I'd rather be dating...

Ok...so, enough with the bad dates. Now it's time to acknowledge that not all books are good. In fact, some books are so bad that I'd rather be held hostage in a nutjob's house or explaining about my alien implant that curled up on the couch reading.

So, what book brings this out in me most? Angry Housewives Eating Bon Bons by Lorna Landvik. I hated every minute of this book, and it is the singular reason why I will never again be in a book club.

The book takes place in suburban Minneapolis and features a handful of women who live on a cul de sac together and, frankly, are probably the most annoying women ever. I would move out of the neighborhood if these women were near me. The women are all predictable, trite characters. I didn't want to be friends with a single one of them. Honestly, I just wanted the damn book to end.

I guess the thread that ties the book together is that these women have created their own little book club. Each chapter features the title of a book they'd allegedly read. The thing is, none of them ever mention a single book, there is no book discussion. It's a structural technique that never, ever gains traction. In fact, I think it is a lame conceit for one of the big scenes, where the women are having book club and one of them goes into labor.

There is nothing interesting about these womens' lives. One woman is so astoundingly passive in her abusive marriage that she decides hiding food in her hairstyles is the way she's getting back at ther husband. Yeah, I don't know. Is it supposed to be funny? Instructional? Inspiring? It's nothing but dumb and disempowering.

I had a profound visceral reaction to reading this book. I hated every page. I wanted to rip them out of the book and destroy every word. When it came out in paperback a while back, I cringed when I saw the displays. I wanted to burn every last cover. It's the most offensive book I've ever read -- offensive because it wasted my time.

I am actually the only person I know who has reacted so violently to this book. Some people I know have liked it, the balance have tolerated it. Personally, I think the book is grounds for ending Landvik's writing career.

It was also the last book club book I ever read. I was in the club for six months. I was pretty much the only one who read any of the books. One woman even shared that she didn't even like reading at all.

That was the joining the meetings anymore because it wasn't working for me. And, frankly, it was probaly the most healthy breakup I ever had. I simply said I wouldn't be attending any more meetings. Usually "breaking up" consists of me just never answering the phone again until the calls stop. Then again, none of those men ever made me read this sucky book.

What? No ransom request?

It was a chilly winter evening and the Olympics were just getting started. I was answering email through an online dating service I was using and started having a conversation with someone. He asked me if I wanted to come over and watch the games. Just a quiet night. I figured that there was no harm in that -- I knew he had roommates, so I was fairly confident that he wouldn't actually kill me. Kidnapping never entered my mind.

So I drove over and walked up to the door. I think it goes without saying that he didn't look like his picture, but that's pretty much par for the course on line, don't you agree?

He let me in the house and took my coat. He came back into the living room and said "So...what do you think? Do you think I'm cute?"

Yeah. Didn't know what to say to that one. So mostly I just laughed and pretended he hadn't said anything. I kind of wanted to go home.

He took my silence as a hint that I needed more convincing of his relative hotness. (I didn't.) So he stood in the middle of the room, turned his back to me and bent at the waist. From this incredibly appealing position, he looked at me through his legs and asked me if I thought he had a nice ass.

I couldn't even laugh. I looked at him in shock.

Then, because I'm an idiot, I sat down on the couch. He plopped down next to me. Like RIGHT next to me. I tried to concentrate of watching the slalom competition on TV and began counting the minutes until I could politely leave. He started rubbing my shoulder. I cringed. He didn't get it.

Then he started asking me for a kiss. "I'm so loooonely....I just need a little kiss." Over and over he whined this. And over and over I said no.

"Pleeeeaaaassssseeeee....."

Wow...that's hot. A man begging for a kiss because he's lonely. Seriously, his roommate was in the other room. Did he have no pride at all? Apparently not.

I told him it was time for me to go home. That it was late (like 9 pm--almost time for curfew!) And that I had a headache. I started for the door.

I realized, however, that my purse and coat were nowhere to be seen. This was a problem.

"Can I please have my purses and coat?"

"No. Not until you give me a kiss."

"I'm not going to do that. Please give me my things. I am going home."

"Please...just a kiss."

"No. I want my coat and purse."

"Fine." He leaves the room and comes beck in and hands me my things. And then stands in front of the door. "Now you have to kiss me or I won't let you out."

