B and I are heading to Vegas for our 10th anniversary this year. We’re going to have the Elvis ceremony of my dreams, which pretty much just means we’re having an Elvis ceremony. I love me some Elvis.
In part, this is just a huge fabrication of excuse to get to wear my wedding gown again. I didn’t have enough of it the first time, so I fully intend to wear it* around Las Vegas until I can’t stand it anymore. What I did get enough of the first time were my shoes.
Every closet needs a good pair of work boots, and a good pair of heels. So does every marriage.
I honestly can’t even remember how it started, at this point, but my shoes became the focal point of my decorating ten years ago. I wore pink marabou slippers from Frederick’s of Hollywood. I wore them in our engagement photos. I made graphics of them (along with B’s boot) to go on the invitations and thank you cards. I bought pink, shoe-shaped handsoaps for favors**. The day of the wedding, I’d worn those high-heeled slippers for much longer than a boudoir shoe is meant to be worn, and I was having trouble walking by the time we made it through our wee-church nazi regulated-cake & punch reception.
I will not be wearing those shoes again.
I will be keeping those shoes in the closet, wrapped up in their box.
Last night, I started looking for new shoes. I’ve been casually eyeballing footwear for the past year, since I booked our vacation in February, 2013.
I looked at Shoes of Prey, where you can make your own shoe. I looked in stores. I looked online. I wanted something similar to what I’d worn before, but more comfortable. You know what that means? That means (if I want a pink, marabou shoe) stripper heels.
Stripper heels have excellent padding for the ball of the foot, and good arch support. Otherwise, you couldn’t stand in them for very long, much less dance. Your tips probably go down if you are grimacing and limping, though I’m sure there’s an audience for that, too.
But it’s 10 years later. I will have Elvis. I decided to let Elvis be my marabou shoe. I ordered a very cute T-Strap pump–much more sedate. Looks to be much more comfortable. Here’s hoping it fits.
*10 years and a big headed baby later, I’m feeling pretty good about not only fitting into my dress, but fitting into it beautifully. Yes, I’m bragging.
**A very bad idea, in retrospect. A lot of people thought they were candies. Oops.
Little reminder that all royalties from December sales of TIARA TROUBLE are going to help out senior citizens through The Senior Source. Click the link to your left to buy your copy, or send it as a gift. You can even send the eBook as a gift!
And now on to my random thoughts:
I rewatched both Thor and Thor 2 last night, and I had forgotten how much I enjoyed the first one. The first Thor is a great superhero movie. It’s lighthearted and comical, with great bursts of dialog and real chemistry between the stars. The second Thor is pretty terrible, made redeemable only by Loki and Frigga. I love that scene with Frigga fighting Malekith. You go, Renee Russo!
Thor hit all the right notes, thanks to Joss Whedon and Kenneth Branagh. Thor 2? Outside of the scenes between Hiddleston and Russo, the chemistry was gone among the actors–the sparkle was gone. Remember when Chris Hemsworth strutted into frame in the big reveal of Thor in the first movie? He WAS Thor.
Hemsworth was charming and charismatic, and seemed really happy to be there. He and Natalie Portman were believably enamored of one another–which had everything to do with the dialog. She was mostly believably scientific and adorkable–again with the dialog. Anthony Hopkins didn’t seem embarrassed. Josh Dallas was gorgeous–what happened with him? And whose idea was it to replace him with Chuck? Y’all, do not put Chuck in a blond wig. All the wigs were better in Thor–in Thor 2? No. I’ve seen a better wig on The Blacklist.
Thor 2 ruined the Jane Foster character, who was fiery, driven, and wicked smaht in the first movie, and relegated to cowering and running around in the second. Bah.
Thor was a fantastic romp. Thor 2 had no heart–or only the small, black one that belongs to Loki. I’d still watch a 3rd.
Ducks:
I loved Dynasty. The hair. The drama. The shoulder pads. The slap fights. The hats. The turbans. Were there people on that show other than Joan Collins? There was definitely Steven Carrington, who was one of network television’s first openly gay main characters. He was cute. His Steve Coleman incarnation was cuter–I want Steve Coleman to be a SHIELD agent, btw.
