Everybody knows the unambiguous signs of Christmas; the stores decked out in full tinsel-type decorations, carols piped over the sound system to get buyers in the mood, and the recipe pages in women’s magazines loaded with festive, calorie-laden dishes meant to impress. There are the even less subtle (if possible) advertisements on television of the dreamy-eyed, incredibly beautiful housewife of fifteen years receiving a ten-thousand-dollar-three-carat sparkler that she will be appropriately thankful for and rock her hubby’s world nightly for the next three years (one year per carat) to demonstrate that gratitude. Or maybe that same husband is the one in the Mercedes commercial who unwraps the keys to the luxury SUV that Santa has left in his driveway adorned with a huge red bow Christmas morning. No, understatement has never been big on Madison Avenue.
But, everybody has their own telltale signs that signal to them and them alone, that the holiday season is truly here. To illustrate this principal I will share a few cues that indicate the imminent Christmas season for me.
The first sign for me is the Christmas dreams. There is the obligatory nude Christmas shopping. Don’t try and tell me you haven’t strolled down highly decorated aisles in your all-together. You there, Fella, I saw you the other night in the hardware store, and you, Missy, you were at the supermarket shopping for Christmas dinner, freaking out because the whole family on both sides was going to show up this year. Wouldn’t Christmas be alot more fun if as much nude shopping went on in the daylight as there is during our Morpheustic meanderings? Maybe next year. How about the everybody is seated around the Christmas tree opening gifts and you realize you forgot to buy anything for anyone nightmare. My blood runs cold just thinking about that one.
The next sure sign Christmas is imminent is the red and green foil wrappers on the Hershey Kisses. Good ol’ Hershey and their color coded holiday chocolate treats. They make sure I don’t forget the season, and force me to eat all those little calorie bombs so they don’t lap over into each others’ festive era and rat me out for not keeping my candy dish current with fresh fodder. Pastels for Easter, red for Valentine’s Day, orange and black for Halloween, and the aforementioned Christmas colors; I tried switching to M&M’s to escape the rat race, but I can’t bring myself to accept unwrapped candy in a social situation. It’s that germaphobe thing.
There is one sign that I think of as particularly telltail of the Christmas season and no, that is not a typo. It has to do with the tootsie roll box. You know, that feline equivalent of the powder room that is a necessity for every owner of a housebound cat. I must give credit for the imaginative and most descriptive label for the cat box to my ex. He did make me laugh occasionally. But, I digress; back to the sign.
In the morning I don my pith helmet and grab my sifting tool for excavation of the shifting sands for those tootsie roll-shaped-artifacts of a happy kitty. After I have done my decorating and package wrapping during this most festive time of year the tootsie rolls take on a colorful look peculiar to Christmas. There are sprigs of green and ribbons of red indicative of Rock’s (my half goat/half cat) penchant for eating long skinny things.
I spent many a long, sleepless night when I first encountered these proofs of decoration consumption. Is kitty facing an emergency surgery for bowel blockage? Could I have done more to keep temptation away from his gastronomical eccentricities? Am I going to have to invest in a new batch of ornamentation because my feline companion has gobbled up all the old ones? All the standard worries.
Well, it’s been six years, I gave up any decorating for two years, stashed all my wrapped presents behind closed closet doors that should be have been impossible for a cat to open and the bedecked relics still appeared buried in the kitty-litter. Where he was getting his fix I’ll never know, so I now adorn my house for Christmas again.
But, I am happy to report, from experience, that the digestive track of the adult male Maine Coon cat seems able to pass dang near anything. Happy Holidays! (Meow!)
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Whine Country
I live in whine country. In fact I like to think of myself as a whine connoisseur. Believe it or not, it takes alot of practice and thought to develop good whine skill and technique. For those of you who have not put the time into learning what constitutes a superlative whine let me give you some simple tips.
The chime of good crystal-Be aware of your voice modulation. You do not want to be so annoying you lose your audience before you get your message across. Avoid the high pitch of the historically traditional whine. Remember any whine is more palatable when presented in a classy container.
Color-Do not color, or embellish on the cause of a good whine. If a thing is worth complaining about it should strike a sympathetic chord in your audience. You can demonstrate sincere outrage if you feel it, but temper it with a show of tolerance. People will be more likely to identify with a martyr than a tyrant. Martyrdom has a touch of nobility.
Age-Make sure you do not carry on too long when you are into a good whine. You can turn a valid observation into vinegar if you harp on it too long. Your audience’s ears will curdle like the tongue of a taster faced with a bottle of red well past its prime.
Nose-Whatever you are complaining about had better be true. There are people who can sniff out truth and you don’t want to ruin any chance you have of future credibility. Heaven knows, there is enough reality to kvetch about. If you run out of ideas, call me. We’ll do lunch.
Body-All complaints are about a matter of good taste. The only definition of good taste that counts in every instance is your own. If a thing doesn’t fit my definition of good taste, I will tell you about it. I am not shy about voicing my opinion which I know is always correct. Just ask me.
Temperature-Stay cool. Your listener will shy away if your whine begins to sound like an anger-rant. Besides if you get over-excited and too emotionally involved, your thinking is not clear enough to come up with the really killer adjectives for the object of your dissatisfaction. Nothing is worse than having a brain cramp in the middle of a scathing review. It could damage your street cred.
Vintage-Make sure the topic of your whine is current. There is nothing worse than harping about an issue that is so past tense no one could do anything to affect the outcome it reached. Let sleeping dogs lie, stop beating a dead horse, that thing about open barn doors, and other barnyard metaphors all apply here. Although there have been some classic scenarios that beg to be constantly rehashed, we owe it to ourselves and others to explore new territory.
Legs-An exceptional whine has a substantial texture. In other words, it could almost stand alone as a story. With a complaint you already have a villain built in and we know who the hero is.
Finish and Length-Finish is the feeling the whine leaves, and length is the amount of time that feeling stays with you. Choose your words carefully. If a whine has a long length and the finish was like “It’s a Wonderful Life”, that’s great, but if we are talking finish and length like “Texas Chainsaw Massacre”, forget about it. Few will have the stomach for it and chances are those that do will not be the kind of people you will find particularly beneficial.
I hope you find this to be a helpful whine guide. Keep it in mind at your next whine tasting. One must always be prepared.
