Romance for Real Women

While we are on the subject of romance, real women and vampires…

A friend recently introduced me to “The Black Dagger Brotherhood,” a series of six or seven books by writer J.R. Ward. (I’m not sure about the number because I voraciously devoured all of them, one a night over a period of a few days. Time and titles are blurred.)

The Brotherhood has everything we want in a good vampire yarn…strong, muscular, sexy vampires fighting a truly evil being called “The Omega” and his equally evil minions called “lessers” who are determined to destroy the race of vampires.

Each member of The Brotherhood has his own issues and his own book. One of my favorites is Rhage, Lover Eternal, who, cursed by the Scribe Virgin, unleashes a beast when he is angered. This is handy when fighting lessers, but complicates romantic relationships as the beast also escapes when he’s aroused. Another is Lover Awakened, the story of Zsadist, who spent the first couple of hundred years of his life being tortured. Zsadist, as his name subtly suggests, has behavioral issues.

Need I add that the love of good women tames the beast and smoothes the rough edges?

In writing The Brotherhood, J.R. Ward created an entire world, complete with laws, social strictures, and a religious deity who protects and punishes individuals when they step out of line. This level of detail, in fact, is what gives these books their sense of authenticity. For example, vampires emit a strong scent when they “bond” with a mate. A sort of mark. “Doggen,” are members of a servant class who tend to their needs. Oh, and females experience something called a “needing period” where essentially they go into heat. And, that, my friends, makes for spicy reading. Just in case you get confused, Ward provides a glossary of terms at the beginning of each book for reference.

In creating The Brotherhood, J.R. Ward, who in a previous life was a lawyer and hospital administrator, also created a cult.

In writing this blog, I visited her website www.jrward.com. The site features a message board and there were one hundred and fifteen fans on-line at the time I visited. Thousands of others were registered. No kidding.

If you prefer your vampires dark and edgy as I do, check out this series. You’ll find romance, sex, good versus evil, a new take on vampires and a good meaty read.

Thanks to Associated Press, real women know that Larry Birkhead, Anna Nicole Smith’s former boyfriend, just spent thousands of dollars on lingerie worn by Smith during a Playboy shoot. He told AP his motive in buying the bustier and negligee was to give baby Danielynn something to remember her mother by.

Frankly, I’m not sure what to make of this.

I love lingerie. I have drawers and closets full of the stuff. After a childhood with Mother Moonbeam and wearing white cotton panties, I indulge in sexy lingerie the way I imagine a chocoholic indulges in chocolate. Scratch that. I am a chocoholic. I know exactly how we indulge. But you’ve probably gotten the point.

When Anna Nicole was alive, I admit I didn’t pay her too much attention. She got headlines when she married a Texas billionaire some sixty years older and then engaged in extended litigation with his sons over his will.

Her looks lifted her out of what had apparently been a somewhat ramshackle life. But like many celebrities who depend only on their looks and are without any other resources, the attention seemed to do nothing but get her in trouble. She never seemed to me to be a bad person, just sort of out of her league.

So, if anything, I felt kind of sorry for her.

My kids know I’m a devotee of sexy lingerie. My son’s most articulate response is “eeewww gross.” (Believe me, he never sees me in sexy lingerie, but he knows my obsession.) On the other hand, my daughter loves digging around in the packages when they arrive in the mail.

But I’m not too sure I want my kids remembering the lingerie as anything other than a foible by an otherwise responsible real woman. Although I certainly hope my daughter will enjoy lingerie in the same way I do. It makes me feel attractive and sexy. It does wonders for my sometimes sagging morale. And, even if no one sees my thongs or corsets, they make me feel good.

So, I ask myself, what’s Birkhead going to do with that lingerie? Bronze it?

Probably.

In my opinion, this is one child who doesn’t stand much of a chance unless someone sees to it the kid gets a good education. Looking fifteen or twenty years down the pike do you see another Paris Hilton? Or Brittany Spears? I confess, I do. It’s a depressing thought.

So depressing that I notice one of the items Birkhead bought is a pink bustier. I don’t have one. But a quick visit to my favorite lingerie store, www.inhisdreams.com shows me they’re offering a pink Asian inspired corset I don’t have.

I shouldn’t.

I really shouldn’t.

I will.

Real women like and admire alpha women, but we don’t admire alpha rage, especially when the rage resulted from an apparently minor inconvenience.

You know who I’m talking about.

Naomi Campbell was sentenced to 200 hours of community service Friday after pleading guilty to six counts of assault after an “air rage” incident at Heathrow airport.

Naomi was upset because one of her bags was missing, although at her trial she claimed her rage had more to do with being called a “golliwog supermodel.” (A golliwog is a soft doll with a black face in case the term is unfamiliar to you as it was to me.) She couldn’t say exactly who called her a golliwog, but did assert that “I don’t think that’s really fair, do you?”