Great. I'm being held hostage by a lonely idiot. But oh dear god I don't want to kiss him. So I start trying to pull him away from the door. I can't make him budge.

"Please, just let me out. I want to leave."

"Come on...just one kiss."

Seriously -- how pathetic is this guy? And how bad to I want out? The answer to both: VERY.

I still can't pull him off the door. I'm getting a little nervous. The roommate is out walking the dog, so there's no one to help me if I scream. Just Mr. Need A Hug. But I'm not going to give in. I'm now actually throwing up a little in my mouth thinking that I might have to kiss him to go home. What do I want more? Home? Or my pride?

Both.

At this point I hate him.

Just as I'm trying to peel him off the door, the backdoor makes a noise and a dog runs into the room.

"Get away from the door. I'm going home." I said it just loudly enough that I figured his roommate would hear.

I don't know if he heard or not, but Mr. Icky backed off the door, and I shot through into the cold winter night.

Ten degrees below zero never felt so good.

Where are my adidas shell toes?

As anyone who knows me knows -- I love hip hop. Not in a "hit the clubs and go dancing" way (although I do love that), but in a way that really infuses so much of what I believe, how I relate to people, and what inspires me.

I believe that hip hop is a philosophy and a lifestyle, in addition to being about the music. No, I don't carry a gatt, I don't wear my pants low, I don't start beefs with my colleagues. I don't call very many people "ho." I'm a nice white girl from Minnesota who just happens to vividly remember the first time she heard "Rappers Delight", who remembers what she was wearing the first time she danced to Run-DMC. Yeah, I totally kick it old school, people.

But lately, I haven't been feeling the music. The mysogyny is too much, I don't care about cars and your ice. There's a top-ten song that is essentially about bukkake. I'm not going to write about my complaints about contemporary hip hop, this isn't about that.

So, I made a point to watch VH1 Hip Hop Honors. It took me back to what I loved so much about the music with tributes to Whodini, Tribe Called Quest, Snoop, New Jack Swing and Teddy Riley.... This girl was nostalgic. I was rediscovering the essence of what was so important to me.

It inspired me to re-read "Yes Yes Y'all", an oral history of the earliest days of hip hop in New York, mostly in Brooklyn, Bronx and Queens. The people who were there the first time someone scrated a beat. Russell Simmons a million years before he married Kimora. The evolution of the MC and the b-boy. Even though I'm not from the BK, I've never met Kool Herc, and my first exposure to hip hop was on my front lawn in white-bread St. Paul, reading the book makes me understand how this is part of my life.

This book takes you back to what it's all about -- expression, tradition, great music dedicated to raising your consciousness and getting you on the floor for five minutes of funk.

Even if you aren't a big hip hop fan, it's an important book that helps you to understand where hip hop came from, how deep it can be and how it became a major cultural force in the U.S. and around the world.

Oh hell, just read it. Oral histories are fun and easy to read, hip hop is some good music, and it'll maybe even remind you of drinking keg beer in a dank basement in a shady part of town. Good times...

An On-line PSA

Ok...so this one isn't about a single bad date. It's about the source of many bad dates. On-line dating services.

Now, don't get me wrong, I've met a number of good men through a variety of on-line services. One of those men has become one of my dearest friends, another is one of my staunchest supporters. I love them both dearly, and each has enriched my life in so many ways. I've fallen for some, enjoyed the company of others -- and have been appalled by the behavior of many.

Much has been written about the anonymity of the Internet and the behavior that it can inspire. I'm not going to get into that. Personally, I think that just like any communication tool, it has its good and its bad. But I just wonder who raised some of these men or taught them how to interact with women.

I am tired of getting emails that ask about my eagerness and/or ability to perform oral sex. Some people think you just get this on something like Adult Friend Finder. No, kids. You get it on each and every site. I'm willing to bet that if eHarmony hadn't rejected my atheist self, I'd be having good, Christian men asking me if I spit or swallow before they even know my name. If I want you to know, I'll show you. But I don't want it to be the first thing you ask me. In fact, men, you shouldn't even ask at all -- it will cut down on your chances of ever finding out for yourself.

Also, don't ask me my bra size. Are you buying me one? I'll tell you if you're on your way to La Perla with your black AmEx.

