I present to you one of my idols. The beautiful, talented, sultry Eartha Kitt.
Why was this woman so fabulous? How much more of her fabulous (outside of her Catwoman role) did I miss? And oh my god the pigtails with that song – she reminds me of someone I know …
(Thanks, Wilfredo!)
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This video made me giggle:
Think there is some way I can employ a similar strategy with publishing editors? Hmmm … ** rubs chin deviously **
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I was just chatting with a guy friend when the subject of video games came up. When he discovered that I’m a hardcore gamer (or at least I would still be if I actually had some real free time), he nearly flipped.
Why is it that guys still act so surprised when I say that I love video games? I often receive the strangest reactions when I say that I like more than just puzzle games, Wii Tennis and The Sims, and that I play games like Oblivion, Mass Effect, Halo and Everquest. Why the shock? Surely I’m not the only girl out there who enjoys deeply engaging, exciting and challenging games.
Thinking about it some more though, it does seem like I am always either reading or hearing women complain about their men playing games, or hearing men complain about their women complaining about them playing games.
So now I’m really curious. Why DON’T more girls play games? It is almost as much of a mystery to me as boys and books. There’s plenty of things for a gal to love about electronic gaming:
I’ve heard people say that most games are only geared towards men and that is why so much fewer women play, but I’m not so sure. Plenty of games allow you to play a female character, and I think fun gameplay is fun regardless of your gender. I consider myself a girly girl but I still enjoy games of every genre. The only games I don’t get into much are sports, but I’d be willing to dunk some virtual hoops with the hubby if he’ll agree to give the latest romance novel I’m in love with a try.
That’s fair game, right?
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I had a discussion with a male associate yesterday that I can’t get off my mind. He said:
“I only read non-fiction. Fiction is better in movies and fictional books are a waste of time.”
He isn’t the first man to tell me this, either. Me being a writer, I had no choice but to express my disagreement with him. I told him that they are two different mediums and that although I love a good movie myself, there is something about the way a book mentally stimulates you and moves you creatively that a movie can never replicate.
His response was pretty much, “Eh.”
As I was trying to come up with some good books to suggest to him, he surprised me by informing me that he did find my short story Being Sincere rather intriguing. Being the extra macho type that he is, I never would have pegged him for one interested in fantasy or romance. But when I thought about it further, it made sense. I could see how this guy could relate to the powerful but stoic male main character in the story. I told him that if he liked that, he just may really enjoy more of my stories or novels.
Which then got me to thinking – why DON’T more men (straight men, anyways) read romance, especially those that fall under the paranoraml fantasy and sci-fi subgenres? They’ve got action, tension, danger, bad guys, cool alpha males, gorgeous babes and hot sex.
What’s there not for a guy to like in tales like that?
Perhaps men are just generally more visual creatures than women and have more difficulity getting excited over text. Or maybe it is simply the outdated assumption by guys that all romances are sweet and frilly and are for girls only. Or maybe I’m just wrong altogether, and most guys WOULD pick up more romances if only there weren’t half naked men on the book covers. I really want to know!
Either way, I usually have male readers in the back of my mind when I write and try to include content and perspectives that I imagine they would enjoy, even though I know that in general I am creating stories for a female audience. But still, I can’t help but hope that I can be one of those authors that both men and women don’t mind getting hot and bothered over. If anybody can help provide me with some further insight on this topic I’d love to hear it!
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You are on the commuter train heading to work. The annoying person sitting next to you is on their cell phone, chatting up a storm. You press your face against the window and attempt to tune them out.
But you hear her going on and on about how expensive her dream wedding is going to be, about how much the live band costs, how much extra they had to pay for the open bar with top shelf liquor, the caviar and lobster that they were going to serve, and how the guest list has grown from 300 to 450. She says that it is a good thing that she and her fiancé have been living frugally and saving for all of those years.
You cringe as you reluctantly listen and think about how you and your family are struggling financially. Your son needs to go to the dentist and your daughter needs glasses, but your job doesn’t provide health insurance. The property taxes on your house have gone up and you don’t have a clue how you are going to afford the higher mortgage payment.
The chatty passenger starts gathering her things. “I’m about to go pay the banquet hall this 50 grand now before I make my way to go taste the cakes at the bakery. My stop is coming up – I’ll talk to you later!” you hear her say. As she stands up and heads to the door, a bank envelope falls out of her bag. You pick it up. Inside it you see 10 crisp, $5,000 bills. You look up and see that she is almost at the door and the train is slowing down but still has not yet come to a full stop. You have about 20 seconds before she exits the train.
You are on the commuter train heading to work. The annoying person sitting next to you is on their cell phone, chatting up a storm. You press your face against the window and attempt to tune them out.
But you hear him going on and on about how much he has made today, and laughs at how rich he is getting between the stock market and selling people a bunch of stuff they really don’t need. He said he makes so much money, he can pay to take care of his wife and kids AND to put his mistress up in a nice penthouse apartment.
You cringe as you reluctantly listen, and think about how you and your family are struggling financially. Your son needs to go to the dentist and your daughter needs glasses, but your job doesn’t provide health insurance. The property taxes on your house have gone up, and you don’t have a clue how you are going to afford the higher mortgage payment.
