If You Belonged Here

Bookgirl Brings Culture & Polly is Begging the Question 8

Well, okay. Not really culture, since we're launching with vampire fiction. But books.

Yes, it's the If You Belonged Here book club. We can't all get together and drink wine and gossip and not talk about the book, like real book clubs do, but this is the next best thing. And there's no reason you can't light a candle, put out a tray of crackers and cheese, and pour yourself a nice big glass of wine when you weigh in, to get the general book club ambiance. Except Pandora. We don't condone under-age drinking here. Ahem.

First book up is Vampire Academy by Richelle Mead, which The Daily Beast called "the obvious heir to the Twilight throne." Since I can safely say that we seven are, collectively, Twilight addicts, this seemed like the perfect place to start.

Here's the premise:

St. Vladimir's Academy is a hidden boarding school where vampires are educated in the ways of magic, and half-human teens train to protect them. Rose Hathaway is the bodyguard for her best friend Lissa, a vampire princess. Together, they've got powers that are very rare, and must be kept secret even from the teachers. But someone is out to expose them, and their lives might be in danger.

I've read it already, and trust me on this one. It's yummy.

There's romance and best friend bonding and magic and yes, vampires. And a smoking hot love interest that,well, makes me uncomfortable for feeling that way about a character in a book.

Let's just say if people start popping up with "Team Dmitri" buttons, I won't be surprised.

Imagine all the helpless longing and "oh my God why won't you two just make out already????" anticipation of the early Twilight books. Except with a heroine who doesn't basically stand around and blink when things get tough.

Like I said, totally yummy. And there are already four books out, so none of that horrible "waiting for the author to write the next one" drudgery.

If you want to read more about it, there's a series website. Or you can just take my word for it and read it. All the cool kids are doing it.

We reconvene for the discussion on January 11th. Get reading, my little bookworms!

Oh, but before you go, let's play our game:

If you were living in a fantasy world--no comment--which mythical creature would you be? or would you prefer to remain a human? would you be the seducer or the one seduced?

Okay, I'm going to throw it out there. This was not my question. It came from Pandora, by way of Polly. I never, in a million years, would have chosen it.

Because my answer is embarrassing.

Not embarrassing in the normal "Bookgirl falls down publicly" or "gets her nipple stuck in a drawer" way that I'm so fond of sharing. But embarrassing because it's so not in line with the edgy, I'll-try-anything way I like to portray myself.

The truth is that I wouldn't want to be a supernatural creature. I just want to be me. I wouldn't mind some enhanced grace and athleticism (see above comment about my frequent accidents) or the power to read minds or teleport. But I like sunshine and the beach and my family and food.

In my own fantasy story, I would be the mortal. The one the handsome immortal couldn't live without and was willing to go to the ends of the Earth for.

Sigh...

The Model is a Dime a Dozen

So, the other day, I went out to lunch with Rex and El Spawn Numero Dos. We went to one of those little bread-themed places--like your Paneras and what have you--and sat outside on the patio. 

That's when it hit us: the foul stench of cheap perfume. 

We had sat down next to a table containing this girl-woman, I'd guess she was 24-ish, and her two male friends. She was a tall brunette--probably my height--with an okay face and terrible skin, maybe slightly on the chubby side, and definitely dressed up. Heels and tight clothes.

But really the best way I can describe her is that she looked cheap. The guys were sort of nondescript douchebags.

If people-watching were an Olympic sport, I'd be on the U.S. team, so of course I was eavesdropping on their conversation.

She was describing this choice she had to make. Someone--I don't know who, I obviously missed that part of the conversation--had told her that he would either buy her any car of her choice, or take her and her friends on any vacation of her choice, all expenses paid.

She pointed out that she would still have to pay the registration, which in Arizona is a percentage of the car's value, I think, and insurance on the car. So she couldn't go crazy and get a Lamborghini or something. She was thinking maybe a BMW 5-series--as opposed to her current Dodge Charger. 

If she chose the vacation, she'd have to be careful in choosing which friends to take because she wouldn't want anyone to feel left out but she also wouldn't want to ask if she could take a giant group of people.

I was guessing that maybe the man in question was a relative, like maybe her father or rich uncle or something. And maybe she had met some milestone like graduating from college and this was her present. But then she told her friends that her benefactor was not expecting sex in return. Which is a claim I find doubtful. Even her douchebag friends suggested a little sex was the least she could do in return for something that could cost $100,000 or more.

Rex thought this was pretty crazy. "Who does that?" he wondered. Lots of people, I told him. People, particularly people with oodles of money, have all sorts of strange arrangements. We decided there must be some kind of really filthy, degrading, kinky sex involved.

So Polly called me later, and I told her about the whole thing. She was, of course, not at all surprised. But she disagreed about the kinky sex, and said it's probably not even anything more than your vanilla standard fare.

