Lyvvie’s Limelight

It shouldn’t be difficult. It just shouldn’t.

This is the embed code from one of my vlog posts.

Love Letters

I’ve decided I don’t like wordpress after all. I’ve tried to learn all its nuances and tricks and now that I do, I still don’t find it as accommodating and easy to use as Blogger. So I’ll be packing up back home to blogger. I’ll consider this a vacation away. I’ll try and re-intergrate the posts here to blogger so they’re not lost.

To those who changed their blogrolls to this WordPress blog, I’m sorry. I am a fickle bitch, after all.

Moving back home to Lyvvie’s Limelight at Blogger

I bought Kidnapped!, a Harlequin Blaze - forbidden fantasies read, on the advice of Paperback Writer who raved about the tight plot and technically insane mastery that let her be absorbed into the story (So no talking to the author on this one, unlike my experiences with Jed) which is just what I needed so out came the maestro card and to amazon I went. Sad thing is, the book took nearly three weeks to arrive, when it did, I’d forgotten I’d ordered it - must watch finances and impulse shopping urges closer!

Kidnapped is about New York Socialite Tate Baxter who lives her life in a high security bubble. She suffers with agoraphobia and has intense fears of being kidnapped for ransom and murdered. She’s gotten away from murderous kidnappers once before, but who knows about next time. So she has a lot of high tech, but invisible, security. Not so invisible is her chauffeur, Michael Caulfield. Mikey is a highly trained ex-CIA special expert guy. He’s tough, focussed and hot with gorgeous blue eyes.

Tate’s shrink offers up a suggestion to help her get over her fears of getting kidnapped by planning and enacting her own kidnap with help of specialist acting kidnappers. Yeah! That sounds good, we’ll fake a kidnapping and you can work through your breathing techniques and coping mechanisms and shit, remember your happy place, find your happy place…got it, great. Except something goes wrong and she ends up kidnapped for real, thinking it’s the staged kidnap. Michael, also thinking it’s the staged kidnapping, lets her go. Uhm…shit!

So there she is, really kidnapped, terrified, sucking wind in mid-panic attack and the fucking actors aren’t listening to her code word (which is: Stop. I found this lacking in originality. I’m sure S&M couples come up with better safe words than Stop, like “Armageddon” or “Spunk Monkey” but then if you are in the middle of a panic attack, stop may be the only word one can utter…so I let it go.) Lucky for her, Michael has her hooked up to GPS (in her handbag, I was expecting the under-wiring of her bra, but I digress) so he’s able to follow and find her. He never calls anyone though, because he still doesn’t know it’s real and not fake, and Tate made him promise not to tell her Dad.

They both end up captive and there’s a lot of worry talk about how they’ll die, and how well Tate’s dealing with this. Handcuffed together in a small bed, kind of cozy really, and then, well….confession time. Mikey is pretty good with a comb and gets out of his handcuffs, and the two manage a few passionate end of the world “Armageddon!” no no…sorry…ahem, yes they get jiggy in the waves on the boat of captive lurve. But did they handcuff each other or make us of said handcuffs? No. Forbidden fantasies pishaw! Ok ok, there was that detail about Tate having cut wrists from the handcuffs, so it’s not S&M erotica, but she could’ve clamped up Mikey at least once! Oh, yeah wait - it’s not me, it’s Tate and she’s got panic issues. *sigh* ok she gets the warm comforting cuddles under the duvet to the peaceful sway of the ocean.

The bad guys are bad, a wee bit cliche gangster types but acceptable. I kept expecting the big chef guy to be a double agent, but no, just a gangster with a penchant for French cuisine. Anyways, we spend a lot of time in Tate’s head where she’s building herself up, refocusing her confidence, as she’s not had a heart attack or anything and she’s coping well, and maybe she’ll get a few kicks in before they toss her overboard. Bolstering reminiscences of pilates classes, yoga and self-defense coaching as well as a lot of supportive noises from Michael hint to me that an ass kicking turn about is coming Tate’s way and I want to read about it!

