You know, I was raised by a particularly intelligent woman.  And I’m not just saying that because she sometimes reads this blog either.  She already knows it, and false modesty isn’t a sin in which she partakes.  This, by the way, is the disclaimer part of the post.  I do it often.  You’d think that being bitter for so long I’d have ceased to care who I offend, but it just hasnt’ worked out that way.  So, Mom, this one isn’t your fault.  Or, well, really it is, but let’s both blame someone else and then talk about them behind their back.

I grew up believing that romance novels are trashy.  Yes, I can hear you all saying, “But they ARE” all the way over here, but think about it.  Really?  What’s trashy about them?  Are they badly written?  Some, yes, but not all by any stretch.  Jane Eyre isn’t anything but a very old romance novel, and no one calls it trashy.  Well, you say, but it’s a classic!  A classic is just something that’s survived.  Like me.  Not all classics (unlike me) are really any good.  Try reading Moby Dick and then tell me with a straight face that you enjoyed it. 

So if it isn’t the quality of writing that makes it trashy, what is it?  The cover art?  Yes, some is laughably bad.  I love the spoofs on the Longmire website, one of which I’ve shamelessly stolen here.  So we do often judge books by their covers, which is another reason I’m pretty happy that I now own a Sony Book Reader, because I can read whatever the france I want and nobody gets to judge me for it. 

But sci-fi and fantasy are also riddled with bad cover art, but no one says “Trashy” before the phrase “Sci Fi” or rolls their eyes they way you’ll get if you tell someone you have just finished a good romance novel.

So, I decided to test my prejudices and I’ve started downloading romance books.  I blame Charlaine Harris, actually.  I fell in love with the TV series True Blood on HBO (watched on the web because it hasn’t come out in the UK yet, dammit), and have since read all her Sookie Stackhouse novels.  Actually… I read all 8 of them in about 2 weeks.  Seriously.  And I don’t even LIKE vampire stories.  Talk about trashy.  I get images of Béla Lugosi and get the giggles.  Sorry, Anne Rice, but even if you take the comical aspect away, how on earth is cannibalism sexy?  Tell me that?  Anyway, that’s another rant altogether.

Anyway, I could go on and on about what makes romance trashy, and by now you’re probably worried that I will.  Either that or you’re shouting “Too Late!” at your monitor.  I’ll skip it all and get to the point. 

Write this one down, Ethel.  It’s the s-e-x.  If men talk about sex it’s bawdy and perhaps coarse, but boys will be boys.  If women talk about sex… and I’m talking about grown women here… it’s trashy?  It’s trashy to write about it, read about it, and for gods sake, don’t think about it either!  That leads down a path of decay!  Or maybe it’s just that most romance books deal with love and relationships.  By god that IS trashy!

Because I’ve been reading a few romance books lately…. probably… 40 books in the last 4 months. (I’ve got a lot of catching up to do… Jane Eyre was the last one I’d read!)  Some historical, some modern, some futuristic and a couple paranormal (that’s what they call vampires and ghosts these days.)  And I will tell you… some were really crap.  No doubt about that.  But there were a few that made me laugh out loud, got me misty eyed, and even made my pulse go a wee bit faster.  But guess what…. none of them were trashy.  Imagine that.

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CNN reported yesterday that a woman was held for the “virtual murder” of her “virtual” ex-spouse.  Yes, the guy dumped her online, so she logged in to his account in “Maple Story” a virtual reality world, and killed his avatar.

Apparantly the actual charge is something like hacking.  CNN reporters are such a bunch of drama queens.  Murder!

But I think the absolute best part of the story is here:

The woman used login information she got from the 33-year-old office worker when their characters were happily married, and killed the character. The man complained to police when he discovered that his beloved online avatar was dead.

It reminds me of the young guy that went to police after being beaten up by a pack of old ladies at a Sarah Palin rally recently.  Allegedly.  Or something.  But the point is, if I were a 20 year old man that went to an enclosed space that was guaranteed to be full of activists of quite the opposite point of view from me, I wouldn’t admit that little gem of stupidity, much less that mob mentality had seized a bunch of seniors and I’d gotten my ass handed to me.

And that’s what this is about really….. good judgement.  We expect our political candidates to have it, we want our bosses and our employees to have it, our teachers and even strangers, and then we go off and do things like give our co-workers our passwords after engaging in some “virtual marriage” (as if the real thing isn’t hard enough, we have to pretend to do it online as well) and then are so shocked and surprised when they go postal on us after we tell them that we’re done with them that we call the police when we’ve been virtually wronged.  You know what?  There’s enough real wrong in the world to worry about this idiot guy’s virtual hurt.

I seriously hope the cops end up just laughing at the guy and saying ‘Umm, this is why everyone with brains ever told you never never never give out your password, no matter what kind of virtual nookie you’re getting.”  And then I hope they add “Dumbass.” just for good measure.

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Well thanks everyone for being so patient as I’ve coped with the increasing weirdness in my life. And a big thanks to Girl-Fren for filling in when I couldn’t be here. (She’s not lying… she does have great legs.)

