Alexina is a woman who fits in everywhere and with everyone and always has something interesting to say because she does interesting things. Men love her because she’s beautiful in an exotic mysterious way with long auburn hair, sky blue eyes, and a figure toned by 24-hr Fitness. She also cooks like a Cordon Bleu graduate. The combination is deadly.
She calls herself an ex-serial marry’er. She’s 30 and has been married twice, which she considers more than enough for any woman. She’s taking time out to reassess her criteria for serious relationships.
She had a date last week-end with a 22 year old college student who works part-time in a restaurant she frequents. The young fellow is tall with the wiry muscular build of a long-time surfer. He has sandy hair and a cute lop-sided smile that brings out a dimple in one cheek that makes our feminine fingers itch to reach out and tweek that cheek. And more.
Alexina decided to approach dating in a more scientific manner by developing a working laundry list of good and bad attributes in men so that she can control her impulse to “help” every downtrodden, weak, needy, fool she meets. I told her that the instant she even thinks the “H” word, she should run screaming to the nearest phone and call me. Or suggest he call a professional who can “H”elp him.
She said when the young man showed up at her door, she had second thoughts. He had a beat up van--as in paint missing in several spots with the base metal showing through, and several dents on both sides. He was wearing orange baggy swim trunks and a wrinkled shirt that said “Ride the Wave to Freedom”. She thought his mother should have educated him on the value of an iron.
She asked him into her livingroom so she could get her things, whereupon he apparently mistook the polite gesture for an invitation to grab her for a kiss. She figures that youth disobeys any laws of formality, manners or timing. She also figured it was going to be a very long day.
They spent the afternoon at the beach, which considering the beautiful weather we had over the week-end should have been quite nice. Except the young man spent the whole time surfing. She thinks he planned it so she could admire his expertise in the sport, or surfing is his life and everything else comes second. Not a good sign for a sharing relationship.
Alexina spent the afternoon feigning interest, searching for seashells, and talking with the older couples on the beach. Her laundry list on the negative side had reached the end of the first page. She tried to come up with some emergency illness that would cut his water time short and get her back home, but gave up and took a nap in the shade. The thrill of dating a younger man was waning.
At the end of the day, the dear fellow took her to his apartment so he could change clothes. Which he did. He changed into another set of wrinkled attire. As a matter of fact, Alexina thought his whole apartment looked wrinkled.
He cleared the sofa so they could sit down and watch some TV. He clicked on the set to the sports channel where, to her surprise, was a tractor pulling competition. Did people actually watch this stuff? Apparently people do.
Oh, look at the time. Early appointment tomorrow. But it’s Sunday tomorrow. Right. Early church service.
I asked her if she had anything in the positive column of her new list. She said she’d have to give it some thought and get back to me.
Showing posts with label Romance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Romance. Show all posts
Monday, June 25, 2007
Thursday, June 14, 2007
A Night of Romance
Tell me your best romantic story. Here’s mine….
One evening several years ago, my husband and I were sitting around talking about the “good old days”. High school to be exact. I told him I’d never gone to a prom. Junior or Senior. I was never asked. He was astounded as he thinks I’m a pretty cute thing that would charm any boy into asking her to the prom.
I have developed my wily feminine skill set over the years.
In junior high, I was so shy that when we had school dances, I would sit stiffly in the metal folding chair and stare at the wood bleacher floor all the while watching as sneaker-clad boy’s feet walked to the girls on the left and right of me, but never ever stopping in front of me. I was a great watcher of feet and ever hopeful that a set of them would eventually walk my way. Never happened. I have a theory. Boys don’t pick girls who stare at the floor and don’t smile. It’s just plain freaky and shows no signs of being an interesting person who knows how to dance or talk and it’s hard enough for a boy to dance and talk to a girl in junior high.
Same problem in high school. I went to the dances with my girlfriends, but stood in the corner as they were whisked away for a fast twirl. I think I was still into staring at the floor.
It wasn’t until my senior year, and later half of the year, that I gained some insight into attracting boys. French, and a little black cocktail dress borrowed from my older sister did the trick.
I had joined the French Club and we came up with a skit for the whole school during some rally thing. The skit had various French characters. The club members picked me to be the French can-can girl. I was astounded. Either they saw some French floozy-skirt-tossing attributes which eluded me, or no one else wanted the job.