The thing is, the men who are going to use on-line dating services are covering their bases -- they are on every site. Every time I go to a new site to investigate, my search uncovers the same 45 men. Forty of whom I don't have much interest in -- either because we've already met or they just scream "bad date" from their profile.

Don't get me wrong, men have as much right to be picky as any woman. But men, please come correct. You're going to be happier with the response you get from me if you ask me a grown up question. Asking me about my "wildest sexual adventure" assures that you will never BE the answer to that question.

What's the best way to catch my attention? Ask me about the last book I read. Ask me if I'm watching A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila. Ask me if I liked that latest Jay-Z. Better yet, appeal to my basest interests and ask me if I think he and Beyonce will get married. Or if Lindsay Lohan has a shot at staying sober.

And if we meet, tell me my shoes are hot. The last man to do that got to know all of the other answers first hand.

Ya dig?

Show me the money!

No -- I'm not saying I'm a golddigger. I'm just a girl trying to have a decent date.

So I tried another guy. I drove over to his apartment, and he met me outside. He'd decided we'd rent a movie and hang out at his place. OK...whatever. Not exactly my dream first date, but I didn't feel like turning around and driving home.

He directs me to Blockbuster. We go over to the "new rentals" wall. Keep in mind this was several years ago. Going up and down the aisle, I keep suggesting movies. He's seen them all. You'd think that he'd just agree to one and be on with it. But no. Then he says that he will see Jerry Maguire again. Fine. Whatever.

But the Blockbuster excitement isn't over yet. We walk toward the counter and he says to me, "Your half is $1.67."

What???

I reply that I don't happen to have exact change, so I hand him a fiver. Does he hand it back and say "oh...I've got it."? No. He takes the money, pays for the movie and pockets the change.

Why didn't I just go home? Good question. If I had an answer, I'd share it.

We drive back to his apartment and go up to his bachelor pad. Which seriously needs to not be decorated with milk crates from college. He directs me to sit on the couch and asks if I want something to drink. I say sure. Whatever.

He comes back with a huge plastic cup -- like the kind beer comes in at the ballpark -- filled with water. Not even ice water. Just water from the tap. Barely cold. And tasting like plastic. Ok...sure.

Then he goes over and puts in the movie. I think he's going to come sit on the couch with me, since it's the only place to sit with a view of the television. No. I'm wrong. He sits on a chair across the room from me. Just sits there watching me while I watch the movie. A movie I didn't even really want to see since Tom Cruise creeps me out.

About an hour in, he clearly gets tired of watching me try not to nod off. He gets up, walks to another corner of the room. And starts to sort his CD collection. He's now doing housework. I tell him I'm going to go home. He gets up to walk me to the outside door.

We get to the door and he picks up his mail. Then asks if he can kiss me goodnight.

Whatever. You make me pay for the movie and you keep the change. You stare at me for an hour. Then you stsart to clean your house. You don't even get out an actual glass for the water. No...you can't kiss me.

Instead I say "no, I wouldn't feel right cheating on my boyfriend like that."

Yeah, that would be the boyfriend that totally doesn't exist. I wonder if he remembers I already said I didn't have one.

And then I don't care. He can keep the change, I'm going home for a hot bath and a good book.

I'm Not Proud

Yeah -- the headline says it all. When it comes to my reading lists, I'm not too proud. As I've said before, I've made an occasional foray into Young Adult books. But now I'm hooked on them. I've entered the world of Gossip Girl, and I don't want to leave.

It started because I was looking forward to the CW television series, which focuses on insanely sophisticated, wealthy and largely unsupervised Upper East Side high schoolers. Which is exactly what I've wanteed to be my whole life. Even now.

So, I decided to read the book that started it all. I read it in a single afternoon. As soon as I turned the last page, I was back in the car to run to Barnes and Noble for the next ones. It's a series of 10 books, and each one is compelling -- when I start one, there's no way I'm putting it down. And if I don't have the next one on hand, I start to get a little panicky.

The characters smoke, drink, use drugs, stay out all night, sleep around, steal things -- but they do it all in Dolce & Gabbana and Chanel, carrying Balenciaga bags and walking in Manolos. They have free run of massive UES apartments, summer homes in the Hamptons, heck the entire city. Do I sound jealous? I totally am.

