes me. This doesn't feel particularly like satire, unless Maria Semple is a mean girl who hates the Hollywood machine and Seattle housewives everywhere.
And I don't think she does. Or I hope she doesn't. Because feminism! Or something.
So, if she's not trying to make fun of reclusive geniuses everywhere or their aesthetically-minded, neurotic neighbors...I guess I'm not entirely certain what's the point.
There is a distinct black comedy vibe here; and, with comedy, an author runs the risk that what you think is funny does not mesh with what another person deems hilarious. It's actually even worse in literature because everything has to be amped up to eleven (one does not simply fall into a lake in books; one trips on one's overly long pants thus causing them to spontaneously rip up the side revealing one's undergarments as one spins wildly out of control culminating in a ceremonious drenching in a local waterhole that happens to be populated by nuns and schoolchildren). If the reader is not on the same wavelength, comedy, sometimes, reads as "What the fuck?!" and that's not good for anyone.
I didn't know much about this book before I borrowed it from the library. I knew that it had an almost four star rating and that my aunt was sort of iffy on it while my cousin recommended it violently. Those were all pretty good indications I'd like this one well enough. The premise seemed a bit...dramatic...to me "reclusive architect disappears and brilliant teenaged daughter tries to find her".
Let's just say, nothing particularly screamed "COMEDY!" to me. And so imagine my surprise when that was what I was faced with.
This, obviously, worked against the novel for me. It was until about 100 pages in when I turned to my unsuspecting husband and said, "Huh. I think this is supposed to be funny." Which was better than thirty pages before when I told him I just didn't get the point.
There's a lot going on in this one that is beyond the absurd: genius parents, art vs. science. social anxiety, stilted creativity, boarding school, Antarctica, lawsuits, interventions, TEDtalks, affairs, the Russian mafia, a house-destroying mudslide, unplanned pregnancies, drug rehabilitation wilderness camp, and an uncle named Van.
This is a world where people act erratically and cash seems limitless. It's also a world where forgiveness and disappearance walk hand in hand, apparently.
I get the overwhelming greater message about creativity and being who you are and acceptance and love. I do. And, once I stopped trying so hard, it was much more fun to get lost in the crazy escapades of Bernadette and her kin. But no one here was particularly likable. First, Bernadette, who is our shining star, is batshit crazy. And, yeah, I know that genius and insanity are often a subtle dance held barely in check by creative outlet and the right combination of medication, but that's not what is happening here. I sympathized with her abhorrence for social interaction and nothing there seemed wildly out of sync with my preferred reality (which is probably saying something very telling about me). Obviously I'm way higher functioning than Bernadette ever was but it was not the off-putting part to me. Her reliance on the internet drone was weird, particularly that, for a genius, she was so quick to give away highly sensitive information like social security and bank account numbers.
There is no way the Russian mob would have waited that long to take all of her cash.
And I get why she leaves. The end sort of worked for me on that level. But she's not ever really approachable in scope. She feels, way too often, like the victim. A self-centered, highly neurotic, quirky, artistic victim that her husband indulges, her neighbor hates, and her daughter reveres.
And Bee was one of those precocious book children that reads as impossible. And then her dad called her a little bitch and I got indignant until she agreed he was right.
Plus, what the hell was up with the Josh Groban thing?
I'm sure we were meant to laugh at Bee, while she weeps and tries to turn herself into the reincarnation of Jesus while listening to Christmas carols and sporting a bandanna advertising The Hangover, but I just couldn't do it.
I'm not into that level of absurdity.
And this is before I get into Elgin, Soo-Lin, and Audrey.
Nobody seemed happy here. And maybe nobody really is. Was that the point? We are all weird locally-sourced architectural designs and when we fail it is because we designed ourselves to do so? Because damn that's bleak. But that's sort of what the first 2/3 of the book felt like to me. Like I was that damn house on the hill, just waiting for the bulldozers to come.
Then we went to Antartica and the tone shifted and we were light as blue ice and restored with hope and reunion.
And that just confused me more.
"Bernadette" is an interesting, if not at times upsetting, read. There are genuinely funny moments here, but, too often, absurd and cruel ones.
3.5 stars - an inauspicious start to a new year.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Fifty Shades of Repulsion (for reading this book) "Book" 7
my inner goddess is jazz hands-ing (jazz fisting???)...or rather...my inner goddess (by which i mean feminist) is slightly appalled by the overt nature in which this book tackles the modern female's incarnation of the american dream.
yes, ladies, if we base our self-understanding solely on the mores and values espoused in the literature we clamor for, here's what we want:
1. a hot (HOT!), rich (SUPERRICH!), broody (PSYCHOTIC!) man who will tell us repeatedly we are not his whore but then lavish us with expensive finery (a car, a computer, clothes, a BlackBerry, etc.) when we make his manparts happy. because there should be a reward for certain sexual acts, let's all just face that fact right now. and we will maintain our cool independence and self-sufficiency by accepting those gifts on indefinite loan because we wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings now, would we???
2. a fundamentally, spiritually, and sexually broken man who we honestly believe will be fixed/changed/bettered by virtue of our all-consuming love for and adoration of him. plus the sweet, sweet healing power of our innate sexual prowess (because we were TOTALLY virgins before we met him), that'll also fix him up real good.
3. to be controlled by a more dominating man who will constantly assure us that our role as the submissive is clearly where the real power is at, and, through our total surrender to him, we will become some mega-powerful sex goddess who does pirouettes on a bed of ecstatic pain.
