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She was just writing a story.
When Anna Koval decides to creatively kill time at her library job in Austin by teaching herself HTML and posting partially fabricated stories about her life on the Internet, she hardly imagines anyone besides her friend Dale is going to read them. He's been bugging her to start writing again since her breakup with Ian over a year ago. And so what if the "Anna K" persona in Anna's online journal has a fabulous boyfriend named Ian? It's not like the real Ian will ever find out about it.
The story started writing itself.
Almost instantly Anna K starts getting e-mail from adoring fans that read her daily postings religiously. One devotee, Tess, seems intent on becoming Anna K's real-life best friend and another, a male admirer who goes by the name of "Ldobler," sounds like he'd want to date Anna K if she didn't already have a boyfriend. Meanwhile, the real Anna can't help but wonder if her newfound fans like her or the alter ego she's created. It's only a matter of time before fact and fiction collide and force Anna to decide not only who she wants to be with, but who she wants to be.
- Sales Rank: #943332 in eBooks
- Published on: 2003-07-01
- Released on: 2003-07-01
- Format: Kindle eBook
From Booklist
Anna Koval aspires to be a writer but pays the bills by working as a librarian at an Austin high school. Killing time at work, she posts a story about "Slutty Barbies" online and is amazed at the response. Soon she is "creating an entire life on the Internet" and changing from Anna Koval, a "nothing-special-twenty-something to Anna K: Web celebrity." She writes about her shortcomings, her fears, and her love life, and hundreds of readers, including a neurotic groupie and a potential new love, respond in amazingly personal e-mails of their own. When Anna's father dies unexpectedly, she pours out her grief to her invisible fans, and then realizes that she is revealing too much of herself. Feeling overly vulnerable, she gradually deletes her files because, as she explains, "too much of me was up on that webpage, plastered like a billboard." Ribon herself kept a popular Web journal called "Squishy," and she is also a comedian, experiences that shape her light and entertaining first novel. Deborah Donovan
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
About the Author
Pamela Ribon is a bestselling author, television writer and performer. A pioneer in the blogging world, her first novel, Why Girls Are Weird, was loosely based on her extremely successful website pamie.com. The site has been nominated for a Bloggie in Lifetime Achievement, which makes her feel old. Ribon created the cult sensation and tabloid tidbit Call Us Crazy: The Anne Heche Monologues, a satire of fame, fandom and Fresno. Her two-woman show, Letters Never Sent (created with four-time Emmy winner and Jay Leno Show favorite Liz Feldman) was showcased at the 2005 HBO US Comedy Arts Festival in Aspen. She has been writing in television for the past seven years, in both cable and network, including on the Emmy-award winning Samantha Who? starring Christina Applegate. Using her loyal Internet fan base, Ribon sponsors book drives for libraries in need. Over the years, pamie.com has sent thousands of books and materials to Oakland and San Diego, sponsored a Tsunami-ravaged village of schoolchildren, and helped restock the shelves of a post-Katrina Harrison County, Mississippi. Ribon’s book drive can now be found at DeweyDonationSystem.org, which has sponsored libraries from the Negril School in Jamaica to the Children’s Institute in Los Angeles.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 000001.
The House of Smut Revealed
24 June
It's been a long time since I've played with dolls. I've never really thought back on my time with plastic humans before, but today, as I was watching a group of giggly young girls browsing Barbies in the Wal-Mart, I remembered that feeling -- that strange sexual energy and giddy shame of playing Barbies in my bedroom. It was a spinning, dizzy sensation. My friends and I spoke in hushed tones as we held these dolls in various stages of dress. If our parents had ever found out what we were doing, those dolls certainly would have been taken away from us. It wasn't our fault Barbie and her pals released our initial sexuality. We were young and full of questions and those dolls are shaped like handheld sexpots.
Barbie has big, incredible breasts with this soft spot between them that your thumb fits into just perfectly. She's not wearing anything underneath her clothing. You can put her in panties and a bra for a quick jog or you can have her make eggs in the Barbie Dream Kitchen wearing only a pair of spiked heels. You can pull her hair up or have it going down all the way to her high and tight ass.
Ken is big and bold and square. He's got a strong chin and jaw. His hair is blond, and sort of wavy. You can run your fingernail along the hard ridges on his head. Or can you? I can't remember if Ken had real hair. I think some of my Kens did. He is very muscular, and the bulge under his pants is impressive enough that you wonder if all boys polish their bulge as often as you'd polish Ken's with Windex. Ken has a nice, defined butt that looks good in a pair of swim trunks.
