Grade: B-

I accidentally grabbed this book from the pile I have on the passenger seat of my car—I meant to grab the Kleypas one— and didn’t realize my mistake until I was sitting in the waiting room of my doctor’s office. Because I didn’t want to go down ten floors on the elevator, walk out to the parking lot, and jay-walk across the street where I parked my car, I was a little more than peeved. Though I had grabbed this book on impulse while I was standing in line at the grocery store with pasta, tomato sauce, and Clementine oranges (I’m addicted to those things. I can eat four in one sitting) in my basket, I was a little leery reading about a heroine called Vanessa Huxtable (who, by the way, is also a middle child. Huh). Seriously?!?! Vanessa Huxtable? Damn, I was expecting Denise to come out, yelling at Vanessa over a sweater she stole while Little Rudy eggs them both on (Man, Little Rudy grew up with some boobies, what?!). But soon enough, I realized that these two Vanessas could not be more than worlds apart. First of all, Tempestt Bledsoe would probably condescend to cutting a bitch if the bitch looked at her cross-eyed and secondly, that Vanessa Huxtable would probably never marry a rich man she doesn’t love right away even if it meant her family could keep their house and be eating nice for a while (like, say, Dr. and Atty. Mrs. Huxtable got kidnapped by Somalian pirates and Denise was the only one holding the family together, and it’s not like Sondra ever gave a shit about any of them anyway once she was out of that house!). Which brings me to my main peeve of this book and every single book that follows this trope: WHAT THE HELL IS SO SELF-SACRIFICING ABOUT MARRYING A VERY RICH, VERY GOOD-LOOKING MAN WHO CAN MAKE YOUR EYES ROLL TO THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD IN THE SACK?!?! True-love, schmoo-love… fancy jewelry, couture clothes, five meals a day, a goddamn mansion, and an orgasm smorgasbord can go a long way in ushering that nonsense in. Martyrdom, my skinny muscled fanny!

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Grade: B-

Lisa Kleypas is a whiz at creating dark, tortured heroes with heavy amounts of baggage and issues that can’t be swept away with ONE powerful bout of mad-true-love-sexin’ with the heroine. No, Kleypas’ heroes are soooo damaged that they require at least two or three bouts of mad-true-love-sexin’. One of the trademarks of a dark, tortured hero is that he will do anything for the heroine—even shove her away for her own good—but is often an unyielding, unbelievable, intolerable douchenozzle to everyone else. He is obsessed with the heroine: he will steal for her, kill for her, and even give up his own worthless life for her—for what good is his own life if he fails to secure her welfare? (goddamn it, that awful Percy Sledge song is playing full-blast in a loop inside my skull now.) I suppose that’s all supposed to be romantic and stuff, but can you imagine being the subject of one dude’s every waking thought and fantasy? He has no hobbies except a creepy habit of sitting by your bed and watching you sleep, can’t talk about anything else but you, and has plotted every second of his obsessive existence around you. He dogs your every step; he’s there every time you look over your shoulder, trying to touch your hair or breathe the very air you exhale. That’s not romantic, that’s stalkerrific! As the Bitches say in their brand-spankin’ new book Beyond Heaving Bosoms:

Why is it that romance readers can tolerate any number of crazed behaviors from a romance hero, whereas if a real life dude did one-tenth of a hero’s dastardly deeds […] she’d be calling 911 faster than you can say “restraining order”?

And that is why the hero, Kev Merripen, a savage wild child who might as well have been raised by wolves but was taken in by a kind, genteel family, does not quite work for me. He didn’t rev up my engines, he didn’t get my motor running. Instead, he creeped me out. He is one disturbed dude who would have wallpapered the walls of his bedroom with pictures of the heroine if he had a digital camera and could capture every second of her life. He seemed one step away from slaughtering small animals and laying them at her feet in sacrifice. *shudder* That’s so not hot.

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Grade: B+

Hello, kids. It is Ai and I’m back. Heh. I’m so funny. Or I somehow got Bam’s cold thru the internets and I’ve been chugging down NyQuil non-stop. Anyway, I was stuck in bed all day yesterday, so it was a good thing I had Charlaine Harris’ book to keep me company— especially since I refused to turn on the teevee in fear of hearing more about HRC’s delusions of actually beating Barry to become the Democratic… no. I won’t talk about it anymore. I haven’t been happy with the last books, mostly because I didn’t like Sookie Stackhouse’s new boyfriend, Quinn, and I sincerely thought Sookie was turning into some icky Merry Gentry clone, what with her menagerie of men and all, but this book made me realize that Sookie would probably think Merry Gentry is pretty gross, too. I was quite happy with the story developments presented in this contribution to the series, especially since I approve of Sookie’s love interest — and you can always tell who would be Sookie’s love interest by looking at the front cover and hey, it’s a vampire and there isn’t a hint of a tiger’s tail… YES! — and I really like how Sookie is developing as a person. The only thing that didn’t make this an A for me is that the book felt bloated with characters. There are so many people in this book— I know that part of this series’ charm is the citizens of Bon Temps— that the constant revolving door of folks wanting to talk to Sookie or assaulting Sookie drove me a little crazy. Poor Sookie didn’t have a second to herself. My favorite part: ERIC-love galore! Oh, and the Redemption of Bill Compton. Maybe.

Oh, and spoilers abound in this review.

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I cut my reading teeth on The Babysitters’ Club books by Ann M. Martin, R.L. Stine’s Fear Street series, Francine Pascal’s Sweet Valley High books (which I understand are supposed to be getting a makeover— no, the Wakefields are still assholes, but HEY! They’re slimming down from a size 6 to a size 4! Schyeah, ’cause they were so fat before. Anorexia is sexy!), and the awesome teen paranormal romance books by Annette Curtis Klause. I abandoned those books in favor of Jayne Ann Krentz, Linda Howard, and Susan Elizabeth Phillips when I turned 13. Oddly enough, it wasn’t until I turned twenty-something that I re-discovered my love for Young Adult books. I mean, have y’all read Melissa Marr, the House of Night books by P.C. Cast and Kristin Cast, Stephanie Meyer, and Libba Bray? These kids are reading heavy-duty quality stuff! A Great and Terrible Beauty was frickin’ brilliant! The teens in these stories are definitely not worrying about what flavor lip gloss to use, who Logan Bruno— BMOC, natch— is taking to the winter formal, or how to effectively pop zits… they’re having to face real world issues like a father dying in Iraq, mini existential crises, drugs, being sexually harassed by a step-parent… awesome real stuff… and six of these stories are compiled in this very entertaining anthology by some of my favorite writers, the motiff of which is staying up all night, when you’re supposed to be in bed, dreaming about Logan Bruno.

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Hello, beeeeetches. It is I, Ai! Grabe… your new fabulous reviewer, with my fabulous debut review of the only book I’ve been able to finish for the past few months. You see, I’ve been having this terrible problem. I love to read. I’ve been reading since I was… I don’t know, a fetus… and the FSM knows if I were the only WOMYN left alive on the planet full of those nasty vampire creatures from I Am Legend, I would totes be okay if I had in my possession every book I have ever wanted to read. True. Story. Speaking of stories, stop me before I tell you mine, lest I go back to, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” ON WITH THE REVIEW, AI! (FSM, I babble more than Bam tends to do) [Bam: Oh no you di’int, beeeyatch!] Where was I? Oh, yeah… Kresley Cole’s Dark Needs at a Night’s Edge was the ONE book that was able to pull me out of my reading funk. I received it in the mail, tore it open, sat down to read, and three hours later, Fini! It was great. And for that, it gets an A. Oh, and also, because it’s pretty great.

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