***Spoiler coming!!!***

I don’t know how much more I can get into without revealing the story, as it is a 243 page story so the action is boom, boom, boom. They ultimately end up in the Cayman Islands where Tate has a bank account full of millions that the kidnappers want, and the plans for getting her to sign over her money all seems a bit thin, but works in the end. I kept thinking, Tate can just get into the office and say “Fuck you, I’m in a safe place. neener neener, I’m going shopping,” and then kung-fu his kidnapper’s ass all over the bank’s fancy entrance. But then the kidnappers kept Micheal on the boat and threatened to kill him if she didn’t sign over the money, so that was a bust. No, she goes in, signs everything like a good compliant wee chicken.

But, I was right to expect an ass kicking scene! And it came, and it was: A kick to the balls and a temper tantrum. What?! That’s it?? I wanted a bit more damage than that. A Yoga strengthened high kick to the face followed by a few rabbit punches and a high heeled shoe piercing the bad guy’s big toe. Something more! All that training and the bad guy is brought down by a knee to the nads. That was only one of two things that irked me, but they were both minor irks. The second one was they didn’t mention a reward for Tate’s safe return until the very end. I think that should’ve had a small mention somewhere earlier in the story when the Best Friend and Daddy Baxter have a conversation.

***End Spoiler***

So it’s rather good, for a quick read. It’s something that could’ve been spread out and made even more intense, but I understand the market it was written for has it’s stringent rules on word counts. I think it’s a good sign that I wanted more from the story, that I could see it going further. It was very good with the uncertain outcomes, and kept me reading. Anyone want it? I’ll post it to whoever e-mails me first at lyvvie at gmail.com.

Now for something completely different…

What the hell is this?!? (I love the music, BTW) I mean, it doesn’t look sexy, it doesn’t look comfortable, it doesn’t look…right. It’s just not right! And it’s expensive!! Then there’s this creepy mannequin that invites you to rub her and turn her knobs, and she rewards you with moans of pleasure. How long have women been saying “Are you trying to tune the radio or turn me on? Because you’re failing at both.” So Moaning Lisa isn’t helping those inept nipple tuners one bit. When are they (Hey! Sex toy manufacturers, listen up!) going to get around to making a Cherry 2000 because I want a Barry 2000. No, no a George (Clooney!) 2000 with perfected mischievous smirk. Tell me, who would you want as your robot love slave? I can’t be the only one who had Data fantasies after hearing about his extensive programming in many ways of pleasuring.

Busy is the word. But it’s a good busy. Productive busy. Not busy for the sake of being stressed and moving, but busy in a way that will show fruit of the labour one day soon. Oh look, it’s a waffling kind of writing mood day, you’re in for a treat.

I am teaching myself Japanese. I wanted to learn a couple years ago and ordered all the books and stuff, but found it all so confusing I just left it to the bookshelf and forgot about it. chalked up to one of my whims. Well, I’ve pulled them all down again and for some reason, it’s all clicked in my head how to go forward and learn this stuff. Where before it seemed far too complicated and overwhelming, is now ordered and I’m going to admit, easy.

Japanese has three written alphabets of sorts; hiragana is the Japanese alphabet with 46 characters, katakana is another 46 characters for the same sounds but these ones are used for foreign words adopted into the language and kanji are the ideographs which look like small houses and people with hats. There’s about 50,000 of those, but I’m told one can get by knowing about 2000. I’m learning the alphabets just now, and have bought an audio language course that I listen to on my nano. I’ve also found lots of free courses on iTunes in the podcasts section. I have them all on the nano and listen as I walk about town. I put them on CD and the kids listen to it at bedtime, one of the courses I bought (It was really cheap on iTunes) is set to music, called Earworms Rapid Japanese. The morning after Sassyface had listened to it, she came downstairs and said “Aka wine!” does it not bode well that the first words my daughter learns in Japanese are red wine? We now walk about trying to spot neko(cats) inu(dogs) and tori(birds). Learning to count, colours and the politeness words of please (onegai shimasu), thank you (arigato) and excuse me (sumimasen). They’re enjoying it all. Shorty even asks me if she can watch her Ghibli movies in Japanese.

So why learn now? For fun? Well no. See, the Husband has kind of decided that we could go to Japan for a couple years. Before he was rather against the idea as it seemed impossible, but he’s been in counseling for his stress and his counselor has talked to him about rewarding himself for all his hard work. He’s never been very good about making a decision on something because he worried about the consequences of his choices. Now he feels empowered to make so make choices he doesn’t know which one will make him the happiest. Now a couple years on a working holiday to Japan are fast becoming a reality. He can transfer with his current employer to a post there. We can put the kids into an English speaking school, there’s lots of them. So, it looks like we’re going to Japan. I’m now giving up on trying to make any long term plans as I honestly have no idea as to where I’ll be in five years never mind ten. Will I move to America? No clue. Australia? No clue. New Zealand? NO CLUE. floating in the breeze with a phrasebook in my hands.