I do not love Duck Dynasty. While my mother was recuperating at my house, I ended up squinting my way through a Duck Dynasty marathon. I did not understand the appeal. It did not compute. Then my mother said the magic words, “I like them because they are Christians.”
It didn’t matter that they were jaw-droppingly inane, and borderline inappropriate (this from the episode where tw0 grown men were grilling a 14 year old girl about how far she was going to let her first date get with her.) They were Christians! The magic bandaid that makes everything better. Slap a cross on your bumper and you’re good to go!
You know who else were Christians?
David Duke (“We [Whites] desire to live in our own neighborhoods, go to our own schools, work in our own cities and towns, and ultimately live as one extended family in our own nation. We shall end the racial genocide of integration.”)
George Wallace (“In the name of the greatest people that have ever trod this earth [white people], I draw the line in the dust and toss the gauntlet before the feet of tyranny, and I say segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever”. )
Cecil Price (“Well, boys, you’ve done a good job [murdering Civil Rights workers.] You’ve struck a blow for the white man. Mississippi can be proud of you. You’ve let those agitating outsiders know where this state stands. Go home now and forget it.”)
Good, southern boys out to protect what the good lord and the good book says is so. By whatever means necessary. Looking at color, or religion, or sexual orientation rather than seeing human beings because it is easier to lynch a man than try to understand him. Good old southern boys, two of whom were elected to public office–just in case you doubt their popularity.
I don’t give a rat’s tail what some hairy hillbilly thinks. (I care less what a reality TV star thinks–you don’t get to be on a reality TV show because you are well adjusted. No one is going to watch Bob go to work, work hard, and come home to help his wife do the dishes). What I care about is that there are human beings on the receiving end of this Heehaw’s flapping beard hole.
If you’re going to hide behind God’s skirts, then I highly suggest you use the language of Jesus when you get brave enough to poke your head out from behind the big guy’s backside.
I highly suggest you take your example from Jesus, not Paul, or Peter, or Moses, or any other imperfect man. Model your behavior after the Son of God, not the Sons of Thunder. If you aspire to be a godly man or woman, my recommendation is that you save your judgment for The Church, like Jesus did. And you offer your love, compassion, kindness, and MEEKNESS to the world. Like Jesus did.
Jesus wasn’t throwing over the tables and going postal on the temple prostitutes, or losing his temper with the tax collectors. He saved his ire for those who said they knew better, and still did just as bad, or worse.
If you want to love people, then keep your mouth shut about them and let your lifestyle be the example to follow. If you want to shun, shame, or hurt people, just keep jacking your jaws.
You know what I love? A lighthearted book that keeps me guessing, keeps me caring about guessing, and carries me through to the end on a fun-sized roller coaster of concern for how things will turn out for the characters. The Bitches of Brooklyn is such a book.
Rosemary Harris has done a fantastic job crafting realistic characters, realistic friendships, and making the lives of the five bitches from Brooklyn feel distinct, varied, and interesting. You personally know at least two of these women, and have probably met the other three. Some of them are your best friends, and at least one is your arch nemesis. Each character is instantly recognizable as someone who could be sitting next to you at the movie theater.
Even better, the writing “for every woman who’s ever had a best friend and wondered…is she really,” is quick witted, clear, and keeps you hopping and hoping. You’ll find yourself wanting the best for each of these women, and wondering just exactly what that will entail. You certainly won’t be disappointed.
This was my lunchtime novel for about four days, and I really looked forward to cracking it open for company on my lunch hour. As much as I wanted to get to the end to find out how the original set up was resolved, I was sorry to get to the final chapter because I really liked these women. I would read spin-offs of this book, but I would really love to see a prequel.
For a light, fun chick-lit read, this one is 5 stars for me.