But there’s more. www.hollywoodscoop.com reports that Naomi has decided to have a child because “I know that with a baby I would change, I’d calm down. With a child you cannot accept compromises. You have to give your full self.”

So like so many celebrities, it’s all about them. A baby would help her with anger management. Yikes.

You have to wonder whether these people realize how much they give away when they open their mouths.
Anyway, I hope social service workers everywhere are taking notice. If she gets so angry about a missing bag she nearly got jail time, think of her reaction at being woken up at night; changing a messy diaper; or, God forbid, gaining a few pounds.

Stay tuned.

After taking the MSNBC poll on whether I read romances, I bought the first and second books in the latest Nora Roberts trilogy, The Sign of Seven. Then, I fixed a plate of cookies, opened a bottle of chardonnay and hit the couch. Real women love romance novels and the couch is where we belong while reading them.

In case you don’t know, and who on the planet doesn’t, Nora Roberts is the doyenne of romance writers. She’s churned out dozens of books under her own name and under the J.D. Robb pseudonym. Romance writers, who love her because she is so good and hate her because she is so very, very good, call her “The Nora.”

I’ve met Nora now three times, if you can call listening to her speak along with a couple of hundred other cheering real women “meeting.” Of course, it isn’t. I know that. But I do feel as if I know her, well, kind of.

Her book covers suggest an average sized person. She’s not. She’s tiny. But she has huge presence, including a deep, smoky voice that carries in a crowd. Best of all she has a no bullshit attitude best described as “stop whining and get to work.”

She says that when she was just starting out, she had rules for her boys. When they were young, she wasn’t to be interrupted unless there was fire or blood. When they got older, the standard changed to arterial blood. (This happened to be my standard, too, only I was just flipping burgers for the kids.)

Although Nora doesn’t mind a glass of wine, you don’t get dozens of books written lying on the couch. She works. Up every day. Early. She says she “vomits” out her first draft and then makes whatever revisions she needs on her second. When she begins a story, she says she knows only two things, that the hero and heroine will fall in love and that there will be a happy ending.

Blood Brothers, Book One of the Sign of seven Trilogy, is classic Nora. Three young boys, aged ten, inadvertently free a centuries-old demon in an eerie clearing near their pre-Revolutionary town. As the boys grow up, the demon gets stronger, striking on the seventh year, the seventh month and the seventh day causing mayhem and murder among the townspeople. As the twenty-first year approaches, three young women are drawn into the town and into the battle with the demon. Blood Brothers is the story of the first couple.

As anyone who has ever read and criticized a romance novel knows, the biggest problem with some of these books is character, the dumb hero with the cute buns and the swooning heroine with windswept tresses.

Not for Nora. The heroine in Blood Brothers is a wise-cracking, whip smart magazine writer who has graduated to writing books. The hero is the slightly anal scion of one of the town’s oldest families who is due for a shake-up in the romance department. (He’s been shaken up plenty in the demon department, trust me. The horror story is rich and detailed with evil versus good in titanic clashes over continents and centuries.)

This is a good meaty read and you won’t get it done in just a couple of hours on the couch. You’ll need to stay there through dinner and probably through Letterman before you can close the last page and say, “Now that was good.”

Theoretically,  I’d say my “type” when it comes to men is tall, blond haired, blue eyed and, of course, gorgeous. Oh, and a great body. Oddly enough, I’ve only known one man that sort of fit that description and he’s very attractive but not gorgeous. Even when celebrities are added to that pool, only a couple are blond and gorgeous—forget the blue eyes and height (six-two+). A couple noteworthies come to mind, David Beckham, naturally, being one of them.

The ultimate blond, Brad Pitt, was beyond delicious in “Troy” although the movie itself would have totally sucked without all the unclad hot men (Brad, Orlando, Eric, Sean et al.) When the flick came out, I snagged a copy of L’Uomo with him sitting in a chair in partial costume on the cover and think it may be one of the all time hottest photos of him.  Check it out:

And another heart-stopping blond (green eyes, though) has to be Gabriel Aubry. Anyone who’s caught his Macy’s commercial where Martha Stewart checks out his butt and Mariah Carey’s sighs an “Oh, my….” has surely noticed the guy is hot!  But don’t take my word for it—check him out in this Calvin Klein advert:

And for the Macy’s advert check out youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JgD7hisKbIA

If anyone wants to appropriate one of those Gabriel posters for my birthday…..

Alouette

Like real women everywhere, I have friends who don’t read romance novels. I ignore this failing in these friends, the same way I ignore people who like well done steak. That is, I discount it against other, more appealing qualities.