The chime of good crystal-Be aware of your voice modulation. You do not want to be so annoying you lose your audience before you get your message across. Avoid the high pitch of the historically traditional whine. Remember any whine is more palatable when presented in a classy container.
Color-Do not color, or embellish on the cause of a good whine. If a thing is worth complaining about it should strike a sympathetic chord in your audience. You can demonstrate sincere outrage if you feel it, but temper it with a show of tolerance. People will be more likely to identify with a martyr than a tyrant. Martyrdom has a touch of nobility.
Age-Make sure you do not carry on too long when you are into a good whine. You can turn a valid observation into vinegar if you harp on it too long. Your audience’s ears will curdle like the tongue of a taster faced with a bottle of red well past its prime.
Nose-Whatever you are complaining about had better be true. There are people who can sniff out truth and you don’t want to ruin any chance you have of future credibility. Heaven knows, there is enough reality to kvetch about. If you run out of ideas, call me. We’ll do lunch.
Body-All complaints are about a matter of good taste. The only definition of good taste that counts in every instance is your own. If a thing doesn’t fit my definition of good taste, I will tell you about it. I am not shy about voicing my opinion which I know is always correct. Just ask me.
Temperature-Stay cool. Your listener will shy away if your whine begins to sound like an anger-rant. Besides if you get over-excited and too emotionally involved, your thinking is not clear enough to come up with the really killer adjectives for the object of your dissatisfaction. Nothing is worse than having a brain cramp in the middle of a scathing review. It could damage your street cred.
Vintage-Make sure the topic of your whine is current. There is nothing worse than harping about an issue that is so past tense no one could do anything to affect the outcome it reached. Let sleeping dogs lie, stop beating a dead horse, that thing about open barn doors, and other barnyard metaphors all apply here. Although there have been some classic scenarios that beg to be constantly rehashed, we owe it to ourselves and others to explore new territory.
Legs-An exceptional whine has a substantial texture. In other words, it could almost stand alone as a story. With a complaint you already have a villain built in and we know who the hero is.
Finish and Length-Finish is the feeling the whine leaves, and length is the amount of time that feeling stays with you. Choose your words carefully. If a whine has a long length and the finish was like “It’s a Wonderful Life”, that’s great, but if we are talking finish and length like “Texas Chainsaw Massacre”, forget about it. Few will have the stomach for it and chances are those that do will not be the kind of people you will find particularly beneficial.
I hope you find this to be a helpful whine guide. Keep it in mind at your next whine tasting. One must always be prepared.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Getting Published
I always thought the hardest part of getting a book published would be writing the book. Silly me. How naïve could I be? That’s the easy part. Any wannabe author can put a pen to paper and write a book. All it takes is an over-active imagination, a healthy ego, and a super-sized streak of stubbornness. The problem is the world of publishers and agents can wear down even the most pigheaded, self-centered, daydreamer among us.
We can get an instant feeling of where a phrase ranks on the scale of 1 to 10 in do-ability. Take out the garbage—easily doable, I’ll give it a ten. Climb Mount Everest—not easily doable for most, I will rank it at a two. Walking on the moon—don’t hold your breath, this is not something you will be doing anytime soon. I’ll give it a generous .000000001. Getting your book published ranks somewhere between Everest and the moon; I’d give it a 1.3. Not impossible as evidenced by the contents of the neighborhood bookstore and the library, but not as easy as it sounds.
Before we continue let me clarify a couple of points. First-if you have written a non-fiction book and had it published, stop risking permanent injury to your arm patting yourself feverishly on the back, because it is much easier to get a non-fiction book published. Why? It’s beyond me. I avoid reading non-fiction whenever possible. It reminds me too much of all those years in school when I was forced to read books because of their content and not their entertainment value. Books that are valued for their content are usually about “real life”. If I want “real life”, I’ll watch the news. “Real life” is not as much fun as “unreal life”. “Unreal life” is the realm of imagination, improbability, and wishful thinking. “Unreal life” is why I’m a Trekkie at heart. It’s a lifestyle.
Second-if you self-published you opted out of the publishing struggle. You just proved you had enough money to thumb your nose at the establishment. I say—Bully for you! I should be so lucky. I thumb my nose at the powerful publishers, but I have yet to have anybody notice. All I achieved until now is a dent in my proboscis my thumb fits into, and a jammed finger when I stood too close to the wall while griping.
I have many, many rejection letters. I have learned a valuable lesson from these missives. I can say no to anyone in the most polite language around. Whoever writes these letters is a master of the feather-light let-down. I wish I had known this technique when I was dating. “Dear (insert name here), This date was wonderful and very promising; however it did not strike the proper chord to fulfill what I am looking for at the moment. Please, feel free to call me in the future if you change yourself completely. Thank you for attempting to entertain me and good luck in your future dating efforts.”
I comfort myself, whenever a new rejection letter shows up, with the knowledge that the likes of Margaret Mitchell (Gone With the Wind) who submitted that book getting rejection after rejection for eighteen years, and most notably lately J. K. Rowling (Harry Potter), whose books have made her richer than the Queen of England were rejected numerous times. I spend time picturing the editors that rejected them explaining the logic behind the refusals to their (soon-to-be-former) higher ups. I sincerely hope I am the subject of just such a job-justification some day.
It seems the shortest way to success in the literary field these days is to get read and then endorsed by our neighbor-over-the-hill, Oprah Winfrey. I have even investigated this road to princess-of-pulp and found a catch-22 that stopped me as effectively as the proverbial brick wall. Oprah cannot help writers get published because the book must be published before she will read it. Bummer. Completely understandable, but bummer nonetheless.
I know, through membership in the valley’s premier writing group (if I do say so myself), that there are numerous wannabe-authors in this valley. I want to encourage all of you in your writing endeavors, unless my book is rejected because the publishing company fulfilled its quota of unsolicited-manuscript-development with your book. In such case, I suggest you take up gardening and leave the writing to those of us delusional, ego-centric, obsessive-compulsives that truly need the validation.
I promise to continue my support in your new vocation. My, what beautiful Petunias!
We can get an instant feeling of where a phrase ranks on the scale of 1 to 10 in do-ability. Take out the garbage—easily doable, I’ll give it a ten. Climb Mount Everest—not easily doable for most, I will rank it at a two. Walking on the moon—don’t hold your breath, this is not something you will be doing anytime soon. I’ll give it a generous .000000001. Getting your book published ranks somewhere between Everest and the moon; I’d give it a 1.3. Not impossible as evidenced by the contents of the neighborhood bookstore and the library, but not as easy as it sounds.