I’ve been on a safari of sorts, gathering information of use to my bitter friends, as it is my life’s quest to bring all shades of usefulness and enlightenment everywhere I go.

As I didn’t take video of the event (not allowed, oddly), I’ll have to walk you through it. Imagine, if you will, a bus station. Not a truly awful bus station, but a moderately awful bus station. (I would have said airport, but the people in airports are often busy and important, and that really won’t do for this illustration.) Now imagine that the other persons in the bus station are all either sick or injured. Carry forward with the thought that you, also, are either sick or injured. (Getting uncomfortable yet?) Now for the final image… you get to sleep with a randomly chosen 5 of these people (in an “unconscious in the same room” sense, not in a red-hot-monkey-sex sense) for an indeterminate period of time. The rest of them are housed down the hall.

Welcome to an NHS hospital.

The only thing more depressing than this thought, I would think, is working in said hospital, because then even on the occasions you get to go home, you always know you’re coming back the next day. Much, I imagine, like being a prison officer doing his 25 to life.

Now, I’ve undergone this undercover undertaking for the express purpose of bringing back an account to the rest of the world. I should write a travel guide full of tidbits like what to take with you (disenfectant spray and snacks), what to order from the daily menu (nothing with meat… trust me), and what to wear (seems to be anything goes… fuzzy slippers are the current trend, along with worn terry robes and a vacant expression).

I will say that while it sounds pretty horrid, the worst part is being sick, obviously. Otherwise I think it would be a feast of humanity (so to speak… I wouldn’t recommend actually eating said roommates, as we don’t know what’s wrong with all of them) with which there really is no comparision. Sure you can people-watch in an airport, but until you’ve actually had a sleepover with someone, you don’t know them at all.

I should also report that it’s reaffirmed the fact that I really do like people. I know, I know… I’m supposed to be all bitter, and sometimes I can be, but how can you not like people after meeting dear Mrs. Boyd, who tickled the bottom of my foot with her cane as she walked by, having only spoken a couple of words in passing before that. And Anne, a 60 year old with an exploding spleen (at least that’s what I gathered through eavesdropping on her doctors) who, after a girl in her 20’s was introduced, and then forcibly removed from our room whispered, “My goodness that was dreadful, wasn’t it? I would imagine it was drugs-taking.” Then she flicked some dust off her bathrobe.

Mrs Ames seemed relatively nonplussed about the whole thing. When the doctor said “The nurse says you’re a bit confused about where you are,” she replied, “Well isn’t that impertinent!” I thought so too. Of all the nerve.

One woman spent the entire time knitting. I’m not sure she even realised she was in a hospital, as she looked exactly as I imagine she would have at home. Except at home she probably has a cat that chases her yarn as her needles clack clack clack away.

Another inmate woke me in the night to give me instructions on what to tell people if someone came looking for her. Which was sorta sweet, considering that no one had come looking for her in all the time we shared a room.

Hope is a beautiful thing, and the capacity for it is why I love people.

Look for a follow-up documentary called “Naps on a Train” to be airing on the BBC in March.

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I thought this story was the perfect example of people who get so wrapped up in the rules of life that they completely throw common sense out the window:  Girls Get Detention for Hugging .

MASCOUTAH, Ill. - Two hugs equals two days of detention for 13-year-old Megan Coulter.

The eighth-grader was punished for violating a school policy banning public displays of affection when she hugged two friends Friday.

“I feel it is crazy,” said Megan, who was to serve her second detention Tuesday after classes at Mascoutah Middle School.

“I was just giving them a hug goodbye for the weekend,” she said.

Am I the only one who thinks this makes the teachers fit the perfect stereotype of the crabby spinster hall monitor that you see on Saturday morning cartoons?  Their school manual clearly states that affection is against the rules…

“Displays of affection should not occur on the school campus at any time. It is in poor taste, reflects poor judgment, and brings discredit to the school and to the persons involved.”

Yes, I agree.  It’s the “huggers” that are discrediting your school, bureaucracy, and the entire education system. I wonder if this group also prohibits dancing on the grounds that when yer movin that fast, them demons get rite in ya.

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I want you all to know how traumatised I was to find out that the McDonald’s advert hamburgers were not, erm, actual food. Thanks Wendy and Brent for shattering my illusions!

Considering that in Britain, our Office of Trading Standards forced a cosmetics company to put “false eyelashes used” on the “after” picture of a mascara ad, I can’t believe that they allow people to sell us food by enticing us with plastic and play-doh. It really makes me quite nauseous. That’s like showing a BMW to advertise for a VW dealership. But not, because at least you can drive a VW, but you can’t eat plastic and play-doh. Well you can, but I wouldn’t recommend it.

There are just some illusions I want to keep, thank you very much. Because I have to confess that every time I went into a new McDonald’s location, I thought, yes, maybe this is the home of the fabled appetizing hamburger. Now there’s no point in even looking anymore.

Next thing you know you’re going to tell me there’s no point in watching mushrooms at night.

*sigh*

You people are just so mean!

*sigh*

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