by Ronda Thompson, contemporary (1998)
LionHearted Publishing, $6.99, ISBN 1-57343-008-0
They say "Laughter is subjective", and one's funny is another person's poison. Or something. But let's cut the sweet-sweet crap. I think Isn't It Romantic? is unfunny. I have no idea what those "funny, funny, funny!" reviews are talking about - are we reading the same book? - but hey, this is just me, and I say this book is as funny as being stuffed in a Barney suit and made to entertain rowdy kids at birthday parties.
This story is about romance writer Katrine Summerville's love story with Trey Westmoreland, a literary reviewer who hates romance stuff. Both have serious issues that, in my opinion, an extended stay at the padded room will do good, especially Trey who genuinely believes that Romance Novels are Destroying Civilization and it is his Uphold Duty to Put A Stop to the Evil. Just because his ex-wife is the pits. Sure, I know some online critics who are dead-on clones of Trey, but the online world is populated by weirdos most of the time, so that doesn't count. Right?
I can go on about the silly, childish circular misunderstandings and jealousies over misassumptions that the other still love his or her ex and other jolly dumb "stupid cute" stuff only adolescents will love reading (if their Sweet Valley High books are of any indication). Bottom line is, these two so-called adults could use a long, long stay in the padded cell before graduating to grade school. It's a crime that they are reproducing when their maturity is still half-baked.
Oh, and apparently the people in this book get their jollies reading about a romance author's clashing with a child-man prick. Dallas must be a really sad and boring place.
But what gets me shrieking for the exorcist is Katrine's eleven-year old daughter. If my eleven-year old daughter greets strangers with "My mom sells sex for a living" and "He's eyeing your breasts lustfully and no doubt his manhood is stiff-", I won't be laughing. I will be weeping as I dial the number for the exorcist, wondering how I went wrong and my daughter just had to say "manhood" instead of "penis". And when she starts giving love advice to Mommy dearest, I have to take a long bath in holy water.
I don't know. As a romance, this book is a disaster area. As a statement that romance authors are one strange, weird species, though, this book is a complete success. Isn't It Romantic? Not really, I'm calling the Ghostbusters to zap that evil fiend daughter at this very minute. "Stiff manhood", of all things. Good grief.
This book at Amazon.com
This book at Amazon.com
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