Before we continue let me clarify a couple of points. First-if you have written a non-fiction book and had it published, stop risking permanent injury to your arm patting yourself feverishly on the back, because it is much easier to get a non-fiction book published. Why? It’s beyond me. I avoid reading non-fiction whenever possible. It reminds me too much of all those years in school when I was forced to read books because of their content and not their entertainment value. Books that are valued for their content are usually about “real life”. If I want “real life”, I’ll watch the news. “Real life” is not as much fun as “unreal life”. “Unreal life” is the realm of imagination, improbability, and wishful thinking. “Unreal life” is why I’m a Trekkie at heart. It’s a lifestyle.
Second-if you self-published you opted out of the publishing struggle. You just proved you had enough money to thumb your nose at the establishment. I say—Bully for you! I should be so lucky. I thumb my nose at the powerful publishers, but I have yet to have anybody notice. All I achieved until now is a dent in my proboscis my thumb fits into, and a jammed finger when I stood too close to the wall while griping.
I have many, many rejection letters. I have learned a valuable lesson from these missives. I can say no to anyone in the most polite language around. Whoever writes these letters is a master of the feather-light let-down. I wish I had known this technique when I was dating. “Dear (insert name here), This date was wonderful and very promising; however it did not strike the proper chord to fulfill what I am looking for at the moment. Please, feel free to call me in the future if you change yourself completely. Thank you for attempting to entertain me and good luck in your future dating efforts.”
I comfort myself, whenever a new rejection letter shows up, with the knowledge that the likes of Margaret Mitchell (Gone With the Wind) who submitted that book getting rejection after rejection for eighteen years, and most notably lately J. K. Rowling (Harry Potter), whose books have made her richer than the Queen of England were rejected numerous times. I spend time picturing the editors that rejected them explaining the logic behind the refusals to their (soon-to-be-former) higher ups. I sincerely hope I am the subject of just such a job-justification some day.
It seems the shortest way to success in the literary field these days is to get read and then endorsed by our neighbor-over-the-hill, Oprah Winfrey. I have even investigated this road to princess-of-pulp and found a catch-22 that stopped me as effectively as the proverbial brick wall. Oprah cannot help writers get published because the book must be published before she will read it. Bummer. Completely understandable, but bummer nonetheless.
I know, through membership in the valley’s premier writing group (if I do say so myself), that there are numerous wannabe-authors in this valley. I want to encourage all of you in your writing endeavors, unless my book is rejected because the publishing company fulfilled its quota of unsolicited-manuscript-development with your book. In such case, I suggest you take up gardening and leave the writing to those of us delusional, ego-centric, obsessive-compulsives that truly need the validation.
I promise to continue my support in your new vocation. My, what beautiful Petunias!
Sunday, October 12, 2008
I'm Blogging Now!
I have been flummoxed and boggled by Google. I freely admit I am no computer genius. More to the point, I freely admit to being barely computer literate. I am happy that I can turn my machines on (both the Apple laptop and the PC desktop, she bragged) and have learned to use the Word Program enough that my computer truly is more convenient than a typewriter for writing.
After four years of doodling, I find myself with a copious backlog of essays, articles, compilations, or columns (pick the appellation of your choice, I prefer scribbles) that I had no idea what to do with now. Most of them were published at one time under the heading of Appel Slices in a local paper; I guess that makes them qualify as used. Since I’ve never heard of anyone in the market for second-hand, small-town, observationally inspired copy of dubious merit, I had almost reconciled myself to nothing but permanent storage for my efforts when a friend (and I use the word loosely at this point) suggested blogging.
I respect this so-called friend and let that respect blind me to the fact that this was an easy toss-off suggestion for him because the man is a computer wizard. In this state of blind faith—faith that I could handle it if he suggested it to me—I blithely sallied forth into the first website I found that offered free blogs. Hey, at least I got the right price. I mean if you are entering the land of trials and frustrations, at least the cost shouldn’t add to the pain.
After four hours I had the bones of a blog set up I felt I could live with. I had a title that made me happy; just a tweak off from the name of my newspaper column—respelled Appel Slyces. I was happy with the template, the color I had chosen for the background, the font and color of the text of the body, the text font and color on the header, the borders, and a dozen other so-ons and so-forths. So, I ventured on to the next step—posting.
I scanned through my old columns and decided to start the blog with the two columns that I had started my short newspaper career with. After all, they had been lucky for me then, maybe their mojo hadn’t been exhausted and they would come through for me again. It was worth a try and I didn’t have a reason that sounded any better to me for choosing any of the others. When I am faced with a decision, superstition usually trumps logic.
After a last minute check and a satisfied sigh, I sent the address of my blog out to a select group of friends whose critiquing abilities I trust and asked for any suggestions they may have to improve my presentation. The proposals poured in, all two of them. They were both really good, thoughtful suggestions that I leapt to enact. Double-space between paragraphs, Bob said, the program seldom accepts indents and the extra space will make the pieces easier to read. Well, that explains the thirty-minutes of my life I’ll never get back spent grappling with expectations vs Google settings. I did discover a very important thing about myself though, I must repeat the same actions three times sequentially before I will accept what I’m doing will not work.
The second suggestion I received was an improvement for my banner. Wouldn’t it look better with a picture of an apple, possibly with a few slices lying next to it? Super, I thought. So I immediately began searching the web for the perfect apple picture. Do you have any idea how many pictures of apples have been uploaded to the web? Is it just me, or do they really all look alike after the first 45 seconds? Barring the complexities of my chosen fruit I did find what I felt was the perfect apple picture, after about three hours, that had its jpg designation attached and looked as though I may be able to transfer it.
My fingers flew as I powered back to my blog to add the picture to the header. I found the “edit the header” page and followed the directions to the letter, and then checked the blog to see the update. No picture. I did it all again. No picture. Okay, third time’s the charm. No picture. Fourth time . . . tried downloading the picture to My Documents and call it from there, no picture. Fifth time . . . moved the picture to My Pictures and tried again, no picture. Sixth time, seventh time . . . eleventeenth time and never, no, not ever, a picture. Totally bummed and frustrated unto screaming I typed my woes into Google Search. Aha, an answer, but they have to be kidding. They give instructions for changing the code to the blog website that controls the header.
