Recently, in an effort to see what all the fuss was about, I picked up the book Twilight. For those of you who have been deported and may not recognize the title, Twilight is about the star-crossed love affair between a young teenage girl named Bella and a bloodsucking fiend with a heart of gold named Edward. I ended up reading all 498 pages over the span of a couple lunch breaks. This is less a testament to my reading skill than it is a commentary on the writing. As weighty as cotton candy; yet sweeter and a whole lot stickier. Do teenage girls really think this way? I'm hoping I never did, though I really can’t remember. I will admit that around page 12, I started fighting off an overpowering urge to doodle little hearts and flowers in the margins.
I’m guessing the working title of this book may have been Ode to the Adjective. The author piles on so many that they start to obliterate the point of every sentence -- shrewdly distracting readers from the fact that the plot isn’t exactly hustling along. I’d plow through maybe 65 pages of angst-laden musings on alabaster cheekbones and gleaming white teeth, and then realize that -- during this actual span of time -- two characters had walked in the front door and made a bowl of cereal.
Now don’t get me wrong. On paper, at least, a physically dazzling figure like Edward can certainly get the average female heart fluttering. But ladies of the 21st century, let’s consider for a moment: Here’s a guy who follows you around in his car. He shows up in your room unannounced. He picks you up and carries you places. He stares at you while you’re trying to watch a good movie. He hovers above you while you talk in your sleep. He selects the food you eat. He keeps reminding you that you’re a hopeless klutz. And he absolutely will not stop playing with your hair. This reminds me of the way my cat used to mess with my hamster. Did somebody mention swooning? I would slug this clown, then slap a restraining order on him for good measure.
I know how the author could have pared this story down: substitute me for the lead female. Now certainly, the book would have easily lost its best-seller status. But on the flipside, it would have gained the dubious distinction of shortest vampire love story in history.
Me: Do you want some lasagna?
Edward: You’re so adorably human. Here you are thinking about food and I’m absolutely riveted by your bottomless amber eyes …
Me: My what?
Edward: ... and so hopelessly addicted to the honeysuckle aroma of your hair; it’s like a glorious summer meadow.
Me: Are you sleepwalking? Shut up. Do you want one breadstick, or two?
Edward: No, I think I’ll just silently worship you while you microwave the plate.
Me: Okay, really now, back off because you’re creeping me out. And stop rearranging my bangs.
Edward: I just love when you get infuriated -- the color rises in your cheeks like the blush of fine champagne.
Me: All right nimrod, I mean it. Get out in seven seconds or I’m calling the cops. Six ... five ... four ...
This would be followed by a short epilogue illustrating the futility of macing a vampire, capped off by my own horrible (yet tastefully tween-friendly) demise. The follow-up novel, a prequel (not like there would be sufficient reader demand, but this is my blog, so you know, go with it) could include real-life snippets of dialog taken from my own living room:
Me: I got us a movie for tonight.
Him: Okay.
Me: It’s (dramatic pause) The Bridges of Madison County.
Him: Oh.
Me: Do you want me to make popcorn? Because I could toss it with those little parmesan sprinkles.
Him: Um, yeah. Can I finish watching the game now?
The title of this one could be Fade to Black -- fitting, since it would undoubtedly be the final book in the series. (p.s. -- Click here for an entertaining count of adjectives in Twilight, organized by category for those keeping score.)
Friday, August 28, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
forces of nature
My husband made a funny comment recently about our two rescue dogs. He said they’re like thunder and lightning. I suppose he means that Maizy is sleek and nimble; and that Grant is low and loud. Or maybe he means that if they’re left in the house together too long, something is going to get wet. Regardless, it got me thinking about how rescue dogs are like the proverbial Forrest Gump box of chocolates: you really never know what you’re gonna get. Some are light and fluffy, some are dark and bitter. Then there are the ones I seem to pick out, who are 20% sweet and 80% nuts.
Grant is a perfect example. First of all, why do rescue services and pet shelters feel compelled to say a dog is “part poodle” when they really have no idea of its lineage? Is it because poodles are supposed to be mellow and low-shed? Grant is allegedly “part poodle,” but he looks like the product of a love-in between a raccoon, a duck and a baby hippo; and he barks like a Saint Bernard. I am guessing a lot of stars had to align just right for a dog like Grant to exist, and I’m pretty sure most of them would scare the bejesus out of your average poodle. Just tell me the dog is “half shih-tzu, half no idea” and I’ll take my chances.
Secondly, why are rescue shelters so hesitant to tell you the dog has anxiety management issues? Wouldn’t that be an ideal way to weed out the serious shoppers? If I had been locked in a cage and/or tied to a tree all day, I would certainly have anxiety management issues. In fact, anyone going in for a rescue dog and not prepared for this little hindrance might want to reconsider their options.