Yes, the books are completely absorbing, not all that well edited, and definitely inappropriate reading matter for the "Tweens" they are meant for. At the same time, they are sheer genius. The author wrote maybe the first few, but you know the rest were written by underpaid writers toiling in anonymity in a writing factory. So, the woman who invented the concept doesn't even really have to do work as the dollars roll in. How did I not think of this sooner?

So, instead of just being a trashy early-Autumn escape, Gossip Girl has inspired me. To come up with a singluar Young Adult concept, write a couple, have it take off -- and then spend my life sitting back while fresh college grads pump out slim volume after volume with my name on the spine.

Wish me luck -- and to quote the titular Gossip Girl: You know you love me!

Disturbing...but wow!

I'd never read any Japanese fiction before, until I picked up Out by Natsuo Kirino. Obviously translated because, my Japanese is, well, nonexistent.

Winner of Japan's Grand Prix for Crime Fiction and an Edgar Award finalist, this book is beyond intense. And really not for the squeamish. Also, make sure you've taken your Prozac, because it's also depressing as hell.

The book is about a japanese woman who works a menial-type, night-shift job in a bento box factory. In addition to having a crap job, she has a pretty crap life. Her son has quit speaking. Her husband is abusive. She leads a life of quiet desperation -- until she kills her husband. That's when Masako comes to life. Scary life. She enlists three female coworkers -- whose lives are equally depressing, but in different ways -- to help her dispose of the body. In a really gross way.

Then Masako discovers she's not half bad at the whole murder and dismemberment thing, and enlists her coworkers in several more crimes. But they are not the pliant subjects they seem and everything starts to spiral into violence, fear and suspense.

Sometimes translations aren't much fun to read. But this seems to be a top-notch one. The storytelling is taut and compelling. The dark, dark comedy comes through while remaining a harrowing read.

There are lots of levels to talk about with this book -- so if you're in a book club, it might be worth a selection. But for our purposes here, I'm just going to give it two thumbs up. And not because men are the targets of violence. Like I said -- men are just fine in my book...

Yeah. He said it.

Ok...this one isn't about a worst first date. It's about a worst fourth date. Date one was acceptable. Plus, I was bored, I figured "hey, how bad can the second one be?" Turns out pretty bad. He decided that finding out how quickly he could make me cry would be a fun time. Date three (yeah, I know...bad decision making) we hung out at his apartment. He ordered in ribs -- which he knew I hated. Then we watched Blazing Saddles.

Now, I know people love Blazing Saddles. I am not one of these people. He, on the other hand, was. And was deeply offended that I wasn't laughing at the parts he thought were outrageously funny. Not only was he deeply offended -- he proceeded to yell at me because clearly since I didn't think farting was about the funniest thing ever, that I was a stuck up bitch.

Ok. Whatever.

So why, you ask, did I take date #4? Because I'm a masochist. And I couldn't believe that anyone could be such a massive asshole. Guess what -- they can be. And they can get even worse.

We went to dinner -- a nice spot -- where he proceeded to tell me that no one would ever love me like he did. Uh...yeah. The things that he was saying sounded straight out of an after-school movie about bad boyfriends. I didn't think anyone actually said stuff like that. Apparently they do. But then it took a turn for the worse. (Yes, there's worse).

He asked if sometime he could watch me have sex with my dog.

Yeah. He said it.

First things first -- I do NOT have sex with my dog, no matter how much I love him. Second, oh hell no. As Whitney puts it -- Hell to the NO.

I called him sick (and also some things not as nice). I stood up, turned on my heel, and marched right out the door.

Guess what? Yeah, he called me the next day to see if I wanted to hang out. I made it clear there would be no more hanging out and he should get some psychological support. And hung up.

He called me constantly for the next few days, and each time I was increasingly forceful. And then came the e-mail.

I wish I still had it. It was the best e-mail I've ever received. It was a scathing indictment of my personality, a treatise on my complete inability to ever have a successful relationship with anyone (huh...I wonder if that includes my dog...). And since he was a grad student, there were lots of long words telling me how awful I am. And it was like 1000 words long. I am a bad, bad person with many deficiencies.

But not as many deficiencies as someone who things I should hook up with my beloved lab.

