Given my status as a PSG (Perpetually Single Girl* trademark pending), I realized recently that there are certain aspects of my personality that just flat-out contradict each other. For example, I want babies and at the same time, I absolutely do not want babies. I like the idea of marrying someone but I don’t want him to live in my house. I’m ok with the idea of spending his money. But he ain’t spending my money. I’m not a very good sharer. You see how some of this could be considered a problem?
I love “l-o-v-e.” I always have. Me and love go way back, all the way back to when I was eight, listening to Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl” on the radio on the way to grandma’s house. Girl loves guy from the wrong side of the tracks- oh yeah, I got it. I was hooked young to the drama, sweetness and pure catchiness of love. And because I was as unbearably precocious as you’d imagine, I only wanted more. So I gobbled up everything I could find, including Jane Eyre which I was way too young to understand but I looked so precious lugging it around. By thirteen I had moved past Judy Blume and was learning about the down-and-dirty from Danielle Steel and Nora Roberts novels.
And then Lloyd Dobler happened.
And Christian Slater in, you know, pretty much everything.
Let’s not forget Daniel Day Lewis in The Last of the Mohicans. “No matter how fah! I will find you!” Mmmhmm- I know you will, honey.
Look, I am a smart chick ok? I can take care of myself at the bank, I know my way around a bouncer, I can roast a chicken, I’ll write a sales proposal that’ll knock you on your ass. And discussing a film’s mis-en-scene is all well and good. So’s the opera. And Dante. And enjoying a wine list as long as your date’s face.
But sometimes, a girl’s just gotta be eight again. No, actually, she needs to be Chris Parker, dancing her way into a black velvet dress only her mom should be wearing, with Josh Lyman’s picture in her hands and The Crystals blaring in the background. Yeah. She needs joy and giddyness and the promise of adoration and playful sex.
In short, she just needs trash. And what the universe sometimes lacks, the Internet will provide.
Meet Smart Bitches, Trashy Books. It’s everything spelled out above and so much more. It’s fun, it’s smartly written and let’s face it- the topic of Harlequinn romance novels can sometimes be flat-out hilarious. It’s just what you need when you’re feeling way too smart and PSG for your own good.
Visit Smart Bitches, Trashy Books today. Long live the Fabio cover.