What part of "child beauty pageant" sounds like a good idea?

A wee bit ago I was watching TV waiting for my mum to come home and a program called Toddlers & Tiaras came on TLC. My mother arrived shortly after the show began, and we both stood there, jaws agape, for about thirty minutes or so before Mom cracked and said, "Change the fucking channel, please."

If you can't guess, this is a show about child beauty pageants, an institution that is probably responsible for a significant percentage of women walking around today that get on my last goddamned nerve.

This is a subject that I could go on and on and on for hours about, but I'll try to sum up my points and not use too much profanity (but just go ahead and come to terms with the fact that there will be a lot of it).

POINT ONE: Every mother I've ever seen involved in child beauty pageants is clearly BATSHIT

This isn't about me at all, it's all about her having fun and knowing I'm- I mean, she's a WINNER. And PRETTY. TELL ME I'M PRETTY.

You know what's a great idea? Investing thousands of dollars and hours of your time into a competition for children, and not only that, but a competition that is reliant on how cute other people find your kid.

I'm sorry, I couldn't stop laughing for about a full minute.

That's right, ladies, pin all your hopes and dreams on your snotty, high-pitched, tantrum-prone, ADD-ridden child and ride their coattails all the way to one of those competitions three counties over where the dinner buffet is free and you can take home a rhinestone crown and bouquet of flowers that cost a tenth of what you spent on gas to get there.

In the particular episode I watched, a woman stated that the only reason she had a daughter (after having three sons) was to enter her in pageants so she could become Miss America (the daughter, not the mom, just to clarify). Her daughter was fifteen months old at the time of taping, and had already learned how to send the pedophiles into a masturbatory frenzy by blowing kisses and "backin' that thang up." That baby totally is not going to grow up to be known as Cindy Swallows.

POINT TWO: Creepers abound



Child beauty pageants are catnip to pedophiles. Little girls made up to look like miniature (terrifying) adults, prancing around in little costumes and bikinis, blowing kisses and acting as coquettish as these little Lolitas can.

"Hey soldiah boy!"

Because we need more reasons for pedo's to think, "She's totally asking for me to lure her with candy and puppies into my unmarked paneled van for inappropriate touchings."

Seriously, every low-level beauty pageant I've ever seen takes place in some hotel's conference hall and the only people in the audience are the kids' mothers, the judges (oddly effeminate men and pinched, sour-faced women) and a few suspiciously out-of-place gentlemen hanging out in the back.


"Mommy, are you sure Madonna is the best role model for me right now? She did go kinda nuts after getting into Kaballah and get creepy spider hands."


POINT THREE: Competition at this age is going to make that kid one neurotic bitch

One day she'll set fire to her boyfriend's jeep because he did not even NOTICE her new Prada shoes and clearly doesn't love her as much as he says he does.

This is pretty straightforward cause-and-effect: You enter a child into competitions that are solo performance-there aren't teammates to share the credit or disappointment-where their success or failure is squarely on their shoulders, they are directly competing with other children for praise and attention, the competition revolves around what girl is cuter and more talented than the other little girls, SERIOUSLY, what part of this doesn't end with an overly-competitive, self-critiquing, attention-whoring young woman with body image issues? And oh lord, the fake tanner...

You know what you end up with? Those skanks at the bar who's skin matches their hair color, laugh waaaaay too loud, and won't stop talking about what bitches their roommates are because they KEEP EATING MY LOW-CAL NONFAT YOGURT EVEN THOUGH IT CLEARLY SAYS "TONYA" ON THE CONTAINER.

POINT FOUR: Can we talk about how hard my palm hits my forehead at the thought of "beauty" pageants?

"I will cut a bitch if you don't give me that goddamned tiara."

Society has an unhealthy obsession with beauty, straight up. The average person is more concerned with which beautiful celebrity is sleeping with another beautiful celebrity (who are famous largely because they're beautiful; how often do you see Steve Buscemi on E! news?) than they are about economic policy or social strife in other countries. To an extent it's understandable: wouldn't you rather take your mind off of you own crappy life with beautiful people and gossip that has no real consequence for yourself than all the hateful crap in the world that does matter? 'Course you would.

But. Why was Susan Boyle, who has more singing talent than Britney Spears has in her entire rat-infested weave, such an overnight success? Because no one expected the frumpy fat lady to be able to do anything remotely impressive.

In America, beauty pageants were originally used as an attraction for local grand openings or celebrations. The swimsuit competitions were particularly useful to kick off the beach season. But like many things, it evolved to something much grander and has become, somehow, a major money-making venture. Coerced by potential monetary compensation and prestige, beauty pageants have become tanned, bleached, waxed, liposucked, rhinoplastied, and implanted in places I don't want to think about to give the contestants an edge over the competition. If you think that kind of masonry is restricted to older pageants, GUESS AGAIN. Like bulimia and anorexia in modeling, the dirty secrets in child beauty pageants involve plastic and dental surgery, dieting, and bizarre makeup and body enhancing tricks that would probably make you cringe. For CHILDREN.

