Sunday, March 30, 2008

Another Casualty for the Romance Genre

Spring Break is a memory, the bruises are fading from St. Patrick’s Day, and the Easter Bunny has hopped on down the bunny trail. I’m extremely late in blogging, and my conscience, aka Hannah, will no longer allow my laziness. So, this one is for Hannah.

Last summer, Hannah begged and pleaded to read The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever by Julia Quinn. Her pleas began after she heard my laughter while I read it. I succumbed. Why not? I was the same age when I picked up my first romance novel, A Rose In Winter by Kathleen Woodiwiss. Hannah is not exactly the most respectful of other people’s things, mainly my stuff, so I could not stomach handing over my copy of Secret Diaries. I bought her a copy to read on her trip with her Gram, my mother. When Hannah gleefully showed Gram her reading material, my mother’s eyes took on the look of a deer in headlights. I reminded her that I read romance novels at Hannah’s age. My mother replied by telling Hannah, “Save all your questions for your mother. I don’t want to hear it. I mean it.” And Hannah shockingly obeyed. (Obeying of any demand is a rarity for Hannah. She’s the typical, high school teenager.)

When Hannah returned from her trip, she praised Secret Diaries and Julia Quinn. She told all her friends about the book. I overheard her tell one of her friends, “When I get ready to marry, I’m finding a man like that.” When she told me the same thing, I laughed and told her, “Good luck.” Hannah read Secret Diaries a second time and put it away, which surprised me. I thought she had been bitten and infected by the romance novel bug, but she hadn’t. Her antidote was Harry Potter.

This past Spring Break, Hannah was reintroduced to the romance genre via her cousin. Kristen is six months younger than Hannah, and she reminds my family so much of me that my sister claims that Hannah should have been her child and Kristen mine. Kristen has been reading romances for about six months now, and her praises of Sabrina Jeffries convinced Hannah that she was missing something. Kristen loaned Hannah two of Sabrina’s books, and Hannah is truly addicted this time around. In the past three weeks, Hannah has consumed eleven romance novels. I hate to think about what her new hobby is doing to her grades. After reading a few of Sabrina Jeffries’ books, she found my “keeper stash” of romances. She’s rapidly consuming Julia’s Bridgerton series, and her next target is Eloisa’s Essex Sisters. I predict another Bon Bon in the making. Kristen is enthused with my stash, too. I’ve explained to both that I’ll share, but to consider me like a lending library. Check out one, read, return, and receive another. Call me “anal.” My books are a passion. Hannah and Kristen are driving their Gram nuts with all their discussions about the heroes in these books. Call my sister and I “amused.” ;-)

Not only is Hannah reading romance, she is craving romance movies. Besides reading eleven novels in three weeks, she’s watched the BBC North & South at least three times, maybe more. She’s smitten with Richard Armitage. Who’s not?!? That man is Adonis come to life. He NEEDS to be seen in more movies. (Bill, if you read this, Richard can’t compare to you. No, I’m not lying to make you feel better. Hannah, stop laughing.)

Hannah’s two newest addictions, romance novels and Richard Armitage, have influenced her plans for the future. My sister, Kristen, and I became the entertained confidants of Hannah’s discoveries during Spring Break. Hannah intends to finish high school, graduate from college, and move to England, home of perfect men, especially Richard. Once in England, she’ll find her ideal man, preferably one with a title, maybe even a duke, but he must have money and that certain charisma. (Now, where have we heard this plan before? How many of us are guilty of this fantasy? *g* ) Hannah decided that she would be able to obtain her goal of her ideal man, or should I say, “hero,” by her special something that sets her apart from most of the female population over the age of 12. Hannah proclaimed to my sister, Kristen, and me that she is special because she is a virgin. The virgin gets her hero in the end of the novel, and if it is good enough for the heroine, then damnit, it’s good enough for her, or so she believes. Now keep in mind, my sister, Kristen, and I are all roaring with laughter at this point of the conversation, but it gets better. Hannah decides that she should create a symbol for special status. Superman has the “S” on his chest; Hannah has the “V.” No, she doesn’t wear a “V” on her chest. Instead, she makes the sign of the “V” with her two index fingers. (Thank you, Jennifer, for helping me with explaining this sign!) Put your hands and fingers together like you were going to do the church, people, and steeple thing-a-ma-jig. When you do the steeple with your index fingers, don’t connect your index fingers at the tips but spread them apart, forming a “V.” This is Hannah’s “virgin symbol.” Ingenious, huh? Yeah, specialness goes hand in hand with ingenious. Now, every time Hannah says the word virgin, she does the “V” sign. Sometimes she doesn’t even say “virgin,” she just does the “V” sign. I wonder if she thinks if that sign will lead her English duke to her in England. Hmmm...makes me think of searching for water in the desert with a stick. Can’t you imagine the headlines in the British newspapers, “Crazy American Voodoo Woman Stalks Actor Richard Armitage With Her “V-ed” Fingers.” I would be a proud mother. My baby would be famous.

