Chipped Polish & Wornout Jeans

The ugly honest truth is that from a young age women are taught to be at war with our bodies; we are taught to hate their appearance and to want to be prettier, thinner, and more perfect. We are bombarded with images of rail thin women, shamed for being overweight, and told that feeling fat or unhappy about our appearance is a silly problem that can simply be handled by eating less and working out, even if it isn’t that simple. If we don’t conform to a certain image we are often shamed and mocked. Worse than that, we are taught to judge other women by their appearance; we are taught to hate those prettier than us, seeing them as competition, and mock those who do not conform to the predetermined and predefined concept of attractiveness. It makes for difficult for women to form relationships with each other, and it’s a recipe for eating disorders and self esteem issues.

It’s something I struggle with constantly; I am nearly twenty-five, and I have severe body image issues. I’ve had them since I was perhaps sixteen, and they’ve gotten progressively worse. They can be absolutely crippling, and there are days when I can’t stop myself from crying for hours; I have trouble looking in the mirror, and I rush to get dressed so that I don’t look at my reflection. I’ve had days when I’ve fallen apart because of my weight, and nights when I’ve cried myself to sleep. It’s exhausting, and the longer it goes on, the worse I feel. The sad thing is that society sets us up to feel dreadful about ourselves, and instead of fighting it we fall in line. It’s hard to fight back, especially when you feel worse everyday.

It’s easy for people to crack jokes and say it’s a ‘first world problem’ to feel fat and ugly and want to hide your body because you hate it so much. Especially when they don’t feel that way every day. It makes it hard to go about your life when you can’t stand to see your own reflection. I don’t want to look in the mirror or get dressed because I don’t want to see my body. I wear giant hoodies that three sizes too big so that you can’t see how big I am, and I literally cry myself to sleep some nights because I’m so afraid I will never be pretty enough and that I will always be too fat and too ugly to be wanted. And then you hear or read things where people say that you’re being too sensitive about your size or a fat joke or that you’re just upset because you’re not skinny enough to wear something made for someone so much smaller than you as if that means you’re just jealous and that you should just eat less and stop being a fat ass.

Hating your own reflection is like carrying around a massive weight on your shoulders, and everyday it gets heavier until you collapse under the pressure. That is the ugly honest truth. I wake up in the morning and when I look in the mirror all I can see are the flaws. I see fat and stretch marks that will never go away; I can’t see anything else, and it breaks me a little more every day. I have never felt pretty, never felt beautiful, not once, and I'm exhausted. I’m so sick of being fat; I’m so sick of hating my reflection and never feeling pretty enough. Anytime I lose weight, I just gain it back and then some. I can never wear cute clothes.  I’m sick of my reflection making me cry; I’m sick of finding new stretch marks on my thighs and stomach every day or seeing them get worse. I look like I’ve been pregnant or something, and those things may never go away. I’m fat, and I have ugly marks all over my body. And this is what I deal with on a daily basis.

One of my goals for this year is to read one hundred books; Kushiel’s Dart is the first among them. I will be tracking my progress on GoodReads, and I am going to make a conscious effort to broaden my reading horizons. And now, without further ado, here is my first review.

I've read a great many reviews of this book, and many of them were very off-putting. They all said the same things; sex seems thrown in at random, the writing is repetitive, Phedre is a whiner, word choice is very poor. I will admit that Carey abuses the word phallus as if it is the only word she knows for male genitalia, and I also freely admit that Phedre was an initially whiny narrator who can get rather repetitive. The book does start off slow, as Phedre provides an information dump that lays out her parentage and explains the Houses, but once she reaches the age of ten, the story begins to pick up and move at a decent pace. However, none of this deterred my enjoyment of the novel.

I particularly liked that Phedre wasn’t your typical heroine; she isn’t a princess locked in a tower who picks up a blade to defend her home, and she isn’t a girl masquerading as a man in order to fight. From the beginning she is completely honest about who and what she is, and I loved that about her character. She is a woman, through and through; she is a courtesan, in a world full of finery and pretty that hides darkness. Behind the beauty and sensuality of her world and lifestyle lurks treachery and danger, and Phedre uses her wits and her skills to survive.

I thoroughly enjoyed the refreshing change of having a female protagonist whose sexuality and femininity was empowering and important; so often we see female characters tossing aside their femininity to masquerade as men or having their femininity treated as a weakness. Sexuality is rarely portrayed as a good thing, and there is often a great deal of shame thrust upon openly sexual female characters. Such is not the case here. Instead Phedre's sexuality is embraced and is in fact a powerful and important aspect of her character; having a hero who is a sexual masochist was daring, and I applaud Carey for being able to do so without turning Phedre into a slut. I was particularly impressed by the way that she humanized Phedre and showed both the positive and negative sides of her life as anguissette, especially when she was forced to become a bed slave.

