(Before we get stuck into the guts of the post, I feel it is my duty to inform you that the title does not contain a typo. It really is about poo.)
Last year, during a perfectly normal workday in my perfectly normal (somewhat fancy) corporate office, after a perfectly normal birthday/farewell/fundraiser/cake day/celebratory afternoon tea, a series of rather imperfect and (according to me) abnormal events took place.
I ate too many of whatever was on offer (normal). Felt sluggish (normal). Whinged about it (normal). Received an offer of salvation (it begins …).
“Well I have a tea…” said my colleague.
“It helps with digestion and [reading from the label] clears the intestine for weight loss.”
Book: Naomi’s Story: A romance in Amish country
Author: Melanie Schmidt
Genre: Amish Romance (although “Romance” is a stretch)
Cost: Free (as at October 2013)
Did I finish it? It was 10pm the night before I was due to leave the country for upwards of six months. I hadn’t really packed and had to be up in four hours. You bet I finished it.
Should you finish it? Nah. Unless you want to learn how to make an Amish salad. Otherwise read this instead.
Yes, Amish Romance is a genre. And what a genre. Who is it targeting? Melanie Schmidt didn’t really specify, but it’s probably safe to assume not the actual Amish, who tend to shirk all technology (kind of like the ‘me’ of a year ago, amirite?). Unless they
have a hall pass are on Rumspringa. So maybe this book is for that niche market?
Or maybe it’s for people like me, who are reading with the hope of getting some insight into this enigmatic sect’s sex lives. Surely the Amish think sexy thoughts? Does the guy with the nicest buggy get all the babes? Is there special Amish underwear? Unrelated, but do the Amish swear? Do they drink rum on Rumspringa?
As a general rule, I don’t like things that are too new or different.
I’m not sure if this is because my family was the one who waited until cassette tapes were no longer in circulation to get a DVD player, but sometimes I find myself overcome with a touch of that irritating take-me-back-to-the-good-old-days-when-kids-were-happy-to-play-with-a-doll-made-from-a-corn-cobb disdain for electronics (the internet and my iPhone will forever be exempt from this).
After years of resisting, my lovely mother offered to buy me one, and – oh my, you guys – has anyone else got a Kindle? Am I late to the party? What a marvel of modern science.
Currently, I live on a tropical island.
And yes – it’s just as you are imagining:
Each morning I am woken, from my ocean-suspended tree house, by a monkey butler handing me a Malibu rum cocktail in a glossy coconut shell. With a tiny umbrella. And a crazy straw. Yes, he is wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Yes, so am I. This is the uniform of Tropical Island. Yes, all Tropical Islands are the same as Hawaii, because Hawaii is the Boss of Tropical Islands. I daintily sip my drink, do some calming yoga, then swing on a vine down onto a giant floating clam shell, on which a troupe of friendly dolphins cart me off to work.
I talked about starting a blog.
People said, “yeah you should start a blog.”
So I started a blog.