Barbie and Ken were very different from Donny and Marie. Yes, Donny and Marie Osmond. The fact that I loved Donny and Marie at three or four or however old I was might clue you in on the kind of childhood I had. I spent too much time in front of the television and I loved variety shows. What four-year-old loves variety shows? And were there so many four-year-olds in love with Donny and Marie that they had to make dolls of them? And why did I still have these dolls once I turned ten? Why didn't I get new dolls? I can't really start thinking too much about the hows or whys because it's all so fucked up that I end up wanting to go back in time to scoop up tiny little me and hold her and tell her about the Partridge Family. Anyway, I had these Mormon musical star dolls, but I had no idea what a Mormon was, so they ended up being gigantic sinners in my house.
Marie had short brown hair that was like Sally Field's helmet in Steel Magnolias. She was completely flat-chested. As bad as Skipper, if I remember correctly. Clothes just sat on her, and there was never a need for a belt. Her hand had a hole in it. You could stick her microphone there, but I knew just enough about Mormons to fit a diamond ring in the spot. I had Donny and Marie married, because I was young and thought anyone could get married as long as they loved each other.
Donny was wearing plastic tighty-whiteys. Seriously. There was an extra ridge of plastic that went around Donny's waist and legs. There was no bulge. His hair was dark and slicked down. A plastic shield -- there was no fucking around with Donny Osmond's hair. His smile was so bright and big. I think they painted stars in his eyes. He also had a hole in his hand, but if you did it just right, you could stick one of Barbie's spiked heels in the hole and have him sniff Barbie's shoe. Donny and Marie didn't have enough money for rent, so they lived off their love in a Buster Brown shoebox. Only a ten-year-old can create an incestuous Mormon celebrity relationship and have it be romantic.
Barbie's legs were very difficult to open. You had to jam Ken between them. Donny's arms were already bent at just enough of an angle that you could prop Barbie's legs on each one and they were good to go. Marie's head could turn all the way around. The hole in her hand could also hold a small martini glass. Most of my dolls had marks on their backs from being bound, gagged, and jammed into the bed of my Tonka 4x4.
The Barbie without a left pinkie was the fetishist and she'd often blindfold Strawberry Shortcake and sniff her all over. Custard wore a spiked collar made of toothpicks.
One day the Barbie without a head convinced Donny and Marie to put pink and blue Life pegs through the holes in their hands. The Barbies pretended the pegs were hits of acid and got the Osmonds to think they could fly.
The Barbie Town House had a pulley system for the house elevator. Ken and Skipper enjoyed a quick romp on top of the elevator while it was going up, jumping off on the third floor just before they'd be crushed to death.
I had to give some of my dolls distinguishing marks so I could keep track of all of their fetishes. I didn't want the nudist Barbies to end up bathing with the dolls that liked to sleep with Weebles. Barbie GreenHair liked to take baths in cotton balls. She also enjoyed wrapping herself from head to toe in toilet paper. Skipper MarkerFace enjoyed cutting the hair off other Barbie dolls and taping it to her back. One doll had hair that would grow if you pushed a button on her back or shorten if you twisted her arm. The other Barbies would torture her by pulling on her hair while twisting her arm at the same time. Then they'd eat her hair. Barbie BackwardsLegs enjoyed riding cats. She'd strap herself on and hang on for dear life while they'd buck and toss and eventually eat her head. She was a wild one, Barbie BackwardsLegs. I miss the hell out of her.
Boys loved girls, girls loved girls, boys loved boys, and boys loved girls that loved girls. Anything went in the Barbie Town House.
And, oh, man, they still talk about the day Jem and the Holograms showed up with six bottles of tequila and a roll of paper towels.
Love until later,
Anna K
Copyright © 2003 by Pamela Ribbon
Chapter 000002.
So that's how all of this mess got started. I wrote a story about sex kitten Barbies, put it online, and my life changed forever. From the best I can tell, this entry got passed around from co-worker to co-worker, friend to friend. Those strangers and friends of strangers kept coming back to see what I'd write next. What I thought would be a tiny little webpage that just a few people knew about turned into one that thousands of people read every day. I thought the web was supposed to be dead. Wasn't that what everyone had been saying? "The death of the Internet!" That was why I couldn't get a better job than my library admin thing. It was why I was so bored and started all of this. I was trying to find a time killer at work and decided to teach myself a little HTML. I soon realized that the more I was typing, the more it looked like I was working. Anyone passing by my workstation would think I was hard at work improving myself, but in reality I was writing story after story, creating an entire life on the Internet. Slutty Barbies (and the fact that e-mail will never be dead) took me from Anna Koval, a nothing-special-twenty-something, to Anna K: web celebrity.