"Mommy, that's my fucking EYEBALL."

And that's just plain cheating.


To conclude...

When I was little, my mother worked in a flower shop populated with your typical local southern ladies wearing the kind of makeup that Tammy Faye Baker would have been proud of. One day, watching one of the women applying MORE mascara and electric blue eyeshadow, she sighed, turned to me and said, "Honey, don't ever start wearing makeup. One day you'll wake up and realize you can't look at yourself in the mirror without it."

Besides the fact that these girls are being sentenced to two hours a day on their makeup and hair for the rest of their life, they really ought to start saving all the money they'd be spending on brazilian waxes, teeth whitening, and a billion bottles of mascara (because GODDAMMIT this one is dried out already!) on some kind of nest egg. 'Cause once all that pageant money dries up and they fail to make it to Miss America, they're going to have to have something to fall back on until they can sucker a millionaire into marrying them...oh wait...maybe they should invest ALL their money into makeup and liposuction.

"LOVE ME!"

ps. Sorry this took so long, I spent three days writing this, then realized it was kind of crap, and had to rewrite it. Ah, the life I lead.

In which I'm honest.

Hey guys. I was deeply shamed when I realized I haven't touched this site in almost a year. If I wasn't so nervous about sharp objects, I'd commit seppuku to atone for my terrible behavior.

I can hide behind excuses: Work took over my life, and I just didn't have the energy to write. I moved back home, which consisted of some of the worst days of my life, emotionally and physically. (Seriously, how in the hell did I manage to amass so much SHIT?) My car died a flamboyant death, and I was without transportation for two months. My parents do not have internet in the house. Let me repeat that: MY PARENTS DO NOT HAVE INTERNET.

But let's all be honest. I chose not to write because I don't think I'm that good. If I avoid writing, then I won't have to confront how potentially uninteresting/overly earnest/annoying/whatever it is. Writing is, in theory, supposed to be my future profession, but here I am, 26 years old, still serving food to people better off than myself and making total chump change. Writing is a niggling reminder of all my failed ambitions and dreams, and it represents a dark voice deep inside that says, "You will never be as good as so-and-so, you will forever be mediocre at everything you do." If I think I'm good at something, there is always someone that comes along that puts what I do to shame, and it's kind of hard to keep going when that's how you think about yourself.

BUT.

Last year was pretty much total crap. I wasted a lot of time and effort for a selfish skinflint employer, put myself in all kinds of bad situations that led to me being not-so-affectionally known as the alcoholic, destroyed anything expensive I owned, and moved back to a place where I had almost no friends and few outlets to contact the ones I did have, when they weren't sick of listening to my whining about how hard and boring everything was. And to put the cherry on the shit sundae, every holiday was a painful reminder that I was still single and hanging out with my parents watching yet another Bridezilla marathon would be the highlight of my evenings.

BUT.

This, my friends, is a new year, goddammit. I have transportation. I have a few friends. I'm essentially unemployed again, but this time I'm going to be getting some cash from the government, which, fingers crossed, will enable me to find a proper job. Maybe one that I'll like this time.

And, more importantly, I don't have any excuses not to update this thing on a bit of a regular schedule.

So. If anyone is still reading, or even if no one is, I'm going to start writing again. I might bring in some personal things, some anecdotes, maybe let you in on the wild and crazy goings-on in Asheville. We'll see.

For the time being, I just want to send out a heart-felt thank you to anyone who has ever told me they enjoy my writing. A lot of times I feel like no one does, but your reassurances that something that I do is worthwhile makes me want to soldier on, no matter how black the night or deep the sand I'm trudging through gets.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

My new favorite show, with a surprisingly feminist bint!

Oh man guys! I got a promotion and have pretty much lost the will to live! And the will to update this thing on a regular basis! Woo! Seriously, I have very little free time anymore, and when I do, I just want to lie comatose on the couch watching my new super-favorite show, which is the topic of today's post.

Bones!!!

Really, who would have thought that Fox would keep a great show on the air for more than a season? Sure as heck not me. Their track record for canceling shows well before their time speaks for itself, as well as their penchant for letting shows go on way too long, because they make lots of money (cough cough, X-Files, cough). Thankfully, that is not the case with Bones, which is currently in the middle of its fifth season. This show is pretty awesome, you guys, and the nerd in me is so happy to have taken the time to watch a few episodes and get hooked.