The sex scenes were well done and were handled in a tastefully, though those that were graphic in detail are not for the faint of heart, Phedre's experience with Melisande and the flechettes for example; many of the scenes were simply fade to black, implying what took place instead of spelling it out in graphic detail. None of her encounters seemed thrown in for the sake of adding eroticism to the novel, and each served a purpose toward forwarding the story and developing Phedre as a character. Even her relationships with others, especially her companion Joscelin, are shaped by these encounters, and by allowing Phedre to be trained as an extremely keen observer, Carey is able to show us how other characters' views are shaped by Phedre's role as courtesan and spy.

Often with first person narratives, the protagonist is developed at the expense of other characters, but such was not the case here; through Phedre's keen observations we are able to learn a great deal about the individuals she encounters. Her friends and companions, as well as her teachers and enemies, were well developed, and because the reader learned about them as she did, the development felt more natural and less like an unceremonious information dump.

The world building in the novel is exquisite, and Carey creates a world of both beauty and  darkness; it is fairly obvious that she is building using Europe as a base, with her primary location of Terre d’Ange being based in France. A good world build is as important to me as good character development, and Carey does not disappoint. The D’Angelines have a rich culture with a religion based upon angels fallen from grace, all following an angel known as Elua; The central idea behind their religion is “Love as thou wilt” embraces sex as a spiritual act and not just a physical one, and Carey does an excellent job of handling this idea without turning it into a tawdry idea of sex everywhere.

I do wish to address what many have complained is the pedobear seal of approval on this book, in that children are accepted into the Houses at the age of ten, where they are trained to become courtesans. Do I approve of the sexualization of children? No. However, one must remember that this is a fantasy novel, set in a time period that harkens back the medieval period; children matured much faster during that time due to shorter life expectancies. Also, since the primary focus of the tale is Phedre’s journey it is important to remember that she is brought into the Delaunay house at ten, but she does not begin her training to become a courtesan until she is fourteen when she dedicates herself as a servant of Namaah; she does not lose her virginity until she is sixteen.

The novel was rich in detail, and while normally I am turned off by first person narratives, Phedre was an engaging narrator for the most part; she does begin as sort of a whiny brat, but as she matures, so does her voice, making her more relatable. The political intrigue can be very dense and hard to follow, and I found myself wishing I had taken note of which characters were enemies and which characters were allies. Kushiel's Dart is an engaging and lush novel, filled with intriguing characters and sharp plot twists and narrated by a unique and captivating woman who's emotional growth rings true.

Vain and Gratuitous Picture to update you on my appearance (edited in photoshop out of boredom)

But the problem with a blog when you have no life is that you have nothing to write about. Most of the time my life consists of playing in Photoshop, occasionally writing on novels that may never be finished, tons of reading, and cooking (lots and lots of cooking). Just a reminder, I talk about my culinary adventures at A Taste of Joy, and I promise to update that blog more often. In fact, my goal is to blog more from now on, and hopefully I can manage that.

Before I start with the updates on what little has transpired in the life of Nic, let me begin by saying that this blog will hopefully become a lot more interesting. I’m not going to be blogging about major political issues or anything like that, though I may talk about important issues that have been on my mind a lot, but I am going to hopefully talk more about life as I experience it. This includes blogging about the books I read, the movies I see, things I see, and things that happen in my life. Whether or not that will be interesting or worth reading is yet to be determined, but writing used to be a great outlet for me; I intend to let it be that again. So on with the blogging.

As I mentioned earlier, I have been doing a lot of reading, and you can find my Goodreads updates both on my sidebar and by visiting my account. I’m open to book recommendations and friends there. I plan to blog more about my literary adventures, including reviews of sorts of the books I’m reading.

Currently I am halfway through a re-read of George R.R. Martin’s A Game of Thrones so that I can move on to reading A Clash of Kings, and it’s one of those books that is so dense and rich that reading it a second time gives you more to love. Let me take a moment to talk about this book in general, without giving away too much, and then when I’ve finished I will write an actual review.

Martin’s writing style is very heavy, and he tends to be very wordy; however, for me that is not a deterrent so long as the story continues to move forward at a decent pace, which for the most part he does. He has a sort of Joss Whedon wickedness about him, in that you will fall in love with characters only to have them viciously taken from you via death. But his characters are deliciously human, and even the villains are realistic. I absolutely love that there are characters to love, characters you’ll love to hate, and characters you find yourself cheering for despite misgiving. The story rotates through their various points of view, which can be very daunting, and some of his chosen narrators leave a lot to be desired (I’m looking at you Sansa Stark, you little simpering whiner); however, each narrator weaves a brilliant portion of the overall tapestry, bringing their subplots and motivations.

The world is richly developed, and while there are underlying elements of high fantasy (dragons, direwolves, magic, and the mysterious Others), the fantasy aspect is cleverly worked into the overall story without bombarding the reader. It is not a book for the squeamish or those uncomfortable with sex, violence, and death, but I highly recommend it for fantasy lovers who want something thick and detailed to feed a need for heroes and villains.
Other books I’m reading:

• Eona by Allison Goodman
• Brisingr by Christopher Paolini
• Kushiel’s Dart by Jacqueline Carey

The only update I have for now is that I have two mapped out but unfinished barely started novels. One is a futuristic dystopian work called NeverWonder and the other is a historical fantasy work that has yet to be named.