So, there I was swinging my hips and walking out on the football field wearing my sister’s little black cocktail dress and a feather plume in my hair. Whistles and ya-hoos were called out from the boys in the crowd.
Oh, so this is all it takes? Several of the boys in my history class took on a new light in their eye when they discovered I was the can-can girl. Eat your hearts out boys.
I just realized as I’m writing this that the French Incident was the moment I discovered the power of womanhood. A little black cocktail dress, a swing of the hips, and a smile. So that’s the key to popularity with the boys.
As I said, my husband felt badly that I missed out on the fun of a prom. He went to the prom. He was on the football team. Those guys went to everything. Jock.
He left the room, got several of our “oldie” cd’s, put them in the player, and came over to my chair. “Can I have this dance?”
Makes me get tears in my eyes just thinking about that night.
We danced and talked about our teachers and the football game coming up. In short, for a brief time he took me back to being a high school girl with nothing more to worry about than the guy I was dancing with and whether or not he might ask me out again. It was magical and sweet and romantic beyond anything I’ve ever done in my life.
At the end of the evening, he left me for a minute and when he came back he had his high school letter-sweater. He asked me if I would be his girl.
Yes. Now and forever.
One evening several years ago, my husband and I were sitting around talking about the “good old days”. High school to be exact. I told him I’d never gone to a prom. Junior or Senior. I was never asked. He was astounded as he thinks I’m a pretty cute thing that would charm any boy into asking her to the prom.
I have developed my wily feminine skill set over the years.
In junior high, I was so shy that when we had school dances, I would sit stiffly in the metal folding chair and stare at the wood bleacher floor all the while watching as sneaker-clad boy’s feet walked to the girls on the left and right of me, but never ever stopping in front of me. I was a great watcher of feet and ever hopeful that a set of them would eventually walk my way. Never happened. I have a theory. Boys don’t pick girls who stare at the floor and don’t smile. It’s just plain freaky and shows no signs of being an interesting person who knows how to dance or talk and it’s hard enough for a boy to dance and talk to a girl in junior high.
Same problem in high school. I went to the dances with my girlfriends, but stood in the corner as they were whisked away for a fast twirl. I think I was still into staring at the floor.
It wasn’t until my senior year, and later half of the year, that I gained some insight into attracting boys. French, and a little black cocktail dress borrowed from my older sister did the trick.
I had joined the French Club and we came up with a skit for the whole school during some rally thing. The skit had various French characters. The club members picked me to be the French can-can girl. I was astounded. Either they saw some French floozy-skirt-tossing attributes which eluded me, or no one else wanted the job.
So, there I was swinging my hips and walking out on the football field wearing my sister’s little black cocktail dress and a feather plume in my hair. Whistles and ya-hoos were called out from the boys in the crowd.
Oh, so this is all it takes? Several of the boys in my history class took on a new light in their eye when they discovered I was the can-can girl. Eat your hearts out boys.
I just realized as I’m writing this that the French Incident was the moment I discovered the power of womanhood. A little black cocktail dress, a swing of the hips, and a smile. So that’s the key to popularity with the boys.
As I said, my husband felt badly that I missed out on the fun of a prom. He went to the prom. He was on the football team. Those guys went to everything. Jock.
He left the room, got several of our “oldie” cd’s, put them in the player, and came over to my chair. “Can I have this dance?”
Makes me get tears in my eyes just thinking about that night.
We danced and talked about our teachers and the football game coming up. In short, for a brief time he took me back to being a high school girl with nothing more to worry about than the guy I was dancing with and whether or not he might ask me out again. It was magical and sweet and romantic beyond anything I’ve ever done in my life.
At the end of the evening, he left me for a minute and when he came back he had his high school letter-sweater. He asked me if I would be his girl.
Yes. Now and forever.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
The Beauty of San Francisco
I am lucky enough to live close to San Francisco, a city that continues to amaze me with its beauty, history and wealth of entertainment choices. On Sunday, my sons took me to the city for a special Mother’s Day treat.
We had lunch at the Ferry Building on the wharf, which houses stalls of specialty food companies and several restaurants. On the backside, you can eat outside and enjoy the view of the Bay Bridge, Angel’s Island, and Alcatraz. Sleek sailboats cut through the water with billowing sails, tilting like a crazy carnival ride as they zigzag across the headwinds (that’s called tacking matey). I’ve been on a sailboat that tacked. I almost tacked. I went from a sitting position to a near-standing position in my seat as the boat turned. I think I screamed.
