Where Are All the REALLY Slutty Girls?

In keeping with the whorehouse theme of my last blog post, this one takes it one notch closer to the gutter. Get your Lysol wipes and hand gel ready, you’re gonna need them after this post. Mom, Dad…I suggest you stop reading now.

While I work my full-time writerly/publishingerly job, I often get called upon to review books for publishing houses. It’s really cool. I get to read books before the rest of you, and I get to pass judgment on them without ever having to look the poor author in the eye. After one particularly bad incident where I drank the wine BEFORE reviewing Willie Nelson’s book (2 stars…it was pretty bad), I’ve now learned to temper my reactions, remain a professional at all times, and have the wine AFTER writing the review.

But I’m being pushed to my limits with the unholy amount of nasty romance books that literally (editors, I used that word correctly…I mean, actually literally) shows up on my doorstep (the literal door step, right outside my door). I used to clap my hands and feel really smug when a small package from a Big Five publisher would be waiting for me; it made me feel important. Now it just makes me reach for the above mentioned Lysol wipes and hand gel. Here’s why:

I just reviewed a book that included a play-by-play of a twenty-year-old virgin giving her first hand job. There was actually a description of her fascination with studying his um, sample (?) on her hands like a slutty little Jane Goodall…yes, fucking STUDYING, was the word the author chose to use…the biological matter on her hand when he was finished. (Here, take some of my Lysol wipes…I now keep them next to my computer for OCD moments such as this one.)

NOTE TO PUBLISHERS: You’re the reason I drink while I review books. I hope you can live with yourself.

When I was in school, there were quite a number of…worldly…girls among the student body. We heard about them, people whispered about them, but no one really had any concrete proof of their worldliness. Now that Facebook provides us all the proof we need of girls’ rampant and usually drunken worldliness, these books have really started to confuse me.


It’s like every single story line has to follow the archaic model of a sweet and inexplicably innocent barely legal girl paired up with a wealthy, older, experienced, unattached, farm-animal endowed guy. Seriously? Name me three towns in America that has BOTH of those people running around.

So why do people buy this crap? Is it all those worldly girls I alluded to, buying up this stuff and trying to reimagine the way it actually happened? Are they envisioning shyly doing the nasty on his private jet instead of under the bleachers the way they actually did it? And wouldn’t you think it would just make them feel really bad and judgmentalled? Is it because their “firsts” were so unbelievably awkward and therapy-inducing that they need to pretend that these stories are actually happening all over the world right at that very minute?

I’ve always heard that porn gives men unrealistic expectations about women, but the gals are just as guilty. In these books, all men know how to give incredible orgasms while deftly having sex in the back of their limos, quite possibly from the genetic mutation that made them so oversized, and all girls are quiet and timid until the right man comes along who also has a genetic mutation that makes his eyes work differently from the rest of society’s, enabling him to see the beauty beneath her faded, stained hoodie. She morphs before his very eyes into a cross between Miss America and a pole dancer before descending all the way into Vegas hooker mode.

I’ve been a part of the book industry in various forms for quite some time now, and here’s what I think would REALLY sell: total sluts. Guy sluts, girl sluts, sheep sluts, whatever. Absolute, genuine, Facebook-bans-your-account sluts. Tell it like it is, make it as realistic as you want to, and stop pretending that there are bookstores and coffee shops all over the world stocked with wallflowers who just need a good banging from the rich guy who decides to get his own coffee for once. Sluts, I tell ya. That’s the way to go.

#CTTW: You Changed the World a Little Bit

This is another one of those rare posts that isn’t supposed to be funny (as opposed to my posts that happen to not be funny because I’m just not that good a writer). You would think this one would be a hoot since yesterday I went to the dentist to have a crown put on and I totally misunderstood the whole process. It does not, in fact, result in me being named the Queen of anything. In fact, it resulted in the dentist breaking the tooth he was trying to fix and then having to pull the mother fucker out of my head in four different pieces.

You would also think this post would be funny because I’m now on really good drugs (see story above). Sadly, if I’m this bizarre when I’m supposedly sober, I should be awesome while high. I’m not. Instead, I make tree sloths look like steroid-abusing Olympic athletes.

But here is the serious post: you changed the world a little bit. You, my good internet people, answered the call and filled in the gaps. When I was given twenty copies of Fahrenheit 451 to give to my students for World Book Night, all of you took to the internet and sent gift cards for me to buy extra copies for the remaining students. I not only ended up with enough to give to every student, there are about five leftover copies on my desk that I give to new students coming in.

One student was actually in the facility with me last year and remembered being given last year’s book, The Book Thief. He said it was the only book he’d read at the time, but that he’s read “way more’n dat” since then. His face lit up when I handed him this year’s book.

Other students told me a much more heart-wrenching tale. Several told me that they read it one time just because I was nice enough to give it to them, and that it was good enough that they had to read it again. MANY students told me a different story:

“If all those people on the internet bought this book for me, the least I could do is read it for them.”

You. You did that. And I’m clapping for you right now.

