I have a confession to make

Me, pretending to be cool, note that I don't *actually* succeed

I’m going to tell you something  I don’t admit to very many people. I read trashy books. Lots of them. I average two trashy books a week. Sometimes more, sometimes less — depending on whether or not I’m trying to avoid a deadline. I know I’ve crossed the reading-too-much and neglecting my children line when my husband starts calling me Book Girl. This week’s trashy book is Face the Fire by Nora Roberts, or “Nora-fucking-Roberts” as the hilarious women smartbitchestrashybooks.com like to call her. For more about the book, go here.

Laugh if you must, but I’m not sorry that I like trash. A lot. I’m the very essence of a pop-culture loving, minivan-driving, 2.5 (okay, let’s just round that number up to an even three) kids, 2011 suburban wife kinda gal. I’m the demographic ads are written for, politicians want to “speak” to and who Nora Roberts writes for. I’m okay with that.

OK, so there are days when I long to be the loft-dwelling urban hipster  the teenage me imagined, but I’m trying to make my peace with 17-year-old Dana by a) visiting my hipster friends as much as possible, b) wearing large tortise-shell glasses whenever I want to look smarter c) reading British import magazines such as Glamour, Red and MarieClaire so I’m always aware of the trends even when I’m too lazy to actually wear them and of course, d) taking my MacBook to Starbucks to meet said deadlines because even though I don’t really like the coffee, the ambiance is way better than Tim Hortons. But I digress…

Where was I? Oh yeah, Nora Roberts. So, like I was saying, trashy books — specifically paperbacks from the public library that I feel guilty dog-earing — are the bomb. They’re a form of escape from the drudgery of my every-day life. Let’s face it, my life has a lot of dull moments; most of them are before 8:15, when 2 of my 2.5 children go to school. So what if I need a little bodice ripping to keep me going? So what if I need to read about other people having sex just because I’m too tired to actually have it? So the hell what?

The Dana in her suburban habitat, wearing her everyday joe fresh wardrobe and no makeup

But I guess the fact that I even need to write this post is proof that I haven’t actually come to terms with reading Nora fucking Roberts instead of Jane Austin  — even though some would argue that Roberts is the same thing as Austin was to her original audience and thereby a direct descendent writing-wise. Part of me feels that as a (relatively) smart chick I should read smarter books. But here’s the thing. I don’t like to be depressed by what I read. I can’t shake it off, it stays with me for weeks, bringing me down and wrecking my sleep. Sad books haunt me. Maybe all books haunt me but I’d rather be haunted by happy sex-crazed ghosts than Angela from Angela’s Ashes any day. See— she’s still haunting me with her bad parenting and sheep’s head for dinner and all.

So I’m putting it out there to you dear two readers. What should I be reading. Oh, there will still be trash — I need my fix — but if I’m going to read something smart (but not depressing) what should it be?

 

 

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