You can’t imagine the beauty of San Francisco at night when you’re sitting in a sailboat on calm waters. It’s a postcard of lights, tall buildings, and a landscape that looks like a Dow Jones chart with its up and down curve of hills.
We hiked up to the cable car and rode the line past China Town to Grace Cathedral. The ground for the Cathedral was donated by the Crocker family. The Railroad Barons were big folk in San Francisco. I’d like to be thought of as a Railroad Baroness. It sounds regal and working class at the same time. Snooty and humble. People wouldn’t know what to make of me.
Jumping back on the cable car, we went to the Haas-Lilienthal House on Franklin Street. This is a beautiful Queen Anne style home built in 1886 that has a delightful and educational tour that is well worth the time and minimal cost (discounts with AAA). Our docent, Albert Moore, was the best! I couldn’t stump him with any of my questions, which ranged from the beautiful architecture to why Victorians had so many windows in a house if they were just going to cover all of them with heavy velvet drapes. I can’t imagine living in a darkened cave of a house without seeking some sunshine! Apparently Victorian rules of modesty overrode the need for light. I’ll bet the women had beautiful skin. No sun spots for them!
We hopped back on the trolley and went to Fisherman’s wharf, but decided that we should go see Koit Tower instead since dinner reservations were at 6. I said the fateful words…"Let’s walk”. It looked about 6 easy blocks on the map. What the map didn’t show was the angle of the blocks…straight up. Holy Hills Batman! I think I started walking at some weird slant to the ground. I told my son that this was his diabolical version of a Mom’s March.
And then the wind started to blow. My youngest son chanted The Little Engine That Could mantra…I think I can, I think I can. I wanted to laugh but didn’t have enough breath to spare.
A large flock of squawking parrots flew overhead as we stood taking in the view of the city below Koit Tower. Most people don’t know about the feral parrot population in San Francisco. You wouldn’t normally think these birds would find the city to their liking, but I guess the abundance of good restaurant food and high rent high rise buildings and trees make perfect grounds for the flocks. They must be Railroad Baron sort of birds.
We took the elevator up inside the tower and then walked up more steps to get to the top. Nice 360 degree view if you can breathe long enough to enjoy it.
What goes up must come down. We walked down the steepest hills I’ve ever seen to get to the restaurant. People who live there must be the most fit in the world. I’ll bet the 24-Hour Fitness centers in San Francisco don’t bother with cardio equipment. They probably point to a hill and say “hike that”. I can’t imagine how people who live there can carry bags of groceries up those hills, then walk up several flights of stairs just to get into their house/apartment. I’d have the grocery store deliver. I’m a flatland wimp. I was hoping I wouldn’t trip and go rolling down the street like some human beach ball. Also hoped my knees would hold up as brakes. Tricky to negotiate those hills…very tricky.
We had dinner at Manga Rosa, a Brazilian restaurant in North Beach with a casual décor and music that leaned heavily into techno thumping rather than The Girl from Ipanima. Boom ta boom ta boom. The cheese bread (little biscuits with cheese running through it) and the warm spinach salad with grilled pears were delicious. I had a good feeling about the rest of the dinner. I ordered Red Snapper with herb rice, black beans, and a fried banana. Weird combination huh? Oh those Brazilians! The fish had some sort of sauce on it that made my head sweat and my lips sting. And it didn’t taste good either. I scraped as much off of the fish as I could. That didn’t help. The fish tasted like…stinky fish feet. The rice was awful, the fried banana was like a squishy liquid banana with fried batter around it, and the black beans weren’t that great. Apparently the waiter overheard my comments as he came over and asked if I liked the dinner. Does my sweaty head and tingling, numbing lips look like I’m enjoying the meal? He was very nice and comped us for my dinner. He asked if I’d like to order something else. Not on your life…I would have said that, but thought better of it since he was a very attentive waiter. I ordered coffee instead. I like strong coffee. Sure hoped they had some good Brazilian coffee. Juan Valdez and all that. The coffee I was served could have pealed paint off your car. Watch me run up those hills now!
