Dead as a Doornail by Charlaine Harris

rating: 2 of 5 stars

Oh, Sookie. I just don't know anymore girl.....

It could be your horrific eighties wardrobe or that damsel in distress attitude you carry so well. It could be the fact that EVERY man you become involved with is some special half-breed of human (or dead altogether), but something has me a little less than enthused about you and your supernatural follies this time around.

I went right into reading Dead as a Doornail, the 5th book in the Sookie Stackhouse installment, after completing the last one. I was starting to really get into it- the previous book had hooked me and incredibly enough, I was into the whole witches/shifter/vampires/ fairies (yes, fairies) thing.

But then I finished this one and had to take a break.

Reading some of the other reviews on Goodreads, I can see that I’m not alone on this. I wouldn’t say the book was awful, or that it deviated much from those before it, but for some reason, I just couldn’t wait to get through it and move on.

I was disappointed by the lack of plot. The story centers around a sniper who is targeting shifters in Bon Temps. The mystery is slightly intriguing, although I didn’t feel like there was enough of a developed sub-plot to help tow it along. Jason, Sookie’s brother, is one of my least favorite characters and also one of the main characters in this book. Of course, there is the classic twist at the end, but this one was definitely more predictable than previous conclusions.

Honestly, that could be one of the main reasons I was less enchanted by this one.

I’ll keep reading the series regardless. I don’t like to give up on a series. I’d rather wait till the end and be completely let down.

(I’m not there yet Sookie! Change! Evolve! DO SOMETHING)

If you're reading this series now, let me know what you think.

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I question those who wear animal ears regardless.

With each passing day, I'm becoming more aware of just how much of a curmudgeon I really am.

And while my birth certificate may try to point out that I'm only twenty-five, my actions suggest that inside this young exterior, lies an irate geriatric soul. Like there's some pissed-off ninety-year-old woman lurking inside of me, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to jump out and cane you to death.

I'd like to think that if she were a real person she'd be named Bev and look like Estelle Getty.

"Fucking kids!" Bev screams, when I'm cut off in traffic by a Volkswagen Beetle whose stereo is pumping out Britney Spears’ Circus.

Bev trips unwieldy children who run through restaurants and stores without their parents.

She spits gum in the hair of people who have cut her in line and revs her engine when the person in front of her at the toll booth takes more than 5 seconds to count out their change.

She's a smart ass to people who are rude to her for no reason and throws half-sucked Sour Patch Kids at the chatty teenagers in movie theatres.

Bev's really kind of a bitch.

And I don't know how to silence her.

Monday was my brother's 20th birthday.

Disney's current promotion for Florida residents is a free ticket on your birthday. The catch: you have to go, like, ON your actual birthday. Not get the ticket and save it for a far more convenient day, like the weekend. But show up at 9 am on a rainy Monday morning when you should be at work.

But you know, free is free and Mickey Mouse is like a 4-year-old's crack. So the family went.

Stepping into the gates at Hollywood Studios, I was reminded of how much I HATE Disney crowds. I guess being a Florida native; I am less prone to the shock and awe of the whole experience. Whatever, though, I get it. It's a bit overwhelming and HOLY SHIT ITS CASEY THE POWER RANGER! Grab the camera Mom!



It was slightly sprinkling as we arrived; the black clouds leering from above were threatening to open up on us all. In a way though, we were fortunate. If you know Florida weather in March, we like to dip down into the 7th circle of Hell right about lunchtime, so the clouds, though menacing, were a nice reprieve.

Plus, do you really want to know what the armpits of 50 different countries smell like?

I didn't think so.



Brae is reaching the age (and height) where he can start riding some of the bigger rides. Like the Tower of Terror- a ride he entered enthusiastically and left a little...um, LESS than enthusiastically....

Ok, so he kinda hated it. And I kinda laughed. Because, even though he was warned about the drop- his face screwed up in the most fantastic combination of horror and shock I've ever seen. It was like his brain was bouncing back and forth.