4. to be tied up. and flogged. but not in a kinky loveless way. in a way that reveals the true "bonds" of our relationship through the deep exploration of our mutual trust for one another. think of it like a "sexual ropes course for trust building" instead of "S&M" and you'll be just fine.
yes, folks, this is some real cult of domesticity level shit, here.
and, yeah, ladies, that thought? well, it kind of makes me want to vomit up my breakfast in my mouth-hole.
i'mma gonna go off on this shit, so consider this your warning. also, i'm probably going spoil things because that's how i be. sorry in advance.
christian grey is edward cullen if you remove the vampirism and replace it with "dominant sexual fetishism" instead. not that eddie boy doesn't suffer from his own need to control his ladylove; it just doesn't give him an erection to tie her up and keep her from harm.
or, if it does, stephenie meyer is polite enough not to tell us.
and, yes, anastasia steele is some screwed up combination of every 19th century british ingenue and bella swan. only with clear split personality issues. think jane eyre, if bertha rochester was her subconscious and blanche ingram her inner goddess.
look, i get the great literary romantic conventions. i do. medieval literature proffered the dominating relationship between lover and beloved. 19th century gothic imagines this relationship similarly with a dark brooding and largely unseen masculine force dominating the will of the virginal female. and in both of these instances, the profane love relationship, of course, is used to heighten, illuminate, or refocus a larger, more sacred one with god. i GET that. (of course, this is why we have harlequin romances where men give pretty young things punishing glances before they give them mindblowing, punishing orgasms, but, i digress). so, in some ways, FSOG is just the natural extension of this progression - bruised glances get a little bit more literal but the dynamic that has always fostered female literature has not really altered.
again, i get that.
but this is just profane.
what fostered the dominant-submissive relationship in the past was this remote interest in using love as a means to a spiritual end with god (perhaps via marriage or perhaps via something else). what chafes me here, aside from the overt embracing of the graphic nature of punishment and sex here, is that it's all so deliciously low, so horribly dirty.
and, what really bothers me most here isn't the smut factor (which is so high, it's laughable) but the pervasive feeling of shame. christian grey introduces anastasia steele to the world of sexual intrigue via his interpretation of "vanilla sex". my interpretation of "vanilla sex" does not include the phrase "he slammed into her" in any way, shape, or form, but that is probably semantics. for christian, deflowering the divine ms. steele in this manner is probably about as gently caressing as he gets. but then he introduces her to his "red room of pain" - which is not unlike jane eyre's red room of pain in color schematics but vastly different in purpose and construction. i'm pretty sure even jane's evil aunt didn't have a cat-o-nine-tails in there. when christian punishes ana by spanking her bottom like an insolent child who he then wants to "empty himself inside of", she gets upset. not necessarily because he debased or degraded her so violently. not because he hit her. but because she kind of liked some of it and she's confused.
i was ashamed for her.
look, if you're into that thing, own it. whatever. but the whole "i'm so confused, i don't know what i want, i need space, please stalk me so i can't have it" thing is just plain repulsive. and the novel's conclusion which has anastasia asking to be punished to see if it is a hard limit for her (spoiler alert, it is!) is so unpleasant that i couldn't even be proud of her for leaving because she had continually compromised herself so compliantly.
but enough philosophizing. let's get down to brass tacks...or ben wa balls, whatever floats your sexy time boat.
soft limits:
1. james's writing is not good, but she writes with gusto, you gotta give her that! and i'm sort of impressed that a piece of fanfiction could produce this much hype and success gives hope to the rest of us who understand syntax, plot, indirect characterization, subtlety, foreshadowing, etc.
2. in the same vein, i respect that james has created a safe outlet for this type of erotica (you say smut, i'll say erotica). i feel bad for her children who have to go to school and get mocked that their mother is into some weird shit but i like that she's made a taboo subject safer for some people.
3. i finished it - i mean, at any point, i could have stopped. yelled out my literary safe word and left. but i didn't. i stayed. i took my beating. i'm dealing with my shame. i'm moving on.
hard limits:
1. the writing (#sorrynotsorry) - it's bad. and not just because of the sexual stuff (although christian grey telling ms. steele that he wanted to, and i quote, "claim her ass" made me laugh for a good two minutes). she introduces static characters with compelling dialogue like "this is jose. jose has been my friend for the last two years. jose is a photographer. i like jose, but i don't like-like him!" it's just bad. also, she's clearly british imagining the american experience. "laters, baby"??? no one on this coast says "laters", sorry. we think it's wicked cute when benedict cumberbatch does it but do it we do not. oh, and don't even get me started on how poorly she writes men (particularly in email form). blech.
2. ALL the references to the inner goddess or ana's subconscious. i said it before, i'll say it again - it reads like she has multiple personalities. "my inner goddess was doing the dance of seven veils, the macarena, the chicken dance, and the hula while my subconscious scowled at her critically like bela karoli watching mary lou retton at the 1984 olympics." dude, no wonder you're confused, you're three different people!
3. christian - look, these things sink or swim on the strength of the leading male (by which i do not mean physical prowess). and christian is a d-bag. yes, james attempts to give him a sordid, troubled past that smacks of that ephemeral hope that somewhere deep down underneath the marbled, whips and chains, domineering exterior is a soft, nougatty center. i don't really think there is. and to imagine a future including potential offspring with a man who gets off so completely on the act of discipline is just so very, very, very wrong, indeed.