Reading romance novels is a way of life. Sure, there are some which fail the most elementary literacy/plot/character tests. But not many. And, although I like paranormals, I will admit I’m getting a little tired of sexy vamp stories, although I read those by J.R. Ward like the weekly grocery ads. And, trust me, if one appears that my friends love, I’m right back in line at the bookstore. I know myself well enough to understand this is just a temporary malaise.

A marvelous blog at www.smartbitchestrashybooks.com reviews romance novels exclusively and grades them from A-F and includes another category which consigns the worst to “The Dump.”

I tend to follow their advice.

And I’m sure to always pick up books reviewed by egregious snots beginning their comments with such witticisms such as “a book for readers who move their lips.”

What prompted this rant is a poll by MSNBC accompanying the release of a new Danielle Steel novel which asks readers if they read, don’t read or sometimes read bodice-rippers.

The findings are sure to surprise anyone whose sole source of reliable information is reality television. At this writing, roughly 50% of respondents are voting “yes, yes, bodice-rippers are the ultimate.”

Well, of course, they are. Hunky men daring impossible odds. Conflicted, striving women. Well researched (usually) exotic or historical settings. Challenges met and overcome. The invariable happy ending.

So, if you already love romance novels, hop over to the MSNBC poll and vote. http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/25191970/

If not, do what roughly 55% of the book buying public does: pick up a romance. You’ll be hooked.

Real women pay attention to important real world developments such as the news yesterday that a Los Angeles woman was harmed pulling on a Victoria’s Secret v-string.

According to news reports, greeted by many bloggers with justifiable skepticism, a metallic element flew off the thong and damaged her cornea. It caused her to miss work as a traffic cop for a few days and “will affect her for the rest of her life,” according to her lawyer Jason Buccat, who is undoubtedly handling the case on a contingency basis.

I once had a young woman who looked after the kids when they were toddlers. She proudly told me her sister was buying a house funded by two settlements from Wal-Mart, the pay off for “slip and falls.”

The term was unfamiliar to me, then. When I asked an attorney friend, he told me that large corporations like Wal-Mart are routinely sued by people claiming in-store injuries such as slipping and falling. Rather than take these nuisance suits to court, the companies settle them and pass the costs on to the consumer.

Long ago, I was shocked that people do this. But, having had my eyes opened, I suspect this is such a case.

However, it’s unsettling that the v-string and its sister, the g-string, might get a bad rap because of a nuisance law suit. Will Victoria’s Secret and other thong manufacturers have to print warnings the way MacDonald’s has to warn that hot coffee is hot? It boggles the mind.

Real women need them. I have a drawer full of them. They’re sexy. Men love them. Practically, they leave no visible panty line (VPL, a technical term) under skirts and pants. And, they’re inexpensive.

Also, thinking this through, it’s highly unlikely that even the most forceful tug on a v-string would result in what one blogger called “projectile thongs.”

So in support of Victoria’s Secret and manufacturers of g- and v-string thongs everywhere, and to show I have no fear of projectile thongs, I’m going to buy some today…with metallic elements. Check out my favorites at http://www.inhisdreams.com/pantiesthongs2.html

Some of my darling friends have visited this blog and because they are my darling friends, they haven’t hesitated in sharing their opinions.

“But, Lesli,” one said, “it’s supposed to be about romance. You’re talking about your daughter.”

“That’s true,” I said, “but it’s called romance for real women. Real women have children and we have to train them not only to be real women, but to appreciate real women.”

That didn’t wash.

“But that’s not romantic.”

“Try being romantic if your daughter is in a snit about a bathing suit,” I returned.

She was mum.

I went on the attack. “Try having a romantic evening when she’s in tears because you didn’t buy the bikini.”

“Try having sex while your son is whining because he wants a tattoo.”

I would go on, but it’d start to sound as if I was feeling sorry for myself.

At any rate, we went on to discuss more important subjects like the new Hulk movie. But she got me thinking.

The construct of real romance consists of all the day-to-day influences impacting our lives and how we live and think about life.

To me, it’s romantic my son feels he can share his woes with my partner and that my partner can be trusted to deal with the tattoo issue gently.

It’s romantic that my partner tells my insecure little girl she looks beautiful in her swimsuit.

These things fan the still beating flames of a long relationship. They tell me something about him and not so incidentally help me handle sensitive domestic issues.

In the bigger picture, broad, societal attitudes toward marriage, sex, and children inevitably affect our own attitudes.

Is it important for real women to know that more than 30 percent of the nation’s children don’t live with either parent while almost 20 percent of children live with a single parent, usually the mother? Does this fact affect our view of romance? Our attitudes and expectations for a partner?

I think it does and I think we need to stay aware of them.

So, I’ll continue to report and comment on them. Just as I’ll continue to report and comment on trends in sexy lingerie, chocolate, jewelry and other things dear to my still romantic heart.