The Worst Ones of All

We've all had bad dates -- with people with bad manners, people who are cheap, liars, cheats, boring people (really the worst!). But I am going to argue tonight that the worst dates of all are the ones that you thought went really well -- and you never hear from the guy (or gal) again. These dates don't end in crazy stories. You can't talk bad about the guy to your friends. There's a good chance the problem is you. Nothing good comes out of these good/bad dates.

Before I dive into this topic, I will admit to being the gal someone never hears from again. It's rude, and I'm not proud of my track record there. Ok...full disclosure accomplished.

I recently had a date that I thought went really well. It wasn't a "thunderbolt" date, but I thought there was a pretty solid connection, we had a great conversation, read a lot of the same books, seemed to have a lot in common in general. We spent two hours having a lively conversation. We parted ways with the understanding that we'd see each other again.

He left a message. I called back and left a message. Then the phone lines went dead. Stone cold. Nothing. Crickets.

And that's when the date took on epic proportions. Don't pretend you haven't done this at least once -- I picked the date apart minute by minute, word by word. I listed every conceivable mistake, faux pas and potentially offensive thing. I stared at myself in the mirror wondering if my strong Scandinavian features made me look like a man (broad cheekbones CAN suck...trust me). Did I sound stupid? Could he tell that I never finished "The World is Flat" even though I pretended to? Is there the smallest chance I cringed when he said he had kids from a previous marriage? Was I -- gasp! -- boring??

It's when the residue of the date begins to erode your tenuous self-esteem that makes it really bad. There are so many questions that make you doubt yourself after one of these trick dates: how could I have misread the date? Am I a bad date? Am I ugly? Was he really not a good guy -- and why couldn't I tell that? Why did I say that one thing that I knew I shouldn't have? Could he tell I needed a fresh pedicure? Did I talk about myself too much (probably...)?

These are the dates that make me the craziest -- even though when they're happening, I'm having as much fun as you can have on a first date. Is it a good date? A bad date? An evil trick by the fates? You tell me.

Obsessed

As many of my friends and family know, I am obsessed with the meth. Not with taking it. I am not sure I'd even know how. Not with procuring it -- because I KNOW I don't know how to do that. I mean, how much does meth cost? Do you just ask someone for it? Or are there special words you need to know? Lots of times, drugs have special words. I saw it on COPS.

I watch every meth documentary. I watch and re-watch Intervention on A&E. When I'm at Wal-Mart, I try to spot people on meth trying to buy Sudafed. I'm kind of like a one-person DEA. But without any authority to bust people. And without any bravery to bust people. Because -- as you know if you watch COPS -- folks on the meth are stronger than normal people. And I'm a baby.

So, with this background, is it any wonder that I saw a book called "Crank" -- with what looked like lines of meth spelling out the words -- and bought it without reading the blurbs or checking out the contents. Imagine my surprise when I settled into a nice bubble bath (my regular reading roost) and found a 500 page POEM. And not only was it a POEM. It was a "young adult" book poem about meth.

I don't like poems. I didn't see how the meth could make the poem worth reading -- no matter how obsessed I am. Was I really going to read it?

Three hours later (yes, I did get out of the tub during that time), I'd read the whole darn thing. And I liked it. And, dear reader, I'm going to recommend it to you.

First of all, readers of a certain age, this is no corny Go Ask Alice (a formative book of my youth). This was actually kind of intense. It's written from the point of view of a 16 year old girl who goes to visit her deadbeat dad and meets the wrong boy. Of course, the wrong boy leads to meth. (That's a bad date for you!)

The girl goes home to her suburban home, mom doesn't know what's going on -- the story is familiar. What isn't familiar is how it's written. It's a poem, and at first it's kind of irritating to read -- kind of like the first 25 pages of A Million Little Pieces -- but then you get used to it, and then you start noticing the nuances of language and typesetting. It's a deceptive book -- and one that you should take a look at. It's not just a horizontal read -- it's a vertical read, too.

Anyway, every so often, I venture into young adult fiction. This time I was rewarded with a fresh way to tell the same old "boy gives girl drugs, girl's life spirals out of control" story. One twist is that it is loosely based on author Ellen Hopkins' experience with her own daughter. Essentially a clueless (at first) mom writing about what she didn't see and learned about her daughter's secret life the hard way.

And seriously, it only took three hours to read. Most sucky dates last longer. Especially if dinner is involved.