4. the belt - WTF. i'm sorry, this did so nothing for me except make me hate the whole lot of them.
more.
i'm giving one star mostly for the level of discomfort i felt at the end of the "novel". but the saddest realization for me is that i am curious as to how this story ends (thank you, mistress, may i have another?) - and this is perhaps the greatest source of female shame there is. that these relationships have a thrall over us, even though we know that they are terrible, unhealthy, and wrong, we want more. will christian ever concede the need for punishment? will ana ever say "screw it! let's get the whip!"?
yeah, i know, i sicken myself.
yes, ladies, if we base our self-understanding solely on the mores and values espoused in the literature we clamor for, here's what we want:
1. a hot (HOT!), rich (SUPERRICH!), broody (PSYCHOTIC!) man who will tell us repeatedly we are not his whore but then lavish us with expensive finery (a car, a computer, clothes, a BlackBerry, etc.) when we make his manparts happy. because there should be a reward for certain sexual acts, let's all just face that fact right now. and we will maintain our cool independence and self-sufficiency by accepting those gifts on indefinite loan because we wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings now, would we???
2. a fundamentally, spiritually, and sexually broken man who we honestly believe will be fixed/changed/bettered by virtue of our all-consuming love for and adoration of him. plus the sweet, sweet healing power of our innate sexual prowess (because we were TOTALLY virgins before we met him), that'll also fix him up real good.
3. to be controlled by a more dominating man who will constantly assure us that our role as the submissive is clearly where the real power is at, and, through our total surrender to him, we will become some mega-powerful sex goddess who does pirouettes on a bed of ecstatic pain.
4. to be tied up. and flogged. but not in a kinky loveless way. in a way that reveals the true "bonds" of our relationship through the deep exploration of our mutual trust for one another. think of it like a "sexual ropes course for trust building" instead of "S&M" and you'll be just fine.
yes, folks, this is some real cult of domesticity level shit, here.
and, yeah, ladies, that thought? well, it kind of makes me want to vomit up my breakfast in my mouth-hole.
i'mma gonna go off on this shit, so consider this your warning. also, i'm probably going spoil things because that's how i be. sorry in advance.
christian grey is edward cullen if you remove the vampirism and replace it with "dominant sexual fetishism" instead. not that eddie boy doesn't suffer from his own need to control his ladylove; it just doesn't give him an erection to tie her up and keep her from harm.
or, if it does, stephenie meyer is polite enough not to tell us.
and, yes, anastasia steele is some screwed up combination of every 19th century british ingenue and bella swan. only with clear split personality issues. think jane eyre, if bertha rochester was her subconscious and blanche ingram her inner goddess.
look, i get the great literary romantic conventions. i do. medieval literature proffered the dominating relationship between lover and beloved. 19th century gothic imagines this relationship similarly with a dark brooding and largely unseen masculine force dominating the will of the virginal female. and in both of these instances, the profane love relationship, of course, is used to heighten, illuminate, or refocus a larger, more sacred one with god. i GET that. (of course, this is why we have harlequin romances where men give pretty young things punishing glances before they give them mindblowing, punishing orgasms, but, i digress). so, in some ways, FSOG is just the natural extension of this progression - bruised glances get a little bit more literal but the dynamic that has always fostered female literature has not really altered.
again, i get that.
but this is just profane.
what fostered the dominant-submissive relationship in the past was this remote interest in using love as a means to a spiritual end with god (perhaps via marriage or perhaps via something else). what chafes me here, aside from the overt embracing of the graphic nature of punishment and sex here, is that it's all so deliciously low, so horribly dirty.
and, what really bothers me most here isn't the smut factor (which is so high, it's laughable) but the pervasive feeling of shame. christian grey introduces anastasia steele to the world of sexual intrigue via his interpretation of "vanilla sex". my interpretation of "vanilla sex" does not include the phrase "he slammed into her" in any way, shape, or form, but that is probably semantics. for christian, deflowering the divine ms. steele in this manner is probably about as gently caressing as he gets. but then he introduces her to his "red room of pain" - which is not unlike jane eyre's red room of pain in color schematics but vastly different in purpose and construction. i'm pretty sure even jane's evil aunt didn't have a cat-o-nine-tails in there. when christian punishes ana by spanking her bottom like an insolent child who he then wants to "empty himself inside of", she gets upset. not necessarily because he debased or degraded her so violently. not because he hit her. but because she kind of liked some of it and she's confused.
i was ashamed for her.
look, if you're into that thing, own it. whatever. but the whole "i'm so confused, i don't know what i want, i need space, please stalk me so i can't have it" thing is just plain repulsive. and the novel's conclusion which has anastasia asking to be punished to see if it is a hard limit for her (spoiler alert, it is!) is so unpleasant that i couldn't even be proud of her for leaving because she had continually compromised herself so compliantly.
but enough philosophizing. let's get down to brass tacks...or ben wa balls, whatever floats your sexy time boat.
soft limits:
1. james's writing is not good, but she writes with gusto, you gotta give her that! and i'm sort of impressed that a piece of fanfiction could produce this much hype and success gives hope to the rest of us who understand syntax, plot, indirect characterization, subtlety, foreshadowing, etc.
2. in the same vein, i respect that james has created a safe outlet for this type of erotica (you say smut, i'll say erotica). i feel bad for her children who have to go to school and get mocked that their mother is into some weird shit but i like that she's made a taboo subject safer for some people.
