Dim Sum Diaries
I am a romance novel junkie. I enjoy romance novels. I admit it. I don't smoke. I don't do drugs. I don't drink that much alcohol. I cannot however, enter a store without perusing the book section. I have to buy a book at least once a week. I can't help it. Such was the case last night when I nipped into Barnes and Noble to see if they had the latest and greatest for the month of May. They didn't. Disappointed and desperate, I scanned the back covers of some Harlequins (you know the kind they sell next to the Enquirer in the supermarket checkout) and bought two. Surely they can't be that bad, I thought to myself. They were. Don't get me wrong, the much reviled romance industry (bad writing, no plots, gratuitous sex scenes blah blah blah) has some great writers which I thoroughly enjoy. But they don't write fast enough for me, so I am forced to buy the ones I wouldn't ordinarily buy because I need my fix. The worse one was one in which a "writer" secretly lusts after her limousine driver. He of course, is a totally hot stud. He is supposedly finishing law school but can't decide what he wants to do with life. In undergrad he changes his major four times. So to demonstrate this, this author peppers his dialogue with phrases (one time each) from the disciplines he studied. For example, he was premed for two semesters:

"Ooh baby, your outfit gives me a cardiac arrhythmia! I learned that when I was premed, baby."

Now that the hero is in law school, he feels free to enthuse:

"Let the evidence show that my legal briefs are hot for you, baby!"

Ugh. Remind me never to buy a romance book on impulse again.