The Mothership Should've Warned Me About This One

So, what do you wear when it's about 95 degrees and tropically humid? Apparently the man I was meeting for drinks hadn't heard about summer. I knew it was going to suck when he came over to me wearing black wool pants and a black wool sweater on one of the hottest days of the year. In all fairness, it was clear that he wasn't completely thrilled with what he saw either, since I swear to god that he sneered at me.

For some reason, we didn't just end it there. I decided to overlook the sweated-out underarms of his wool sweater. He apparently decided to overlook my general distastefulness. We ordered glasses of wine and sat down on a couch in the lounge.

He immediately started telling me how super awesome he is. He's a Civil War re-enactor. On the Confederate Side. Fine, but when you're African-American, why is that your hobby? Also, he is an avid fencer. As in "en garde!" And he's very, very smart because he reads about physics.

As I listen to him drone on and on about nothing I want to know, I start to rub behind my ear. It's just a little tick I have -- it's unconscious and seems to relax me. I'm thinking about graceful exit strategies. Anything to get out of there. But I'm a nice girl, I don't want to do the "I'm going to the bathroom" thing and then leave.

He stops and asks me if I'm ok. I realize he's saying this because I'm rubbing my head like I have a migraine. This, my friends, is suddenly my exit strategy. But do I go with the whole "migraine" thing? No. Instead I say: "Oh....yeah, there's a ringing in my head. It happens ever since I got this implant."

He looks at me and asks, "What?" And not in a kind, understanding tone.

I'm in kind of deep now. It's all or nothing. I look him straight in the eye and tell him "The aliens put it in me. When I was abducted about a year ago. Sometimes when it's humid like this, it buzzes." And miraculously with this, I keep a totally straight face and lean into him. I say "Here, want to feel. You can feel the little bump where the implant is."

He declines -- which I suppose is good since I really don't have an alien implant behind my ear, so there wouldn't be anything to feel. Instead he suddenly remembers a really important meeting on the other side of town. On a Sunday afternoon. He puts down a $20 and walks out.

Good riddance. I get in my car, drive past him in his car -- talking on his cell phone, no doubt telling his friends about the freak he just met -- and head back to the refuge of my apartment.

Another man down. Only about a million more out there.

My Hot New Relationship

I'm sleeping with a new man. Because my parents might read this, let me be a little more specific -- I'm sleeping with his books. My hot new relationship is with the books written by Greg Iles. We -- the books and I -- take baths together, curl up on the couch during thunderstorms, we've even traveled together. Clearly this means we get along pretty well.

For those who like fast-moving thriller/mysteries, these are can't-put-downable books. The ones I've read all basically take place in Natchez, Mississippi. As an avowed Yankee, the deep South has always been a curiosity to me. And these books seem to really paint a picture of the region and the people and issues that occupy it.

So far, I've burned through Dead Sleep, Turning Angel, The Quiet Game and Sleep No More. They all have twists and turns -- but stay totally believable. I'm going to say my favorite so far -- the one I recommend most quickly -- was Turning Angel. It was the first one I read and the one that got me hooked on Mr. Iles.

In the book, a popular high school student named Kate is found dead near the Mississippi River. Penn Cage, an attorney-turned-author, gets a call from an old friend with some pretty big secrets -- and it's off to the races. Every so often in his books, Iles touches on a taboo -- not in a sensational way, but in a way where you can understand how something not-so-right might happen. In this one, it is about high school girls and much older men. It gets a little steamy, but not tawdry.

All in all -- it'll get you through more than one crappy date.

They Made Me Do It...

I'm 37. I've been dating for almost 20 years. Over those 20 years, I've had more than my fair share of crappy dates -- the upside is that many of them end up being good stories. So good, in fact, that after these dates my friends say "Oh God...you have to write a book." I settled on a blog, instead.

And to make it look like I do something besides go on bad dates, I figured I'd share a little of what keeps me sane -- good books. Consider my mini-reviews a little direction on licking your wounds after yet another few hours of your life you'll never get back.

To be perfectly clear, I don't hate men. I like a lot of them -- and as a whole, I think they are pretty good to have around. That is why I have dedicated so many years to finding one to keep around for a little while. And that's why I do sometimes put down the book, put on the high heels, and go give another man another chance...

I hope you enjoy reading this -- here's to a good read and finding a good man!