3. i finished it - i mean, at any point, i could have stopped. yelled out my literary safe word and left. but i didn't. i stayed. i took my beating. i'm dealing with my shame. i'm moving on.
hard limits:
1. the writing (#sorrynotsorry) - it's bad. and not just because of the sexual stuff (although christian grey telling ms. steele that he wanted to, and i quote, "claim her ass" made me laugh for a good two minutes). she introduces static characters with compelling dialogue like "this is jose. jose has been my friend for the last two years. jose is a photographer. i like jose, but i don't like-like him!" it's just bad. also, she's clearly british imagining the american experience. "laters, baby"??? no one on this coast says "laters", sorry. we think it's wicked cute when benedict cumberbatch does it but do it we do not. oh, and don't even get me started on how poorly she writes men (particularly in email form). blech.
2. ALL the references to the inner goddess or ana's subconscious. i said it before, i'll say it again - it reads like she has multiple personalities. "my inner goddess was doing the dance of seven veils, the macarena, the chicken dance, and the hula while my subconscious scowled at her critically like bela karoli watching mary lou retton at the 1984 olympics." dude, no wonder you're confused, you're three different people!
3. christian - look, these things sink or swim on the strength of the leading male (by which i do not mean physical prowess). and christian is a d-bag. yes, james attempts to give him a sordid, troubled past that smacks of that ephemeral hope that somewhere deep down underneath the marbled, whips and chains, domineering exterior is a soft, nougatty center. i don't really think there is. and to imagine a future including potential offspring with a man who gets off so completely on the act of discipline is just so very, very, very wrong, indeed.
4. the belt - WTF. i'm sorry, this did so nothing for me except make me hate the whole lot of them.
more.
i'm giving one star mostly for the level of discomfort i felt at the end of the "novel". but the saddest realization for me is that i am curious as to how this story ends (thank you, mistress, may i have another?) - and this is perhaps the greatest source of female shame there is. that these relationships have a thrall over us, even though we know that they are terrible, unhealthy, and wrong, we want more. will christian ever concede the need for punishment? will ana ever say "screw it! let's get the whip!"?
yeah, i know, i sicken myself.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Deadlocked (Sookie #1,000,000,000) - Book #6
i wish i had written this review right after i read the darn book.
but i didn't.
so, instead, you're getting this.
each new sookie stackhouse book reiterates one general thematic principle: that charlaine harris is milking this cashcow until it is beyond dead. that's right, in good old fashioned frankensteinian fashion, harris's creation has run amok and what we have here is the equivalence of literary, capitalist vampirism (see what i did there?) and my money is being sucked dry by wasting them on each new addition to the sookie oeuvre.
or something.
look, i'm not saying i won't buy the next one - because, let's face it,i totally will, i'm just saying i used to think these were building in some sort of long-winded direction, striving to achieve some higher purpose, or reveal some subtle subversive message about how all just need to get along by depicting an epic battle between the myriad natural and supernatural species.
now, i think it's going to twilight out and be all about getting a crappy boyfriend. and keeping him. forever-ish.
blech.
what harris does to eric here is almost unforgivable. i get that she begrudgingly allowed the whole eric-sookie-loveship to sail because her fans demanded it and that even though bill neck-raped sookie in the trunk of a car sooooo many, many books ago, ms. harris seems firmly entrenched on the side of team bill.
i get THAT.
but damn, eric here is so not eric. i want my undead viking of cool back. not this! no, no, not this!
the good news about this installment is that there was actually a mystery here - and even though this plot development was inevitable for the last 3-5 books, it's nice to return to the old formula and actually feel like some of my money went to a productive cause.
but i'm serious, if harris ends the series with a return to the cold, dead arms of bill, i swear to god i will write a strongly worded letter of epic proportions!
and i'll send it, too!
So Pretty It Hurts (Book #5)
so, after a not-so-brief foray into vision problems, i'm back. and i've chosen to return to the world of "pleasure reading" with the latest in the bailey weggins series. because if you're going to do it, you might as well just leap right on in with the trashiest piece of literature you can get your grubby little paws on.
now, i loved this series initially, but each addition has brought with it a little less joy, a little less enthusiasm, and a little less fun. and, let's be frank, pleasure reading should never really ever feel like work, you know what i mean???
of course you do.
the last book was written several years ago and left on one heck of a chicklit cliffhanger: bailey had to choose between skeevy film-maker beau regan (yes, folks, that's his name) or superdreamy, younger actor chris somethingorother.
spoiler alert: she picked beau.
immediately, this bristled. look, i'm not saying i'm rooting for a scenario where bailey comes across like a slutty cougar, but beau is just so...blech. white's physical descriptions of the character include enticing details like: longish brown hair, rugged looks, chiseled body, and an exotic smell. i sort of picture the highlander. and that creeps me out beyond belief.
of course, bailey is about as emotionally mature in her fledgling relationship as you'd expect a job-hopping commitmentphobe to be. so mature that, when beau regan goes out of town on short notice, she seeks retribution by spending the week in the bowels of upstate new york at a rich guy's barnsion with several elite folks including a model, a journalist, a cookbook author, an aging rockstar, and several management sorts.
dead bodies ensue.
there are sideplots with anorexia, tell-alls, and bailey's job (the killer has bailey's integrity questioned and she almost loses her job...which...spoiler alert...doesn't matter because she quits when they don't have her back).
the killer is predictable (i had it narrowed down between two folks immediately), the motives a little more muddied, but ultimately the major plot points lack in luster what i had longed to be a decadent rebirth into the world of literary smut.
whatever.
my biggest gripe, obvious, is beau regan and his creepy brand of wooing. wine, fireplace massages...we were one bubble bath or long walk on the beach away from total cliche. and the fact that he puts all the blame for relationship tension on bailey is so distasteful! ladies, can we please demand chicklit that does not call for our female protagonist to dutifully accept her flaws as being the primary source of strife in this madcap world of love??? 1. beau knew about a lengthy trip and didn't tell bailey until the day before he was leaving and 2. his ex-lover calls and leaves naughtily suggestive phone messages and he puts the blame solely on her? bleeeecchhhh.
look, bailey isn't perfect. sure, she's got raging relationship dysfunctions. but it takes two to tango.
and, man, do i miss chris.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
The Lucky One (Book #4)
Nicholas Sparks has a perverse definition of love.
