Tag Archives: Books

My 2016 Book List


A bookwhore who never talks about books is no bookwhore at all, right? (Sidenote: you would think by now that my computer would know that bookwhore is so a word! And spelt correctly.)

So anywho, since I am feeling lazy and must soon sleep, I will share with you the books I read in 2016. Yay for me- there are almost twice as many as there were in 2015! It seems that my interest in biographies made itself manifest this past year. Enjoy!

Lolita by Vladimir Nabakov (I was more disturbed than I thought I would be while reading this, considering all the controversy I’d heard about it.)

The Antelope in the Living Room by Melanie Shankle (I bought this to give to my friend as part of her bridal shower gift; however, it sucked balls, so I didn’t.)

Lake Wobegon Days by Garrison Keillor (A native of my Minnesota, Garrison is, and went to high school with my Auntie for a minute. The best part of this book was that, while Lake Wobegon is a fictional town, all the towns surrounding it are very real, and are all towns I live near.)

Secret Diary of a Call Girl by Anonymous (This book was only interesting because the author’s sexual inclinations rival my own. That is not to say that I have been or will ever be paid to do those things I so like doing. )

I’m No Angel by Kylie Bisutti (written by a former Victoria’s Secret Angel who gave up her wings because of her religious beliefs; how easily she gave up something that some of us of shorter stature could never hope to achieve…)

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern (Received as a Christmas present from my best friend- damn does she know how to pick ’em.)

Playground by Jennifer Saginor (growing up hanging out at the Playboy mansion was such a drag, having all those boobies about..)

Sex, Drugs, Ratt and Roll by Stephen Pearcy (Yet another attempt of mine to get my Rockstar reading; I think I actually enjoyed it more than he did.)

The Great Gatsby  by F. Scott Fitzgerald (Great, of course.)

The Bride Stripped Bare by Nikki Gemmel (Another book I was going to gift to my friend as a bridal goof. I don’t remember much about it, except that I didn’t give it to her because it was horrible.)

The 19th Wife by David Ebershoff (A fictional telling of Brigham Young’s 19th wife. I learned a lot about them there Mormons.)

Whistling Past the Graveyard by Susan Crandell (Stolen from the bookshelf of my friend because of the title; a very fitting story to read during the times in which we live. I ended up suggesting it to my Aunt for her bookclub.)

Boundary Waters by William Kent Krueger (Another Minnesota author who I missed having lunch with because I was sick when my Auntie invited me to her silent auction winning.)

Kushiel’s Chosen by Jacqueline Carey (My only repeat read this year; I had planned on going to a masquerade based on the series, but alas, I spent all my moneys on books and glitter.)

Slade House by David Mitchell (This was read only because my friend denounced this book as the worst ever after HER friend raved about it. My friend was right.)

The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo by Amy Schumer (I really wanted to like it. Amy is a much better comedienne than she is a writer.)

Not That Kind of Girl by Lena Dunham (Sorry, Amy. Your friend Lena is much better at writing about her life in such a way that makes me want to keep reading about it.)

While Beauty Slept by Elizabeth Blackwell (Winner of my Surprising Find of the Year, seeing how I found it at THE DOLLAR TREE. So good. A superb retelling of a classic fairytale with none of that ridiculous fairytale bullshit. Did I mention Sleeping Beauty gets the pox?!?)

Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs (Because, ya know, the movie came out.)

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November the First


Hmm. I don’t write on here so much anymore. This makes me sad. So I shall begin anew.

I suppose I would do well to update you all on everything that’s been happening in the last, well- the last really long time. But in the words of Inigo Montoya: “No, there is too much. Let me sum up.” –

My baby is a seven months and a little bit old. Holy shit.  And even though I lost every bit of weight I gained when I was pregnant with him, I do not find myself motivated enough to lose the extra 50-60 lbs. I had before that. So sadly, I have not yet reached my goal of ultimate M.I.L.F. status. But, ya know- I’m still awesome. And I have the best kid who is so smart and funny and adorable. And I’m not even being biased. Let me prove it:

IMAG1125

 

Things between my Rockstar and I have not been the stuff of romantic comedies of late. Unless you’re thinking of the part in the movie when the couple argues and breaks up. No, we haven’t broken up; in fact, I suppose technically we’ve never even argued- you can’t argue with a person who doesn’t respond to your gripe. But in recent times I find myself bitching to myself over his lack of interest and general laziness in the relationship. After having expressed myself to him, I realize I’m kinda over it. A person can only take so much disappointment. And since his daughter now lives with us full-time, I am not in quite as good of spirits as I once was. Boo.

