Ah, Monday. A day I both love and hate. Love because I'm off from the salt mine. Hate, because I always end up doing laundry. No matter how hard I try to get laundry done the day before, it never happens. But I digress, as usual.
This weekend I read two books. Shocking, I know. The first, the latest Nora Roberts, was fun, familiar, comforting--all the reasons I read a Roberts book. Well, along with peeks at interesting careers and funny, charming, hot men. I'm always torn between wanting to live in a Roberts world such as New York 2060 and be wooed by someone such as Detective David Baxter, or whether I'd be more at home (or more, ahem, satisfied) in a gritty, harsh environment such as Karen Marie Moning's Dublin with an uber-Alpha male such as Riodian. And yes, I've given this thought. A LOT of thought.
Anyway, the second book I read this weekend was Kathryn Stockett's THE HELP. This book--not comforting at all. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to cry with a sinus infection? I do, because I cried five separate times. Yes, FIVE times. And I'm not feeling in the slightest bit hormonal, so I can't even blame the tears on those pesky things. No, I firmly blame Stockett, because she wrote characters so real, so grounded in reality, I couldn't help but feel for them and with them. If the movie is even halfway as amazing as the book, I'll be bawling, which means I guess it's a good thing I never got to see it in theaters, because I am NOT a pretty crier. I actually get pretty darn red all in the face and eye area (thank you, fair Irish skin).
Because of this, I'm spending the day watching movies that will not make me cry. I mean, it's a little hard to cry when Cameron Diaz is making you laugh your ass off in Bad Teacher. And it's even harder to cry when you're drooling over Vin Disel.