San Francisco is romantic beyond belief with her modern skyscrapers as a backdrop to the rows of old Victorian homes, clanging cable cars, street people playing violins, guitars, and drums. It is fresh and young, old and historic. It smells of fish and warm bread by the wharf, and a mixture of heavenly gourmet delights in North Beach. Bring your camera, comfortable shoes, a jacket, and someone you love. You won’t be disappointed!
We had lunch at the Ferry Building on the wharf, which houses stalls of specialty food companies and several restaurants. On the backside, you can eat outside and enjoy the view of the Bay Bridge, Angel’s Island, and Alcatraz. Sleek sailboats cut through the water with billowing sails, tilting like a crazy carnival ride as they zigzag across the headwinds (that’s called tacking matey). I’ve been on a sailboat that tacked. I almost tacked. I went from a sitting position to a near-standing position in my seat as the boat turned. I think I screamed.
You can’t imagine the beauty of San Francisco at night when you’re sitting in a sailboat on calm waters. It’s a postcard of lights, tall buildings, and a landscape that looks like a Dow Jones chart with its up and down curve of hills.
We hiked up to the cable car and rode the line past China Town to Grace Cathedral. The ground for the Cathedral was donated by the Crocker family. The Railroad Barons were big folk in San Francisco. I’d like to be thought of as a Railroad Baroness. It sounds regal and working class at the same time. Snooty and humble. People wouldn’t know what to make of me.
Jumping back on the cable car, we went to the Haas-Lilienthal House on Franklin Street. This is a beautiful Queen Anne style home built in 1886 that has a delightful and educational tour that is well worth the time and minimal cost (discounts with AAA). Our docent, Albert Moore, was the best! I couldn’t stump him with any of my questions, which ranged from the beautiful architecture to why Victorians had so many windows in a house if they were just going to cover all of them with heavy velvet drapes. I can’t imagine living in a darkened cave of a house without seeking some sunshine! Apparently Victorian rules of modesty overrode the need for light. I’ll bet the women had beautiful skin. No sun spots for them!
We hopped back on the trolley and went to Fisherman’s wharf, but decided that we should go see Koit Tower instead since dinner reservations were at 6. I said the fateful words…"Let’s walk”. It looked about 6 easy blocks on the map. What the map didn’t show was the angle of the blocks…straight up. Holy Hills Batman! I think I started walking at some weird slant to the ground. I told my son that this was his diabolical version of a Mom’s March.
And then the wind started to blow. My youngest son chanted The Little Engine That Could mantra…I think I can, I think I can. I wanted to laugh but didn’t have enough breath to spare.
A large flock of squawking parrots flew overhead as we stood taking in the view of the city below Koit Tower. Most people don’t know about the feral parrot population in San Francisco. You wouldn’t normally think these birds would find the city to their liking, but I guess the abundance of good restaurant food and high rent high rise buildings and trees make perfect grounds for the flocks. They must be Railroad Baron sort of birds.
We took the elevator up inside the tower and then walked up more steps to get to the top. Nice 360 degree view if you can breathe long enough to enjoy it.
What goes up must come down. We walked down the steepest hills I’ve ever seen to get to the restaurant. People who live there must be the most fit in the world. I’ll bet the 24-Hour Fitness centers in San Francisco don’t bother with cardio equipment. They probably point to a hill and say “hike that”. I can’t imagine how people who live there can carry bags of groceries up those hills, then walk up several flights of stairs just to get into their house/apartment. I’d have the grocery store deliver. I’m a flatland wimp. I was hoping I wouldn’t trip and go rolling down the street like some human beach ball. Also hoped my knees would hold up as brakes. Tricky to negotiate those hills…very tricky.
We had dinner at Manga Rosa, a Brazilian restaurant in North Beach with a casual décor and music that leaned heavily into techno thumping rather than The Girl from Ipanima. Boom ta boom ta boom. The cheese bread (little biscuits with cheese running through it) and the warm spinach salad with grilled pears were delicious. I had a good feeling about the rest of the dinner. I ordered Red Snapper with herb rice, black beans, and a fried banana. Weird combination huh? Oh those Brazilians! The fish had some sort of sauce on it that made my head sweat and my lips sting. And it didn’t taste good either. I scraped as much off of the fish as I could. That didn’t help. The fish tasted like…stinky fish feet. The rice was awful, the fried banana was like a squishy liquid banana with fried batter around it, and the black beans weren’t that great. Apparently the waiter overheard my comments as he came over and asked if I liked the dinner. Does my sweaty head and tingling, numbing lips look like I’m enjoying the meal? He was very nice and comped us for my dinner. He asked if I’d like to order something else. Not on your life…I would have said that, but thought better of it since he was a very attentive waiter. I ordered coffee instead. I like strong coffee. Sure hoped they had some good Brazilian coffee. Juan Valdez and all that. The coffee I was served could have pealed paint off your car. Watch me run up those hills now!
