Slogging and Blogging

So. Let’s have a brief hop, skip, and a jump down memory lane.

When I was about twelve or thirteen I discovered my grandmother’s stash of Harlequin Mills & Boon romances and became hooked on the genre immediately. So much so (and also due to my love of Jane Austen’s novels) that I wrote a short love story for an English assignement when I was about fifteen or sixteen. It was the best thing I had ever written. Or so I thought.

I got a ‘B.’ My English teacher told me she had downgraded my assignment because although it was well written, it was too “Women’s magazine-ish.” I was puzzled by this attitude, because what was wrong with a great romantic story followed by a happy-ever-after ending? I mean, Jane Austen published happy-ever-after romances, and my English teacher didn’t consider her too “Women’s magazine-ish.” She didn’t consider Jane Eyre too “Women’s magazine-ish,” either. You know, I had serious issues that Mr. Rochester intended to commit bigamy with poor, unknowing Jane. Still do.

Some time later I discovered that the school library had a stash of Harlequin Mills & Boon romances, and proceeded to work my way through the shelf. One day, just as I was choosing my latest books, the librarian pulled me to one side, took them away from me, and told me that I should read “proper” books, instead (oh, like Emile Zola? I rented a video of his novel, Nana, to try to improve my knowledge of his work, and that turned out so well, didn’t it?).

Yes, Michelle, I hear you all cry. But you’ve already covered this on your website. Why tell us again, here?

Because I still don’t understand why the romance genre is considered to be somehow inferior to other genres, and fortunately, my fabulous web design genius, Emily Cotler, of WaxCreative Design has written a great, positive piece about this very thing over at The Huffington Post.

“This looks sexy,” the President said, looking at the book the author had just handed him.

Geri Krotow blushed. “It’s a World War II romance. I signed it for Michelle.”

It continues:

Will Michelle Obama read Krotow’s A Rendezvous to Remember? The traditional literary establishment might not want to picture the First Lady of the United States spending her down time reading genre fiction, especially a romance. Said Joanne Rendell earlier this month here on The Huffington Post, “popular romance fiction has long been shunned, ignored, and seen by many in the ivory tower as the errant and sex-craved stepdaughter of ‘real’ literature.” And as a high-profile role model, shouldn’t the President’s wife be reading The Grapes of Wrath or some other canonical classic? Or something by a present-day literary star like Toni Morrison or Michael Chabon?

Emily goes on to say:

First of all, I hope that Michelle Obama reads a wide variety of work, be it high-brow or genre fiction. But as a role model, let’s hope she is reading at least a sampling of what the populace is enjoying. And even an unstudied glance at the New York Times list of bestselling paperback mass-market fiction assures us that if Michelle Obama reads a romance novel this week, she would be in good company – two of the top five spots are romances. And of the other three spots, one is a thriller and another a mystery. Only one of the top five would be shelved in ‘general fiction.’

Hear, hear!

And to all of those people who still consider romances somehow to be “improper” books, and that anyone can write one? Well, go and have a try! Good luck with that. And if you are persistent enough and keep writing through rejection, and are eventually fortunate enough to secure an agent, and subsequently obtain a publishing contract, let me know and I’ll buy the book.

When we were in Australia, just before the storms hit South East Queensland and Northern New South Wales (where we stayed) we decided to go to Brisbane for the day. After all, you can´t travel half-way around the planet and not go and see a major Australian city that´s about an hour-and-a-half away from where you´re staying can you?

Anyway. Brisbane was lovely. A really nice city. Lots of designer shopping opportunities, although we hadn´t gone there to shop.

The only problem was that my baseball boots were really killing my feet. Probably due to the heat, because they are old baseball boots and don´t normally give me grief.

So we decided that the only solution to our continued enjoyment of the day was for me to acquire a pair of cheap, comfy flat shoes. Oh Patient One ensconced me and my sore feet in a sidewalk cafe, and went off in search of a reasonably priced shoe shop.

Well, everywhere was designer-price this, and exclusive expensive that, and where was Payless when you needed it? (We saw a Payless store in Melbourne so assumed that there´d be one in Brisbane.)

Finally, after much trudging around on Oh Patient One´s part, he found a Target store in a mall. Yes! I love Target. I miss Target. Target can always be relied on to deliver whatever it is you´re looking for at an affordable price. Plus, the sizes were all American, so I knew exactly where I stood, metaphorially speaking.