FUN/HORRIBLE
GREAT/TORTURE
THRILLS/CHILLS
YAY!/OH MY GOD, SHE'S TRYING TO KILL ME!

In the end, his inner Bev won out and he declared that "NO. I DID NOT LIKE THAT RIDE AT ALL!” Which was too bad I think.

I’ve never enjoyed that ride more!



Apparently the “hot” ride at Hollywood Studios right now is the new Toy Story ride. We were over there fairly early to get a fast pass (you know- the butt-everyone-waiting-in-line-because-you-were-careful-and-planned-ahead-pass) and they were gone. Like, really GONE. Out for the entire day. And it was only 11 am.

So we waited- checking back intermittently throughout the day to see if the wait had decreased. But it remained a steady 2 hours. I was convinced we wouldn’t be able to ride it and was kind of bummed. Sure I wanted to see Beauty and the Beast. The Great Movie Ride was fun and the fake Indiana Jones was still hot. I had a park full of memories and reminiscing- but I wanted the new.

I had done fairly well containing myself throughout the day. No child was tripped and I refrained from walking through the park with my arms held out at my sides (I just don’t like my personal space invaded, okay?).

And then some bitch in Tigger ears stepped in front of me at the Muppets 3-D.



I was walking, holding Brae’s hand as he trailed behind me. The rush through the doors had just begun—you know that rush, the stampede of eager participants that happen once the doors are finally opened and you can sit down. Like everyone is terrified they won’t get a seat even though that goofy-looking kid standing at the door with the clicker in his hand had tracked every single person who shuffled through. You’re gonna get a seat, idiot.

We were at the entrance to a row of seats in the theater, our 3-D glasses already positioned on our face, when Tigger woman jumped in front of me. I didn’t see her coming and was sideswiped by her presence. She cast a quick look back at me and stopped, causing me to almost bounce off her stalled ass. My Bev flared up.

“Um, excuse me?” I said

“Yeh, if you could just hang on. C’mon over here, Daisy*, Boomer*. This way! C’mon ya’ll I got us some seats!

I looked back at my mother who was standing behind Brae.

“She’s not serious, right? Really? REALLY? SHE’S GOING TO CUT IN FRONT OF ALL OF US AND THEN INVITE HER FAMILY TO JOIN?!”

Just then a parade of ears pushed passed me, squeezing Brae and I into the back of the seats in front of us.

We walked down the aisle and of course I ended up in the seat beside her. I looked to my mom and sighed loudly, “I don’t get it. How is it that Disney attracts all these RUDE people. Do they recruit for them or something?”

Mom shook her head and laughed. Familiar with my passive aggressive tendencies, she said, “and you get to sit next to her,” just loud enough for Tigger Woman to hear.

Yeah, lucky me.

When really she's the lucky one-lucky I didn’t have any Sour Patch Kids.



The rest of the day was fairly uncomplicated. We decided that standing in line for Toy Story was necessary one hour before the park closed and HOO BOY! That ride is every bit as fun as it shouldn’t be for a 25-year-old.

In fact, I think I even heard Bev squeal.


*Der, I totally don’t remember what names she called her little human kittens. I do remember that I laid a curse on each and every one of them as they walked by me though.

Eleven on Top by Janet Evanovich

My review

rating: 2 of 5 stars

*NO Spoliers*

I've taken to listening to audio books in the car- my Lincoln library on wheels.

I know that this probably elevates me from the semi-dorkish category to a full blown NERD ALERT! But I don't care. I'm comfortable enough in my geekality to totally embrace this new habit. Brae supports it as well. He sits in the back seat, totally absorbed in the story and for this reason; I have to be careful what I listen to.

Take for example this book I just finished.

Eleven on Top is the 11th (shocking, I know) Stephanie Plum novel by Janet Evanovich.

The main character, Stephanie Plum, is a single, sweet and attractive bounty hunter who finds herself entangled in awkward and often dangerous situations as she attempts to crack the current case.