I was told Grant had “an excitable personality.” Here’s how I found out what, exactly, that entailed: We were walking down the sidewalk about a week after I got Grant. As we approached a cross-street, up rides an eight-year-old boy on his Big Wheel. I didn’t know how Grant would react to a child but I sure knew he was afraid of things that rolled. So I pulled up on the leash, and we stopped. The kid, who had seen us coming and had started to slow down, saw me put Grant into a “sit” so he started pedaling again. I had seen the kid beginning to slow, so Grant and I resumed walking. The kid saw this and threw on the brakes. And on it went. He stopped. We started. He started. We stopped. He stopped. We started. You’d think one of us would have just turned around and gone the other way, but no. It was like being locked in a Death Star tractor beam for idiots.
Mercifully, one of our stops finally overlapped one of his stops, and we found ourselves about a foot away from each other. Grant starts jumping around and panting, bright-eyed and wagging his tail. I am still holding the leash like a madwoman, but feeling encouraged. The kid sees this dog-like show of enthusiasm and, understandably, begins to stick out his index finger oh-so-tentatively. As he leans in, the Big Wheel’s big wheel moves, almost imperceptibly.
"BARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARR !!!!!!" Grant freaks. The kid screams and flees. I holler and pull back so hard on the leash that the dog goes airborne and we both hit the ground. I grunt. He yelps. Neighbors start flying out of houses. One of them is holding half a hamburger. Grant morphs back into bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed mode almost immediately. When my vision finally clears, the dog is sitting up eagerly, his tail thumping on the grass.
If there’s a moral here, it’s this: When it comes to calming a frightened rescue animal, food is the answer. Actually, when it comes to Grant, food is always the answer. In Grant’s case, he doesn’t even care if there was a question. And in that sense, the thunder analogy is truly on-target ... but that rumble you’re hearing isn’t the sky, it’s the stomach.
Grant is a perfect example. First of all, why do rescue services and pet shelters feel compelled to say a dog is “part poodle” when they really have no idea of its lineage? Is it because poodles are supposed to be mellow and low-shed? Grant is allegedly “part poodle,” but he looks like the product of a love-in between a raccoon, a duck and a baby hippo; and he barks like a Saint Bernard. I am guessing a lot of stars had to align just right for a dog like Grant to exist, and I’m pretty sure most of them would scare the bejesus out of your average poodle. Just tell me the dog is “half shih-tzu, half no idea” and I’ll take my chances.
Secondly, why are rescue shelters so hesitant to tell you the dog has anxiety management issues? Wouldn’t that be an ideal way to weed out the serious shoppers? If I had been locked in a cage and/or tied to a tree all day, I would certainly have anxiety management issues. In fact, anyone going in for a rescue dog and not prepared for this little hindrance might want to reconsider their options.
I was told Grant had “an excitable personality.” Here’s how I found out what, exactly, that entailed: We were walking down the sidewalk about a week after I got Grant. As we approached a cross-street, up rides an eight-year-old boy on his Big Wheel. I didn’t know how Grant would react to a child but I sure knew he was afraid of things that rolled. So I pulled up on the leash, and we stopped. The kid, who had seen us coming and had started to slow down, saw me put Grant into a “sit” so he started pedaling again. I had seen the kid beginning to slow, so Grant and I resumed walking. The kid saw this and threw on the brakes. And on it went. He stopped. We started. He started. We stopped. He stopped. We started. You’d think one of us would have just turned around and gone the other way, but no. It was like being locked in a Death Star tractor beam for idiots.
Mercifully, one of our stops finally overlapped one of his stops, and we found ourselves about a foot away from each other. Grant starts jumping around and panting, bright-eyed and wagging his tail. I am still holding the leash like a madwoman, but feeling encouraged. The kid sees this dog-like show of enthusiasm and, understandably, begins to stick out his index finger oh-so-tentatively. As he leans in, the Big Wheel’s big wheel moves, almost imperceptibly.
"BARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARR !!!!!!" Grant freaks. The kid screams and flees. I holler and pull back so hard on the leash that the dog goes airborne and we both hit the ground. I grunt. He yelps. Neighbors start flying out of houses. One of them is holding half a hamburger. Grant morphs back into bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed mode almost immediately. When my vision finally clears, the dog is sitting up eagerly, his tail thumping on the grass.
If there’s a moral here, it’s this: When it comes to calming a frightened rescue animal, food is the answer. Actually, when it comes to Grant, food is always the answer. In Grant’s case, he doesn’t even care if there was a question. And in that sense, the thunder analogy is truly on-target ... but that rumble you’re hearing isn’t the sky, it’s the stomach.
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