|Werebear bear bar.
||[Mar. 3rd, 2012|12:17 am]
Whole lotta labia.
I am in the midst of reading a series of books which even I, as an entertained reader, will admit are Not Good. Like "Hex" is Not Good. They are prose so purple it's imperial. Seriously, if one of you wrote something this florid I'd assume you were fucking with me. The male characters are all tall, muscular, and they are always drawn to the female characters with feelings they have "never experienced like this." Every time. |
These books are full of immortals and vampires and werewolves and women who can reach orgasm through penetration only in less than 5 minutes. (Which, I don't know about you, but in my world is as probable as vampires and werewolves. If it's not improbable in your world please don't tell me.) The sex scenes are full of anatomically ambitious positions,including a stellar example where the 5'10" heroine mounts a 6'6" hero in the front bucket seat of a low-slung two-seater sports car, which is just a recipe for back pain and a knee to the nose if you ask me.
And I am reading them with unabashed joy. I have set a scale of their awesomeness which is measured in how long it takes the author to describe something as "tawny." The Start-to-Tawny index. Cee has taken to calling them Tawny Tales of Improbable Intercourse. The entire experience has probably knocked me down about 20 points on the Respectable Intellectual scale. I don't care.
I went on this non-fiction kick right after I got laid off from Sun and while I was still dealing with Caitlin's death/having a baby/starting treatment for my ED/etc. I started reading books about material culture and epidemiology. I watched documentaries almost exclusively. And I indulged my fondness for true crime to the degree that I now can tell you the stories behind each episode of Forensic Files just by looking at the name. I just didn't have room for whimsy or make-believe. Either characters were happy, in which case I found them irritating because fuck them, or they were sad, in which case they made me more sad. And with the exception of stories written (for the most part) by you gorgeous people I just gave up fiction. I came back to it bit by bit with TV and the occasional movie, and a stunning swan-dive into (and gorge on) the Sookie Stackhouse books after True Blood started. But it's still hard.
Anyway. About six months ago I started slipping a bit into more sad. More sleeping. More going to bed when Chloe goes to bed and letting her sleep with me because she was something to look forward to at the end of the day. The hard part about actually fixing yourself instead of just jumping from one anxiety avoidance tactic to another is that it almost always gets worse before it gets better. Sometimes it gets enough "worse" that you get stuck there a bit. Then for Christmas Steve got me the two latest novels by a writer that Cait introduced me to. A woman who is a favorite because of her attention to detail and her lovely intricate plots. (Connie Willis, in case you're in the market for a new writer to pick up) I listened to the entirety of the first one on audio book and then most of the second one the same way. And then the second one got so good that I read the last 200 pages old school style, curled up with a mug of tea and the hope that my child wasn't burning down the kitchen while I read.
I finished the book and I was just.... happy. I was happy for like three days. It slowly dawned that in addition to reading an uplifting book about charming people I'd gone nearly a week without watching any of my true crime or somber documentaries. I had what a friend would charmingly call a "holy shitsicles" moment. "You mean that not spending 12 hours a week watching shows about people who murder their spouses might put me in a better mood?" It was an embarrassingly delayed realization, but I'm glad it came to me.
Since then I've been indulging in shameless balancing-out. I've watched romantic comedies. I've listened to boppy music. I've read Not Good books with sappy declarations of love. For a while I was sheepish about my enjoyment, but not so much now. About the time I reread the book where the author feels the need to tell you the Gregorian calendar day and then follow it with the year 9548 b.c. I just stopped caring.
The thing is, it's tough enough just getting through the day. I don't need to make it harder by belittling myself for the value of the things that make me smile. I loved the documentary I saw about the history of the eradication of smallpox. I also loved the silly book where two tall people impossibly fuck in a small car. My father will stand in a field with a camera for an hour setting up the right shot. Steve camps in sub-zero temperatures. Cee reads Foreign Policy for fun. And every single one of those is a valid joy worth no less than the ones before or after it. As long as you're not actually murdering your spouse for entertainment, get your happy where you find it. (If you ARE killing your spouse please do not tell me. Rule #1: Bitches always talk.) And don't call it a guilty pleasure. Own it. "I love books about game design theory. I also love buying OPI shades just because the names are cute."
Me putting a value judgment on my source of happy is like putting a plus or minus on a chair. It's a pointless waste of energy I could be spending on reading books about game design theory. Or buying a bottle of Over the Taupe. I am in awe of some of the things my friends love and enjoy, but I think I may be done wishing I were cool/smart/driven enough to enjoy them myself and feeling bad because I'm not. It's too much time spent kicking someone I'm working really hard at learning to like.
Did I mention the books also have werebears? They have a bar. I desperately want it to be a "bear" bar.
Because the phrase 'werebear bear bar' is just guaranteed to make me smile.
And now, a link to a pants-wettingly funny man who puts into one minute what it took me 1000 words to say. And he fits a frottage joke in while he's at it. Dara O'Briain on guilty pleasures.
Oh...but La La .... bitches always talk ;-)
Miss your face.