I've already read several of the Stephanie Plum novels.

No.

Wait.

I've listened to several of the Stephanie Plum novels before and enjoyed them all. They are the perfect audio book. Interesting enough to keep you focused, yet basic enough that you can detach yourself from the story long enough to lean out your window and flip off that idiot who just pulled out in front of you.

Stephanie's kind of a hapless character. She's always involved in some mess or another and is often the target of some maniac’s revenge. But she never loses her cool, always bounding back from whatever current crisis she finds herself in with a smile. For Stephanie, the saying "roll with the punches" is actually, quite accurate, seeing as how she's often banged up one way or another.

In this novel, Stephanie tries to give up the bounty hunter life and quits her job working for her uncle's bail bonds shop. She attempts to find employment elsewhere and discovers that although she can escape the official title of "bounty hunter", it's not as easy to shed the lifestyle. Or the maniacs attempting to blow you up.

My favorite character in this series is Lula- an obese, spandex-loving, ex-prostitute. As Stephanie's former sidekick, she's promoted to a bounty hunter when Stephanie leaves. The sub-plot in this novel is quite hilarious, with Lula attempting to take down a former pro ball player who outwits her every time.

Lula's funny one-liners, coupled with Evanovich's descriptions of her- make Lula a character whom you’d love to actually be friends with.

But, you know, Lula likes the F-word.

Which is why I've had to ban her from the car on the ride home from daycare.

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Closetmaid, you're my hero

This summer it'll be two years since the night I packed up my Mr. Coffee, dumped my dresser into giant garbage bags and strapped Brae into his car seat, locking up my former house for the last time.

I'd just left my husband, Brae was about to celebrate his 3rd birthday and in less than the 24 hours it took me to pack, I had become a single mom.

We moved into my old bedroom at my parents house, the same bedroom that I had slept in since 6th grade. I have a full bedroom set, complete with a queen-sized bed, that we were able to somehow manipulate into the small space, and I set up Brae's toddler bed beside mine (under the silly impression that he would actually sleep in it).

Time passed. I went back to school. The toddler bed was disassembled. My brother moved to Spain. Pictures were hung on our walls. My father moved to California. Shelves were put up too. My brother returned from Spain. Braeden grew.

And two years later- we're still here. Still crammed into my childhood room and space is an issue. I feel guilty sometimes. I've appropriated our living room into a play room- Speedracer tracks, train tables, Hulk hands, Playdough carts and big ass play tents all live here. I've removed so much of Brae from our communal room, that sometimes I feel like maybe it's a bit unfair.

And then I remember that I'm bigger than him.

Hooray rationale!

Remarkably enough, one thing that I'm pretty liberal in sharing is my our closet. Half of the closet is home to Oshkosh and 4T Levi's. The other half holds my work apparel, or really anything that is attractive enough to be seen outside the house in.

Not like the Size XL cotton promotional shirt I am wearing as I type this. This baby comes from the dregs of the dresser. It works well when you're not in the mood for pants. Oh, yeh.

Even as Sally Sharenice, I struggle with the closet space. It's obvious we both need to use it. Only finding a way that we could use it without having to dive into it every morning, was proving to be quite difficult. I decided to do the massive closet cleanout- weeding out the older clothes and dumping them into garbage bags bound for the donation center. It helped A LOT. Suddenly there was space. Room to breathe. And holy shit you could see THE BACK OF THE CLOSET. Amazing!

But we had a shoe problem. Originally, I thought this could be solved with a simple over-the-door organizer. We bought this one from Target and I hung it up as soon as we got home. But then I noticed something.

You couldn't close the door.

Well actually you could close the door, it just required standing on your toes and pressing in the metal tabs that rested on top of the door while you pulled the door close. Not so bad, I thought. Annoying, yes. But I can live with annoying. Hell, I already have!

And then I opened the door.