San Francisco is romantic beyond belief with her modern skyscrapers as a backdrop to the rows of old Victorian homes, clanging cable cars, street people playing violins, guitars, and drums. It is fresh and young, old and historic. It smells of fish and warm bread by the wharf, and a mixture of heavenly gourmet delights in North Beach. Bring your camera, comfortable shoes, a jacket, and someone you love. You won’t be disappointed!
Friday, May 4, 2007
What’s Wrong with Romance?
I recently attended a marketing class at San Francisco State University. The teacher asked us to talk about our interests. She started with me. I quickly debated with myself on whether I should divulge my secret passion of romance writing.
Why are we afraid to admit we like romance novels? It isn’t as though we go to adult book stores to pick up our reading material!
I decided I didn’t care what other people thought and said I was writing a romance novel, which apparently came out sounding like I said “I eat dirt”. I could almost hear the collective brains thinking, “She’s one of those fluffly-slippered-bon-bon-eating saps. Why do they let people like that enroll in college? Poor dear. ”
The girl next to me said, “Nothing personal, but I would NEVER read one of THOSE books.” Apparently Gone With the Wind and Pride and Prejudice aren’t in her library. Poor dear.
One of the young men said he only read technical books. As God is my witness, I have technical books in my library too! So there. Microsoft Vista for Dummies is sitting right beside me as I type this. It’s a really big book too (When you migrate to Vista…you will also need a big book). So is Love Walked In by Marisa de los Santos (a funny, poignant book that is cleverly written and a great read). The two seem to be getting along quite well together.
Every genre has badly written books. Does romance have more, or is it just the subject matter that makes so many people smirk at the category? Romance novels have a huge market. Are we an underground society of readers?
I worry about people who don’t read about romance. That’s probably the reason for so many divorces.
Were it not for love and romance, life would be dull. You can’t fill your soul with technical manuals. And maybe if they wrote technical manuals with a touch of romance, they’d get a wider readership and probably more of us would understand the complex notion they were trying to get us to learn! I can just see the job description for the technical writers: Must have experience with quick verbal banter that creates an air of sexual tension between the computer and the reader. I bet that would narrow the field of potential applicants!
Why are we afraid to admit we like romance novels? It isn’t as though we go to adult book stores to pick up our reading material!
I decided I didn’t care what other people thought and said I was writing a romance novel, which apparently came out sounding like I said “I eat dirt”. I could almost hear the collective brains thinking, “She’s one of those fluffly-slippered-bon-bon-eating saps. Why do they let people like that enroll in college? Poor dear. ”
The girl next to me said, “Nothing personal, but I would NEVER read one of THOSE books.” Apparently Gone With the Wind and Pride and Prejudice aren’t in her library. Poor dear.
One of the young men said he only read technical books. As God is my witness, I have technical books in my library too! So there. Microsoft Vista for Dummies is sitting right beside me as I type this. It’s a really big book too (When you migrate to Vista…you will also need a big book). So is Love Walked In by Marisa de los Santos (a funny, poignant book that is cleverly written and a great read). The two seem to be getting along quite well together.
Every genre has badly written books. Does romance have more, or is it just the subject matter that makes so many people smirk at the category? Romance novels have a huge market. Are we an underground society of readers?
I worry about people who don’t read about romance. That’s probably the reason for so many divorces.
Were it not for love and romance, life would be dull. You can’t fill your soul with technical manuals. And maybe if they wrote technical manuals with a touch of romance, they’d get a wider readership and probably more of us would understand the complex notion they were trying to get us to learn! I can just see the job description for the technical writers: Must have experience with quick verbal banter that creates an air of sexual tension between the computer and the reader. I bet that would narrow the field of potential applicants!
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