Premise: Special Agent Seeley Booth (the ever smolderingly and hysteric-inducing David Boreanaz) with the FBI partners up with premier forensic anthropologist Dr. Temperence Brennen (Emily Deschanel, sister of Zooey, and probably the better actress - I'm sorry, but did you see "Tin Man"? EW) of the Jeffersonian Institute to solve homicides where the remains are degraded beyond recognition. That means usually a skeleton, possibly with some chunks of wormy meat hanging off of it. And they aren't shy about the gooey, goopy, buggy, rotting stuff. It's all there for you to see, in its drippy and totally gross glory. And rats. They have rats. Squee!

Let me do a rundown of why this show kicks most other shows' asses.

1.) Nerd Science! Granted, a lot of the tests done are a.) very expensive, b.) would probably take longer than shown, and c.) require brains more brilliant than usually found, ergo, the tests you see on the show are less likely to actually be used in most homicide cases. A scene from one episode illustrates the point: Doctor Saroyan (Cam) has just taken over as head of the department, and Booth asks why she took the job. She picks up a shiny, steel pair of bone cutters and says, "This probably costs $2,000. Back at the coroners, I used a pair of bolt cutters."

So yes, fancy, high dollar science, and for the record, the hologram cube is pretty out there. But! The forensic anthropologist who's books and life inspired the show is a consultant on the show, and she says she tries to keep the science "honest." I can dig that. You have to admit that it's way more believable and probably accurate than CSI, where they get crystal clear images from grainy parking garage footage reflected in an oil spill at an angle. And you know what? It's really nice to watch a show where the language isn't dumbed down for the general populace, and I feel smarter after watching it. Unlike "Cougar Town," a guilty pleasure that will be the subject of a future post.

Plus, watching Hodgins get super-excited about bugs, minerals, and pollen is so adorable.


2.) David Boreanaz.



Look, I'm only human. You put Boreanaz in a suit with stripey rainbow socks, a "Cocky" belt buckle, and that grin, I'm really not going to be able to keep composure. This show really allows him to come into his own, moreso than Joss Whedon's dark and tormented Angel (whom we teenage girls and gay boys know and love to the ends of the Earth), and certainly much better than that piece of crap "horror" movie, Valentine (I wish I could find a screencap of that for you, it's SO BAD). His character is so manly and balls to the walls brave (there's a scene where he's being tortured and acts like it ain't no thang), but is uncomfortable with Dr. Brennan's blunt conversations about sex and private parts. ("You mean 'anus?'" "Why do you like that word so much?!") He acts as Brennan's interpreter to the outside world, as well as her censure when she starts to get too honest and frank, but despite her faults he takes care of her and is there when she needs a friend. And he gets all gushy around babies. What's not to like?

Fun fact: he's a co-producer with Emily Deschanel, and he's directed a few episodes. Brains and that body? Too good to be true.

3.) The Brennan/Booth dynamic. They are so much fun to watch; they compliment each other by being near complete opposites. Brennan is a scientist, detached and objective (usually), an atheist, with a know-it-all complex. Booth is gut and passion, a soldier, a man's man, and a Catholic. She challenges his machismo and gut intuitions, he reminds her to be human around other people. Their conversations are two classic arguments clashing: the rational, unemotional scientific reasoning and the status quo. They bicker and fight, but surprisingly, they tend to come to an understanding. A great example is during an investigation in a fetish hotel where guests participate in "pony play": individuals dress as horses or riders and pair up to have sex and play out the fantasy. Brennan challenges Booth's discomfort with the idea, saying that everyone plays a role and objectifies themselves to a certain degree when it comes to entertaining sexual partners, this is just how these particular people have chosen to express themselves. Booth explains that he doesn't understand why they go through all the effort of the charade for bad sex, it being bad sex because it isn't with people they have a strong emotional connection with, people they love, which is the best sex. Brennan accepts his reasoning, and they come to an understanding. This show is full of warm fuzzy moments!

There's a genuine affection, and not just between them, but between the entire team. Whether they're dating each other or not, they still care and protect one another. There are several damp eye moments, especially in "The Pain in the Heart" and "The Aliens in the Spaceship, and I get a wee bit giddy when Booth lovingly refers to the lab team as his "squints."

NERDS!
(From left to right: Back end of a cow, Cher, Wonder Woman, a squint, Catwoman, Captain of the Titanic)

4.) Feminism! With a capital "EFF." Brennan, nicknamed "Bones" because of her expertise in skeletons, is at the top of her field, a best-selling author, a black belt, a crack shot, and socially awkward. She's brilliant, and she kicks ass (occasionally, literally. It is really fun to watch someone attack her thinking she's a wet noodle and then getting their arm broken), but her faults lie in personal relationships and trying to navigate being an overly honest, critical scientist trying to stay objective and having feelings and emotional connections to her friends and family. There's a depth, and the character grows as the series goes along, learning how to be more of a visceral human than a "cold fish" scientist from her relationships with Booth and the forensic team.

And did I mention the two other ladies on the show are also great, strong female characters, as well as hotties?