Change the code? Who do they think I am? Bill Gates?! Tell you what, check out my blog . . . the one without the picture.
After four years of doodling, I find myself with a copious backlog of essays, articles, compilations, or columns (pick the appellation of your choice, I prefer scribbles) that I had no idea what to do with now. Most of them were published at one time under the heading of Appel Slices in a local paper; I guess that makes them qualify as used. Since I’ve never heard of anyone in the market for second-hand, small-town, observationally inspired copy of dubious merit, I had almost reconciled myself to nothing but permanent storage for my efforts when a friend (and I use the word loosely at this point) suggested blogging.
I respect this so-called friend and let that respect blind me to the fact that this was an easy toss-off suggestion for him because the man is a computer wizard. In this state of blind faith—faith that I could handle it if he suggested it to me—I blithely sallied forth into the first website I found that offered free blogs. Hey, at least I got the right price. I mean if you are entering the land of trials and frustrations, at least the cost shouldn’t add to the pain.
After four hours I had the bones of a blog set up I felt I could live with. I had a title that made me happy; just a tweak off from the name of my newspaper column—respelled Appel Slyces. I was happy with the template, the color I had chosen for the background, the font and color of the text of the body, the text font and color on the header, the borders, and a dozen other so-ons and so-forths. So, I ventured on to the next step—posting.
I scanned through my old columns and decided to start the blog with the two columns that I had started my short newspaper career with. After all, they had been lucky for me then, maybe their mojo hadn’t been exhausted and they would come through for me again. It was worth a try and I didn’t have a reason that sounded any better to me for choosing any of the others. When I am faced with a decision, superstition usually trumps logic.
After a last minute check and a satisfied sigh, I sent the address of my blog out to a select group of friends whose critiquing abilities I trust and asked for any suggestions they may have to improve my presentation. The proposals poured in, all two of them. They were both really good, thoughtful suggestions that I leapt to enact. Double-space between paragraphs, Bob said, the program seldom accepts indents and the extra space will make the pieces easier to read. Well, that explains the thirty-minutes of my life I’ll never get back spent grappling with expectations vs Google settings. I did discover a very important thing about myself though, I must repeat the same actions three times sequentially before I will accept what I’m doing will not work.
The second suggestion I received was an improvement for my banner. Wouldn’t it look better with a picture of an apple, possibly with a few slices lying next to it? Super, I thought. So I immediately began searching the web for the perfect apple picture. Do you have any idea how many pictures of apples have been uploaded to the web? Is it just me, or do they really all look alike after the first 45 seconds? Barring the complexities of my chosen fruit I did find what I felt was the perfect apple picture, after about three hours, that had its jpg designation attached and looked as though I may be able to transfer it.
My fingers flew as I powered back to my blog to add the picture to the header. I found the “edit the header” page and followed the directions to the letter, and then checked the blog to see the update. No picture. I did it all again. No picture. Okay, third time’s the charm. No picture. Fourth time . . . tried downloading the picture to My Documents and call it from there, no picture. Fifth time . . . moved the picture to My Pictures and tried again, no picture. Sixth time, seventh time . . . eleventeenth time and never, no, not ever, a picture. Totally bummed and frustrated unto screaming I typed my woes into Google Search. Aha, an answer, but they have to be kidding. They give instructions for changing the code to the blog website that controls the header.
Change the code? Who do they think I am? Bill Gates?! Tell you what, check out my blog . . . the one without the picture.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
A New Me
Dear Extreme Makeover Show,
I want a makeover and I do not want to have to pay for it. It amazes me that as the supply of nearly everything else in life seems to be dwindling; the amount of skin humans possess seems to increase. Now that I am entering the Charpei-time-of-life, I have noticed a decline in the number of eligible men and the energy to get gussied up and venture out to hunt them down. I want to look twenty years younger so the pool of men I have to choose from is not only bigger, but they will do the legwork.
I am not talking about the kind of makeover where my friends think I look “refreshed”. I want the kind of change where folks mistake me for my own daughter. Nobody will ask me if I’ve had some work done because barring a rejuvenation miracle on par with turning water into wine, there will be no mistaking I’ve been partaking of modern medicine.
Okay, here is the laundry list: I want a brow lift, my upper and lower eyelids done, face lift, chin implant, neck rejuvenation, lasik for near sightedness, teeth whitening, and liposuction here and there. Nothing seventy or eighty grand wouldn’t take care of if I had that kind of throw away cash.
Oh, and I also want workout sessions with that miracle worker, Michael Thurmond. Makeover candidates seem to lose inches and tone up where they should while only doing a few targeted exercises. If it were really hard work there should be way more griping. Either your editors are bordering on deceptive advertising or that man should be canonized. By the way, I’m foregoing any breast enhancement because if Michael tones and lifts the girls back into position, I’ll be happy.
I don’t want to hurt anybodies’ feelings’ but I think I will bypass the hairdresser. The hairdos may be all the rage, but after the dollars, time, and discomfort that will have gone into my perfect youthful face no way will I cover it up with wispy hair. I don’t care how Meg Ryan it is.
I think I will pick out my own “Reveal” dress, too. I don’t want to see my nipped and tucked visage on “What Not to Wear” on one of your rival networks. The dresses aren’t terrible, but to this point I haven’t seen a visually stunning setting fit for my future jewelness.
Now, about the reveal portion of the show-where the makeoveree gathers friends and family and steps out from behind curtain # 1 to wow them all with the fantastic transformation she has undergone. I figure if we have done this right not that many people are going to recognize me. If I put all the people I know in a room and identify myself it will kind of defeat my purpose.
I live in a small town and I have lived long enough where I have burned some bridges and maybe just crossed some I should have burned. Suffice to say, I don’t necessarily want the whole town to know what I have done right away. I might be able to use two of three weeks of fence-mending anonymity to further ensure a rosy future.
I realize this isn’t the type of plea you usually receive. I did not go through life with a beak that would put a condor to shame so my situation may not seem very compelling, but the dilapidation time brings is no small matter. I am not number-phobic about age, but I am sag-phobic. We are all going to hit this wall. Please help me so it doesn’t look like I did it face first.
Gratefully,
Cyn
I want a makeover and I do not want to have to pay for it. It amazes me that as the supply of nearly everything else in life seems to be dwindling; the amount of skin humans possess seems to increase. Now that I am entering the Charpei-time-of-life, I have noticed a decline in the number of eligible men and the energy to get gussied up and venture out to hunt them down. I want to look twenty years younger so the pool of men I have to choose from is not only bigger, but they will do the legwork.
