That odd little disclaimer at the beginning, the one that had made me pause countless times over the years, the thing that I never understood but was too excited by what came next to stop and fully ponder…

It finally made complete and total sense.

And it was horrible.

At first, I was too aware of the box-cutter in my hand to really pay attention to what she was explaining. The thing, with its hunter-safety orange plastic outfit and  grimy little razor-blade  that was never actually sharp enough to cut through the tougher cardboard but still quite sufficient at slicing off a bit of flesh here and there, was always accompanied by a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was far too clumsy to handle such things with grace and ease. And it knew it.

I followed her down the aisle, stopping here and there to tidy up or to discuss the latest plot, the newest intrigue. We’d been the best of  friends for over a decade, the nuances of her speech as familiar to me as the back of my own hand. As we headed to the front of the store, nothing in her voice that day gave away the nightmare that was to come. Later, after it was all said and done, I’d look back and recognize the play there. After all, we’d been the best of friends for over a decade. She knew my predictable reaction to such things as well as the back of her hand. The sense of betrayal was overwhelming.

She handed me a folded sheet of paper, and I gladly set aside my tacky and sweat-inducing weapon in order to read through it. The contents on that paper were divided into five  main sections, the first three completely unsurprising; the final two consisting of numbered columns, one called ‘pull’ and the other ‘keep’. I wondered if I needed to go back for boxes. She gave a tight shake of her head and held out two rather ominous black bags originally  intended for lawn waste or contractor work. I’d used a similar grade once to cover up a busted window in my car. I called them lick and stick windows and reminded her of the tale as we started pulling and keeping as the list demanded. We were still giggling like school girls when she reached for her blade.

I then watched in horror as she folded back the covers of  literary greats and non-greats, classic literature and popular fiction, social science and unauthorized biographies. I watched in horror as she folded back the covers of both Shakespeare and Stephen King alike. I watched in horror as she folded back the covers of overstocked paperbacks left over from the holiday season, sliced them off, and then threw them away in one of those great big bags intended for trash.

I felt an overwhelming desire to hiss at her- to hiss at my best friend the way a mob would at a witch burning. My best friend, the butcher of books.

In shock, I turned my head away from the carnage laid out before me and looked over the bookstore that had become my second home- the place I could be found even when not scheduled to work. I grasped the title in my hand close to my chest and breathed in lungfuls of type, page, and leather- my most favorite smells in all of the world next to the sweet smell of my newborn’s  head. I thought back through all of the years, all of the books, all of the tiny disclaimers that I never understood but was too excited by what came next to stop and fully ponder…

And I hated my job.

This post was written for a {W}rite of Passage prompt: Challenge #5 – The Job.

The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham, Book 1)

We’ve discussed that I’m a sucker for the bodice-rippers, right? To be specific, I love regency-era romances. To be even more specific, I love Julia Quinn. When we saw this book on the shelf, my sister picked it up and started reading the back cover…

“Why are you reading the back?”

“To see what its about, duh.”

“Does it matter? We’re going to buy it anyhow.”

“Good point.”

That’s how much I like Julia Quinn- I’ll read her regardless.

Of anything.

The Lost Duke was good. Not one of my favorites of hers- but good. The hero was very interesting-albeit somewhat of a more “modern” character- and the heroine delightful. The whole “falling in love bit” seemed to go over much more easily and quickly than usual… but the storyline surrounding the fact that he was literally a lost duke gave me enough of a distraction not to notice (too much).

The next book in the series looks much more promising, however.

No cover needed.

Although not nearly as fabulous as The Other Boleyn Girl, The Boleyn Inheritance is likewise full of history and intrigue. Plus, I always enjoy seeing Jane Parker get her comeuppance. :)

I can’t begin to tell you how fabulous this series is… I loved every moment of every page.

(Hmmmm… I really wanted to hyphenate that for some reason. Perhaps I’m a book-whore instead. Or maybe a bookwhore? Dude, it’s far too complicated to call oneself disparaging names in type. Makes a girl wanna opt for the golden standard of Goddess instead.)

Hi! My name is Judith, and I am a Goddess.

And now that we’ve got the introductions out of the way, I thought we’d move on to our regularly scheduled posting- which isn’t so regularly scheduled at all. (Did you know that I have an entire category called Excuses,Excuses solely for  posts where I blog about not blogging.  I’m afraid my hypocrisy irony knows no bounds.) Due to a little bit of this and a little bit of that, the design site is terribly behind; and I’ve been been playing non-stop catch-up… and getting no where.

Hi! My name is Judith, and I am frustrated beyond measure.

So what’s a frustrated, book-whorish Goddess such as myself to do? She gives it to you fast and hard, baby, and then promises to come back once you’re  able and give it to you long and soft hard… Just like you like it.

And without further adieu, I give you this week’s…

Fabulous Judith’s Fabulously Short List of Fabulously Short Posts that Never Were (or FJFSLFSPNW for short)

The Women’s Studies section of the local bookstore is a sad, sad, little three-inch section that consists of one used copy of The Feminine Mystique and two shiny new copies of The Politically Incorrect Guide to Women, Sex, and Feminism (which I keep moving to the humor section, of course). Yet I return week after week on the off-chance that someone in their little hierarchy may have finally grown a uterus or a pair of decent balls (and to move the guidebook back to humor lest someone actually take it seriously).