Have you ever heard those birds whose shrieks sound just like someone being hacked to death with a rusty axe? And you're kinda terrified for a moment, wondering if you should call 911 before you realize that the shrieks are actually coming from the tree over your head?

Imagine that with the volume cranked up to an eleven. I've been living with this horror for several weeks now.

"Take it off!" Mom shouts.

"I can't just take it off. I can finally see my shoes and I can't turn back now. It's clean!"

"But the noise!"

Yes, the noise.

Over the weekend I went in search for another solution. You wouldn't think it would take me so long to get back to Target, but it did, and lucky for me, I was able to find something else I thought could work.

No metal death-screaming hooks over the door, I thought as I surveyed the packaging. That was good enough for me. So I bought it.


So far, so good. Though it seems that I need one more already. And even with a second one, there will still be shoes strewn about the closet floor.

I think I can be okay with this too. After all, I can't pack up all the shoes and move them into the living room/playroom.

I've already tried.

Maybe brains, but certainly not brawn

Lately we've been spending our evenings playing racquetball at the neighborhood courts. I'm using the term "playing" loosely here. Because I'm not quite sure if we fall into the "players" category yet. I'm more inclined to stick us somewhere in the "slightly better than your drunk cousin Junior whose missing a shoe and is also blind" category.

Yes, we are THAT GOOD.

Okay, so our family has NEVER been known for any remarkable athletic talent. As kids, my brother and I dabbled in most sports. There were Saturday morning soccer/baseball/softball/football games. Swimming competitions and karate tournaments. We were always involved in some type of athletic endeavor, often lasting only one season before moving on to the next one. My parents made us commit to finishing out the season, but never pushed us one way or another. They were the athletic equivalent of Switzerland.

So it's not totally shocking to learn that I have absolutely no coordination or athletic savvy. And apparently neither does my mom.

And now I know who to blame.

Brae sits behind us, slightly off the court, and retrieves our balls whenever they go out of bounds or over the wall. He's up-down-up-down-up-down every 5 seconds and laughing at us the entire time. He's favorite is when we hit the balls over the wall into another court that is occupied and the ball is magically returned over the wall.

"It's the spirits," I tell him. "So you better watch it, or they'll send you flying over that wall too."

Yesterday we were playing our normal sucky game when we had a few good hits and returns. For a solid minute we were able to keep the ball in play. Brae was jumping up and down, antsy that he wasn't needed, and shouted out, "Go mamma, it's your birthday, shake your booty, like Sha nay nay."

I turned to look at him and started laughing. He was dancing behind us, certainly shaking his booty like Sha nay nay.

"Go!" He commanded, "shake it!"

So we shook it. Right there on the racquetball court.

We suck at racquetball. Granted, we've only been at it a few weeks, but I can't see us improving much beyond where we're at now. We're not going to be good at it and we don't have the dedication to work at becoming good. By the time we start to improve, we'll have lost the interest in it, moving on to something different.

But we can laugh while playing. And we can entertain a 4-year-old who loves nothing more than to have a good time.

Later that night, as I was tucking him into bed, Brae asked, "Momma, whats a Shay nay nay?"

And it occurred to me.

I have no fucking clue.

(and I can't find it/her/him/them on Google either)

But I bet he/she/they sucked at racquetball as well. Or at least this is what I will tell myself.

originally uploaded by See_Kirby.

Oh! I just realized what today is

I'm whispering that music in your ear right now........

Dead to the World by Charlaine Harris

My review

rating: 3 of 5 stars

I've been reading the Sookie Stackhouse series by Charlaine Harris for several months now, in between readings for my classes. It's the series that HBO's True Blood is based off of, which should make it slightly more appealing for fans of the show. I wouldn't know since HBO has yet to release the first season on DVD. Seriously, HBO. Get on that.

(According to Amazon, it's set to be released May 19, 2009. I'll believe it when I see it.)

This is a review of the 4th book of the series.