I know that Hannah was entertaining us to ease my sister’s mind. Her youngest was going in for an exploratory surgery the following morning. I’m happy to report that my nephew Ryan is doing well now, but he did scare us for a few days.

My daughter is a natural comedian. She’s inherited the comical gene that runs rampant in my family. I’m finding her antics funny. Also, I’m her mother. I want her to remain focused on school and college. (Forget the boys now, Hannah. You have a level head on you shoulders. You’re smart enough to succeed with your dreams.) She plans on seeing the world, and she refuses to jeopardize her dreams with falling for some guy in a small town who drives a muddy pick-up, swaggers in a pair of cowboy boots, thinks camouflage is not only a must for any wardrobe but a decorating phenomena, too, and lacks a British accent. Whoever says that a girl looks for her daddy in her future husband is not always right. However, I’m old enough to know that dreams can always be sidetracked or changed. Love you, Pooh Bear.

What about you? How was your Spring Break? How were the holidays? Does Hannah remind you of yourself when you began reading romance? Last but not least, any advice or well wishes for Hannah?

Monday, March 10, 2008

What's In A Bed?

Would that which we sleep in by any other name feel just as comfortable? No! Besides thinking that I’ve borrowed and played havoc with Shakespeare’s words, have you ever thought about the word “bed” and the images and feelings that spring to mind by thinking of your bed? When I think of my bed, soft, smooth sheets and cuddling comfort come to mind. One of my favorite things in life is to slide my freshly shaven legs against cool, soft, clean sheets when I climb into my bed. I know. I’m not hard to please. But would the feeling be the same if my bed was not cuddly soft, but hard and lumpy? Hell no, and I’m learning this lesson in life the difficult way.

About a week and a half ago, I was convinced that I needed a bigger bed, a king size to be specific. Bill and I had a queen size bed, and it just wasn’t enough space for the occupants. Besides me and Bill in the bed, Cleo, a.k.a. Cujo, our seven pound poodle, sleeps with us. It’s amazing how much room a little dog can take up in a bed. Not only does Cleo sleep with us, but Colin, our four-year-old son, awakens at odd hours during the night, which results with him claiming a spot in our bed for the rest of the night. Bill and I are not small people; so, you can imagine our sleepless nights with so many bodies in a queen size bed. My mother had an extra set of king size mattresses, and when she offered them to us, I gladly accepted them, not knowing the misery that was in my future.

In order to understand my misery, you need to understand the devastating impact that erupted in my life at the loss of my queen size bed. I LOVED my queen size bed. I WORSHIPED my queen size bed. The mattresses are superb. I’ve never felt any better. Bill and I purchased the set of queen size mattresses in 2001, paying $1,000.00 for the set, and they were well worth their price. I remember that when we were in the mattress store, we laid on every display in the store to pick the perfect mattresses, and we did for us. We picked a one sided, pillow-top mattress set that never had to be flipped, and the set came with a twenty year warranty. Perfection at its best. Nothing could be better, except that I made a mistake with the purchase. We had a queen size bedroom suite, and we bought mattresses to fit. At this point in our lives, we were newly married, and Cleo and Colin had not come on the scene. Now, seven years later, after four years of four bodies in my bed, Bill had convinced me that we needed a bigger bed. So, a week and a half ago, we moved my queen size bed up to Hannah’s room and replaced it with the king size, double-sided pillow top mattresses that my mother gave us. Double-sided meaning that the top mattress must be flipped. No perfection there.

Due to having three collapsed discs because of Degenerative Disk Disease, I have a bad back, and I have to be careful about my bed. The wrong mattresses can throw out my back. Also, I associate my bed as a safe haven for my back. I keep a heating pad plugged in beside my bed at all times. When the pain becomes unbearable in my back, I cuddle into my bed with the heating pad underneath me. This “therapy” has allowed me to avoid taking pain killers on a daily basis and has aided me in my passion for reading.

After Bill completed setting up the king size mattresses, minus rails because the ones that we had did not fit, I laid on the double-sided, pillow top mattress for fifteen minutes before I jumped up and logged on to the Internet to order a 4 inch memory foam bed topper by Serta that comes with a three year warranty and two free memory foam pillows. I also tossed in a set of 400 count Egyptian cotton king size sheets to round out my purchase. The only king size sheets that I had are the ones that my mother gave to me with the mattresses. Old knotty sheets, lacking any kind of smoothness. Hey, they were free, and it was thoughtful to an extent. I can’t blame her. I wouldn’t give away good sheets either, but that doesn’t make me like the knots any better. Why shave for sheets covered in knotty balls?!?

I did sleep on the uncomfortable, non-warranty, double-sided pillow top, flipping mattress and knotty sheets that first night. Should I call it sleep? I was awake practically all night because of that demonic sleeping structure. I missed my queen size sanctuary with a passion. Before I left for work the following morning, I met a smiling Hannah in the kitchen. When I asked her how she had slept the previous night, she lit up. Seriously, she glowed and praised her new bed. Her pleasure failed in putting me in a good mood. I wasn’t happy for her, far from it. Fate was laughing at me, rubbing my dissatisfaction in my face, reminding me that she had gifted me with the PERFECT bed, and I show my gratitude by giving it away for an inferior king size pallet.