I am not talking about the kind of makeover where my friends think I look “refreshed”. I want the kind of change where folks mistake me for my own daughter. Nobody will ask me if I’ve had some work done because barring a rejuvenation miracle on par with turning water into wine, there will be no mistaking I’ve been partaking of modern medicine.
Okay, here is the laundry list: I want a brow lift, my upper and lower eyelids done, face lift, chin implant, neck rejuvenation, lasik for near sightedness, teeth whitening, and liposuction here and there. Nothing seventy or eighty grand wouldn’t take care of if I had that kind of throw away cash.
Oh, and I also want workout sessions with that miracle worker, Michael Thurmond. Makeover candidates seem to lose inches and tone up where they should while only doing a few targeted exercises. If it were really hard work there should be way more griping. Either your editors are bordering on deceptive advertising or that man should be canonized. By the way, I’m foregoing any breast enhancement because if Michael tones and lifts the girls back into position, I’ll be happy.
I don’t want to hurt anybodies’ feelings’ but I think I will bypass the hairdresser. The hairdos may be all the rage, but after the dollars, time, and discomfort that will have gone into my perfect youthful face no way will I cover it up with wispy hair. I don’t care how Meg Ryan it is.
I think I will pick out my own “Reveal” dress, too. I don’t want to see my nipped and tucked visage on “What Not to Wear” on one of your rival networks. The dresses aren’t terrible, but to this point I haven’t seen a visually stunning setting fit for my future jewelness.
Now, about the reveal portion of the show-where the makeoveree gathers friends and family and steps out from behind curtain # 1 to wow them all with the fantastic transformation she has undergone. I figure if we have done this right not that many people are going to recognize me. If I put all the people I know in a room and identify myself it will kind of defeat my purpose.
I live in a small town and I have lived long enough where I have burned some bridges and maybe just crossed some I should have burned. Suffice to say, I don’t necessarily want the whole town to know what I have done right away. I might be able to use two of three weeks of fence-mending anonymity to further ensure a rosy future.
I realize this isn’t the type of plea you usually receive. I did not go through life with a beak that would put a condor to shame so my situation may not seem very compelling, but the dilapidation time brings is no small matter. I am not number-phobic about age, but I am sag-phobic. We are all going to hit this wall. Please help me so it doesn’t look like I did it face first.
Gratefully,
Cyn
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Gardening
I love to garden. No . . . that’s a lie. My mother raised me to believe lying is wrong and that was a whopper, so let me amend it. I enjoy looking at and possessing the results of hours of backbreaking toil, sweaty upkeep, and paying exorbitant water bills that go hand-in-hand with gardening in Callifornia during the summer.
Let’s be honest, I’ll bet this would be the truth for most of us. We all want the yard that says, “An industrious lover of beauty with a flair for achieving goals lives here. Behold the perfection in breathless awe, all those who venture by.” Okay, maybe a little over the top, but this is wishing and wishing should be a boundary-free zone.
I love this valley, but after one hour of futile jabbing at the dirt in my yard trying to hack out a hole deep enough to plant just one of the small petunias plants from a six pack at the hardware store, I am ready to use explosives as a digging tool. There was a reason the early settlers used adobe bricks as building blocks for the edifices they wanted to endure. The same reason that those buildings, like the Mission, can still be seen and used. The ground around here rivals Superman for indestructibility.
The dirt can be softened up—a good soaking for a day before planned planting and it becomes vulnerable to the efforts of the average human. Unfortunately, the average human does not have the resources to pay for the extra water that course would call for from SMID. Our town made the national news for having some of the highest water rates in the nation. I guess it’s nice to be known for something, although, personally, I thought the gas prices were enough.
My neighbor and I are gardening buddies, meaning we both have the same enthusiasm, or lack thereof, for this hobby. At least, we have the same opinion about what does and does not belong in our patches. We don’t grow anything useful, or edible. Don’t get us wrong, eating is one of our favorite things, and we haven’t got anything against plants that serve medicinal uses, but if one of these productive plants dies it causes some regret. We aren’t big on feeling bad, consequently we seek out and cultivate only hardy plants whose loss is purely decorative. Hence the list of plants we would recommend for cultivation fit our own criteria; they grow well in dirt that rivals cement for porosity, they can live through a quite unintentional skip of a day or three in the watering cycle, they reappear as if by magic each year with no effort on our parts, pests do not find them particularly delectable, and they produce lots of color.
All this has left us with a short list of cellulose-based photosynthetic favs, all of which exist in abundance in my yard, Geraniums, Petunias (preferably ruffled), Dahlias, and Iris. Because of the traits of these plants I have a sneaking suspicion that if we could access them these plants would have serious personality problems, rendering them outcast and unpopular among their own kind. I have a theory that the other plants think these guys are sell-outs, blooming for the human overseers without demanding the sweat equity they deserve as members of the vegetable kingdom. But, that’s just a theory.
All I know for sure is that I love the colors and scents that a little Miracle Grow and H2O, lots of sweat and time, and luck—a big dose of luck—can produce. Even in this dirt.
Let’s be honest, I’ll bet this would be the truth for most of us. We all want the yard that says, “An industrious lover of beauty with a flair for achieving goals lives here. Behold the perfection in breathless awe, all those who venture by.” Okay, maybe a little over the top, but this is wishing and wishing should be a boundary-free zone.
I love this valley, but after one hour of futile jabbing at the dirt in my yard trying to hack out a hole deep enough to plant just one of the small petunias plants from a six pack at the hardware store, I am ready to use explosives as a digging tool. There was a reason the early settlers used adobe bricks as building blocks for the edifices they wanted to endure. The same reason that those buildings, like the Mission, can still be seen and used. The ground around here rivals Superman for indestructibility.
The dirt can be softened up—a good soaking for a day before planned planting and it becomes vulnerable to the efforts of the average human. Unfortunately, the average human does not have the resources to pay for the extra water that course would call for from SMID. Our town made the national news for having some of the highest water rates in the nation. I guess it’s nice to be known for something, although, personally, I thought the gas prices were enough.