5 out of 5
About The Bitches of Brooklyn and Rosemary Harris:
Author Bio:
Rosemary Harris
Rosemary Harris has been a bookstore manager, a video producer and a public television exec. Her debut novel, the Agatha and Anthony-nominated, Pushing Up Daisies, was followed by The Big Dirt Nap,Dead Head andSlugfest, all titles in her Dirty Business mystery series. She is past president of Mystery Writers of America’s NY Chapter and Sisters in Crime’s New England Chapter. Like some of the characters in The Bitches of Brooklyn she was born in Brooklyn but now lives in New York City and Fairfield County, Connecticut.
From the author of the Anthony and Agatha-nominated Pushing Up Daisies and Dead Head.
Are they really bitches? That depends who you ask…four friends await the arrival of a fifth at a secluded Cape Cod bungalow where they spend an all-girls weekend every summer. But this year the fifth woman doesn’t show. Instead she sends a note that reads – “I’ve run off with one of your men.”
Has she? Is it a prank? Do they run for the phone or try to enjoy the weekend without her? Fun, flirty and filled with Harris’ trademark snappy dialogue and quirky characters forced to reevaluate their marriages, their friendships and their memories, The Bitches of Brooklyn has been called “a cross between Pretty Little Liars and Sex in the City.”
Inspired by a classic Hollywood film, The Bitches of Brooklyn will appeal to readers of Jennifer Weiner, Cathleen Schine and Susan Isaacs and is for every woman who’s ever had a best friend and wondered…is she really??
“Rosemary Harris is a GEM of a writer.” Joanne Fluke, NYTimes best-selling author of the Hannah Swenson series. “Smart, sassy and sophisticated,The Bitches of Brooklynmay be the best female buddy book yet. I dare you to put it down.” Elaine Viets, best-selling author of The Dead End Job series andCatnapped!
Follow the blog tour! Rosemary is on tour until December 23rd.
On the way to school this morning, I asked Thor, “Do you know what today is?” He said, “December 17?”
I said, “Yes. And do you know why that is special?”
I could see the little gears turning in his head, which he shook. “No.”
I told him, “December 17 is special because that is the date we found out we were getting you. December 17, 2004, Daddy and I found out we were having a baby. It was one of the best days of my life because out of everything in the world, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
He smiled. “Because you love me.”
“More than anything in the world.”
“Because I’m yours.”
“Yes.”
The day we found out Thor was on his way, I was sick as a dog. I thought I had the flu. One of our cars was misfiring, and B was coming to pick me up, so we could go pick up the car from the mechanic. It was raining and terrible outside. Cold and wet.
I met B at the door with a positive Clear Blue Easy, and later that evening, we picked up several more just to be sure. I think we were both equal parts terrified and excited, and worried and happy.
That was nine years ago, today. Nine years ago, at this time of day, I just thought I was sick. I am so excited for the 6pm me! 6pm me knew a baby was on the way, but 6pm me had no idea how good life was about to get.
That kid is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I laugh every day. He has made me more genuinely optimistic, more open-minded, and more careful of others. He has expanded my capacity for love. He inspired me to grow a backbone. He has been the catalyst for many good things.
December 17 is special because, as Thor put it, “That’s when you knew there was the beginning of me.”
I’ve been talking to Robyn and Irene about The Feels today. You know The Feels.
The Feels is what happens when you are somewhere between the ages of 8 and 17, and you lay eyes on someone (usually a celebrity of some sort) whose innate charisma sparks something on the inside of you that wakes up a desire you are too young to name, and that your tiny brain is incapable of understanding. The Feels is a sudden rush of desperate, aching, unrequited love, trembling somewhere on the balance between agony and ecstasy, threatening to tip to either side at any moment.
The Feels is accompanied by the need to laugh, cry, curl up in the fetal position, wail, giggle, gag, and lie catatonic for want of the object of your affection.
You might be surprised to learn that I did not have a true case of The Feels for Duran Duran. No. My first case of The Feels happened when I was walking through a Blockbuster Video store in 1986.
I was somewhere in my fifteenth year, having managed to avoid most pitfalls of The Feels because my deep-desire tastes ran to Hamlet and Heathcliff, rather than Jake Ryan and Ferris Bueller. You don’t get a lot of Hamlet in Grand Prairie, Texas. You don’t even get a lot of Ferris Bueller.