Target didn´t let me down. I got a comfy pair of flats for twenty Australian dollars.:)

Yesterday was my birthday. I am currently at our UK house, so Oh Patient One traveled from the Netherlands the day before so that he could celebrate here with me.

“And where did he take you?” I hear you all cry. Well. Because he knows how to show a girl a good time, he took me to. . .

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The City dump. I kid you not! But I was delighted, and here’s why.

We have been filling the garden shed with all of my dear mother-in-law’s old stuff that either a) has no emotional significance, or b) is junk. We really wanted to clear out the shed so that we can fill it with even more of my dear mother-in-law’s stuff, and make space in the house for more of our belongings, most of which are still in the Rotterdam apartment (but some of which Oh Patient One brought over in the car with him).

I was even more delighted that Oh Patient One was the one to actually get the stuff out of the shed, because by now quite a few spiders had made their home in it and I have a completely irrational fear of them.

But just so you don’t think Oh Patient One is unromantic, on the way back from the dump he surprised me by calling for fish and chips. And curry sauce. We know how to paint the town red.

So, remember my trouble with booking hotels, and how Oh Patient One insisted on booking them for our Australian trip? Well, I am glad to say that they worked out just fine. Especially the one in Sydney. We had an absolutely spectacular view of Darling Harbour. Really magnificent.

But when it came to ordering coffee or tea, neither I nor Oh Patient One had any luck in communicating our desires to the populace. See, in Australia, you don’t just go the counter and order tea or coffee. You have to know the secret language of a long flat this, or a flat white skinny that, or a short fat flat whatever, and it’s all very confusing.

We discovered this shortly after our arrival. Oh Patient One and I–during our quest to discover where all the Wifi had gone–happened upon a nice looking café that advertised Wifi. Success! Or so we thought. . .

Oh Patient One wandered off to order our drinks–black coffee for him and tea with a splash of milk for me–and I booted up Annemieke, my new netbook.

Disaster struck. Instead of a cup of tea with milk, what I actually got was a cup of the weakest possible tea ever (so weak that I think the tea bag had been waved at the water, rather than immersed in the water) made entirely with whipped creamy milk with sugar in. Yuck. I really don’t like cream, and I don’t like sugar, either. So I went back to the counter, horrible tea in hand, and explained my problem to the cafe staff.

Me: ¨Look, all I want is a cup of regular tea with a splash of milk in it, and what I got was this creamy, sugary thing. Sorry, but I just can´t drink this.”

Cafe Person (in a very kind, patient voice): ¨Oh, what you want is a flat black tea.¨

Me: ¨Do I? But see, I want a splash of milk in it. Skim if you´ve got it.¨

Cafe Person: ¨No, I meant that what you should order is a flat black tea. And then you can add your own milk at the booth over there.¨

So that was the way to do it. From then onwards I just ordered a flat black tea and sorted out the milk situation after the event.

The Wifi in that café didn’t work, though. . .

Gah.

So, the other day while basking in the glow of finally having found a local bar/restaurant with Wifi, I was half listening to the Australian news and caught the tail end of a segment. Apparently, a man was off work with a bad back, and his bosses found out he was surfing the net, so he was sacked.

Personally, I thought that was a bit harsh, so when it came up in conversation with our relatives later that day, I expressed my opinion. . .

Me (all indignant): ¨What else is a person supposed to do all day if they´re at home with a bad back? I mean, I can totally see how the guy could wedge his laptop on his stomach and surf from a horizontal position.¨

Relative No #1: ¨Actually, Michelle, I think you got the wrong end of the stick–¨

Me (really warming to my subject): ¨Or if he didn´t have a laptop, he could have his desktop screen by the bed and his keyboard and mouse wedged on his chest while lying down. I mean, it must be totaly boring not being able to move around, so what harm is there is doing a bit of surfing to entertain himself?¨

Relative No #2: ¨He wasn´t doing that kind of surfing, Michelle. He was doing the other kind of surfing.¨

Me (perplexed): ¨What other kind of surfing?¨

Relative No #1 (laughing): ¨The kind that involves a surf board and an ocean.¨

Me (also laughing): ¨Oh. I forgot about that kind of surfing. . .”