The chatty passenger starts gathering his things. “I’m about to go to meet up with Lisa to buy her a brand new car, whatever she wants, with 50 grand in cash. Yeah, I have to do it that way so there is no paper trail for Tracy to find out. My stop is coming up – I’ll talk to you later!” you hear him say. As he stands up and heads to the door, a bank envelope falls out of his jacket pocket. You pick it up. Inside it you see 10 crisp, $5,000 bills. You look up and see that he is almost at the door and the train is slowing down but still has not yet come to a full stop. You have about 20 seconds before he exits the train.
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… I will know before I buy them, because I have no qualms trying on shoes at the store. But if the pants/skirt/shorts/blouse fit – or rather don’t fit – I likely won’t know that until I have already purchased and brought them home. As it stands right now, I have about 15 pieces of clothing that I need to return/exchange because they don’t fit the way I’d like them to.
My husband thinks I am crazy. You see, he was unenthusiastically pushing around our two sons in shopping carts and making quite less than successful attempts to keep them quiet and content while I did my shopping. At least three times he suggested I try some of the articles of clothing on first. Each time, I shrugged my shoulders and kept pushing along, refusing to try on a single thing.
Why? Perhaps it is only my imagination, but it seems as if most fitting rooms at regular stores that I’ve been in have cursed mirrors that makes you look twice your size and extra flabby/saggy/soggy in it, and this wicked lighting that illuminates every single blemish/stretch line/bite mark on your body from head to toe.
Fitting rooms are eeeeevil. Evil, I tell you!
So as strange as it may be, I’d rather go through the hassle of having to return or exchange stuff than to go through that torture. I prefer to try on clothes at home where I look MUCH more fabulous in the mirror. The last time I used the fitting room at a store, I stripped down to my undies to try on a couple of bathing suits. I am still recovering from that horrifying experience.
This is The Verbal Vixen signing out after an oh-so-random rant.
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I never liked playing tag when I was a kid. No matter how fast I ran, it seemed like there was always somebody faster than me! Ugh at being IT! *laughs* But perhaps I’ll like playing it in hyperspace a bit better – no running involved, it seems. I have been tagged by an online pal, Folk, as part of a blogging game. Here are the rules:
1. Link the person who tagged you.
2. Mention the rules in your blog.
3. Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours.
4. Tag 6 following bloggers by linking them.
5. Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged.
6 Unspectacular Quirks About Verbal Vixen
Six bloggers I’m tagging: bigginsrus, z’maji, demon hunter, theBully, ashirin and the quiet storm
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You are at work. While going through a pile of documents, you casually listen to the radio on your Zune to make the boring paperwork you have to do more bearable.
There is an emergency news alert. Some disturbed child has turned terrorist, and is shooting at teachers and students alike at a local high school. When the police arrived on the scene after receiving numerous 911 calls from multiple cell phones, people could be seen trying climb out of the school’s windows because the shooters had padlocked all of the doors.
You frown as you listen to the story, thinking to yourself about how violent the youth of today are. You are glad that you don’t have to worry about your own teenager. She goes to a good school where you don’t have to worry about stuff like that happening.
Something the announcer says catches your ear, and suddenly you freeze in your chair as you give your full attention to the news. Did they say the name of your child’s school? You hold your breath as you wait and listen. Officers have entered the building and bodies are everywhere, but the gunman has escaped and is nowhere to be found. Half a minute goes by and they say the name of the school again.
It IS your child’s school.
Immediately you call your child’s cell phone. Voicemail picks up. You leave a message demanding that your daughter call you as soon as possible to tell you if she is okay. You let her know that you are heading home.
You call off for the rest of the afternoon, explaining that there is a family emergency as you hurry out of the office. You turn on the news station as you fly down the road towards your child’s school. You try not to panic too much as they relay the death toll, which continues to rise as they discover more bodies.
Tears of worry stream down your cheeks. Your daughter is your only child, the only family you have. You pray furiously that she is okay.
When you arrive at the school, the scene is horrible. Ambulances, fire trucks and police cars are everywhere. Adults, children and parents are crying. People are being carried out of the building on stretchers, many in body bags.
Frantically you approach officers, asking them how you can find your daughter. They tell you that there is nothing you can do there amongst the chaos, and to go home in case your child has gone there. They tell you that if your daughter has been found to be a victim, you will be contacted at home. You scan the faces of the crowd for your daughter and leave another message on her voicemail. Reluctantly you go home, which is only several blocks away.
As soon as you get in the house, you hear noises. Relieved, but anxious to see to your child’s well being, you run upstairs and burst into your daughter’s room. She is in her underwear and is stuffing her clothes into a trash bag.
“Baby are you all right?”
Clearly startled, your daughter jumps up. “What are you doing home?!”
“I heard on the news about what happened at your school. Why are you throwing your clothes away?”
Your daughter looks down. “Um, they got someone’s blood on them,” she says.
Your heart thumps against your chest. “Oh no, don’t tell me you were standing next to someone who got shot?” You ask. Before your child gets to answer, there is a loud knocking at the door. You both look out of the window and see three police cars in front of your home.
You move to go answer the door, but your daughter grabs your arm. “No, don’t answer it!” she says.
“It’s okay baby, it’s just the police. They probably just want to talk to you because you were there.”
“Don’t tell them I’m here, then,” your child insists.
“Why not? I’m sure they just want to ask questions to help catch who did this. Why don’t you want talk to them?”
“Because it was me,” your child blurts out, tears in her eyes. “I’m the one who shot all those people!”
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Ever sit around and wonder why? I do. Here are some random thoughts of mine:
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