Shorty is finally getting a handle on this toilet training lark. she now prefers dry pants, and can tell when she needs to go. All big positives. She’s now managing to hit more than miss. She’s communicating more and recognising the signals her body sends her. Plus her new habits can be bought with flashy stickers.

I remain in silent calm, most of the time, as I watch Husband debate between getting a Suburu Ipreza or an Alpha Romeo something or other. Oh but a 10 year old Jaguar! on it goes. Can’t decide what to treat himself with. At least he’s happier. I think.

First frost this morning. Puffs of wee white dragon’s breath. Goodbye bright Summer.

Good Morning Crime Fighters! It’s Monday and that means it’s Smart Bitches Day in the Big City. As always, it’s hosted by our beloved Beth and judging by all the fabulous posts and hijinx going on over there, you should read and get a spluttering of opinion in there too, I know I will.

So, I promised three reviews. Not because I’ve not done an SBD for ages and have a back log of books to spout about, but I’ve actually been reading a lot. Why have I been reading a lot? Well, I had opportunity, and when opportunity present I don’t spit in it’s face. Opportunity presented because I’ was ill a wee while ago and still have fatigue and not been gyming so…yeah. free time. Imagine! (gyming today and all week though, back on that horse!) I read: Kidnapped! by Jo Leigh as it was recommended by PaperBack Writer (Here’s her take if you’re interested), The Stupidest Angel by Christopher Moore and finally The Interpretation of Murder by Jed Rubenfeld.

The Rubenfeld first, I think. As it’s the book I got first. I borrowed it sometime in April from my Mother-in-law, read about two chapters, put it on the bookshelf and forgot about it until last week. When cleaning the bookshelf I rediscovered it, and a receipt for a pair of jeans I’d bought but hated and wanted to return but lost the receipt for - anyone else have a bad habit of using important things as bookmarks and miss them later? I didn’t remember borrowing it, I didn’t remember reading those two chapters, but on re-read of the back cover I thought, hell this sounds good! Sigmund Freud comes to America once, in 1909, to give a few lectures on psychoanalysis and gets caught up in a murder mystery that his powers of analytical deduction could solve. I love Freud, I love mysteries: sounds fab.

It takes place as Manhattan is budding and building up bigger and better. Psychoanalysis is also budding and gaining interest in American, hence the reason for Freud’s visit. As lavishly built hotels and society become all the rage, we discover someone likes to whip, cut and murder society girls with a silk tie. One of these girls manages to survive, but she can’t remember a thing; hysterical amnesia.

I quickly discovered my personal dislike of too many characters that cause much confusion as Freud travels with many and meets many more, but before halfway that gets sorted out. I skim a lot of the description of times gone by (Rubelfeld is a descriptive author, and I agree he’s very good at it, I’m just an impatient philistine) and just imagine the visuals from Titanic to get a feel for the opulence and poverty of the time, a decision I later feel guilty over as Reubenfeld has a long author’s note at the end over his extensive research to create authenticity - a fellow obsessive of details and yet, I didn’t care enough read the details. The outrageous riches of the society types, the poor immigrants, the prostitution, the selling of babies…all there.

Right off, this story does not center around Freud, in fact he’s kind of a bit part. It’s about Dr. Younger, who is asked to work with the police by talking with the victim. Dr. Younger touches base occasionally with Freud for update and guidence, but really he isn’t as involved in this story as promised on the blurb. A huge disappointment. So I had to make due with getting to know Dr. Younger, who really is reduced to local lackey-boy in my mind.

