For Jennifer Crusie: Fat Grams, Schmat Grams

What is WRONG with women?

Specifically, Jennifer Crusie. She is a fantastic author of light smut/heavy “ever-after” chick lit-ty stuff, and I love her books. Yes, yes, I know, I had x years of college-blah-blah- almost had a masters-yada-yada WHATEVER. I LIKE SMUT. Ok, that’s harsh, she really doesn’t write smut, but her books are hilarious and I love the fact that, unlike Harlequin characters, her heroines apparently have needs that they want to actually DO SOMETHING about. I would say my neo-puritan mother would call them smut, but I believe she’s given me one or two to read, so I guess… well, I guess that goes into an area I’d rather not consider with my mother. And my father. Oh, GOD, if I want to maintain my belief that therapy is useless I’d best stop now.

ANYWAY… I wanted to make chicken marasla last night. I got the idea from one of Crusie’s books, Bet Me, so when I couldn’t find a recipe that sounded right, I Googled (there’s a whole new set o’ verbs for the 21st century, isn’t there?) “Jennifer Crusie” + “Chicken Marsala”… and came up with (duh) I found the recipe and decided to check out the rest of the web site.

Crusie has a blog (… just like me only more people read hers) and on it she has an entry that says “Since I began my diet on January 1, I’ve gained six pounds.” That’s not cosmic unless you consider that one of her novels, the aformentioned Bet Me, deals with a less than slender chica who struggles with her weight and falls in love with a Greek god who convinces her all the weight stuff is crap anyway. A fantastic story.

Which I loved up until 20 minutes ago when I read that blog entry. How are us normal sized girls (excuse me, women, supposed to look up to the trailblazers along the path of body acceptance if those trailblazers want their own hips to diminsh along with our egos?

You know, it occurs to me I should read the rest of her blog before I, the writer who takes pictures of little league games and explores- in depth, no less- the trevails (is that really a word?) of Gulfport City Hall, should read the rest of her blog to make sure the woman isn’t one of those whales that have to ride around on a scooter because they can’t quite kick the bucket-o-lard a day habit. So, because my laptop battery is about gone and because I am a bit intimidated by anyone who can write a whole novel, I’m gonna go do that.

But before I forget… because I admire her for writing smut when she could be day trading or selling real estate or working as an actuary (and because who the hell am I to criticize her when I only borrow her books from friends or pick them up at Small Adventures as used reads?), this is just for Crusie: “That Crusie, she was only dialogue, but what dialogue!” (How conceited am I to assume she’ll read it and care, but hell, when I’m famous, it’ll really mean something, won’t it?)

Oh, and I’m sure I may get sued for this, but I just checked, and she isn’t a whale:

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I write. I take pictures. I love my dog. I love Florida. My 2016 book, 'Backroads of Paradise' did really well for the publisher and now I feel a ridiculous amount of pressure to finish the second book.