My neighbor and I are gardening buddies, meaning we both have the same enthusiasm, or lack thereof, for this hobby. At least, we have the same opinion about what does and does not belong in our patches. We don’t grow anything useful, or edible. Don’t get us wrong, eating is one of our favorite things, and we haven’t got anything against plants that serve medicinal uses, but if one of these productive plants dies it causes some regret. We aren’t big on feeling bad, consequently we seek out and cultivate only hardy plants whose loss is purely decorative. Hence the list of plants we would recommend for cultivation fit our own criteria; they grow well in dirt that rivals cement for porosity, they can live through a quite unintentional skip of a day or three in the watering cycle, they reappear as if by magic each year with no effort on our parts, pests do not find them particularly delectable, and they produce lots of color.
All this has left us with a short list of cellulose-based photosynthetic favs, all of which exist in abundance in my yard, Geraniums, Petunias (preferably ruffled), Dahlias, and Iris. Because of the traits of these plants I have a sneaking suspicion that if we could access them these plants would have serious personality problems, rendering them outcast and unpopular among their own kind. I have a theory that the other plants think these guys are sell-outs, blooming for the human overseers without demanding the sweat equity they deserve as members of the vegetable kingdom. But, that’s just a theory.
All I know for sure is that I love the colors and scents that a little Miracle Grow and H2O, lots of sweat and time, and luck—a big dose of luck—can produce. Even in this dirt.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
More or Less
Everybody lies. Or in a more palatable euphemism, everybody gets creative with the truth. If you think you are the exception to the rule ask yourself this question- Do you have a good relationship with at least one other human being on this planet? If you do, guess what? You are not totally honest all the time.
It is pretty hard to justify a different answer than Washington D.C. to the question “What is the capitol of the United States?” But if your special friend shows up in her favorite unflattering outfit and asks your opinion of it, to spare her feelings you are going to win an award in ingenuity in language.
I stretch my credibility quotient when I am faced with one of those questions that require divulging information I would just as soon never reaches the public domain. You know the type of question I’m talking about: How much do you weigh? (Pure gold is heavy) Have you had any work done? (I wish) You don’t work full time, do you need housecleaners? (You wouldn’t think so, would you), and the one I have the hardest time dealing with—How old are you?
It would be flattering if people thought I looked younger than I am, but the reason they doubt my age is really because people can’t believe I could have lived so long and remain so gullible. These are the ways I have chosen to handle the age question.
If the person who asks me seems to be under 8 years old, or super tolerant, I say I will forever be 27 on the inside. A very Zen way to beg the subject and sometimes the questioner will lose interest rather than press for reality.
Almost every woman I know has at one time, for reasons of her own, shaved a few years off her accumulated experience. I haven’t yet, but I found myself contemplating whether or not I could pass as younger the other day. That’s when it suddenly struck me—I was contemplating lying in the wrong direction. I might not pass for younger, but then again I might not pass for older either. When it comes right down to it, which would be more complimentary?
Say I am 55....if you know me just shut up until I’m finished . . . and I tell you I’m 50. On a good day, when I’ve had ten hours of sleep, the sun is behind a thick cloud cover, and none of my rat-fink friends are around, I may get away with that flight of fancy. At least for a few minutes. On a typical day you could look at me and think “Boy, that poor lady has had a rough life of hard work and deprivation.” I would imagine manners would keep your comments down to, “Really.”, but I’ve already read the disbelief on your face.
Now suppose I tell you I tell you I’m 60. On the aforementioned cloudy day I would be pleased to see a look of total incredulity on your face as I skip off in my red shoes with my dog Toto. More likely you’re thinking, “She looks very well preserved. I must find out which moisturizer she’s using.” Either way your face is telling me a nice story.
See what I mean about manipulating the truth in the wrong direction? I figure this might work with all the ultra-personal questions. Weight, salary, height for the guys (we know you all think you are ten foot tall and bullet proof), these are just some of the taboo subjects. It’s either exaggerate shamelessly or give into the temptation and soundly thump your questioner.
Now what was your question? Go ahead. Ask me. I dare you.
It is pretty hard to justify a different answer than Washington D.C. to the question “What is the capitol of the United States?” But if your special friend shows up in her favorite unflattering outfit and asks your opinion of it, to spare her feelings you are going to win an award in ingenuity in language.
I stretch my credibility quotient when I am faced with one of those questions that require divulging information I would just as soon never reaches the public domain. You know the type of question I’m talking about: How much do you weigh? (Pure gold is heavy) Have you had any work done? (I wish) You don’t work full time, do you need housecleaners? (You wouldn’t think so, would you), and the one I have the hardest time dealing with—How old are you?
It would be flattering if people thought I looked younger than I am, but the reason they doubt my age is really because people can’t believe I could have lived so long and remain so gullible. These are the ways I have chosen to handle the age question.
If the person who asks me seems to be under 8 years old, or super tolerant, I say I will forever be 27 on the inside. A very Zen way to beg the subject and sometimes the questioner will lose interest rather than press for reality.
Almost every woman I know has at one time, for reasons of her own, shaved a few years off her accumulated experience. I haven’t yet, but I found myself contemplating whether or not I could pass as younger the other day. That’s when it suddenly struck me—I was contemplating lying in the wrong direction. I might not pass for younger, but then again I might not pass for older either. When it comes right down to it, which would be more complimentary?
Say I am 55....if you know me just shut up until I’m finished . . . and I tell you I’m 50. On a good day, when I’ve had ten hours of sleep, the sun is behind a thick cloud cover, and none of my rat-fink friends are around, I may get away with that flight of fancy. At least for a few minutes. On a typical day you could look at me and think “Boy, that poor lady has had a rough life of hard work and deprivation.” I would imagine manners would keep your comments down to, “Really.”, but I’ve already read the disbelief on your face.
Now suppose I tell you I tell you I’m 60. On the aforementioned cloudy day I would be pleased to see a look of total incredulity on your face as I skip off in my red shoes with my dog Toto. More likely you’re thinking, “She looks very well preserved. I must find out which moisturizer she’s using.” Either way your face is telling me a nice story.
See what I mean about manipulating the truth in the wrong direction? I figure this might work with all the ultra-personal questions. Weight, salary, height for the guys (we know you all think you are ten foot tall and bullet proof), these are just some of the taboo subjects. It’s either exaggerate shamelessly or give into the temptation and soundly thump your questioner.