Angela is a free spirit, loving and giving, but not against having sex in the storeroom or getting blackout drunk and married in Fiji. She's Brennan's best friend, the love of Hodgin's life, and the daughter of one of the bearded guys from ZZ Top.

Cam (Dr. Saroyan) is the politician, the head of the department, and after the initial clash of wills when she took over, Cam has proven to be tactful and supportive, as well as a brilliant cop and doctor. She's the boss, but she's also like a mom to the team, calling Dr. Addy "Zackaroni" because he eats mac and cheese every day for lunch, and rolling her eyes and sighing when Hodgins uses her personal blender to puree maggots to test for trace evidence. She loves her team and her work, which causes her personal life to suffer and complicates things with the daughter of a murdered ex she decides to take in (having no children of her own, and glad of it, jumping straight into parenting a teenager isn't a pretty sight), but all these faults and strengths make her, just as with the other female characters, well-rounded and personable. Did I mention she's really hot?

Ladies with stomachs of steel.

Oh man. I love this show. It's insanely addictive. Yes, I know, murders like these don't happen with the kind of frequency as the show portrays, but you know what? I don't give two craps, this show keeps me engaged and interested, and makes me laugh out loud at least once an episode. It's not even just the quirky, crazy murders, it's the character development, the story arcs, the banter, OH THE BANTER IT IS SO GOOD. Go forth, and rent from the Netflix. Enjoy.

Phalanges! Phalanges!

Ladies, Ladies, Ladies

Warning: Gratuitous use of "vagina," "crotch," "cootch," "hoo-ha," "lady bits," "nether regions," "labia," "muff," and "muff button" to follow.


It has recently come to my attention that a certain form of plastic surgery has come into vogue with ladies of all ages; known professionally as "labiaplasty," the surgery involves the reduction of the labia minora and/or majora. While there is a genuine need for this surgery where the lady bits are so elongated as to cause discomfort or a health risk, there is a significant percentage of these surgeries which are done for purely cosmetic purposes. Because women didn't have enough to obsess and nitpick over and be insecure about, now we have to look at our hoo-ha's and wonder if they are freakish alien symbiotes attached to our crotches.



This whole post stems from a program I watched on BBC America called "The Perfect Vagina" where a journalist interviews doctors, patients, women who have considered getting the surgery, therapists, artists, and insensitive jackholes who should never be touched by women. It was interesting to watch and raised several questions in my own mind, as well as my feminist righteous indignation (video of the program can be found below). According to the program, "vaginal cosmetic surgery on the NHS has doubled in the UK over the past five years and in the private sector there has been a 300% increase in labiaplastys, making it the fastest growing form of cosmetic surgery in the UK."

Visit documentary-log.com for free online documentaries!

But, as pointed out by writer Amy Clare (you should read this) for feminist UK blog, "The F-Word," the documentary failed to question the WHY women feel the need trim their cootch surgically to resemble a young girl's downstairs area.

The source is porn, obviously, where waxed nether regions and bleached naughty bits (and bottoms) are the norm. Women are substituted for right fists, never reaching orgasm themselves, but being slathered in semen because HIS orgasm is HER orgasm. A significant amount of porn is degrading, offensive, and one sided; I'm all for sexual liberation, but that isn't what this is. It's the patriarchal double standard moving from the bedroom to in front of the camera to satisfy a demand from a mostly male population.

My theory is that the movement from mostly natural-looking ladies of the seventies to the hairless skeletal bleached blondes with mangos for tits who look like they're fifteen is a warped and distorted reflection of the movement in mainstream media towards a sculpted, glossy, impossibly skinny, toned, and bronzed female standard of beauty that is almost always skimpily dressed in expensive designer clothes and jewelry. (That was a mouthful, my apologies!)





If you haven't been paying attention, you just have to look at fashion magazines and television; you can't find bathing suits that aren't bikinis unless you go to the "ladies over fifty" section of a clothing store, where the suits are of some of the worst and unflattering designs (clothing women over the age of fifty in huge, shapeless tents is another post entirely). Not to mention that bikinis are getting so skimpy that the function of them is very clearly to display "the goods," and that chick ain't gettin' nowhere near the water.



On TV, the lead female is never anything less than skinny, and if a female character is a little plumper or perhaps a little odd looking, she's the comic relief. We are so trained to view females on television by this standard that when someone does buck the status quo, even I, as good a lady feminist as I try to be, am taken aback, and I have to stop myself and readjust my thinking.