Freud’s involvement becomes supervisory as he has other issues to attend; someone is trying to sabotage his reputation. Yes, uptight New York is not happy about Freud’s psychosexual theory and the religious right are quite determined to send the pervvy German back to where he came from. The whole Oedipus complex thing gets in everyone’s craw, it’s just too distasteful. The story also starts to hint and the break up between Dr. Carl Jung and Dr. Freud, which I found interesting, but then I’m a psychology fiend and if you aren’t you could find this a bit boring. It’s a history lesson, and doesn’t really figure into the story much. Rubenfeld tries to weave it in, but then seems to pick it back out. He tries to hint that Jung is a bit insane (The brilliant are always slightly unhinged, aren’t they?) and well…he does bear (bare? neither seems right…naked or a hairy animal: you decide) a slight resemblance to the description of the murderer. Hmmm…but Nah that can’t be right. Wouldn’t it be distasteful to the memory of Dr. Jung to write a story, fictionalize him as a traveler to the USA who then enjoys the sadistic murders of society girls? That’s not a very nice thing to do to a dead guy, use his name and reputation to twist into fiction. I felt like Rubenfeld had guilt issues on this. I began to analyze the author. The problem in that is when I read a story I don’t want to be aware of an author. A narrator is one thing, but when I stared saying things like “Jed, why are we going down this path?” I started to worry. Jed has a habit of giving false starts, misdirection and red herrings. I hate the smell of fish. I hate being suckered in by a plot device. Well done Jed, credit to you for successfully confusing me, but I still don’t like it. Chalk it up to petulance.

Jed seems to come out of the fact detailing and biography stuff (I never knew Freud had a nervous bladder?) and gets into the fiction side near the last quarter of the book where the story is fast paced, and choppy. Get interested in a series of events and…oh…you must wait while Jed builds up another one to cliffhanger you until the next chapter. I loved his character Detective Littlemore, the jolly New York policeman investigating the murder. I had a moment of cussing Jed out for making me worry over my beloved Littlemore, but I later forgave him. He knew a good character and kept him true. I found all of the women in the book on some level annoying. That’s probably a me thing as I never seem to like how women are written. The main female character, Miss Acton, I did like up to a point. I found her a take no prisoners, seething under the skin but must obey the rules of society kind of interesting person. I was later disappointed with her reveal.

In fact the whole ending started to unravel for me. It challenged the “suspension of disbelief” and lost because I started thinking, “That’s such a let down, Jed! What the fuck?! Where’s the psychological thrill? Where’s the analysis? Where’s the “He hated his father and lusted after his dead mother and then became angry…probably holds his bowel movements to the point of pain too.” none of it! It became an issue of planned out city architecture and surprise plot lines and…where’s Freud? Where did he go? He’s no where to be seen…we hear from his many associates but he seems to have retired to his hotel room to smoke cigars, bored nutless. The most blaise man I’ve ever read. Maybe waiting for his trousers to dry. OH and Jed, what the hell was with the “Chinamen”? I don’t see why they even needed to be there. Really, the story could’ve worked without their inclusion. The whole missionary’s converting the Chinese, society girls falls in love with one and runs away to the disgrace of her family.

So, at least the bad characters are actually bad, the good guys are sometimes bad and the rich people, well they are all bad. I will admit I was quite happy to be finished with the story. I think my personal expectations of a yarn about Freud was the main cause of my disappointment, as it wasn’t really a yarn about Freud. The ending was a disappointment as it was like when you find out how a magic trick is done and realize; the trick is done before the magician has even started. I gave it a B-. It wasn’t bad and certainly made the time go by better, but I wanted more. Once Jed got past his fact obsession, the plot twisting acceptable, but not overly inspiring. Left me feeling like you can’t trust anyone. Except Beloved Littlemore. He’s a peach.

Well, I don’t know if I can do the other two reviews in this post…this ran on a bit already and I don’t want to be a bore. I’ll post up the other two reviews this week. I’m such a tease. I of course assume you are titilated and really you could be rolling your eyes at me…roll on.

OH…and who cares if Dumbledore is gay?! Seriously, what’s the importance? Glad it wasn’t made an issue of any sort in the series, but to bring it up now…fucking hell.

Three book reviews! Kicking off with a high impact Smart Bitches Day!

I’m teaching myself Japanese, find out why!

Houston, we have Toilet trained!

Husband’s new happiness brings same problem, new outlook! I want to strangle the therapist!

The confusing and untrustworthy appeal of :Where in the World in Lyvvie going?!

All this and maybe more coming this week…stay tuned!

Share Your Tears

My friend Sarah is an amazing talent and started this project a couple years ago. Asking women to photograph themselves when crying, to show the exposed beauty in moments of pain. (I sent her a picture of Shorty. She’s in the group.)

