Someone a long time ago told me that I reminded them of Stephanie Plum. When I gave them a blank stare, they replied, “You know, from the books?”
Nope, no clue.
Well that’s all changed. A couple of weeks ago I was at Target looking for something to help me with my “read a book a week” annual challenge and I was tired of the artsy fartsy literary Oprah books, so I snooped around the cheap serial novels and saw a wall of bright colored numbered books by Janet Evanovich.
That’s when I met Stephanie Plum.
And I admit. I’m addicted.
Maybe it’s the hair; until a few years ago, when I discovered ceramic hair straighteners, I dealt with curly, frizzy, unmanageable hair.
Or maybe it’s her job; I’ve always said that if I had it to do over again, I’d be a private investigator. (That comment, in fact, may have been what prompted the original comparison.)
Could have been the hamster. I’ve had hamsters for years, although after my last fur ball went to the great habitrail in the sky I packed away the cage, tubes, and wheels for a while. Two dogs, a cat and six chickens are enough for the moment. (Plus my husband says I can’t have any more animals until we move to a new house. I don’t want a donkey that badly. Yet.)
More likely, it’s her penchant for trouble. I may not be blowing up cars every few weeks, but I am often an accident waiting for a place to happen. My husband has, on more than one occasion, called me a bull in a china shop. My doctor once asked me discreetly if someone was causing all of those black and blue marks on my arms and legs. Nope. I pointed out where each one came from: tripped on the dog, walked into the cupboard, slipped on the cat, walked into a wall, banged my shin on a stool, stapled my own fingers, burned my head with the curling iron, got the dog leash wrapped around my wrist …
In any event, I’m living my private investigator dream vicariously via bounty hunter Stephanie Plum. It’s probably safer that way.