I may sound paranoid, but the emphasis on SEXY, rather than BEAUTIFUL is a trend that has been creeping up on us for some years now, and of course, women with their low self-esteem and desperate need to please are obsessed with becoming what they believe to be the standard of what is "beautiful," which is, in fact, the standard of "sexy." What a lot of women don't understand is that just because a guy thinks you're sexy and "do-able," DOESN'T MEAN THAT HE IS GOING TO LOVE YOU. The thought process that goes through a woman's mind is convoluted and utterly mistaken: "To get a man's love and affection, I have to get his attention. To get his attention, I have to be physically attractive. To be physically attractive, I have to adhere to this unattainable and horribly uncomfortable and expensive and superficial standard of what I've been told is attractive, and wear as few clothes as possible while I'm doing it."

To get back to the original point, because women think that every gotdanged bit of them has to be physically attractive in order to make dudes want to be with them, they're chopping off bits of themselves (bits that guys really shouldn't be looking at for long periods of time anyway, those bits are for using, not looking).

It is especially perplexing considering how absolutely bizarre and ridiculous a dude's member looks, flacid or erect. If they get to have a protrusion that varies in size, shape, color, and direction of the bend, why are women driving themselves nuts over a few folds of skin that are almost never out in public?

I'm not sure I have an answer; females today are more open about their sexuality, especially with other females, so the subject of what their vaginas look like wouldn't seem like it's that taboo, but perhaps it is? We can compare boobs 'till the cows come home, but because those nether regions do gross and gooey stuff, we still don't feel comfortable discussing them.

I think, at the very least, women need to understand that:

1.) Vaginas are always going to look a little weird. They're in a crushed and crumpled area of moist darkness, and they are primarily FUNCTION not FORM. So you need to get used to the idea that those porn stars? That's not reality, that's a lot of unhealthy crotch tampering that isn't natural. And really, when you think about it, why do you want your guy having sex with a fifteen year old's vagina? THAT'S GROSS AND WEIRD.

2.) Most dudes aren't going to give two craps what your junk looks like as long as they get to put their willy in it. If a guy does, then guess what? He's an insensitive asshole who doesn't operate in reality, and you'll save yourself a lot of trouble down the road if you kick him in the balls and toss his shit into the street.

3.) Respect that va-jay-jay. That thing is freaking amazing, the things it can do. All those kickass sensations that make you go, "oooh," a complex ecosystem of pH levels to facilitate the birth of the best offspring possible, constricting, expanding, have you ever seen a baby being born? IT IS A HERCULEAN FEAT. I know we get ticked off at it because it might smell funny after a few days of not showering, and it bleeds sometimes, but you know what? We have soft poofs of hair, while dudes have an elephant trunk sagging off their front and they often sit on their balls. I think we can call that a win, don't you?


Jamie McCartney's "Great Wall of Vagina"

And now, for something completely different....

He's awesome, but he needs a proper haircut.






I wish I could art that hard for that long.




Still trying to muster the strength to review the third Twilight book, but am hindered by the insatiable need to do nothing.

New Moon

So, if you haven't completely disowned me, and are curious to hear further reports from enemy territory, I have collected my thoughts on Stephenie Meyer's second novel in the Twilight series, New Moon.

As the intensely intense love story of Edward and Bella continues, certain patterns start to emerge that on the surface seem innocuous, but the more I think about them, the more I'm sort of disturbed by how this coupling is portrayed.

At the beginning of the book, the Cullens throw a birthday bash for 18 year old Bella, who has suddenly become obsessed with aging the way I did when I turned 25 and realized a quarter of my life had gone by without me noticing. However, in my experience, most 18 year olds aren't so aware of their aging since they've only just gotten their license, the right to vote, and can buy cigarettes, but not alcohol, and they have all that lovely disposable income from not paying bills or mortgages or buying their own food. But Bella is super cranky about turning 18 because perfect Edward is forever 17, and God help us should she age a few years and look slightly older than Ed for the rest of their love story. Because women aren't obsessed with aging as it is, and now we have a weird fantasy metaphor reiterating how men aging is more accepted and lauded than women ('cause we all get saggy and crusty with liver spots all over everything, WE ARE REALLY JUST ALL HIDEOUS CRONES-IN-TRAINING). So Bella's neurotic anxiety attacks about aging is more than a little irritating.

ANYWHOO, so she's grumpy about getting old, and is one of those people who hates people celebrating their birthday (and those people piss me off, chill out, it's just a great excuse to get our party on, DON'T TAKE THAT AWAY FROM US, PARTY POOPER), but she begrudgingly allows the Cullens to throw a little get-together, and she cuts herself on the wrapping paper of a gift (Seriously? The wrapping paper?) and the scent of the blood sends the younger vampires into a tizzy, and perfect Edward's solution to get Bella out of harm's way is to throw her into a mirror on the other side of the room, sending a shower of broken glass and splintered furniture all over her fragile person. CONGRATS ED, YOU JUST WON THE BRILLIANT STRATEGY AWARD OF THE DAY. At any rate, the party is ruined and Ed uses this little mishap as an excuse to run from this relationship. Just like a guy to think up any excuse to avoid commitment.