As sad as the above section is, it just so happens to be right next to the reference section where. last week,  I just so happened to come across Classic Clues for Real Life: The Classic Wit & Wisdom of Nancy Drew- which more than made up for its $17 price tag with gems like these:

• • “Red lipstick makes a great window SOS when you’ve been kidnapped and stolen away on a plane.” The Mystery of the Fire Dragon
  • “Keeping an emergency five dollars in your purse is a great idea- until your purse is stolen.” The Mystery at the Ski Jump
  • “Be careful around your klutzy friends, you might get dragged over a cliff.” The Secret of the Golden Pavilion
  • “You know he’s the right guy for you when he can dismantle a mad scientist’s powerful transmitter and save the world!” Mystery of the Moss-Covered Mountain

Last Saturday, some dipshit and a half came into the backyard and stole Peter’s four-wheeler (I’ve mentioned that we’re hicks, right?). When telling the Middle One about the theft, he says with all seriousness, “I’ll need a Spiderman mask and some web.”

My ass is seriously out of control (Perhaps because I sit in front of a computer screen all day?). So, I started Nutri-System on Wednesday. I’m down three pounds in two days… The food isn’t to die for; but with nifty little packets of powder that magically turn into chocolate cakes and chicken enchiladas, I get to pretend to be an astronaut.  (Which isn’t at all as fun as I thought it would be.)

I’ve suddenly starting receiving CosmoGirl, Latina Magazine, Seventeen, and TeenVogue out of the blue… I have an odd feeling that someone is trying to tell me something, although I have no idea what. But according to the “Find Your Perfect Prom Date” quiz that I filled out, I’ve been dating the wrong kind of men for years.

It is my firm belief that every woman should know her  correct bra-size. If you don’t, I pity you. (Email me and I’ll tell you how to fit yourself.)

Finally had the “laminated list” conversation with the husband… Took him four hours to settle on Jessica Biel for all of his five spots. Took me four hours to narrow it down to five (who, unsurprisingly, all have delectable accents). Took us four seconds to narrow it down to who was the more wanton.

Now wasn’t that a good idea? :)

P.S. Do I have your address?  I’m also a stationary/notecard whore, ummmmm, stationary/notecard-whore and actually still practice the art of the written word (Oh the horror!). I already send random notes to Qweenie over at Qweenie’s Court and Rachel of Monkeys & Princesses. If you’d like a little Shakespearean love of your own, visit my Ask Judith section and leave me your info.

First off, I’d like to sincerely apologize for writing to you at this time of year. I mean, seriously, who writes Santa in April? Everyone knows how hard you work during the winter and that the rest of the year is reserved for a well-deserved bit of hiatus. To bother a mythical being on hiatus is simply not done.

And I assure you; it is not at all like me to do that which is simply not done. (Well, sometimes it is… You know, now that I think about it, I generally do a lot of things that are simply not done. But never ever when it comes to mythical beings. Well, until this very moment that is…)

However, due to some rather harrowing recent events, I felt that I had no other alternative but to contact you- hiatus or no.

You see, The Other Boleyn Girl sucked.

You’re probably reading this and thinking, WTF? (You do say fuck, don’t you? I mean, even mythical beings gotta keep it real, right? No? Oh, sorry about that, dude. It’s just an acronym, you know. The ‘F’ could stand for something a little less abrasive like fudge or frog or  foreigner or  firehouse or  fat chubby… Your choice. Now where were we? Oh, yes…)

You’re probably reading this and thinking, What the fudge? What in all that is candy canes and holly does The Other Boleyn Girl have to do with me? Or even Christmas for that matter?

Well, Santa, there’s a long and a short answer to that question; and for the sake of sanity (and your obvious aversion to profanity), we’re going to try to Cliff Note it all down to a few paragraphs and a trackback or two.

As I was saying, Santa, The Other Boleyn Girl sucked.

Maybe I should clarify that- The Other Boleyn Girl, the movie, sucked. Not the book. The book was actually rather fantastic and drew you in in less time than it takes a toddler to Picasso the hallway (His name is The Middle One by the way. He’s on that list of yours somewhere. Bring coal.). Ms. Gregory did a beautiful job of creating characters that the reader loved to hate and  hated to love. She built us a new window into an old tale- a story into a history book. So, no. Not the book. Never the book.

So how is it that a movie titled and based off of such a book lead me to such desperate measures as writing Father Christmas in the middle of spring?

Simple.

They fucked fudged it all up.

Yes, I know you’re thinking, Well, duh, Judith. Those book to movie projects never work out. Just look at Gone with the Wind.

And while I agree to some extent, there are the occasional flashes of light in the dark which continue to give me hope. Plus, you’ve got to give me a little credit here, in no way was I expecting it to come close to the brilliance of the book. Not at all.

But, damn darn it, if Gone with the Wind (the movie) can keep the Civil War, then the freaking Tudors can keep the Pope.  C’mon, two measly lines about the split from Rome and not a damn bleep about religion whatsoever. Might as well have made Scarlett go hungry simply because she was a picky eater.

