Shadows, Smoke and Mirrors

Once more into the gothic realm we wander. This time, our choice morsel is a "Queen-Size Gothic". Frankly, I have never crawled into anything "queen-size" other than a bed. Not that I'd badmouthing queen-sized women (have you ever heard of a man being "queen-size" except maybe the late Divine?), because I think I could stand to have some meat on my bones, but that is grounds for another posting elsewhere.

Shadow Of A Man takes to the fertile ground of the post-Civil War South as your proper young heroine leaves her Northern schooling to return to the family plantation now that her father is dead. But the poor girl can't seem to catch a break. On the riverboat taking her to the port nearest her home, some cad attempts to plonk her bustled ass into the paddle wheel. A handsome gent saves her at the last moment and...well, it doesn't take Norman Mailer to figure out where this is headed.

A seriously hot but dangerous fellow hounds her every step, doing his best to woo her as well as prize the family property from her grasp. She resists, deciding to return the plantation to its former grand state. But one day, while nosing around in New Orleans, she swears that man walking away from her is her father. Is she going mad? Is it a plot by our devious dark hottie? Will anyone die just to spice things up?

There are the usual balls and cotillions, women in large dresses sweeping up and down winding staircases, men pulling said women to their firmly muscled chests and a dark secret that could shatter the lives of our heroine and hero. Okay, that last bit was melodramatic, which this book never is. Really. No, my nose isn't growing longer. Quick, look over there.

Good for what it is, but it isn't much. I can see this as a costume drama on Lifetime Network. Not that I'd see it on there. If they don't have Judith Light chewing up the scenery, I can't bear to watch that channel. Like they referred to it on Family Guy: "Lifetime--Television for idiots".

I'll try to find one with some serious mental qualities next time. Until then, I'll keep trying to live life according to the ideals of the gothic heroines. Now if only I could find a hunky guy with a firm chest to cleave to.

Aimless Rambling

I am amazed at how hard it is to find gothics in used bookstores. Actually, it is quite depressing. The town where I live -- phrrrrpppptttttttt!!!!!!!!!! Zilch. Nada. And eBay? Oh, my god, forget it. The folks charge more for shipping than they do for the item itself. Theft is one word I could use to describe that behavior, but I'm not cause people are big whiny babies who want to claim offense when you even look in their direction. Waa waa waa!!!

So, you'll notice there is no artwork with this posting. Sorry to disappoint. Well, not that I'm disappointing anyone except myself. No one reads this blog. Who cares? You want political commentary, look elsewhere. Who wants to spend all their time keeping up with that insanity any way? Okay, I will go so far as to say that everyone pointing fingers at whatever political party is opposite them in this whole Foley scandal does not get it. We are talking the violation of young folks, even if it is an IM. I get a pervvy IM, and I block them. Still, we're talking about Foley, a person who was supposed to be a role model and hopefully hold himself to a higher standard. Well, he was probably holding himself, and that's all. It doesn't matter what party is doing what for whatever reason. Worry about the pages who put up with this crap. THAT is where the concern should be. Of course, as Confucius supposedly said, "When a finger points at the Moon, an imbecile looks at the finger." Quit looking at the finger, politicians!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, so much for trying to live up to the gothic heroine's standard of ethics. I got really petty with a co-worker. She sits at her desk and eats most of the day. That's fine. But those first few chews of anything crunchy are always done open mouth. It is what my mom would call "chomping your food". I've been tolerating it for days and days, but it got to the point it was like a jack hammer on my head. I snapped. Well, as much as I'm able to snap. I prairie-dogged out of my work area and said, "For the love of all that keeps me from screaming, please close your mouth before you start chewing. Sorry if I'm being a bitch." She muttered, "Okay." She hasn't eaten anything at her desk since, which is fine for me, but she also hasn't said a single word to me. Oh well. She doesn't realize how close I came to pitching my coffee mug at her.

So, I'm dashing about in my snuggly long knitted cardigan the other day. I love the thing, found it in a Goodwill store and it didn't hardly smell. Anyway, now that it has gone from toasty to frigid, I live in the thing. I'm really prone to getting utterly lost in things, like reading. I'm in this bookstore (no names, please) looking through this book on the whole punk history. I'm enjoying the pictures and scanning the text. I felt like I was in the middle of a documentary. I vaguely notice my cardigan move, but I'm in the middle of what they like to call a power aisle, and there are people zipping around me, stirring up a healthy breeze and all, so I don't give it much thought. Then I felt something touch my thigh and a warm breath near the hem of my skirt. I slamed my knees together and felt a rather satisfying smoosh. I looked down to see this little boy, maybe two or three if he was lucky, fall to the floor. He looked up at me, and I could see the eruption of screaming building. I dropped the book next to him and walked away as quickly as I could. I must have cleared three aisles before the scream hit, and I had to wince. It cut right through my head. Guilt maybe? Nah. I just wondered what I smooshed between my knees, and if the boneheaded parents of the junior perv would believe the bruising came from that big coffee-table book falling on his little pointed head.