I Swear I Don’t Ask for Much

I admit it, I am incredibly high maintenance, but not in the usual way. I don’t wear makeup and I don’t have one of those really annoyingly-cliched shoe fetishes that all the popular women seem to have. I actually think high heels are of the devil. But I do realize that I have certain needs that I insist are met, in a timely fashion, too. It’s gonna get ugly if I have to wait to use my own bathroom, and there are whole bags of potato chips in our house with my name written on the bag in Sharpie marker. The kids just somehow know… don’t touch mama’s chips.

But I do try to balance out the complete all-about-me-ness by being a good person when I can. I brake for squirrels if no one’s behind me and if it won’t make me spill my margarita. My “I own a business, so I need an iPad” tablet’s memory is almost completely full because of all of the kiddo apps and The Wiggles music downloads. And I always throw my change in the little slot on the drive-thru window to make sure it goes to Ronald McDonald House instead of making my purse sound like a one-horse open sleigh.

But today, I’m sitting here with my hand out, hoping you might want to help. If you don’t want to help, I’d love for you to pass this post on to someone you know, someone who doesn’t eat live kittens like you obviously do.

I’ve blogged before about how I’m a teacher in the coolest, most elite private school in the country. Okay, it’s actually a maximum security juvenile detention facility, but that makes it all the more exclusive. For the second year in a row, my classroom was chosen to be a World Book Night donation site. That means the WBN organizers are giving me a set number of copies of a great book for me to pass out to my students. The book will become theirs to keep. The first thing we do is write their names in the book, because it’s theirs and for many of my students it’s the first and only book they own. This year, I’m receiving 20 copies of the incredible, world-changing book, Fahrenheit 451.

We’re a 48-bed facility.

The rules of WBN are 20 copies of the book, and that’s it. And due to the nature of our facility, I have no way of knowing how many youth will be housed in my school on April 23rd. So I’m asking for help.

If you are at all interested in giving one copy of the book, I would love it and I would even write your name in it (but not your address, because that could just lead to problems that nobody wants). If you want to help, I can accept an email gift certificate from Amazon or Barnes and Noble for the paperback edition of the book. Then, if I don’t actually need your copy, I can either a) refund it to you or b) use it to put towards for a classroom set of the novel… your choice. If you wanted to send an Amazon certificate for just the price of the book, I could also purchase any new book for the school library if I didn’t need any more copies of the book. I will be happy to email everyone back the online receipt once the book is purchased, which I could be wrong but I’m pretty sure the right accountant could use on your taxes since we are one of those 501c(3) deals.

If you are interested in helping or sharing this, email me and I will give you the details. And thanks in advance for the book and for not running over a squirrel!

I Wrote Another Book, If You’re Keeping Track

It’s not like I need a ticker tape parade or even a NASCAR-style champagne shower, but when I announce to my family that I have finished writing ANOTHER book, it would be nice if they would at least look up and make eye contact. Instead, my husband said, “That’s nice,” while flipping channels. My daughter at least showed a spark of interest when she asked me how many people die in this one.

Yes, NaNoWriMo is over for another year. My winner’s T-shirt is ordered, my certificate suitable-for-framing is waited to be framed. And for those of you who conspire with my daughter, only one person died in this one.

When I complained about the total lack of adoration I received over my announcement, my husband had the nerve to say, “Well, it’s not like you haven’t written, like, five other books, right?” That wouldn’t sting so much if not for the fact that I’ve written eight. But hey, anything after the first three is apparently just showing off. Looking at you, Stephen King.

So now, it’s off to edit, find proofreaders, find real editors who work for pay instead of iTunes gift cards, and prepare for book number nine. I’ll be sure not to wake them when I finish next time.

See? This is what victory looks like. Sort of. Yes, I know it’s rather small, but so was the victory celebration.

I Take Great Pride in My Level of Sphincter Control

I really never thought that my ability to not have to fart at inappropriate times would bring me joy, but I have to say, I must be like a ninja-level non-farter. I can say with all honesty I have never a) accidentally farted anywhere out of place, and therefore b) never been unable to contain the contaminant until I found myself in an appropriate venue for ejection.

There’s really nothing wrong with my plumbing, and I swear I eat plenty of fiber. But unlike the students I teach, I am able to hold back. Of course, the students I teach are boys and they are being fed a steady diet of cheap carbs and Dorito powder, so it’s a wonder their clothes don’t blow up like inflated space suits at any given moment of the day.

Luckily, the rest of society is very taken with the concept of farting, so my students won’t feel shunned or ridiculed. I even found this lovely book on no bestseller list anywhere:

I refuse to believe the author’s last name is actually Smeldit. Of course, it’s just not a childhood reading experience without the complete set of Walter the Farting Dog books, a lovely series about a dog who constantly saves the day with his vile buttiferous odors.

Since society is actually clamoring for more reading material about farts, I feel like I might be in a misunderstood and discriminated against minority of people who just don’t feel the need to share. There goes my ninja status.