Now what was your question? Go ahead. Ask me. I dare you.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Life VS Literature (Part Two)
Life vs Literature (Part 2)
Heaving breasts and flowing tresses—okay, what do these two things bring to mind? IN YOUR DREAMS!!! I’m talking about the heroine in a romance novel.
Who came up with the word “heaving” to describe breasts in action anyway? In my mind heaving always brings up the picture of tossing something over the side of a boat. Heave ho and all that pirate talk. The second thing I think of is vomiting, which is also frequently done over the side of a boat. Coincidence? Probably not. I imagine most words have much more colorful origins than we give them credit for. But, I digress. Reviewing one’s most recent meal over the side of a boat is not an image particularly conducive to romance, so why this obsession with heaving?
No matter how attractive it is supposed to be, I have a hard time visualizing myself with heaving breasts. Panting after running upstairs--maybe. Gasping in my faded college sweatshirt after wrestling with the dog to see who will really have the bath--it happens. But those are air shortages.
I don’t think bosoms heave fetchingly when left to their own resources. Maybe old-time whalebone stays and tightly laced corsets help. Being big on comfort myself I don’t see any heaving in my near future.
The other complication is that activities that cause your bosom to heave also lead you to sweat. I know-horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies dew and glow. But no matter what you call it, it is still odoriferous in real life. In books it only gives the characters an attractive sheen. Another major misrepresentation.
Since I knew heaving breasts were out for me, I went for the flowing tresses bit. Easy to do, right? Just let your hair grow. Let me tell you about a few drawbacks not mentioned in the books.
You never read about one of those heroine’s tresses getting caught in the hero’s armpit and the resulting bad language erupting from her ruby red lips as the silken lock is ripped out of her head. They don’t mention her turning over in bed and her hair wrapping around her neck like so many pythons as the night wears on until she wakes up in a panic clawing at the garrote around her throat. How about a simple thing like eating outdoors when there is any breeze at all and a part of one of those tresses that has been repeatedly blowing across her face as she tries to get a bite is accidentally swallowed and she goes into a major gagging fit.
Do any of these scenarios bring the word “pretty” to mind? I think not.
Another point I want to ventilate on is morning breath. Lovers in romance novels greet each other face-to-face after spending a passionate night together and proclaim their undying love. Nice sentiment. You aren’t going to catch me speaking into someone’s face when I first wake up. I have suspicions from the taste in my mouth that kitty used my oral cavity as a sand box while I slept.
I have been able to ignore this in romances that are set in a historical context. Bathing and brushing their teeth weren’t high on the list of their priorities. People had morning breath all day long and were conditioned to it, but what is the excuse in stories set in the U S of A in this day and age? I don’t care how luxuriant a head of hair the woman has, or how big her chest is—morning breath is nasty.
Living in the country, we are surrounded by a natural Romance Novel setting daily. Scenic beauty is a must as a backdrop for all those muscular, glistening hero types and sultry, hair-and-bosom-laden femme fatales. Trouble is, I’ve been keeping an eye out for any Fabio look-alikes and I can’t find any. Closest I have come is a dead-ringer for The Rock that I met in the post office one day. Not too shabby, but never repeated.
I guess the hair alone is just not enough to attract a hero. Maybe I should look into some of those heaving breasts you can buy.
Heaving breasts and flowing tresses—okay, what do these two things bring to mind? IN YOUR DREAMS!!! I’m talking about the heroine in a romance novel.
Who came up with the word “heaving” to describe breasts in action anyway? In my mind heaving always brings up the picture of tossing something over the side of a boat. Heave ho and all that pirate talk. The second thing I think of is vomiting, which is also frequently done over the side of a boat. Coincidence? Probably not. I imagine most words have much more colorful origins than we give them credit for. But, I digress. Reviewing one’s most recent meal over the side of a boat is not an image particularly conducive to romance, so why this obsession with heaving?
No matter how attractive it is supposed to be, I have a hard time visualizing myself with heaving breasts. Panting after running upstairs--maybe. Gasping in my faded college sweatshirt after wrestling with the dog to see who will really have the bath--it happens. But those are air shortages.
I don’t think bosoms heave fetchingly when left to their own resources. Maybe old-time whalebone stays and tightly laced corsets help. Being big on comfort myself I don’t see any heaving in my near future.
The other complication is that activities that cause your bosom to heave also lead you to sweat. I know-horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies dew and glow. But no matter what you call it, it is still odoriferous in real life. In books it only gives the characters an attractive sheen. Another major misrepresentation.
Since I knew heaving breasts were out for me, I went for the flowing tresses bit. Easy to do, right? Just let your hair grow. Let me tell you about a few drawbacks not mentioned in the books.
You never read about one of those heroine’s tresses getting caught in the hero’s armpit and the resulting bad language erupting from her ruby red lips as the silken lock is ripped out of her head. They don’t mention her turning over in bed and her hair wrapping around her neck like so many pythons as the night wears on until she wakes up in a panic clawing at the garrote around her throat. How about a simple thing like eating outdoors when there is any breeze at all and a part of one of those tresses that has been repeatedly blowing across her face as she tries to get a bite is accidentally swallowed and she goes into a major gagging fit.
Do any of these scenarios bring the word “pretty” to mind? I think not.
Another point I want to ventilate on is morning breath. Lovers in romance novels greet each other face-to-face after spending a passionate night together and proclaim their undying love. Nice sentiment. You aren’t going to catch me speaking into someone’s face when I first wake up. I have suspicions from the taste in my mouth that kitty used my oral cavity as a sand box while I slept.
I have been able to ignore this in romances that are set in a historical context. Bathing and brushing their teeth weren’t high on the list of their priorities. People had morning breath all day long and were conditioned to it, but what is the excuse in stories set in the U S of A in this day and age? I don’t care how luxuriant a head of hair the woman has, or how big her chest is—morning breath is nasty.
Living in the country, we are surrounded by a natural Romance Novel setting daily. Scenic beauty is a must as a backdrop for all those muscular, glistening hero types and sultry, hair-and-bosom-laden femme fatales. Trouble is, I’ve been keeping an eye out for any Fabio look-alikes and I can’t find any. Closest I have come is a dead-ringer for The Rock that I met in the post office one day. Not too shabby, but never repeated.
I guess the hair alone is just not enough to attract a hero. Maybe I should look into some of those heaving breasts you can buy.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Life VS Literatue (Part One)
There was a time in my life when I thought only men had loins. According to what I read in school they were always “girding” them for battle.