Fate’s laughter did not end with my perky daughter’s laudable glow. Fate continued with her ridicule of my stupidity by slipping little jibes into my reading material. You may think that I’m crazy, but I’m not. There I was, stretched out on the king size with my heating pad on medium, reading “The Accidental Vampire” by Lynsay Sands, and biding my time for the arrival of what I hoped to be my salvation in the form of a 4 inch memory foam mattress topper, when the heroine races to the mattress store after discovering that she does not have to sleep in the coffin anymore. I connected with the heroine. I understood her frustration, and I cheered her on, all the way to the mattress store. When she opted to try every display, I thought, “Yeah! That’s the way to do it. Try them all.” But when the heroine wound up purchasing, and I kid you not, the one-sided pillow-top, no need to flip, twenty year warranty mattress set, my feelings changed for her dilemma. My mouth fell open, and I thought, “What the Hell?!? The bitch just bought MY mattresses." What hurt the most was that the heroine was smart enough to buy a king size set. What a blow. Fate is cruel.

I now have rails under the mattresses. They are no longer sitting on the floor. Since last Thursday night, I’ve been sleeping on the Serta 4 inch memory foam. I’m still not accustomed to the feel of the foam, but it feels better than the double-sided, pillow top mattress. This morning UPS delivered my Egyptian cotton sheets. They’re washed and on the bed. I’ve shaved my legs, and I’m hoping for the best.

Peaceful dreams to all.

Sunday, March 2, 2008

Tragic Ending

I am no longer employed at The Boondocks, not because I was fired, but because I am a sane person, who knows not to tempt fate. Bill is no longer an employee, too. Self-preservation is more important than making needed extra money. I hate that it ended the way that it did. A few weeks ago, I joked on the Eloisa/Julia bulletin board that the port-o-potties looked like a crime scene after my brother had wrapped the area in yellow caution tape. I had no idea that my joke was to foreshadow a future tragedy.

This past Friday night as I sat home with the kids, Bill reported for duty as the ID checker for The Boondocks. Up until 12:30 a.m., it had been a typical night at The Boondocks, with the occasional "Convicted Sex Offender" stamped across the random driver's license. The music was loud, liquor was flowing, and skank ho's were in an abundance on the dance floor. Then, all hell broke loose.

While standing between the entrance doors checking driver licenses, Bill heard a gunshot above all the other noise. Within seconds, two women ran through an entrance, screaming that gunshots had been fired in the parking lot. Boo, one of the bartenders and son of the owner, jumped over the bar and ran outside, as Bill flashed his flashlight to notify security of the problem. When security arrived on the scene, they found an African-American just a few feet from the entrance, lying on the ground dying from a gunshot wound to the head. As my brother knelt to check for a pulse, blood poured from the guy's mouth. Poor guy didn't have a chance. He died right there, lying on hard gravel and music blaring from inside the building.

The shooter had left the scene, but Boo had been able to see the tag number on the vehicle leaving the parking lot. Bill called 911, and an ambulance and the police were on the scene before long. Of course, the bar shutdown, but it took some time before everyone could be evacuated. The police were able to arrest two of the shooter's accomplices in the shooting. In fact, the two were apprehended at the Tupelo hospital because the shooter had accidently shot one of his friends in the leg when he was shooting at the other guy. The killer has not been arrested.

Bill is still somewhat shocked by the experience. I think that the image of the dead guy haunts him. Bill placed the chairs from the bar around his body to be roped off with yellow caution tape. I'm thankful that none of the shots entered the building. With the shooting taking place so close to the entrance, Bill could have easily been hit by a stray bullet. It scares me now just thinking about it.

All the men involved in the shooting, including the victim, had been in the bar a few minutes before the shooting. The victim's girlfriend said that her boyfriend and the other guys had argued the weekend before, and their argument had continued at the bar. They ran into each other at the bar and had gone outside to finish it. At least they took it outside. I can't help but wonder if the killer had been carrying the gun inside the bar. *shudder*

My heart goes out to the families and friends who have been affected by this senseless act of violence. I pray that they find peace.

So, after the events of Friday night, Bill walked up to my brother and told him, "You know that Misty won't let me come back." Stephen replied, "You don't need to come back. You have a family." Then, they discussed that there was no way that I would be allowed back, too. Like I couldn't make that rational decision on my own! Isn't it just like men to start laying down the laws for us mere females? I know that they are trying to protect me, but they need protecting, too. I did tell Bill that I didn't want him going back. I can't do anything about my brother being there. He needs a wife to control him. I worry about him.

This will not be the end of The Boondocks in my posts. I still have a few funny stories of patrons to relate from previous weekends. Sorry about not posting last Sunday. My kids and I were sick over the weekend. Long story there. I won't bore you with it.

Hope everyone's Sunday is relaxing and enjoyable. I think today is a good day to finally watch my birthday gift from my kids, the dvd of "Becoming Jane." (If I can talk the four-year-old into watching his movies on the TV in his room rather than his controlling the TV in the den!) I want something to smile about. I need something to smile about.