My sweet daughter, Elizabeth, a real woman in training, came to me yesterday and asked the following question: “Moooom,” she said, stretching out the syllable, “Do you think I’m fat?”

Oh. My. God.

Elizabeth will be in seventh grade in the fall. She’s slim and tall. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. She does well in school and has been a gymnast since she was in the third grade. She has lots of friends and their greatest joy appears to be sleepovers where they paint their nails odd colors. They text each other constantly. They have serious discussions about clothes and boys.

She is the girlie-girl I never was and in no sense is she overweight.

Caught by surprise, I said, “Who told you that?”

She shrugged and twirled the ends of her hair. “Nobody.” After a moment, she added, “Maybe Heather.”

Ah, ha. Heather. My least favorite of her little chums, Heather is a know-it-all who always wears a sly expression as if she’s constantly monitoring any situation for her own advantage. No, I’m not fond of Heather. Now I like her less. And, in the spirit of truth in blogging, I should add that Heather actually is a little overweight.

However, I long ago learned that direct attacks on little friends from Mom are rarely productive. So instead of launching into a diatribe about Heather, her parents and forebears tracing not so many generations back to ape men, I merely asked how the question came up.

Still twirling her hair, Beth said, “Well, we were talking about Crystal’s swimming party.”

Crystal’s swimming party, the social event of the season, endlessly discussed. All the classmates are invited including, yikes, boys. Crystal’s party is the reason we’ve been on not one, but two shopping trips to find just the right bathing suit, a sweet little yellow one piece suit with flowers and a tiny skirt.

“Darling,” I say, “don’t you think you look wonderful in your bathing suit?’

“I don’t know,” she says and now her head is down, her face covered by her hair.

“Well, I do,” I say decisively. “Did you know that department store light is the worst place to look at yourself in a bathing suit?”

That gets her interest and an eye peeks out behind the curtain of hair.

“Yep,” I continue. “In all the years I’ve been buying bathing suits for myself, I’ve never, ever tried them on in those fluorescent lights.” This is true. I don’t. I can take only so much in a given day.

“But I did,” she said softly.

“Yes, you did and you looked great. Didn’t you?” I go for the kill.

She shrugs again, but this time I get a smile and a hug and she’s off, probably to text a friend.

I’m shaken. I think I’ve dealt with the immediate issue fairly well. But this is one I’m going to have to keep an eye on.

CBS is set to air a new series tonight called Swingtown, a “drama with comic elements” about three Midwest couples “wading into the rising waters of the sexual revolution sweeping the nation during the mid-seventies.”

Well, not to challenge the network’s grasp of social history, but the sexual revolution swept the country in the middle sixties. The pill which liberated women from the fear of unwanted pregnancy became available in the United States in 1960. Three years later, some 1.2 million were using it to prevent pregnancy.

The availability of the pill was a crucial influence in creating the sexual revolution, but so, too, was the confluence of several other important events. Betty Friedan spoke to millions of women in The Feminine Mystique,” an examination of the hollowness of the post-war roles prescribed for women. A string of assassinations, JFK, RFK and MLK, rocked the nation before Vietnam tore it apart. By the mid-70s, Nixon was gone, the war was over, and so, too, was the sexual “revolution,” although clearly sexual mores had changed forever.

Those of you who have read any of this blog know that my mother was a charter member of the sixties generation. Some of you might even remember it was called the “free love” generation, a term she’s always detested. So when I noticed that Swingtown was set to air, I asked her about it. Swinging, that is.

“Bunny,” she said, “none of us ever thought about swinging. It’s so cold, so clinical. If we wanted to make love, we did. We still do.” (Author’s note: Mom insisted I include that part of her quote. Author’s second note: Yes, she calls me ‘Bunny.”) “But I certainly never went to any party to swap partners,” she concluded.

She actually didn’t conclude. Mom said a lot more on the subject of free love in the sixties, her own in particular, which I firmly declined to quote and would frankly rather not know. Nevertheless her point is a good one. Physical love freely given and received between consenting adults outside a committed relationship is fine. Not for me. But fine.

But parties…with tubs of whip cream, bowls of cherries and cheap wine…communal romps in dirty sheets…crowding against naked strangers in a hot tub? CBS may see the potential for “drama with comic elements.” I see heartache.

Which brings me to my own experience. I’ve known couples who were swingers. They confused Mom’s philosophy of free love, a young, exuberant pushing of the envelope, with the sterile coupling of strangers in a futile effort to recapture youth or grasp at empty pleasure.

To a person, all the couples I’ve known who tried swinging, broke up. Their relationships fractured under the weight. Not surprising, but pitiful.

I haven’t seen Swingtown yet and I’m not sure I will. I’ve seen what it can do to decent people and the danger is far greater than the risk of STD or HIV, something Mom’s generation never worried about.

If you’re tempted, think very carefully. Then, my advice is: Take a pass.