At this point, I had a few questions. Granted, vampires have a super keen sense of smell as predators, and Meyer established the feeding frenzy mentality when they get their chompers into you, but how does one "blend in with society" if a PAPERCUT causes them to go berserk and launch themselves towards the potential food source, fangs bared and eyes rolled back in their heads like great white sharks? Walking around a high school, or just through this mountain town (which is probably a logger mecha), how does one avoid every person with a scratch or cut? You can't. This plot device is dumb.

Furthermore, as a matured female that produces eggs and goes through the life cycle, how does our darling Bella handle being without Eddie for five days while she rides the crimson wave? I don't care what kind of contraptions you use during that time of the month, if you aren't supposed to be near a lion while menstruating, you sure as hell shouldn't be within fifty miles of a vampire.

Speaking of being without Eddie, you may or may not know that this is the novel where Edward wrenches himself from Bella's cloying grasp, taking his whole family with him, Bella's only other support system. According to him, it's to "protect" Bella, to keep her safe from any more incidents like her birthday party, because she is just a fragile, breakable human, and he refuses to turn her into a vampire for his own internally righteous reasons.

"Sorry babe, gotta go, you've got a few too many crow's feet for my liking."

It's titled New Moon to describe the darkest period of Bella's life, life without Edward. Prior to his well-timed departure, Bella insists that Edward spend every evening next to her while she sleeps. One could read a lot into this, and I'm more than a little uncomfortable with her physical dependency on him, not dissimilar to a drug habit, and the way he cradles her like a child ALL THE TIME. This point is really driven home in a scene (though I can't remember which book this takes places in) where she's mad at him for all of fifteen seconds, then backs down and leaves the window open, inviting him into her bed. I hate that she had every reason to be pissed at him, but there is nothing she can do to punish him for being stupid like you do with normal dudes, both because she doesn't have much to threaten him with and because she can't hold her ground against him for any significant length of time. Who taught her how to be a woman? When your dude is being a pain in the ass, you stay mad at him for a few days, not telling him why you're pissed, until he figures it out for himself and apologizes proper-like. She is full of fail. It really illustrates one of the more disturbing aspects of their relationship, the one where it trips down the very fine line between THE MOST INTENSE LOVE EVER and AN UNHEALTHY DRUG ADDICTION.

So you can imagine the kind of withdrawal she goes through when Edward takes off.

Now, if you see the movie, you will probably hate Bella with all your soul for being so psycho about Ed leaving. The revolving shot with Bella staring out the window as the seasons change is especially ridiculous. The book is a bit more subtle, and though she goes through catatonic depression for two weeks, Bella makes an effort to maintain the illusion of normalcy so Charlie doesn't worry too much about her. She doesn't do it very well, but give her a sticker for trying. However, the screaming nightmares (and I'm talking about the kinds that shake the windows) are pulled directly out of the book. I maintain that sympathies should lie with Charlie, not Bella, especially since the nightmare isn't particularly scary, AT ALL. The whole situation is overdone, yet nauseatingly familiar, since I once was a teenage girl. I suppose Meyer's point is that Bella doesn't get over Edward's absence like any normal girl because he is her one true love (gag). Personally, I don't believe in one true love; which is why I suppose I find the whole thing a tad ridiculous. Especially since Meyer brings Jacob Black into the mix, the poor, puppy-love ridden hot Indian, someone with whom Bella finds comfort and distraction from her broken heart.

Who's the saddest not-a-werewolf?

When you get dumped and you are naturally super sad about it, and outside of enough time to forget how bad it hurt, the best remedy is a new love interest. And precocious, adorably shirtless Jacob fits the bill to a "T." But you know what Bella does? She breaks out the old, "I love you, but I'm not IN love with you." Because she's still hung up on Edward, Mr. I Know What's Best For You, Always. GAHHHHHH. The second Edward is back in the picture, she breaks that hot Indian's heart after using him like a sexy elixir to make herself feel better. She even tells Jacob that given the choice, she will ALWAYS choose Edward over him.

OUCH.

So, Edward abandons Bella for her own safety, which in fact puts her directly in danger, from both herself, getting into dangerous situations so she can have all those indignant arguments with phantom Edward that she'd never have with the real thing, and vengeful psycho vampire Victoria, who has decided to hit Edward where it hurts for killing her mate James in the first book by torturing and murdering HIS mate, i.e. Bella. Again, Edward, first place trophy for you. Thankfully, the hot and totally ripped not-a-werewolf Indians are on top of things during the Cullens' absence.

Energetic after-school program or sexy not-a-werewolf cult?