On a lighter note, I now work with an adorable hot chic that says I’m her favorite, and I have been approved for six new credit cards in the last two months, which is something I’m not quite sure is a good thing yet- other than the fact that finally after six years, I actually CAN get approved for things. Sadly, in those six years, I have not learned restraint, and also not-quite-but-almost maxxed out all said credit cards. BUT! I have a beautiful new copper loveseat in my perfect library that’s sitting in front of my very expensive electric fireplace I ordered with my Menard’s card.

Also, my most amazing friend Delightfulness is almost engaged, and apparently has a ridiculously large wedding budget that I get to help her plan with. Such a wedding will have no room for chubby bridesmaids, so I must force myself to not eat in the coming year, which will help with the whole M.I.L.F. thing.  Life is good.

Too, I am completely re-inspired to finally finish writing my book, though since I have an adorable little boy who has inherited my need for attention, the only time I have to write it is after work, when I sit down in front of my computer and get distracted by Facebook and Pinterest. Aye, me.

XOXO

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Xanax VS. Books


I was texting my friend Cat Woman last night, and since her life is in crisis at the moment, the conversation turned to shrinks and happy pills. I myself am a firm believer in just ignoring problems until they go away, and imbibing copious amounts of alcohol to aid that process. Luckily, most of the normal world, (including Cat Woman) does not share this belief, otherwise we’d be a planet filled with angsty drunkards.

Anyhoo, when Cat Woman offered selling me some Xanax at fifty dollars a pop to better cope with my ignored issues, I refused profusely, stating what a large number of books fifty dollars would buy me. She then asked an interesting question: What can a book do that Xanax cannot?

Well. You Book People out there already know. Clearly, my pal is not one. So, to quote my favorite character Inigo Montoya in the greatest movie of all time The Princess Bride: “Let me ‘splain. No no. There is too much. Let me sum up.”

A book has no adverse side effects. Sure, if you read a sad one, you may shed a tear and suffer post-reading depression, (this has happened to me after reading Where the Red Fern Grows, yet I’ve read it again and again.) but you have no worries of urinating less than usual or not at all, or becoming jaundiced or twerking unintentionally. (All possible side effects of Xanax.)

A book will calm you down. I am aware that Xanax is meant to do the same thing. However! A book may also excite you, or anger you, or frighten you! I’m not going to go through all the other emotions, because, well, we’re not in the third grade here. But you get the point.

A book may cost you fifty dollars a pop, but generally those are only those pretentious coffee table books not many people look at anyway. Yes, ok, if you are like me, you may find yourself spending fifty dollars every time you exit a bookstore, (a used one, it is hoped) but what do you have to show for it? At least twenty-four hours of reading, and after it wears off, you have the memory of what you just read, instead of the anticipation of an anxiety attack until you read another.

Depending on the book, the use of one will not cause controversy with other people who don’t believe in Western medicine. Not that we’re trying to keep Eastern doctors in our good graces here, but you know, it couldn’t hurt.

A book will distract you from your problems. Sure, Xanax will do the same thing, but only temporarily, and when you are done with it, there is no plethora of knowledge swimming around in your skull. If you find yourself sinking down into the depths of despair because the euphoria of finishing a book has worn off, read another. And incidentally, there is a whole Self-Help genre that will probably do the same thing Xanax will.

Well, there you have it. I may not be your first choice for the debate team, but I think I got my point across.

P.S. If you really think you’ve got it bad, read a book about the Holocaust. Then you might think to yourself, “Hey, at least I don’t have to stand in the sun for thirty-six hours before some Nazis gas me and my kids.

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Without Thee, Sun, I Would Be Outside


Ok, that might be a lie.

Yes, I want a Grandma Garden, but why would I want to be outside digging in the dirt when I can be inside here, with you people?

I want to take my puppy for a walk and explore my new little town some more, but I’d much rather sit inside wrapped in a blanket watching Season 2 of Game of Thrones for the 4th time.

Why would I  risk getting skin cancer by hanging around outside on this beautifully sunny day when I have a perfectly comfortable bed asking me to join it for a nap or two?

I’m not really an outside person, as much as I love the outdoors once I actually go OUT the door.

I am, however, a super lazy fucker who has occasional bouts of initiative. Hell, yesterday I cleaned the house, did the dishes, raked TWO planters out, painted the front entryway, got supper ready for the grill, and mowed the back yard. I even had time to play with myself and take a shower. (Not at the same time, because it gets pretty slippery in the shower.)

