It’s Saturday night and I’m home alone drinking lukewarm Milo. It’s good. Earlier tonight an old housebus turned up and now I’m listening to a bunch of hippies across the street getting into the swing of their party. That’s good too. I like it when the valley is alive with the sound of nighttime merriment.
But it also reminds me we have been promising people a decent knees-up here ever since we moved a whole seven months ago, and the dates keep slipping, and then resolve slips, and then there’s no hope in hell of anything ever happening, just non-committal mini soirees. I blame Simon for his impossible calendar. My winter calendar, on the other hand, is perfectly respectable. It’s even a little sparser over the coming colder months than it has been in previous years, although I like it that way (hence me being home alone with now-cold Milo). I like home a lot in my old age.
Anyway, I’m now thinking of some kind of midwinter party. But whether or not I ever end up organising it — and whether the calendar gods deign to fall into uncommon weekend alignment — remains to be seen.
My ten-day break is nearly over. I achieved nothing I set out to. It’s day ten tomorrow and I’ll attempt to rush through as much last-minute stuff as I possibly can so I can claim eleventh-hour productivity. Although if a lifetime’s habits are anything to go by, my efforts will be patchy, I’ll run out of time and I’ll probably give myself a headache.
Actually, no. I’ve just decided that I’m going to do whatever needs to be done from the comfort of my bed and stay in my pjyamas until 1.30pm. I am required to leave the house tomorrow for two separate engagements. But I will limit my commitments to these two things.
This was supposed to be a book review of sorts. Of a book (my Easter weekend reading) called Scandals. I can’t bring myself to review it though, so I’ll just copy and paste what the book says about itself, and then share some of the choicest bits (according to me)… incidentally all of them to do with breasts. I’m guessing Barney Leason is something of a tit-man.
With consummate insight and shameless candor, Barney Leason, author of the New York limes bestseller, Rodeo Drive, weaves yet another shocking, sensuous tale of money, power, and greed in a glamorous milieu rife with Scandals. From the seductive shores of the Isle of Capri to the hopscotch bedrooms of Beverly Hills, London, and New York, Leason lays bare the lives and the lusts of the rich and the depraved, their sins and shame, their secrets and Scandals.
It sounded too bad not to read. I was curious. Plus I thought it might be good research material for when I enter my mythical bodice-ripper writing phase (it wasn’t). And Simon encouraged me. He said it was good for me to not always be reading capital L literature. I agreed. I was branching out. I was looking forward to a bit of harmless Hollywood smut. Turns out when I finished it (and yes, I read all the way to the very end… it was sort of like trainwreck reading — mangled and grotesque and gasp-worthy for all the wrong reasons, but halfway in I was somehow complicit and owed it to the universe to see it all the way through) I felt a bit like I did when I finished The da Vinci Code — all empty inside and disappointed with myself. Only with Scandals I felt all these things and dirty as well. Pervy. I felt pervy. Turns out I’m something of a prude. Or maybe I just prefer better-written erotica. Maybe I’m more snob than prude. Or maybe I’m both. Anyway, here are my top three best bits.
1. The famous knockers glimmered in the water, twin porpoises, red nipples like porpoise noses flashing in the wavelets.
(So incredibly visual and just downright strange. I can’t resolve the image in my head — something about the nipples being like porpoise noses — yet it’s haunted me for days.)
2. Her breasts, he saw, moved fluidly, free of a bra, under a denim shirt, the latter tucked into a pair of those designer jeans.
(Because if he hadn’t said ‘the latter’ it would have been unclear what, exactly, was being tucked into those designer jeans. Because it makes perfect sense for supine 20-somethings to be able to extend their free-flowing breasts and tuck them into their trousers. This sentence was so darned excellent I made Simon commit it to memory.)
3. The black-haired girl bounded toward him, her hands holding her jugs aloft and shaking them in his face, touching his cheeks with nipples [sic], which were the size of powder puffs.
(So, quite big, then? Bigger than quarters but smaller than saucers?)
And that’s just the tip of it as far as the boob quotes go. But I think this is a fair representation of the mammary mentions. Plus there are some other sickmaking pearlers relating to anatomical descriptions further south. But this isn’t that kind of blog. (Mostly because I’m far too much of a prude to be recounting such queasy atrocities so publicly.)
And here ends the scandal. Speaking of reading, though, I am going to cap off my Saturday night by finishing Patti Smith’s Just Kids. It’s awesome.
Oh, and if you like reading you should join Goodreads. It’s fun. And you can look me up (Katy, Wellington, NZ) and be my friend. Apparently it works better when you have friends. I wouldn’t know so much about that, though. So far I only have one.
Filed under: books | 2 Comments