I don't know what I thought would happen. In hindsight, I don't know how I thought nothing would come of it.
But I'm ending the story of Anna K -- right here, right now. I'm closing down this website. I want to explain everything before I take it all away. Some people have been with me from the beginning, and I'd feel bad leaving after a year without so much as a good-bye.
It's been a year of strange choices and often embarrassing decisions on my part. I've made new relationships and lost others. Some people involved with all of this were more innocent than others. Those who weren't know who they are. There are others that will be shocked by what I have to say here. There are some who probably knew what I was doing all along. My only defense is that I never meant to hurt anybody. Looking back now, I know I was searching for something. I exposed myself until there was almost nothing left of me to hide. And now I'm removing the final bits of fabric, standing in front of you completely naked. It'll be our last time together like this, and I don't want to keep anything from you anymore.
It all started the night I watched my best friend, Dale, bathing. He had hurt his hand moving his new couch into his apartment and for the first time in a while he was asking me for help.
"You're very cute," I said as I stood over his bathtub.
He lowered himself and floated a washcloth over his crotch: "Just hurry up and then get the hell out of here." He tried to hide his rubber duck behind him, but I had already seen it.
Dale and I met at our first crappy jobs here in Austin right out of college. We waited tables at this restaurant over a Whole Foods store. Three good things about that job: an in-house masseuse, drinking smoothies between rushes, and meeting each other. Every other facet of that place sucked ass.
Dale's my friend who knows the joke I'm about to say because he was about to say it at that exact moment. Like this one time we were both in my car stopped at a red light and a girl wearing a miniskirt and enormous shoes ate shit right in front of us. We both busted up at the sight of those white platforms smacking up and hitting her in the ass as she made this face like she was on The Benny Hill Show. She fell to the ground and flipped back upright in almost one swift motion, her hands pulling the bottom of her skirt down as her purse knocked at her knees. But it was the moment when she walked back to stare down the crack in the street that caused her fall -- when she had to go back just to show all of us that it was the pavement's fault and not those gigantic shoes -- that we completely lost it. It's that laugh that's deep in your stomach where you're sure you'll never breathe again, and nobody else in the entire world but the two of you know why what just happened is the funniest thing that will ever happen in the history of funny moments ever. That's Dale and me.
"I st...
Most helpful customer reviews
2 of 3 people found the following review helpful.
Pamie, I love you.
By Thayli
I have been a fan of this author, through her blog and her work over at TWOP, for a couple of years now. I couldn't wait for the book, which I knew was going to be funny. I was surprised to find that it was not only funny (within 5 pages I was laughing til tears were streaming down my face), but it also had substance to it as well. Which is something that is frequently lacking in the chick-lit genre. I truly enjoyed this, and am now waiting for "Why Moms are Weird" to show up on my doorstep.
31 of 42 people found the following review helpful.
Funny but flawed
By A Customer
I should stop reading books marketed as "chick lit," because books that set up a sharp dichotomy between men and women and that purport to tell "this is how women are" never fail to annoy me. This book is at least upfront about where it's going: it's all right there in the title. So if you find the title off-putting, that's about all you need to know.
Part of my problem with this story was that I never really cared about Anna. She struck me as unlikeable and full of herself, and I kept waiting for the story to turn to some sort of self-awareness that would lead her out of her bubble of self-absorption. But it never happens, and in fact the book seems to celebrate that self-absorption. The central love story is all based on Anna finding a guy who thinks she is the center of the universe just like she does, and that's really not the kind of love story that keeps my attention.
Parts of the book are very funny, but those parts seem tacked on. The stories Anna tells don't seem to fit with the character as she is presented by the narrative, which means that the journal excerpts are jarring and out of place. It might have been interesting to explore the gap between Anna and her online persona, but that exploration only takes place in the most superficial way. The novel looks at Anna K's surface-level lies without acknowledging the fundamental disconnect between her character and the persona she presents through the entries.
In all, Why Girls Are Weird is too shallow to be compelling, too disjointed in tone to be consistently funny. The book goes for the easy answers every time, so it winds up reading like a rough draft of a much better book.
3 of 9 people found the following review helpful.
tiny wooden hand, how i love thee
By Leslie J Lauhon
pamela ribon, self proclaimed wonder killer, does not disappoint in this hilarious account of an internet saga. her storytelling style utilizes an eclectic sense of humor; certain to entertain. i think i fell out of my chair when i read about the tiny wooden hand. every time i order pizza i cry a little just picturing the scene. excellent read.
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