I won't reveal any spoilers here, but my general opinion of the series so far is that it's a good lightweight book for those bedtime reads. To take to the beach. On a flight from Tampa to San Francisco. To sit on the back of the toilet tank. Okay, I'll stop here. You get the picture.

The main character is Sookie, a 20-something waitress in (as far as my Google research can tell) a fictional town called Bon Temps in Louisiana. She can read minds. Dates vampires. And has sexy supernatural men taking numbers to climb into her bed.

Harris produces the vampire novel for an adult crowd, an NC-17 Twilight, whose racy and provocative language and situations would have Edward packing up his bags and hopping the first plane to this small backwards town.

Honestly, I could really do without all of the dirty descriptions. But hey, I knew there was a reason HBO jumped on this series.

There’s not much in way of interesting characters, once you get passed the whole vampire/werewolf/shape-shifter/telepathics. Sure, they're pretty interesting in their own, but fairly predictable and boring.

The appeal of these books (for me anyway) is in the plot. Harris is a good story teller; the plots are always solid and entertaining. She always leaves a little "oh!" moment at the end to solidify everything that has happened and its fun.

If you read the Twilight series and enjoyed it, I would definitely recommend this series. If you read the Twilight series and threw Breaking Dawn against the wall a quarter of the way through, I would still recommend this series.

Because the minute Harris introduces a crazy half-bred baby with a dumbass name; I'll be the first to sound the alarm.

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Judging a book by it's cover

I'm not a terribly thrifty person.
It's the truth.
Sure, I cut coupons occasionally.
I always shop from the back of the clothing store up, beginning in the sale section.
It's a learned behavior. Something I've been trained in since I was three-years-old, waddling around in my Rainbow Bright nightgown with mom's Esprit purse slung over one shoulder.

Plus, I do like saving money. Sometimes.

But, you know, there's times I just want what I want, and I can't control the GIMMIE GIMMIE GIMMIE ITS MINE MINE MINE impulse that hijacks my brain waves. I'll buy the $58 shirt, knowing that, yes- that is a ridiculous price for one shirt and okay, the money could be spent on something I actually needed. But wheres the fun in that? Sensibility is not going to dress me in cute clothes every morning.

My mother is probably reading this right now, wringing her hands and wondering if her daughter was somehow accidentally swapped at birth with this wasteful child. Say it ain't so!

To be honest, there really isn't a whole lot of $58 shirts hanging in my closet anymore. And it's not for lack of want. It's more for an excess of part-time, single motherness that I spend less.

But the point remains. I suck when it comes to spending frugally.

Our library has a room dedicated to donated books. People bring in their old books- children's books, cookbooks, autobiographies, best sellers and the not-so-bestsellers. They line the shelves in the room with these books and paste signs that read "Children's books- $.50" and "Hardback's- $3".

I've been going to my library for years before I discovered this room for myself. I have no idea why, my mom always participated in the good deals. Maybe it was because I was too enthralled with running in and scooping up as many Cat Fancy's and American Girl's as my spindly arms could carry. Oh, and MAD. Remember those?

But as I grew older, I found myself wandering into this room more and more in search of a good deal. And justification for that $58 shirt.

But I saved like $20 in books this week! pat, pat.

I'm really picky when it comes to the condition of my books. Like, bend the spine and I'll cut you, picky. So I tend to only go for the books that look as though they haven't been fondled by a middle aged man with Cheetos fingers. However, I'm less restrained when buying books for Brae . There's not much of a point being so selective when you know they'll be tossed around the room, stepped on, eaten on top of and mostly likely wind up on the bathroom floor at some point.

So he's building quite the collection of used children's books. And sometimes it's great what you can find in that room.




Something tells me there is a damn good reason this book never really took off.

Scrubbing Bubbles

Mom: Listen, this roommate of his, you know- the gay prostitute...

Bro: That was his roommate last year.

Mom: Oh good. Well, I was going to tell you- don't sit on the toilet over there anymore.

I'm back (for now). Ring the bells.