Now, we come to an interesting crossroads. Edward and Jacob are polar opposites, cold and hot, calmly composed and heatedly passionate, icy white and warm mocha brown. Edward is, allegedly, completely selfless, putting Bella's safety and well-being above his own happiness. Jacob, though sweet and loyal, has no compunction about throwing a hissy fit and laying down the guilt trip, even lying to manipulate Bella into getting his way. But realistically, Jacob offers the better choice: One doesn't have to abandon their entire family to protect their now-undead life status or watch friends and loved ones die as they live forever. You would be free to live life in near normalcy, compared to the lengths vampires have to take to keep themselves hidden.

BUT. Both are overprotective of Bella and are convinced that they know what's best for her. Both tread through the dangerous territory of romanticized domestic abusers:
Edward is a little more controlling than your average insecure dude. He makes major decisions without asking for Bella's input, he keeps tabs on her movements and who she spends her time with, he tries to tell her who she can and can't hang out with, he thinks he knows what's best for her, and to be with him she has to give up contact with her family.
Jacob is an emotional manipulator, he could lose his temper and maul someone at any time, he will lie to get what he wants, and he doesn't feel bad about hurting people he doesn't like.
Meyer tries to justify their behavior through their supernatural status and the fact that Bella is pretty much under constant threat of death and dismemberment, but because she sets up both males as the ideal for masculinity, these aspects of their personalities are a bit disturbing. This may be something you need to read for yourself and see what you think.



So at the end of New Moon, Bella saves Edward's life and she immediately forgives him for all the bullshit he's put her through because he's so wracked with guilt and despair without her that he was going to commit suicide. HOW SWEET. And yes, the Romeo and Juliet allusions are there, and guess what? Romeo and Juliet were morons. They made SEVERAL bad decisions. Guess who else keeps making bad decisions?

On the positive, this book isn't all that bad, and we get to see some intense Indians do some damage. But the ride ain't over. And neither is the crazy drama. Not only is Victoria still out there, circling her prey, but now the vampire police (Volturi) are on the Cullens' asses about having a human gal pal. Whoo! Who's got some conflict all up ins?

THESE GUYS.

Twilight, dangit.

Twilight. It was a word that used to bring a sense of atmosphere, a witching hour, full of mystery and husky colors. But now, it has another meaning. A series of books written by the Mormon version of Anne Rice have arrested all use of the word and have somehow made teenage girls even more detestable. However, before I launch into yet another tirade, I’m going to put my money where my mouth is. It’s time for me to suppress my gag reflex and read the novels for myself.

That’s right, I’m taking one for the home team.

From here on out, I will be critiquing Stephenie Meyer’s teen vampire, disturbingly obsessive, love story (I may have to take a few breaks and read the dictionary to stop the screaming in my head).

Let the games begin.



Wow. Okay. Now, I’ll say this: it’s not as bad as I was anticipating. But I have to qualify that by saying, I was expecting a horrid pile of shit. No, specifically, I was expecting the scribblings of a thirteen year old. What I got was the wet dream of a seventeen year old.

Hang on, I need to pause for pie. PUMPKIN PIE.

Delicious.
So, as I was saying, this is essentially a trashy romance novel for teens (despite the thirty to forty year old women I see walking around wearing Twilight t-shirts. UGH.) The writing isn’t terrifically refined, nor particularly inventive. BUT, as holders of the double-X chromosomes, ROMANCE tends to be a bigger magnet than you would think. Boys, being romantic, as only a woman could think up, hits us right in the ovaries, nearly every time. You really have to do some serious uteran crunches to build up a tolerance/immunity to sappy/predictable romance. I’ll admit that I own both Bridgit Jones’ Diary films, and that I have watched 2 Weeks Notice. Don’t judge me. Cary Grant is our kryptonite and Richard Gere makes us tingle in special places. But I’m off-topic; the fact is, romance outsells most other genres, and when you throw vampires in the mix, sexy, sexy vampires, you’ve got a bestseller.

Vampires are the quintessential bad boys; they’re dangerous and brooding, and they feel every emotion to the furthest degree of feeling. They have their own place with French furniture, fast cars or bikes, rock the metrosexual look, and will occasionally flip out and yell, but then feel really bad about it later. But they can’t allow themselves to LOVE because they’re monsters without souls and they’re going to live forever, blah blah blah, and so they’re miserable, but BY GOD, all the ladies are wetting their pants for a crack at one of those fixer-uppers. Because every chick thinks that she will be the one to show the bad boy how to love and turn his life around and be taken along for the sexy vampire ride.

So it just figures that every ten years a series of vampire novels comes around and chicks flip their shit, but this…this is on the far side of ridiculous.

To be fair, let me say this: the movies are not the books. The movies, and please believe me when I say this, really distort and discolor the characters and the tone of the books. Kristen Stewart needs a slap in the mouth and a steak. Robert Pattinson needs a little less product in his hair and needs to remember that his dog didn't just die.

