I’m sure that y’all know by now what an inherently exciting person I am—as evidenced by the past weeks of silence that involved not so much books as work shenanigans, playing a PC game, mourning the minutes of Downton Abbey, and—certainly a favorite—drooling on any horizontal surface at any and every available opportunity.
I still haven’t been reading much, and when I do pick up books, I tend to go genre-ish: A swashbuckling highland romance, the first book of an overachieving fantasy series, the most entertaining book ever on the “curious coupling of science and sex”—the latter earning me not a few curious stares in my commutes to and from work.
Oh, I’m excited for Maya Banks’ new series; I had loads of fun with the first installment, In Bed with a Highlander. Heiress and potential political pawn, through sheer grit and gumption, saves herself and a laird’s son from the baddies? H&PPP reluctantly finding a home in a crumbling keep of three strapping Highland men? Yes. A lot of easy laughter and believably messy characters? Sure.
[Note: Has anyone ever read a book from Banks’ ongoing Colters’ Legacy series? The first book of which, Colters’ Woman, involves a woman who’s fled from her asshat husband, and into the arms of, um, three brothers? Seriously, that book is, like, canon in the 3m/f subgenre of erotic romance. It sounds skeevy, I know, haha. Commence suspension of disbelief!] [Note, v.02: The heat level in this Highlander book is kind of tame. I will not admit that I was disappointed.]
My romance reads this year have allowed me to conclude how much I love historical romances—Regencies, Victorians, usually [you gotta love the Season!]—but them men of the Highlands hold a special place in my heart. And no, not just because of the kilts.
In other news, other genres, I curled up with Lev Grossman’s The Magicians—a year or so too late, I guess?—and it was enjoyably but, well, ultimately it wasn’t as rich or as affective as the books it repeatedly tried to kupal out. Hah. Ugh. It was not, well, it was too full at the same time, and not full enough. It was exciting and rich, but anticlimactic and blah. It was rushed in too many places, it felt like it didn’t know what it wanted to do with itself. It wanted to introduce us to a magical world but it wanted to do too much at one time? Eh. I don’t know, gah. I read it, it was a fun couple of days, and I’d buy the second book when it comes out in paperback—but nope, no fireworks for me.
Speaking of fireworks [forced segue, but hey], I’m currently reading Mary Roach’s awesome, hilarious book whose title I want to chant over and over in public places: Bonk. Bonk, you guys, BONK. Aherm. I am a fount of useful and not-so-useful information. Like, say, this footnote on “the erectile tissue in the lining of the nose”: It “does, very occasionally, expand when its owner is sexually aroused. It too is made erect by increased blood flow. Nasal congestion is an erection inside your nose.”
Hur. I also learned, among other things, that pandas are so atrociously bumbling when it comes to slipping Tab A into Slot B, and that “panda porn” had to be created by scientists and panda caretakers—a sort of instructional video for pandas to get it on, with people inside panda costumes and, well, yeah, that. Hur, pandas. Aherm. I’ll definitely keep you updated.
So, yeah. That’s my month so far. I’m going back to bed now.