I have always been a voracious reader. In my mid-teens I went through a phase where I read countless “bodice rippers”, otherwise known as romance novels. Living here in the valley it was easy to give an overactive imagination free reign and see a tall, dark hero type with flashing white teeth ride out from under every oak. Or visualize an attractive, surprisingly well groomed pirate band dropping in from Santa Barbara for a casual pillage.
Naturally, all these testosterone types were overwhelmed by my bespectacled, underdeveloped beauty. Through these novels I was amazed to learn women also had loins. Women’s loins would catch on fire, burn, or otherwise cause discomfort when a man’s glistening chest or muscular thighs were present. Thus, for years I had a very politically incorrect view of the function of loins in the sexes. Men dressed them and women suffered through them.
Now I am a mature, emancipated woman and I realize I can gird my loins as needed when facing a stressful event. What a relief.
I labored under many misconceptions because of those novels. They made finding out about the reality of romance a confusing, and usually disappointing, undertaking. The following is meant to be more romance novel bashing rather than male bashing, so please don’t take offense, guys.
In the novels when the heroine faced a dangerous situation the hero always showed up just in the nick of time to save her. In real life how many times do men appear when you want them to? Say it with me ladies—“Never”. If they should blunder into your life at a correct moment do they respond to the problem as you want them to? Doubtful.
Picture this: Our heroine is in obvious distress. Her back pressed against the sink, she is shrinking away from the foe that threatens her. Every tensed muscle cries for relief. A scream gathers in her throat. Who will help her overcome the danger that lurks in her own home?
Suddenly the light dims as the silhouette of her champion fills the doorway. “You’ve come,” she breathes.
“Commercial break,” he says.
Her gaze is pulled back to the overflowing garbage can. It seems as if the trash is crawling out under its own power to attack her. She gestures towards it. “Didn’t you say you would empty that?”
“I’ll get to it. The game is starting again,” he says as he grabs another brew out of the fridge.
“Fine,” she is talking to his back as he disappears into the family room. “Whatever.”
Real romance in action.
The hero in the novels always knows the right thing to say or do. He pours champagne in a sophisticated manner to set the stage for romance or reconciliation. The gifts he brings are thoughtful, when not outrageously expensive. His clothes show off his sculpted body to best effect. The hair on his head is full and shiny and begs the hands of the heroine to stroke it. The hair on his chest is curly and perfect for running her fingers through. And his loins! Well, I won’t even go there for fear of losing my train of thought.
My point is this, these men are written by women. Do they exist in real life? Maybe, but I’ve yet to meet one. Actually, I am not sure I want to. No woman in her right mind wants a man she has to kill herself living up to.
You can see how I developed unrealistic expectations in the romance department. It was only due to some sensible advice that my mother gave me that I have been able to function in this arena. She told me if I was going to wait for the knight in shining armor to appear on a white charger to sweep me off my feet, I was going to be sorely disappointed. There would be nowhere to go in that relationship, but down. The horse was going to roll in the mud someday and the armor was going to get rust spots.
The trouble is it is real hard to see the potential of the court jester in the tri-colored suit trying to put the moves on you while he steps on your toes. Mud and rust seem like far off threats at a time like that.
Romance is hard.
I have always been a voracious reader. In my mid-teens I went through a phase where I read countless “bodice rippers”, otherwise known as romance novels. Living here in the valley it was easy to give an overactive imagination free reign and see a tall, dark hero type with flashing white teeth ride out from under every oak. Or visualize an attractive, surprisingly well groomed pirate band dropping in from Santa Barbara for a casual pillage.
Naturally, all these testosterone types were overwhelmed by my bespectacled, underdeveloped beauty. Through these novels I was amazed to learn women also had loins. Women’s loins would catch on fire, burn, or otherwise cause discomfort when a man’s glistening chest or muscular thighs were present. Thus, for years I had a very politically incorrect view of the function of loins in the sexes. Men dressed them and women suffered through them.
Now I am a mature, emancipated woman and I realize I can gird my loins as needed when facing a stressful event. What a relief.
I labored under many misconceptions because of those novels. They made finding out about the reality of romance a confusing, and usually disappointing, undertaking. The following is meant to be more romance novel bashing rather than male bashing, so please don’t take offense, guys.
In the novels when the heroine faced a dangerous situation the hero always showed up just in the nick of time to save her. In real life how many times do men appear when you want them to? Say it with me ladies—“Never”. If they should blunder into your life at a correct moment do they respond to the problem as you want them to? Doubtful.
Picture this: Our heroine is in obvious distress. Her back pressed against the sink, she is shrinking away from the foe that threatens her. Every tensed muscle cries for relief. A scream gathers in her throat. Who will help her overcome the danger that lurks in her own home?
Suddenly the light dims as the silhouette of her champion fills the doorway. “You’ve come,” she breathes.
“Commercial break,” he says.
Her gaze is pulled back to the overflowing garbage can. It seems as if the trash is crawling out under its own power to attack her. She gestures towards it. “Didn’t you say you would empty that?”
“I’ll get to it. The game is starting again,” he says as he grabs another brew out of the fridge.
“Fine,” she is talking to his back as he disappears into the family room. “Whatever.”
Real romance in action.
The hero in the novels always knows the right thing to say or do. He pours champagne in a sophisticated manner to set the stage for romance or reconciliation. The gifts he brings are thoughtful, when not outrageously expensive. His clothes show off his sculpted body to best effect. The hair on his head is full and shiny and begs the hands of the heroine to stroke it. The hair on his chest is curly and perfect for running her fingers through. And his loins! Well, I won’t even go there for fear of losing my train of thought.
My point is this, these men are written by women. Do they exist in real life? Maybe, but I’ve yet to meet one. Actually, I am not sure I want to. No woman in her right mind wants a man she has to kill herself living up to.
You can see how I developed unrealistic expectations in the romance department. It was only due to some sensible advice that my mother gave me that I have been able to function in this arena. She told me if I was going to wait for the knight in shining armor to appear on a white charger to sweep me off my feet, I was going to be sorely disappointed. There would be nowhere to go in that relationship, but down. The horse was going to roll in the mud someday and the armor was going to get rust spots.
The trouble is it is real hard to see the potential of the court jester in the tri-colored suit trying to put the moves on you while he steps on your toes. Mud and rust seem like far off threats at a time like that.
Romance is hard.
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