I had tremors of The Feels for members of Duran Duran, Matt Dillon, and Judd Nelson, but never anything that shook me out of my shoes. Then, one day I was walking through Blockbuster and stopped cold. On the far right hand side of the shelf closest to the door, facing inward of the store, on the third shelf down was a video.
guh
I don’t know. I don’t know. But everything changed. I saw this video jacket and something happened.
That boy. His tie. His shirt. His sweater. The way his sweater was so… His tie was so… His hair was so… His lips were so…
I had already hit puberty, but when I saw that video jacket, puberty hit me back.
It was like a sucker punch. I can remember feeling like all the air had gone out of me. I felt too hot. I felt sick. I felt like I wanted to throw up. And I felt…good. Oh my word–I had never felt so good. I had The Feels.
I would not allow myself to rent the video because I was so stunned by The Feels I got just looking at the picture of the boy on the cover, that I was (rightly) afraid that if I watched the video, something inside me would break. I would be wrecked. Ruined. Altered.
So, for TWO YEARS, I walked past that video. I would stop and gaze and Feel Things, and now and then I would let myself touch the video jacket, read the back of it, and look at the pictures there. I would fantasize about meeting The Boy on the Cover, who was either Rupert Everett, or Collin Firth (I had hoped The Boy on the Cover was called Collin because Rupert is an awful name, but alas) and telling him how I had abstained from–what? From looking at him doing his job in a movie?
Finally, when I was 17, I gave in and rented the video.
I was wrecked. I was ruined. I was altered. And not just because the premise of the movie centers around The Boy on the Cover being gay for The Dread Pirate Roberts. You’d think that would have dampened The Feels, but it did not. It just made The Feels more complicated, and the only thing a teenage girl loves more than the telephone is FEELING COMPLICATED*. GOD! NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ME! YOU’RE RUINING MY LIFE, MOM! GET OUT OF MY ROOM! *SOBBING*
I watched the movie over and over again. Then, I took it back to Blockbuster and asked to buy it. Begged to buy it. I had to beg because they told me no, it was their only copy. I tried to explain how I needed the movie.
I have never told anyone this before: I started crying.
I begged the Blockbuster lady to sell me the movie because THE FEELS and I NEEDED IT. FEELS. I HAD THEM. *TEARS* PLEASE UNDERSTAND MY COMPLICATED FEELS FOR THIS ACTOR WHO WILL NEVER LOVE ME.
She sympathized, but still said no.
So, I did the only thing I knew to do. I stole it.
That is, I rented it again from a different employee, because Blockbuster lady knew what was up and wouldn’t rent it to me again–she made up some rule about Teenagers with The Feels–and I walked out with it under my shirt and never took it back. I also never rented anything else from that Blockbuster because…THE FEELS robbed me of my ability to do so. (You can’t rent new movies until you have returned all the movies you have outstanding, and I was never going to return that movie. I gave up my right to watch Weekend at Bernie’s, 16 Candles, and Mannequin for the love of Rupert Everett.)
I still have that video. I keep it in a special place. You don’t believe me, do you? Believe.
I had The Feels for Rupert Everett into my late 20s. Then, I bought a computer and access to the internet. Rupert Everett kind of ruined Rupert Everett for me. Too much access is bad for The Feels.
But I’ve still got a baaad thing for tall, skinny, smart, slept-in, English boys. And an embarrassing case of The Feels for Tom Hiddleston. Shh. Don’t tell anyone. I am purposefully not rewatching Thor 2 because there was this one scene that wrecked, ruined, altered me, and I am way too old (and married) to be laughing/crying/curling up in the fetal position/wailing/giggling/gagging/lying around catatonic. I have things to do**.
*I thank God I had a boy child. I don’t know what I would do a female carbon copy of myself at 15. My poor parents.
**Like google pictures of Tom Hiddleston in Loki garb.***
***Not really. ****
****Maybe just a little bit*****
*****Okay, but just once and I promise never to do it again.
The Outside Lane 