Show Sarah some love over at her blog, Sarah’s Art Blog.

I’ve been quiet because I’m hiding. It’s true. And I shouldn’t be, I really shouldn’t. It’s not about me at all. It’s Them. It’s thier problem. It’s their issue. It’s not about me at all. Tell me if you know what I’m talking about…

Ever have a friend who’s a bit needy? Your friendship starts off because their a bit sad and you listen? And then you have a few really great talks, a few big laughs and you think, aw this person’s great - they’ve had a bad time of things but it’s nice to see them coming back to life. Excellent. I’m glad I met them. Time passes and all goes well, but maybe your life gets busy and you don’t talk to them for a week, and then something happens and you find all your time is taken up with family and projects and your free time is nil and you hate it, but it has to be done - because you are responsible to those who matter most. This friend, the one who was so gratful for your listening and support - turns on you.

“Aren’t you my friend? Don’t you care? You’re not there for me anymore. I thought you were my friend. nip nip nip, bitch nip nip.” Not one, “Hey, are you ok? I haven’t heard from you in a bit.” not “I noticed you’ve been pre-occupied, fancy a coffee and a chat?” not “I see things are crazy for you, just know I’m here if you need me, my friend.” but instead, it’s all about them, their needs and how I’m inadequate at serving them. How I’m inadequate at serving them. Well you know what: Fuck you.

It’s a two way street this friendship thing, it’s not all about what I can do for you. Sometimes it’s about what you can do for me, and I’m oh so sorry I’m not a demanding friend. I often just need understanding, a bit of space and yes: a half hour to chat and drink a coffee between Dr appointments, work, house, kids and education that may happen once a week or once a month. That’s what a friend is to me. I’ve not ever asked much from a friend. (As an adult, I’m not talking about those obsessive BFF teenage pre-boyfriends friendships that can be a bit scary) I do often go for months without talking to a friend, but when we meet up, it’s like time never passed; I like those friendships. And yeah, I often miss having a best friend, but then I’m married and have a husband and he does take over that role. I’ve got my friend Jill who I was in university with, haven’t seen her in twelve years, talk to her only a few times a year and yet when we do talk it’s wonderful. Like time hasn’t passed. I still see her as the friend across the hall, only now it’s an ocean. As far as friendship goes, for me, time never passes. I keep a kind of psychic link with people, even though I’ve not seen or heard from them in years. I know logically that I’m not a part of their lives anymore, but I like to keep their memory alive. Unless we have an argument, and I say “I don’t think we can be friends anymore” then you can assume I am still very much your friend.

For me, friendships are in my heart, I feel them. I don’t need constant reassurance of the freindship, so I’m baffled by these people who do need a perpetual pat on the back and “Yeah, of course I’m your friend,”. This is why I’m better at being friends with men. Men don’t get all pissy if I forget a birthday: and I will forget your birthday. Unless you have a blood tie to me I can’t remember birthdays. That even goes to my Husband’s family, good thing he has a blood tie because I’m always asking him when his Mom, Dad, Betty’s birthdays are, but I digress. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s that I’m not wired that way. I don’t send Christmas cards either. I have for many years written, sealed, stamped and addressed Christmas cards, and always forget to post them. I am cursed with this mental block of sending the fucking things. Maybe that is what makes me a lousy friend. I could be deluding myself in thinking I am a good friend, when in actuality: I suck. So there you are, if you the kind of person who needs a regular update and check-in, then I am not the friend for you. If you like a casual, drop-in, drop-out not very demanding but always supportive kind of friend: I’m your girl!

So you know, I’m not going to feel ashamed for my inadequacy as a friend. I know I’m a decent person, but flawed. I like people who are confident enough to know and trust I still care for them even if I forget a birthday (Just so you know, they don’t send me a card either and do I get mad? No. Because cards are crappy bits of paper written in guilt ink) (My apologies if you write for Hallmark) (Or design cards). A friend who can receive a random “Saw this and thought of you” gift without becoming suspicious, or feel they have to reciprocate. Actually, don’t reciprocate. I’m notoriously hard to buy for, even if always grateful. I certainly want a friend who is interested in me, one who likes me and can respect me, but cross that line and become a manipulative force against me, and it’s Sainara.

So do me a favour and quit the fucking guilt trips and nipping at my ass. It could be one of those times in life where one could say “It’s not me, it really is you.”