Bitchin' Blog Posts
Jessa Slade forwarded me the following covers from the personal romance collection of the late RubyLee Schneider. Jessa writes:
She was the 81-year-old treasurer of the Rose City Romance Writers RWA chapter. She died this year and her library—these books among them—was distributed to the chapter members. While she might not have entirely approved of some of the language at SB, she did have a great sense of humor and would’ve cheered the spirit of community there. We miss her very much.
Any woman who donates her collection of romance to her RWA chapter is a winner in my world. I asked Jessa for more information about Ms. Schneider, and she told me:
RubyLee wrote historicals and inspirational romances and was an Eppie finalist in 2005. She was a charter member of Rose City Romance Writers and was treasurer at the time she got sick. Near the end, when our chapter president went to see her to pass on the group’s finances, RubyLee told her, rather dryly, “Don’t worry. I’m not taking it with
me.” Even after she had decided not to continue cancer treatments, she was still editing a manuscript. So any time anybody says they’re too old or too tired or too whatever to write, they just need to pull a RubyLee.
Imagine if you will the classic Regency chaperone who raps the forward hero with her fan and yet winks and looks away when the heroine needs to sneak off for her first kiss…. That was RubyLee.
Women like that are few and far between. Our condolences to her family: may her memory be a blessing. And so, to celebrate the life of RubyLee Schneider and her contributions to romance writing, bring on the cover snark on a few novels from Ms. Schneider’s collection that are simply howl-worthy. Thanks to Jessa for the scans, and the info.
Sarah: If your man has jaundice, do you tie a yellow ribbon around his little oak tree to measure his recovery process?
Candy: You know why she’s petting him with that smug look on her face? It’s because she’s suffocating him with cheap bronzer—a cut-rate version of Goldfinger, if you will—and she can’t wait for him to drop dead so she can collect on life insurance.
Sarah: Screw the heart for hire. I want to hire the horse who can fart out Jane Mansfield humping Rhett Butler with a bubble-butt.
Candy: Horse-fart/giantess voyeur/porstache fetishists. Now I’ve seen everything.
Sarah: Him: What do you mean, keep my eyes on you?
Her: Just wait. You’re going to say hello to my little friend. Literally.
Sarah: Let’s take a closer look at that little friend, shall we?
Little Friend: “Hello! Nice to see you this evening. I’m Sir Hidden Poon, the keeper of the prenup. If you think you’re getting any hair pie without signing these documents, you can kiss my peen. See my peen? It’s right HERE.
And if you don’t sign, just remember where I live. I’ve got a hot poker, if you know what I mean.
Candy: A homunculus theory of boners! A recapitulation of the homunculus of spermists? But why so old?