The characters in the film are pretty much awful in comparison to the ones in the book. Bella actually closes her mouth and doesn’t act like a half-dead fish; bland, frigid, and extremely unlikeable. The Bella in the book has a bit of a sense of humor, and can usually dole out as much as she takes, verbally, when she isn’t distracted by how pretty Edward is. She takes care of her dad and is a little more grounded than most teenage girls, though occasionally just as dumb (we can only ask for so much).

I remember watching the movie and being struck by how selfish and unthinking Bella was; she allows her hormones to supersede anything else, and whatever gets in the way of that causes her to go completely mental. The whole time I was thinking, “God I wish her dad would just ship her ass off to an all-girls Catholic school.” But the other Bella is a bit more sympathetic and puts a lot of effort into taking care of Charlie (the dad); she spends the second half of the book frantic about his and her mother’s safety after Bella is targeted as particularly enticing prey by expert hunter and vampire James. And what I appreciated most was that she was entirely aware of how unreasonable and insane the whole mess is. She knows that falling that hard in love with someone, a vampire, no less, this early in life is completely bonkers (which it is). But when you’ve got the romantic equivalent to heroin, what are you going to do?

Edward also has a pretty sharp sense of humor to match his fangs, and can express caring and sympathy, rather than just look like he ate something unpleasant or got kicked in the junk. And guess what? They both SMILE and LAUGH every once in a while, and most of the dramatic stuff they do isn’t nearly as lame and core shuddering as the movie makes it out to be (though the dazzling sparkle-reveal is still a little bit silly).

Meyer hits on a few real, painfully familiar adolescent traits, which I will begrudgingly give her credit for. Bella’s anger and frustration causing her to cry without being able to stop no matter how much she tries to control her emotions is something that I can identify with (I cry during children’s movies, I just can’t help it). Teenagers being petty and jealous and awkward as fuck is pretty par for any high school, and becoming disillusioned with adults and feeling the need to take care of them is part of growing up. And, God help us, we all remember that guy that made us insane with desire, to the point of performing some desperate stalking. And if you don’t, you’re probably suppressing some serious criminal activity.

She also, somehow, don't ask me how, works in some Adam and Eve symbolism. How did she do that? And not poorly? DAMMIT.

HOWEVER.

Meyer has the terrible habit of recycling her adjectives, repeating the same descriptions in a girly whisper of awe. If you took all the descriptions of Edward’s ice cold beauty and immaculate perfection and put it in one place, it sounds like the ravings of Dustin Hoffman’s character in Rain Man . This was something that bothered me a good deal; Edward is so PERFECT OH MY GOD IMPOSSIBLY PERFECT, and personally, I think people that look like “models out of a magazine” or “movie stars” are BLAND. They’re boring. There’s nothing interesting about their looks, a symmetrical blank piece of flesh with nothing to look at except the designated topography. Who the hell wants that? Blah.

She has a better grasp of the dialogue, but there are those moments every now and then that you have to pause and go, “Did I really just read that? Did I REALLY just read that?”


Passages that made me go, “WAT?” (Yes, “what” without the “h,” to really emphasize the “AHHHHHH”):

Edward: "...I'm tired of trying to stay away from you, Bella."
AUUUUUGGGGHHHHHH.

My sense of direction was hopeless; I could get lost in much less helpful surroundings...
I think you mean "more helpful," as getting lost in less helpful surroundings is pretty much expected.
...The trail would deeper and deeper into the forest, mostly east as far as I could tell.
...Did-didn't you just say you don't know directions?

Because when I thought of him, of his voice, his hypnotic eyes, the magnetic force of his personality, I wanted nothing more than to be with him right now.
I...uh...isn't this pretty much illustrating you as the easiest prey around?

By dint of much elbow grease…
Though this is grammatically correct, I have NEVER heard anyone use "dint" in this context. I maintain that no one should use it in this context, as it sounds hella weird.

I pulled all my hair over my head, letting it fan out on the quilt above me, and focused again on the heat that touched my eyelids, my cheekbones, my nose, my lips, my forearms, my neck, soaked through my light shirt…
Whoa, Bella, I'm not the one you need to seduce, 'kay?

He lay perfectly still in the grass, his shirt open over his sculpted, incandescent chest, his scintillating arms bare.
That's better.

“I’ll leave some things for cold-cut sandwiches in the fridge…”
Bella, maybe this is a regional thing. But 'round here, no one says "Cold-cut sandwiches" unless they're over sixty.

I parked in the last row and hurried to English, arriving breathless, but subdued, before the final bell.
I get it, but it seems unnecessary.


Important points:
No one with long hair uses rubber bands to tie back their hair unless they’re left with no alternative OR they are weathered old Hells Angels.

The blurb on the back cover misquotes the text.

Bella, no one winks except creepy old men and people with bad tics.

DAZZLE. Use it once, shame on me. Use it four times in a row, shame on you.




And so, one book down, three to go. Onward and upward!