Figure One: Love, Sparks-style
Not just because Zac Efron is involved.
Sparks has a formula that he loves: emotionally broken young man finds emotionally too-tough female and together they break down the barriers that separate them.
By falling in love.
With each other.
Amidst the backdrop of tragedy.
Here, it's the story of Logan, the ex-GI Joe, and Elizabeth, the stalwart single mother. Logan finds Beth's picture on the battlefield and it becomes this uber-creepy lucky charm that seems to keep him from harm whilst simultaneously killing those around him. Post-war, Logan's best war friend tells him that he "owes the woman" something for all the luck she gave him. Then, he gets killed by a motorboat.
No, seriously, that's what happens.
Figure Two: And, no, not this kind of motorboat
Let's say that, despite the obstacles of mortality, Logan is haunted/visited by his deceased BFF who continues to urge him to do things.
Like walk to North Carolina from Colorado.
Or train a German Shepherd.
Or work at a local dog kennel that happens to be owned and run by Elizabeth's stroke-addled Nana.
Figure Three: Manure? I hardly know her!
The rest is sort of predictable: Logan imprints on the boss's daughter and he and Elizabeth fall totes in love. Elizabeth's precocious son thinks Logan is the artistic, sensitive father figure that his own law officer/founding family biological D-bag of dad isn't. Nana gets one hell of a worker for minimal pay and sexual favors (by granddaughter proxy).
So? Where's the tragedy?
This deviates a bit from the formula in the sense that no one here coughs, gets some devastating fast-paced cancerlike illness, and dies. Instead, we get flood season, a quasi-rape attempt, and the most awkward attempt at redemption ever.
I won't tell you who bites it.
What creeps me out the most about this book is, per usual, the female character. Here, a single mother with the world's most controlling, one-dimensional villain of a husband (another Sparkian specialty) finds love with a man who not only kept her (a stranger's) picture for years but also tracked down her exact location, integrated himself into her family dynamic, and made it his business to save/help/sleep with/whatever her.
And she has the audacity to point out that she's so blessed to find someone who loves her for all her imperfections.
Right.
But, whatever, I'll still see the movie.
If for no other reason than to make fun of this scene:
Figure Four: Elizabeth looks for hidden photographs. In Logan's pants.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Percy Jackson (the book, not the movie)
i read The Lightning Thief in about two and a half hours yesterday. took the kiddos to their grandparents, parked myself on the couch during nap time, and read.
it's that addictive.
which is a bit strange...because, when you think about the details of the text, you think maybe you shouldn't have liked it nearly as much.
there is nothing new under the sun; percy jackson's life story is no exception. rick riordan is clearly well-versed in the dynamics of the greek hero's quest/mythology, and that knowledge serves as the blueprint for his story nicely. yes, there is some harry potter-esque paralleling (percy's hogwarts is the questionably named "Camp Half-Bloods", his ron weasely is a satyr named grover, his hermione, the daughter of athena.
athena's virginal vows need not apply here, apparently.
as for percy's paternal parentage, well, that no's mystery either. when percy wields his power over the plumbing in the previously mentioned camp's powder room, there will be no doubt as to his paternity.
and his dad is, as is typical in these stories, kind of a dick. he only claims percy as his son when he needs him to do him an epic favor that could probably get him killed. then, when they finally meet, it's all "gentle amusement" and "detachment" between the two - which, you know, i guess is understandable. but if someone saved my butt, particularly if that someone was in my bloodline, i might get off my deity a little and, you know, thank him profusely.
but i was raised right.
the tridents:
1. quickly paced, addictive reading allows reader to forgive and forget authorial mistakes quickly
2. fun way to reinvent mythology for a new generation
3. gives me a whole new fantasy series steeped heavily in mythology to sink my teeth into
the lightning thief
1. WAY too predictable. so predictable, it hurts a little. and it's hard to forgive percy and annabeth for not figuring any of it out earlier. the oracle is about as enigmatic as a twinkie wrapped in the defiled corpse of a mummy.
2. the portrayal of women - gah. they're either 1. bitches 2. old, fat hags sent to kill 3. beautiful angels sent by stronger men to help 4. monsters or 5. dead. that's it. i get that olympus was predominantly a boys' club, but this isn't ancient greece. diversify a bit, riordan. please.
