The Library Journal Review gave a nice write-up for Dolls Behaving Badly. This was especially heartening since I love libraries. They are like churches to me, and I always resent people who speak in normal tones when walking through the stacks. I want to tap them on the shoulder, whisper: “Shhh, lower your voice. Have some respect. There are books in here.”
Before I start blabbing about how much I love books, I’ll include the review.
Anchorage, AK, heats up when divorced waitress Carla brings her passion for creating art into the realm of erotic dolls. Perpetually lacking in her financial and love life, she keeps a journal in hopes of straightening out her problems and devoting more time to her artwork. Already stretched thin by the demands of raising a gifted son and helping her coworker/best friend with her romantic agenda, Carla finds her living space packed to the gills when she takes in her pregnant sister and a teenaged neighbor. Finding herself nearing 40 and still intimate with her ex-husband, Carla also struggles to move on and make time for a new romance. Considering all Carla does to support those around her, when the going gets really tough, it’s a relief when help arrives—albeit from a surprising source.
Verdict First-time novelist Ritchie writes engaging characters and creates a sense of place that brings Alaska to life. For the reader of women’s fiction who can handle a bit of the risqué.
I love that the review used the word “risqué.” I’ve always been the type of person who pushes boundaries. I like forcing the comfort zone. That said, my book isn’t very naughty by many standards, but my characters do talk about sex and they do so in conversational tones. Probably if more of us spoke of sex in conversational tones the world wouldn’t be so uptight and women wouldn’t have to fight for control of their own bodies.
But enough talk of writing. It’s time to talk about food. Eggs, for instance.
I don’t usually eat eggs. I veer on the edge of veganism, partly because I’m allergic to milk and don’t much like eggs and partly because I don’t believe in factory farming and hate to contribute to the mindset.
But I’m housesitting out in the Mat-Su Valley for friend who raise chickens, so these eggs are fresh. I plucked them out of the coop just a few hours ago and carried them, still warm, to the house.
What is it about an egg that feels so good when you hold it in your hands? Is it the roundness? The smoothness of the shell? The instinctive knowledge that we all once began as a small and vulnerable egg?
Whatever the case, I boiled two perfect, brown eggs and ate them while still warm with garlic salt. They tasted solid and pure, and I felt strangely satiated.
Thanks to these two “ladies” for the gift of the eggs.