When you are a child you don’t realize how much more there is to losing a loved one than their death. You don’t see the extent of the sickness if they are ill or the difficult choices about medical treatment and care. You only know that your loved one is gone. Being an adult and dealing with it is so much more difficult. I’m learning that now as I sit here, blogging from the hospital room where my Nanny, a woman who has been a very large part of my life, is slowly dying. My Nanny is possibly suffering from a very rare degenerative neurological disease called Atypical Motor Neuron Disease; it is incurable and will eventually claim her life. This has really affected my family, especially my mom who was always close to her mother, and that tears me apart because I am very close to my mom, to the point that I will go to blows with people who mess with her. The family drama that is happening due to crappy relatives only makes this worse.

Right now, as I sit here, my Nanny is dehydrated and a bit emaciated because she cannot eat due to her inability to swallow and she made it very clear that she did not want anything invasive like feeding tubes; my mom and I come and stay at the hospital almost everyday, and early in the week we were actually sleeping at the hospital because we weren’t sure she was going to last the night. We are practically living in the hospital room at the moment. The sad thing is that, while we don’t want a pat on the back or anything, no one seems to appreciate the way we are sacrificing and suffering, and instead either we are ignored or it is implied that we are doing this out of a guilty conscience. We have nothing to be guilty about because we have always taken care of Nanny and been there for her. So all of the drama that is happening on top of my mom losing her mother. Soon I will only have her recipes and the memory of her voice, and I’m not sure how to handle it. I love my Nanny, and I will miss her so much; I already miss her. That is why I’ve made up my mind that the bakery and sweets shop I plan to eventually have will be called “A Taste of Joy” in honor of Barbara Joy Smith, my Nanny, the woman who opened my eyes and introduced me to the joy of cooking.

When I was younger, only about eight or so, I lost my Granddaddy to lung cancer, and I remember only understanding that he was gone. And when I lost my Pa and then my Papa within a few months of each other I was in high school; I was not involved in the decision making process or any of the drama that happened afterward. Now it is entirely different. There are people who must must be called and choices about her care, and most of that is falling to us; the problem is that those who don’t want to make the choices are not happy with the choices we make. It is a painful vicious cycle, and it feels like we simply cannot win. And while I know there is no real victory here, I simply wish there was a way to make things better for my mom, who is suffering because she is losing her mother. I wish my family hadn’t lost their ever loving minds and decided that this is the perfect moment to stir up drama and cause fights, and I wish that we could have peace in this family for once because it is something my Nanny has always dreamed about.

I guess I’ve been thinking too much again. I’ve all but given up on ever getting to be with Jake, although I miss him terribly; I still do not know what happened, and I still wonder if he left because I was a mess. I can be so harsh and abrasive, and I’m a mass of contradictions and trouble; I came with baggage and damage because the one person who’d promised me forever lied to me, cheated on me, and never had the courage to actually end the relationship, and I got scared a lot. Sometimes I feel like I was way more trouble than I was worth. I know I should move on because that would be the wise decision, the strong choice, but I have yet to get over him, even though it has been well over a year since he said it was over. My heart still break when he crosses my mind, and there are times when I need to hear his voice telling me it’s alright, and I know that can’t happen.

It seems others haven’t given up hope; my mother swears that he’s going to come back, though I find that hard to believe. She says that he still loves me, but I highly suspect that she is simply saying things to make me feel better; I’m sure that he’s moved on, and I hope he is happy. He is good man, and he will make some very lucky woman very happy; I hope whoever that woman is, she is grateful and kind and loving because he deserves that. My grandmama, who fell in love with him the moment she met him, is convinced that I will turn around and there he’ll be; she firmly believes that I just have to be patient and he’ll be back. I don’t think so. A tiny part of me still hold out hope that he will call me or show up, and I occasionally have these stupid heartbreaking dreams where there’s a knock at my door and I open it to find him standing there, waiting. I’m sure that someone else has come into his life, someone less damaged and crazy, and he’s happy. She probably swears less than I do, and she’s probably more of a lady than I’ll ever be. I think my nanny still secretly hopes that he will come back because he was smart and funny and well mannered and everything a good Southern man should be.

I will admit that there were times when the only bright spot in my day was the sound of his voice on the other end of the phone or a text message saying hi; no matter how crappy my day was, he could make me smile. I could be crying and miserable, and he’d make it better. I have moments, when I’m in tears and falling apart, that I reach for my phone and have to remind myself that I can’t call him, that he won’t answer, and he certainly will not come and kiss my tears away. I miss his smile, his laugh, the way he had so much faith in us and in God and in everything; I miss the way he held me tight, and I miss the way he’d sing in my ear when I was feeling terrible about myself. I miss the way he understood me better than anyone else, and he knows more about me than anyone else in the world; I shared all of myself with him. I just miss him. (I know you probably aren’t reading this, Jake, but on the off chance you are, I miss you, and I still love you.)

I’m trying hard not miss him so much because missing someone who isn’t interested in you is pointless, but it isn’t working. I’m trying not to wish we were still together, but it’s almost impossible. When he walked out of my life, I lost my best friend, which sounds really cheesy, but it’s true.