When people ask me about the fashion industry, I am generally not all that kind about it.

Models actually have kind of a tough gig. The industry is not at all regulated, and models are not always treated well. There is no model's union. Nor is it as lucrative a game as most people think, unless you're a supermodel. And there are hardly any supermodels anymore. Whether you get hired is almost entirely out of your control. Either you happened to be born with the look that is "in" this season or not. And you're entirely replaceable.

There's one thing I always say about it, and that is: Pretty girls are a dime a dozen.

For this reason, Polly says I undervalue pretty. She says that having spent a lot of my life as a pretty person among many other pretty people who truly are a dime a dozen, I don't appreciate the real benefits and value of pretty among the general population. 

Being a smart person among smart people can have the same effect. If you're a smart person who is just comparing yourself to a bunch of geniuses, it can make you forget how smart you really are compared to the plebs.

I'm having a bit of that same experience right now as a pseudo-hipster among the very, very hip and stylish people of Rex's tribe. Seriously. We went to a boutique opening the other night and there was a musical performance with one person playing an accordion and singing and doing some sort of percussion with his feet. And another person playing a saw. It was tres avant garde, and I was definitely not worthy.

But I digress.

Polly suggested that when I became single again I could have found an arrangement that was similar to or better than the one that awful girl was getting, if I'd only tried. 

Silly me, I had to go and get into a relationship for love, of all things. 

But she's probably right. There are plenty of people out there with more money than they know what to do with, having a difficult time finding someone worthy of spending it on.

So, ladies and gentlemen, my question to you is this: any car you want, or any vacation you want--what would you choose?

I'm thinking Maserati. Four-door, of course. Because I'm practical that way.

Bookgirl Celebrates Choice

Two summers ago, I started volunteering for Planned Parenthood. I wanted to start giving something back to the world, and theirs was a cause I cared passionately about, so it was an obvious choice.

The New York City branch has a Political Action Committee, separate from their not-for-profit clinic. I took their activist council training, and it was official. I was a reproductive rights activist.
 
I all but had a membership card to prove it.

But here's the catch. I'm Catholic. Sure, I was raised that way, but more importantly it's where I find comfort and support and peace. I was given it as a child, but then I chose it as an adult. I have a great brain, and strong faith, and I firmly believe that those two aren't mutually exclusive.
 
So here's this Catholic girl, who quite frankly is a little bit ambivalent about abortion and isn't 100% positive it's not murder, volunteering at the clinic. Because my absolute, rock-solid belief that every woman should be able to make that choice for herself overrides any other feelings I might have.
 
I'm fortunate enough to not ever have had to make that choice for myself, and I'm not positive I could.
 
But I will fight for the rest of my life for your right to make it.
 
The first time I toured the clinic was really unsettling. Believing in choice as a theory is very different from seeing the procedure rooms. And I found myself wondering: While I believe in abortion in theory, can I support it in practice?
 
And then something happened. A much younger friend found out she was pregnant. She had already broken up with the baby's father and was in the middle of researching Ph.D. programs in public health. Her whole life plan was centered around making things better for under-privileged women and children, and it was about to go down the tubes.
 
When she told me she was pregnant, the first thing that popped into my mind, before I had time to think about all my usual moral and ethical questions, was, "Do you need a ride to the clinic?"
 
What I actually said was, "I'll support you in whatever you decide," and I expressed absolutely no opinion either way. But when she decided to abort, I told her I thought she had made the right choice. And yes, I gave her a ride to the clinic.
 
I realized then that while I thought I was ambivalent, in reality, if giving up this baby meant she could save thousands later on once she reached her full potential, then I was okay with that. I don't think it's a decision any woman should make lightly or carelessly. And I think it should be a last resort. But I think every child deserves to be born into a loving home, where he or she is wanted and cared.
 
I'm not nearly as ambivalent as I thought I was.
 
On Saturdays, I volunteer at the clinic as an escort. I'm a friendly face outside the doors, in a bright yellow traffic-cop vest, to help woman past the protesters. So alongside the prayer cards and rosaries and posters of mangled babies those people like to hold up, there's someone standing for them.
 
One Saturday a month, the local Catholic church comes out and says the rosary in front of the clinic. And I know all the prayers, and recite them along with them in my head. Sometimes I have to remind myself not to answer out loud or allow my mouth to move along, because that's not fair to the people I'm there to help.
 
I understand the protesters' feelings, and I respect their passion. But I can't respect their decision to come into what I believe is the most difficult moment some of these women will ever have to face, and make it more difficult for them. I see the tears they're blinking back as they past the protesters, and the looks on their faces.
 
Last week, the nun who was leading the prayers asked the Holy Spirit to come to me and soften my heart. And I was furious. Because I may not agree with you, but my heart is exactly as it should be.