3.5 stars - rounding up for sheer enjoyment.
it's that addictive.
which is a bit strange...because, when you think about the details of the text, you think maybe you shouldn't have liked it nearly as much.
there is nothing new under the sun; percy jackson's life story is no exception. rick riordan is clearly well-versed in the dynamics of the greek hero's quest/mythology, and that knowledge serves as the blueprint for his story nicely. yes, there is some harry potter-esque paralleling (percy's hogwarts is the questionably named "Camp Half-Bloods", his ron weasely is a satyr named grover, his hermione, the daughter of athena.
athena's virginal vows need not apply here, apparently.
as for percy's paternal parentage, well, that no's mystery either. when percy wields his power over the plumbing in the previously mentioned camp's powder room, there will be no doubt as to his paternity.
hint: it's this guy.
and his dad is, as is typical in these stories, kind of a dick. he only claims percy as his son when he needs him to do him an epic favor that could probably get him killed. then, when they finally meet, it's all "gentle amusement" and "detachment" between the two - which, you know, i guess is understandable. but if someone saved my butt, particularly if that someone was in my bloodline, i might get off my deity a little and, you know, thank him profusely.
but i was raised right.
the tridents:
1. quickly paced, addictive reading allows reader to forgive and forget authorial mistakes quickly
2. fun way to reinvent mythology for a new generation
3. gives me a whole new fantasy series steeped heavily in mythology to sink my teeth into
the lightning thief
1. WAY too predictable. so predictable, it hurts a little. and it's hard to forgive percy and annabeth for not figuring any of it out earlier. the oracle is about as enigmatic as a twinkie wrapped in the defiled corpse of a mummy.
2. the portrayal of women - gah. they're either 1. bitches 2. old, fat hags sent to kill 3. beautiful angels sent by stronger men to help 4. monsters or 5. dead. that's it. i get that olympus was predominantly a boys' club, but this isn't ancient greece. diversify a bit, riordan. please.
3.5 stars - rounding up for sheer enjoyment.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
the fault, dear brutus, is in our stars (book #2)
The Fault in Our Stars - John Green
please pay specific attention to the cheery blurb from jodi piccoult.
My Goodreads Review:
i need to write this now, when the book is still raw, before i forget the minutiae and the emotion as i get suckered into another text. there will probably be spoilers, i fear. i've never been good at self-censoring, particularly in book reviews. read at your own risk.
first, in full disclosure: i was a little disappointed in the pre-ordering of this novel. yes, i dreamt of yetis and hanklerfishes, but moreover, i dreamt that i'd actually get to read the book on its release date. or thereabouts. instead, three days later, the book arrived, to the wrong address, and with no additional signatures to ease the blow of such a monumental disappointment.
alas, there's an old adage about beggars and choosers that i'm conveniently forgetting here.
still, i decided not to let that pepper my review negatively. it is, after all, not john green's novel's fault that it couldn't arrive in a timely fashion with multiple autographs.
right?
i pre-ordered TFiOS solely based on the simple pretext that i happen to enjoy the way john green crafts intelligent teenagers. yes, i find him formulaic, or, more specifically, that, like shakespeare he has types and blueprints that he constantly reimagines for his own purposes (eclectically named teenager - usually male, but here, finally, like pixar, female, road trip in search of some deep-rooted universal truth, highly literary in scope and reference, crude humor at times usually involving urine, the all-encompassing power of teen love, girl with weird colored nail polish, etc, etc) but i also find him enjoyable. he writes the way i wish people talked. his characters love the way i wish love felt.
so, to say that i was surprised to be reading a book about terminal cancer within the opening pages is a bit of the old understatement.
maybe i should have been tipped off by the praise from jodi piccoult that this book wasn't necessarily going to be light and fluffy.
not that green favors fluff, but that, generally, there's hope and happiness somewhere towards the end of it all.
death lingers here, a bad feeling you can never quite shake off. it's everywhere. in your face. behind each word, each action. it's both imminent and remote, which gives a sort of claustrophobic and tragic aura, even in the funny moments.
and there are funny moments here. most of the cancer perks, particularly ones involving augustus's driver's license, are incredibly funny. it's all the typical quick-witted snark and banter of a john green novel, just with the omnipresent threat that these could be the last words this character says.
in terms of dealing with life and death, the philosophical bent of the text works well; these aren't kids to pity but to fall in love with. and that's pretty special.
still, for me, this is solidly 4 stars. i laughed, i cried, i cried a little harder. and maybe there's something to say about confronting the fragility of life once in awhile to actually remember how to live.
i just wouldn't want to do it every day.
please pay specific attention to the cheery blurb from jodi piccoult.
My Goodreads Review:
i need to write this now, when the book is still raw, before i forget the minutiae and the emotion as i get suckered into another text. there will probably be spoilers, i fear. i've never been good at self-censoring, particularly in book reviews. read at your own risk.
first, in full disclosure: i was a little disappointed in the pre-ordering of this novel. yes, i dreamt of yetis and hanklerfishes, but moreover, i dreamt that i'd actually get to read the book on its release date. or thereabouts. instead, three days later, the book arrived, to the wrong address, and with no additional signatures to ease the blow of such a monumental disappointment.
alas, there's an old adage about beggars and choosers that i'm conveniently forgetting here.
still, i decided not to let that pepper my review negatively. it is, after all, not john green's novel's fault that it couldn't arrive in a timely fashion with multiple autographs.
right?
i pre-ordered TFiOS solely based on the simple pretext that i happen to enjoy the way john green crafts intelligent teenagers. yes, i find him formulaic, or, more specifically, that, like shakespeare he has types and blueprints that he constantly reimagines for his own purposes (eclectically named teenager - usually male, but here, finally, like pixar, female, road trip in search of some deep-rooted universal truth, highly literary in scope and reference, crude humor at times usually involving urine, the all-encompassing power of teen love, girl with weird colored nail polish, etc, etc) but i also find him enjoyable. he writes the way i wish people talked. his characters love the way i wish love felt.
