Desperate Housewife

I'm worried I'm a housewife.

What is it about the word 'housewife' that sends negative tingles down the hairs on my back? Hairy back - that's pretty worrisome too.

I heard someone define it as a "middle-aged woman who sits at home using Facebook to track old boyfriends while letting the TV babysit the kids". Charm itself.

It is such a dowdy word that conjures such dreary images. There are desperate housewives married to mad men but there's not a lot to make you feel good about the decision to stay home (to raise the children mind you, not marry the house). I'm not very good at cooking or cleaning either so it's very hard to live up to the homely stereotype. It does make me feel invisible at times too, I'm not even sure what my job title should be!

Thank goodness I'm following in the hush puppie clad feet of my Mother.

I think my Mum is a magnificent person and really, I can't think of anything better than to live a life that mildly resembles hers (unless I can do it with Samantha Stevens skills).

Perhaps it's a job that needs a different name.

It's Beyond My Control

Worry of the day, or perhaps of the lifetime: was it selfish to have children?

Who would have thought amongst all the emotions that go with having children; joy, love, anxiety, depression even, I should feel guilt for selfishly having children for me! Who am I to inflict this world on them?

As daughter dear coped with difficult situations today at kindy, I thought, what have I let you in for?! I can't protect you any more from life, teasing and episodes of 'Full House'. You'll have to discover for yourself that the Olsen twins are just not right and sometimes you need to keep quiet.

Kissing Lauren Graham

Today's niggly worry is the TV show, 'The Event'. So much time and effort wasted on such an expensive, willy nilly, silly show. And that's just the two hours I've spent watching it, to think of the cost to make it is more than worrying.

Without the five minutes earlier/ 45 years later/ playing with time gimmick there would be no suspense at all, just a lot of running and whining. It's sillier than Joseph Fiennes in 'Flashforward'!

Is it strange that, more than the plot, I'm concerned two of lead actors (who are 20 years apart in age) are more famous for kissing Lauren Graham in previous roles ('Gilmore Girls' and 'Parenthood')? Do they talk about it between takes?

When does 'Double Indemnity' become 'Double Identity'?

It worries me that I don't see as many movies as I used to and that I'm too lazy to watch the good stuff. I have no attention-span and no ability to deal with depressing topics.

It seems I'm not alone. Each week, no matter what the quality, whatever is new rents in the video store I call home.

Reviewing and recommending films has worn me down. I have seen so many bad movies, I need new adjectives for the drivelly-dross I'm forced to describe. I wish I didn't know Leslie Nielsen was still making movies ('Stan Helsing'!!) or that as Val Kilmer puts on weight, so the number of direct-to-DVD movies he stars in increases.

Scene: my first video store shift many moons ago

Customer: “What can you recommend that's really good?”
Very Naïve Me: “Well, 'Unforgiven' has been popular and I enjoyed 'A Heart in Winter'. Is that the kind of thing you're after?
Customer: “It's down to 'Boomerang' or 'Sister Act'?
VNM: “Oh.”

(My approach is now quite different!)

Even more moons ago when I was at school, I tried to average a film a day. I had a chart to document it all. Highlight the title if I'd seen it before, stars for Oscars, other shapes for 4 star reviews. I cried with joy at seeing movies I'd long wished to watch. (I was very young.)

I saw so many magnificent and significant things that deepened my knowledge of the world. Foreign documentaries, retrospectives, Bill Collins festivals. So many classics helped me at school and university too.

In the last month I've seen quality fare like 'Did You Hear About the Morgans?” and I've cried in episodes of 'How I Met Your Mother'.

When does film fervour come back?

Beginnings, Romance and Length

Today I'm worried that I have an addictive personality. Not that other people become addicted to my charming ways, but that I so easily get addicted to things and usually ridiculous things at that. From iced coffees to solitaire. The deceptively simple Facebook application (I still can't use the 'app' word) Scramble has me so addicted, when I shut my eyes I see letters and when I'm reading I start rearranging words in my mind. (Opts, tops, pots, stop!)

One of my life-long addictions is romance.

I wonder why romances are so uncool. (Almost as uncool as the word 'uncool'!) Derided and scorned for being aimed at silly women, romances have a credibility issue, which is not unusual for something that is so female in its orientation. This is despite a good love story often being at the core of the best of literature, art and film and television.

For as long as can remember, I have been drawn to romance (the 'love story' definition – I was so disappointed when I read 'Romance in the Forest' to discover the meaning of the word 'romance' has little to do with HEAs).

Without even thinking about it, I've searched and scanned through books for couples and happy endings. I longed for the 'Naughtiest Girl in School' to end up with Julian, The Doctor with Sarah Jane (or anyone really, except Rose) and Anne with Gilbert. (Heaven forbid L. M. Montgomery writing a book without a romantic thread: straight to the unread, back of the bookshelf section for you!). I think it takes a special kind of skill (or delusion) to read six Norah of the Billabong adventures to get to the wedding or see a love story blossom in the Faraway tree.

I can't even blame Disney Princess indoctrination which has swept my Kindy-Girl away. She too sees romance in everything from “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz's” Scarecrow and Dorothy to Captain Mac and his space monkey.

It was a revelation then, to finally get to Jane Austen in grade nine. Books that gave me exactly what I was looking for that were also lauded and magnificently written. Devouring these I moved to Brontes then Georgette Heyers, still craving more and more. I thank my great aunt for introducing me to Victoria Holt (Gothic melodrama) and then, to the even less reputable, Mills and Boon category range.

Horrifying my father and kept as a guilty secret from anyone outside the family, I became a Mills and Boon addict, the fast food of romance readers. I could binge on huge quantities, feel terrible afterwards, but quickly get back on that dashing steed and indulge again (especially if exams were looming). I quickly learned which authors made me gag and which authors wrote beyond the formula and managed to cram couples with surprising depth into tiny word counts.

And that's the way it is with Mills and Boons. The covers and titles mean nothing to me. It's all about the author (in fact, sometimes the covers and titles have nothing to do with the story, which you'd have to hope for when you see the doozies they come up with, 'Pregnesia'?). In the absolute joy of a good read and the despair (and hilarity) of a bad one, I decided I wanted to be a part of making romance too.

Not dissimilar to my film philosophy, quality writing makes for good reading, whether it's romance or wild west-cooking-poetry novels.

I know a lot of writers have 'road to publication' sites but I'm a little worried about coming out to the world with my ambition so strongly, what if I'm held to it? What if I fail? All those cliches (which pepper trashy novels) sum it up though, hesitating gets you left behind, I won't know if I don't try, loving and losing and all that. So this is the beginning (maybe even the ending).

If I have to write a blog then perhaps I will keep working on novels too. (Like I've written multitudes.) At least I'll have an avenue for all those words that have been swimming around in my head since Kindy Girl was born. My brain has been filled a gelatinous, blobby goo that slows everything down, derived from sleep-deprivation, adult-conversation-deprivation and workplace-deprivation. Although it's a bit of a worry. What makes me think that anyone will be interested in my inane iterations and worst of all, what if someone reads what I write? Argh!!

I'm worried that this has been way too long – next time it will be more concise.

I'm also worried I won't live up to the standards of the wonderful women at Smart Bitches Trashy Books.

Their review of 'The Playboy Sheikh's Virgin Stable Girl' is spectacular!