Perhaps they were trying to keep the focus on the personal relationships rather than the politics?

Good call, Santa.

But you know what? They fucked fudged that up as well.

There were no personal relationships! The movie left out every ounce of feeling, every ounce of emotion. With the exception of the Boleyn mother (whose character was definitely the most developed and intriguing although nothing at all like the mother from the novel), none of the characters were allowed to take hold of the audience or even their fellow characters. Where was the relationship between the siblings? The relationship between Henry and Anne?

Perhaps they were implied?

Really, Santa, if you continue to insist on interrupting this letter, I’m afraid that you’ll only prolong my rambling- which is never a good idea. Just ask the tooth fairy.

But to answer your interruption question, no. Nothing was implied. The movie was two hours of blatant lust, manipulation, rivalry, ambition, and… Well, nothing important. We were told that Anne was bad. Henry (with the exception of a brief thirty-second scene) was good.

And that was that-

Which would be fine and dandy if that were what the book was about.

Oh? And Santa? Did I mention that I drove five hours TWICE to see this film? Barefoot, in the snow, and uphill both ways too.

So now we’re back to the point where you’re probably reading this and thinking, What the fudge? What in all that is candy canes and holly does The Other Boleyn Girl have to do with me? Or even Christmas for that matter?

The fact is, it doesn’t.

But it was a great build-up to me asking for a bow-topped Jonathan Rhys-Meyers for my stocking this year, now wasn’t it?

Have a happy period hiatus!

Judith

P.S. If you do happen to come across the people responsible for all of this, would you mind letting them know that they left a really important little bit of a line out of the film? You know, the one that says that Mary’s first husband is dead? That way, the people who haven’t read the book (really, go out and get it now, NOW) won’t be sitting around more confused than necessary. Thanks.

P.S.S. Oh, yeah! The bow thing is completely optional. if you don’t have time to dress wrap him, no biggie. I’m sure I can deal.

Hilary Swank is, by far, one of my favorite actresses. No one, and I mean no one, who has ever seen Boys Don’t Cry can claim not to like her without me thinking that they’re tasteless freaks with a fondness for stupidity. (No, I’m not calling you stupid for not liking Hilary Swank… I’m calling you a tasteless freak who enjoys being stupid. Not necessarily a compliment, I know, but it’s still not "stupid".)

But as much as I love her, I was a little disappointed when I found out that she was to have the lead in P.S. I Love You.

You see, I read P.S. I Love You. And it was one of those very rare novels that had me anxiously awaiting to see the movie version of a book that I hated. Yes…

Hated it.

You read that in the voice, right? Because I so typed that in the voice. And for those of you who have no idea what voice to which I’m referring, you are far too young and/or pop-culturally deficient to be at this blog. Step back from the computer- it’s just a jump to the left and then a step to the right… Nevermind. I can tell that you’re hopelessly lost. Moving on now.

I generally avoid reading popular fiction because, all too often, it is
written for the popular masses. (Imagine that.) And those popular masses? They be
hatin’ on the adjectives, yo. And P.S. I Love You definitely falls into the popular fiction category.

The book read like a vintage Dick and Jane. It wasn’t cute, or light, or fun, or even endearing. It was a telegram. Stop. In bound form. Stop. That lived in my bathroom. Stop. For months. Stop. Even though I usually read through a book in a day. Stop.

That’s rather annoying, isn’t it? Okay, I’m stopping now.

But the plot?

The plot had so much potential.

And with each turn of the page, I could see myself one day thumbing my nose in the face of danger and joyfully sitting down amongst stale popcorn and rude cell phone users to weep in public.

Translation for those of you who count yourselves among the aforementioned popular masses:

I would see this movie.

Dick and Jane would see this movie too.

So if I was actually expecting this to be a good movie, why was I so disappointed  that Hilary Swank was going to be in it?  Well, because I wasn’t so sure that it would be that good of a movie…  and I was afraid that I would be disappointed in her for taking the role.

Until I saw her multiple leading men, that is.

Gerard Butler, Jeffrey Dean Morgan, and Harry Connick, Jr.?

We’re talking hot and Scottish, hot and would have his quadruplets, and hot and croon-y and Louisianian.

Hillary Swank is no longer one of my all-time favorite actresses… She is my hero.

And this past weekend, I  finally found time to properly worship her as she so deserved . Although, I would definitely suggest to any of you out there who suffer from anything similar to my "there’s a stranger breathing on me and he didn’t even buy me a drink" syndrome not to venture out to the theater on a Friday night in a town where the weekend to-do for every teenager within a hundred miles is to put on her mother’s hooker heels and glitter eyeliner, catch a movie, and then parade around the local Wal-Mart. It makes for really long lines in the bathrooms.

As for the movie, itself:

I laughed. I cried. I drooled… a lot. (They gave them guitars, for Pete’s sake.) It was cute, and fun, and endearing and well worth my "Get Out of The House for Free" card.  And now I find myself in the rather ridiculous position of being the person that actually says with a straight face:

Skip the book; they’ve got a movie.