so, to say that i was surprised to be reading a book about terminal cancer within the opening pages is a bit of the old understatement.
maybe i should have been tipped off by the praise from jodi piccoult that this book wasn't necessarily going to be light and fluffy.
not that green favors fluff, but that, generally, there's hope and happiness somewhere towards the end of it all.
death lingers here, a bad feeling you can never quite shake off. it's everywhere. in your face. behind each word, each action. it's both imminent and remote, which gives a sort of claustrophobic and tragic aura, even in the funny moments.
and there are funny moments here. most of the cancer perks, particularly ones involving augustus's driver's license, are incredibly funny. it's all the typical quick-witted snark and banter of a john green novel, just with the omnipresent threat that these could be the last words this character says.
in terms of dealing with life and death, the philosophical bent of the text works well; these aren't kids to pity but to fall in love with. and that's pretty special.
my chief complaints are this:
1. i saw very easily where we were headed here and it pissed me off immensely. i'm not sure what the intended purpose of the finality of the story was, but, to me, it spoke to the inherent unfairness of life and to the simple fact that one man's oblivion is another man's infinity. it's beautiful in theory but in reality it sucks as a bitter pill to have to swallow.
2. the fake epigraph. this immediately bristled. i'm a recent convert to the altar of gatsby and i felt that the made-up epigraph spoke to a much more subtle and subversive motif in that text. here, when one of the character inevitably brings up gatsby, i sort of wanted to groan, sigh disgustedly, and spit out, "what a load of horse crap, eh, kid?"
3. and, while we're on that subject, let's talk about peter van houten, the pickled author of said fake quote. we had potential here for salinger-esque greatness, but what we got was sad, hollowed out banality. of course he has a tragic connection to his own staggering work of genius, of course he can't give the children what they need/want from him, and of course he cannot possibly make better a situation that is only, by its inherent definition, getting worse. so what's the point? his addition felt extraneous and incomplete, and, worse, it only served to point out the cruelness of both hazel's and gus's lives. and maybe life in general. he wasn't a beacon of hope. he wasn't even a beacon of inspiration. he was a mediocre man posing as this literary genius but nothing about him seemed to merit such acclaim. i just didn't get him.
4. the weak understanding of the term "hamartia" - look, i get it. john green is very smart. and he writes characters that are also very smart (it's one of the reasons i read him - for, as improbable as they are, i hope for a future filled with more kids who memorize william carlos williams for fun). so it's incredibly disappointing to see them espouse a definition of hamartia that is far more over-simplified than it should be (and echoed later by the superfluous peter van houten in the same simplistic vein). hamartia, in the classic aristotelian understanding, is meant to be more than merely "fatal flaw" as it gets defined here. it is a mistake or wrongdoing brought about in some capacity by said flaw (i.e. when hamlet, in an out-of-character act of rashness, stabs a decorative wall hanging and murders polonius. yes, it is a minor complaint, but, if green is going to insist on creating such preciously insightful teenagers, please make sure they are thorough in their understanding of literary terminology.
1. i saw very easily where we were headed here and it pissed me off immensely. i'm not sure what the intended purpose of the finality of the story was, but, to me, it spoke to the inherent unfairness of life and to the simple fact that one man's oblivion is another man's infinity. it's beautiful in theory but in reality it sucks as a bitter pill to have to swallow.
2. the fake epigraph. this immediately bristled. i'm a recent convert to the altar of gatsby and i felt that the made-up epigraph spoke to a much more subtle and subversive motif in that text. here, when one of the character inevitably brings up gatsby, i sort of wanted to groan, sigh disgustedly, and spit out, "what a load of horse crap, eh, kid?"
3. and, while we're on that subject, let's talk about peter van houten, the pickled author of said fake quote. we had potential here for salinger-esque greatness, but what we got was sad, hollowed out banality. of course he has a tragic connection to his own staggering work of genius, of course he can't give the children what they need/want from him, and of course he cannot possibly make better a situation that is only, by its inherent definition, getting worse. so what's the point? his addition felt extraneous and incomplete, and, worse, it only served to point out the cruelness of both hazel's and gus's lives. and maybe life in general. he wasn't a beacon of hope. he wasn't even a beacon of inspiration. he was a mediocre man posing as this literary genius but nothing about him seemed to merit such acclaim. i just didn't get him.
4. the weak understanding of the term "hamartia" - look, i get it. john green is very smart. and he writes characters that are also very smart (it's one of the reasons i read him - for, as improbable as they are, i hope for a future filled with more kids who memorize william carlos williams for fun). so it's incredibly disappointing to see them espouse a definition of hamartia that is far more over-simplified than it should be (and echoed later by the superfluous peter van houten in the same simplistic vein). hamartia, in the classic aristotelian understanding, is meant to be more than merely "fatal flaw" as it gets defined here. it is a mistake or wrongdoing brought about in some capacity by said flaw (i.e. when hamlet, in an out-of-character act of rashness, stabs a decorative wall hanging and murders polonius. yes, it is a minor complaint, but, if green is going to insist on creating such preciously insightful teenagers, please make sure they are thorough in their understanding of literary terminology.
still, for me, this is solidly 4 stars. i laughed, i cried, i cried a little harder. and maybe there's something to say about confronting the fragility of life once in awhile to actually remember how to live.
i just wouldn't want to do it every day.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
The Secret Window - Book #1
God, I love young adult fiction. And I've got a tremendous soft-spot for Betty Ren Wright, who wrote one of my FAVORITE books at young girl The Dollhouse Murders. This is not that book.
