Romancing the toilet

From Smart Bitches, Trashy Books:

Whisper Falls, by Toni Blake

The heroine has Crohn's. It's a romance novel, and the heroine has Crohn's. I think my brain just imploded with happiness. Way to go, Blake. I don't read many romance books, but I'll be checking this one out, because, dude! A heroine with Crohn's! She will probably get, then lose, then get the guy! And all without a hilarious diarrhea scene, I bet - read and learn, CNN. Especially in light of that stupid segment, the fact that this book exists surprises the hell out of me, and makes me want to find others. List time:

1. Whisper Falls
2. Um. Yeah. Any suggestions?

And I'm not talking about the My illness and my long, inspiring climb to recovery, let me show you it type of memoir-book. I'm not knocking those, but that's not what I'm looking for here. I'm looking for fiction books that have main characters with IBD. That's it; I'm not pulling out my snobby distinctions, such as

(a) is the disease purely a plot device, in the mode of Lurlene McDaniels and the Please Don't Die of Cancer/Of Lupus/Of Wasting Disease, Mommy/Daddy/Sister/Girlfriend books?

(b) is the disease mentioned once in passing and then never again despite how much it affects every day life? Or, my favorite,

(c) is the disease mentioned only in the form of a token/stereotype character (e.g. Gay Best Friend, Sassy Black Friend) who serves as an awakening or an inspiration to the main character? See also (a).

Provisionally:
(d) does the character with the disease miraculously recover thanks to whatever fad diet/treatment the author read about before writing the book?

Jesus, I'm just pulling that last one out of my ass,* I seriously doubt anyone could pull it off or would attempt to, these days. It's much more romantic to magically cure cancer, anyway.

But back to Whisper Hill.** With regards to that front cover blurb? "Intoxicating and addictive?" Bleeech, please. What about delicious? Is it scrumptious? Inebriating? Lickable? Christ. I wish someone would start blurbing "Unputdownable!" Now that, coupled with a good bout of dehabilitating diarrhea, I can get behind.




^{*Like everything.
** Not so much as a whisper as a flatulent BANG, supplies my sad, poop-obsessed mind.}

What I am doing, besides hanging out with myself

Am currently reading The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. I picked up a cheap paperback copy and the reviews on the back (and in the front) are hilarious in their similarity; everyone wants to compare Larsson to Bergman. Really, guys? I mean, there's no other Swedish comparison, say, in the literary field? You couldn't do some research on, say, Swedish mystery writers? Look, look, wikipedia has some information! Wow!

All right, fine, I've only seen two Bergman movies, so I'm unqualified to judge if there's a comparison. And I'm sure that from an international standpoint (and maybe a domestic one, but I don't know, I'm not a Swede - in fact, I have Norwegian ancestry, so my instincts are probably way off as they are born of MUTUAL AND LONGSTANDING ENMITY) that Larsson probably wouldn't mind being called Bergmanesque.* It still struck me as hilarious, the name and the linking of them in multiple reviews. Whatever, in America, Sweden=Bergman. Apparently.

So far, I like it. I like Lisbeth Salander, and I feel like I'm supposed to. She comes across as both antagonist and protagonist right away; I don't know if that's proper or if I'm reading too much into her punky attitude. The book reminds me a bit of The Pledge, for some reason. We'll see if that holds up at all, or if I'm being as silly as the reviewers with their Bergman Bergmaning.

Something else I noticed, there's a lot of offhanded notes about apartment and house space in square footage. Blomkvist stays in a 500 sq. ft. guest house and has a 700 (give or take) sq. ft. apartment. I shrink in my set and pledge hereby to never again bitch about the lack of space in my apartment.

I originally picked up this book because I had to catalog the film version of The Girl Who Played With Fire at work. It looks fascinating, as does Noomi Rapace. But then I remembered: they're remaking the goddamn thing. (Yeah. I may have mentioned that generally I'm not a fan of remakes.) So Hollywood, what's with all the remakes of Scandinavian films? Tired of trolling through Japan and Korea and Hong Kong?





^{*Actually, no one uses that clunky term. But I like it. Bergmanesque esque esque.}

Consistency is overrated

Only a few weeks from absolute bloody zero and I'm already forgetting my pills. (Prednisone!) I need Mrs. Featherbottom.



It's frustrating that after all the pain and problems and my increased understanding of how necessary it is, right now, for me to take each and every one of these pills, that I can still forget. Three times a day isn't rocket science. Even when you're breaking up the normal American society three meals-a-day into five or six or seven, it's still not rocket science. I shouldn't need to tie string around my fingers a la Uncle Billy, goddamn it. I can't decide whether it's just forgetfulness, or if it's my brain reverting back to that dangerous La la lala I'm normal again there's nothing wrong with me lala mindset. Argh.

In other news, I received this pretty princess in the mail yesterday:


Death-Day! I may know people involved with this. Well, one of them. Maybe. Or maybe I just get mysterious pretties in the mail. That's a definite possibility.

For more info on Death-Day and/or Sam Hiti, click here. And therein ends my pimping.

More (worm) food for thought

From Science Magazine, more of what we know:

Western Diet Tied to Intestinal Disease and Allergies

*waves* Hellooooo, bacteria. Come on in. Let's face it, you can't be any worse than my latest fungal infection, can you?

Unrelated and purely for your enjoyment:

"Ira Glass" is now available for a buck via Adam War Rock and the Infinity Watch.

Test Drive

We've been looking for a new apartment as our current one still smells like rotten previous-tenant food. There are other problems as well, such as the squirrel infestation (Mama squirrel cleans her fur on our balcony, they hiss when they scrabble for supremacy of the ceiling crawlspace) or the mysterious drippy substance that adorns each door frame, like a sticky-syrup Passover joke.

A. talks man-to-man with the landlords, as they are usually men, and I look for things to nitpick, like the half-full bucket sitting under the crack in the bedroom ceiling, or the fact that we have to beat the porch windows, flat palmed, to make them open.

"How close are we to the busline?" I ask. Landlord Beaky stares at me.
"You're close enough to walk to ____ campus," he says. "Why - I don't get it - why would you need to ride the bus? You can just walk through the park."
"Um. At night? No." I doubt if he's ever heard of a certain memoir related to the area, but that doesn't really matter. This has just been an exercise to get my gut going with nerves.
"Do you mind if I use the toilet?"
Landlord Beaky chuckles and gestures to the bathroom.

I have tried out four toilets so far. It's easier if I actually have something to do, because largely people seem to hide their bathroom reading material from potential tenants (unless it's a Gaiman poster story, of course) and sometimes the landlord doesn't like to stray far from the door. So it's best to sound realistic. I acclimate myself. I practice reaching to the sink. I waste a lot of tp.

One guy was hesitant. "I don't know. You really have to go?"
A. shot me a look. He may know and understand, but he also knows and understands.
"I think it may be an emergency," I confessed. "Sorry."

Atop the tank, next to a purple candle, sat a rumpled paperback copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

We have an appointment to sign the lease tomorrow.