Today, I have used the excuse that it was cold and dreary outside, so I stayed inside and read the book I’ve been reading for three months. (It really is a good book, I just get distracted easily.) Then I used the excuse that I have to work tonight, so I deserve to be a lethargic piece of shit. Too, I have (truthfully) told myself that if I spend too much time outside, I will end up with tan lines and wrinkles.

When did I start feeling bad about wanting to read? ‘Tis not a waste of time, (despite what non-book people say) so why do I feel like I have to justify sitting for four hours reading by cleaning house or doing laundry? Why must I say to myself, “Self! You stay busy now!” when really all I want to do is nap. Showering? If I didn’t worry so much about stinking, that would probably be the chore I cut out of my day. It’s probably a good thing my metabolism is alright, because otherwise I’d be sitting on my super-fat ass in front of the boob-tube not doing a goddamn thing.

So I shamefully admit now that I kinda just don’t want to do anything right now. And the weather has nothing to do with it.

This is the reason I haven’t finished writing my book.

 

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Book Whore My Ass


I’ve been making myself sit down and actually work on writing my book every day for the last two weeks.

I don’t mean to toot my own horn but, “beep! beep!”

To those of you with published and self-published and hell, even completed novels, this may seem small and insignificant.

To those of you who think so, I say, “Well, fuck you!”

Just kidding. (But not really.)

Anyhoo, I don’t know how normal people go about writing books, but I think it’s safe to assume that the process is a lot of staring at a blank computer screen or getting distracted by many other things that shouldn’t be on your computer screen while you’re trying to work. (Get your mind outta the gutter! I don’t mean porn! But that’s only because since we’ve gotten our new computer, my Rockstar doesn’t want to get any viruses on it.) I’m talking about being logged in to Facebook, or Amazon, or WordPress.

Yesterday, while I was busy mulling over whether my main character should have an Irish lilt to her voice or not, I decided to look up a list of the top 100 books to read. Oddly enough, there isn’t just one, so I printed off the one that seemed the smartest, which was actually two. The Modern Library had their board make a list, as well as their readers. I readied myself to amaze myself with how well-read I was.

Amazed, I was not. Astounded? Absolutely. For after reading in their entirety the suggested top 200 books of all time, (several of which were on both lists) I came to the realization that I’ve read only two. TWO?!!?!?!??!? Are you frickin’ kidding me?! I own over 5000 books of every make and model, and yet I cannot  boast that I’ve read even five of the top 100 books of all time.

My shame is palpable.

P.S. At least I can say that I OWN 25 or so of them. Like that’s any consolation.

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Being A Book Person


There are so many words to describe us: bookworm, scholar, intellectual, and my favorite, bibliophile. (I promise it is not my favorite because it so closely resembles the word “pedophile”.)

It is a person who finds warmth and solidarity between the covers of a book; someone who writes, on paper, or in their mind, or on a blog for the whole world to see. Someone who, after a harsh and annoying day at work just dreams of coming home, sitting down, and losing himself or herself for just a few moments in a world where they don’t have to buy a plane ticket to experience a vacation from their everyday life.

What does it mean, to be one of these “Book People”?

It means going into a library, and wandering the aisles of every section, noticing titles that you hope to read eventually, and realizing that there isn’t enough time in twelve lifetimes to read all the books you want.

It means entering a bookstore, and touching every book you’ve read, whispering the title to yourself as if saying a prayer, and generally looking like a schizophrenic lunatic.

It means running up town to buy a dish sponge, and then deciding to check out the newly-opened antique store, and, when the owner begins asking how your day goes, and how you like your antiques, you somehow get on the subject of books, and how just the smell of them amazes you, and before long you understand you’re talking to another Book Person, not a stranger at all. Three hours later, you realize the dishes have been sitting at home in no-longer hot dish water, and that the sponge you went up to town to get has brought two Book People together.

Non-Book People just don’t get it.

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What Was Read in 2013


This is a shamefully short list of books for the entire year. That’s all I have to say about that.

Strip City: A Stripper’s Farewell Journey Across America- by Lily Burana

Sebastian- by Anne Bishop

The Help- by Kathryn Stockett

Between the Lines- by Jodi Picoult and Samantha van Leer

Wings of the Mornings- by Lori Wick

A Mermaid’s Tale: A Personal Search for Love and Lore- by Amanda Adams

Memoirs of Cleopatra- by Margaret George

The Rose and the Beast: Fairy Tales Retold- by Francesca Lia Block

Grimm’s Grimmest- by the Brothers Grimm

City of Bones- by Cassandra Clark

The Art of Racing in the Rain- by Garth Stein

The Vampire Lestat- by Anne Rice

Mermaid- by Carolyn Turgeon

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