Here is my Goodreads review (I promise my next book will be more substantial!):
it really, really frustrates me when books feel dated and therefore ineffectual.
originally published in 1982, [The Secret Window] needed some heavy lovin' for its latest printing in the 90s. but sadly here is no way that betty ren wright edited this book in 1991. i'm sorry, it's just not possible. at a very pivotal moment, the teen protagonist attends a boy-girl party and smells something sweet in the air. she, bewildered and upset, queries, "is that grass???"
no wonder this girl doesn't go to the cool kid parties more often.
look, i'm not into drugs and i am deeply opposed to our nation's youths partying like cast-offs from "dazed and confused" BUT if you are going to write about drug-addled teenagers, please, please, please get the slang right. i had this violent flashback to high school when i asked my father if i could go to a club with some of my friends. he said i could on the condition that if any of them were "smoking dope" that i needed to call him for a ride.
yeah, he lost me at "dope"...
of course, this is only a small part of the failings of this book. the protagonist meg is a mousy little do-gooder wrapped up in a bottle of precocious second sight. she has dreams, dreams that come true! her horrible friend gracie is constantly trying to be one of the "cool kids" but she stinks. she mocks her teacher and gets meggiepants in trouble. at the aforementioned boy-girl-grass .party, she freaks out thinking that meg blew the proverbial whistle and called the cops. she doesn't seem to realize that meg, for some inexplicable reason, refuses to get her friend in any kind of trouble at all.
even though she's AWFUL.
the end culminates predictably in meg using her gift to save her awful friend even though her friend barely acknowledges it and their friendship is severed forever by their lack of commonalities.
it's an okay book; betty ren wright is good at creating broken and dysfunctional families, but she writes them with such venom and anger that you feel like 1. either she herself is badly broken and angry or 2. she only writes in cartoon extremes.
which is a pity.
originally published in 1982, [The Secret Window] needed some heavy lovin' for its latest printing in the 90s. but sadly here is no way that betty ren wright edited this book in 1991. i'm sorry, it's just not possible. at a very pivotal moment, the teen protagonist attends a boy-girl party and smells something sweet in the air. she, bewildered and upset, queries, "is that grass???"
no wonder this girl doesn't go to the cool kid parties more often.
look, i'm not into drugs and i am deeply opposed to our nation's youths partying like cast-offs from "dazed and confused" BUT if you are going to write about drug-addled teenagers, please, please, please get the slang right. i had this violent flashback to high school when i asked my father if i could go to a club with some of my friends. he said i could on the condition that if any of them were "smoking dope" that i needed to call him for a ride.
yeah, he lost me at "dope"...
of course, this is only a small part of the failings of this book. the protagonist meg is a mousy little do-gooder wrapped up in a bottle of precocious second sight. she has dreams, dreams that come true! her horrible friend gracie is constantly trying to be one of the "cool kids" but she stinks. she mocks her teacher and gets meggiepants in trouble. at the aforementioned boy-girl-grass .party, she freaks out thinking that meg blew the proverbial whistle and called the cops. she doesn't seem to realize that meg, for some inexplicable reason, refuses to get her friend in any kind of trouble at all.
even though she's AWFUL.
the end culminates predictably in meg using her gift to save her awful friend even though her friend barely acknowledges it and their friendship is severed forever by their lack of commonalities.
it's an okay book; betty ren wright is good at creating broken and dysfunctional families, but she writes them with such venom and anger that you feel like 1. either she herself is badly broken and angry or 2. she only writes in cartoon extremes.
which is a pity.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
resolved
<---Jane Austen hair/Madwoman in the Attic eyes/Exhausted New Mom glowI've been struggling with pinpointing exactly what needs "resolution" this year. I definitely want to keep my house cleaner and better organized. Less cluttered, more civilized. That old chestnut. I'd also like to do some "personal" cleanup - by which I mean a haircut, some weight loss, and eyebrow pluck, and maybe another teeth cleaning. Nothing fancy. Let's not get all crazy now. But I guess I'm looking for something that speaks a little bit more to my emotional state of mind.
As a mom of two young kids and a full-time teacher of literature, I don't find myself with a ton of "me" time. And, even before I had kids, I still didn't really know how to fill that me-time effectively. I slept more, watched more bad television, worked out more, and drank more Diet Coke. Occasionally, I blasted bad music and sung along to it like a demented sideshow act at a circus. I still do that now; however, the music is mostly inspired by an evil purple dinosaur whose very name is an anathema to me.
The hubs and I oft joke that we should have cured cancer with all the free time we once wasted. I guess these days I just want a little more bang for my free time buck.
Part of that need will be met this year by that book/movie challenge I posted about yesterday (which I'm inordinately excited about), but I feel like I just need to be better about trying new things in general.
There's got to be more to life than just work, family, and Facebook. Right?
See you on the flip-side.
Friday, December 30, 2011
50/50 Challenge
so...i love reading. i do. more than i love candy corn, democratic ideals, and the color cerulean. it's up there with diet coke, swedish fish, and sleeping children in my book. and movies, they're not half bad either.
a friend of mine introduced me to the 50/50 challenge (you can read rules here: http://www.fiftyfifty.me/) and i'm totally in. i've desperately wanted to improve my movie viewing in the new year (it's tough with young kids, but there's a whole body of work featuring ryan gosling's body and it ain't gonna watch itself, you dig?). this seemed to be the best way to hold myself accountable and to get myself to do something for me consistently each week.
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