When Happy Movies Happen To Sad People

I just finished watching "Under The Tuscan Sun". I'm still teared up. Why? Well, let me tell you. It isn't because I am not Diane Lane (way, way, not Diane Lane). It is because I've lost the opportunity to experience true love. Really. It's a lost cause.

There were times when I might have had a chance. Decisions made. Choices made. And in the end I lost out. I decided to be an actress and singer and my circle of friends became gay men and dysfunctional folk. Of course, when it comes to dysfunctional I am, alas, the poster child. Looking for love in all the wrong places? That would be me.

But all I wanted was love. Missed the boat on that one, though.

Watching Tuscan Sun I wondered what it would have been like for me had I made different decisions. I once had my cards read (so many years ago - even before I actually believed in the efficacy of Tarot..) and my reader said I would - within a year - meet a Frenchman, marry him, have two young sons and live at his vineyard.

Lord, wouldn't that have been amazing?

In fact, anything that smacked of a romance - a lover, a companion - would have been amazing.

Instead I am alone. A tough spot for a true romantic. Because sure, I have handled "aloneness" for nearly 30 years. Since I was 22. Hell, that makes it 31 years.

Of course, I didn't ever really have that companion. That soul mate. That supportive man who stuck by me through thick and thin. I have those brief, Shakespearean type romances. Brief lightening flashes of sex and lust and love that were gone as soon as they came, leaving only a lingering aroma of sadness and bitterness and, sometimes, yearning.

It is a cold night, tonight. March is an odd month. A cruel month. There is a mama kitty outside who had a litter of kittens. I have fed her copiously in the hopes that she will be able to keep them (and herself) alive. I look forward to the chance to feed the little buggers (along with Mama's first litter, Eenie, Meanie, and Mighty Moe that showed up last Spring). They are joyous and wonderful to play with.

The weekend is here. I tried my best this week to hold up the gauntlet. But failed, in some regards.

There's been a relationship that I have watched founder. Communications slow, fates intervene. I cannot bring myself to whine, complain or make mention of the decline. I can only sit silent as it does so. Because it wasn't ever the "real thing". It was a momentary flash of brilliant lightening in an otherwise stagnant and celibate world.

My world.

The Greatest Romantic Songs of the 1970's

I saw the ad. Wrote down the 1-800 number. I want them so bad I can taste them (well except for that piece of crap number, "My Eyes Adored You."

It's a grey, gloomy, day out with a drizzle that's neither a rain-storm nor a mist.

And I feel lonely, grey, sad and wondering how my life turned out this way.

Someone I know only via email and phone sent me pictures of his grandchildren. It's been a long time since my biological clock sounded the alarm. But that old familiar pang sounded once again as I looked at the little boys - all fresh-faced and innocent and wondered, what would it have been like to have held my own child?

Would that I were the pragmatist. Fortunate I am a loner. Because otherwise, this might just be unbearable.

To be all alone.

Why Does A Feminist Love Romances?

I pondered that question this afternoon as I read Elaine Showalter's A Jury of Her Peers, a new book about the female American authors and the failure of the literary world to give them their due.

Which prompted me to start thinking about romance novels. First of all, full-disclosure: I am an aspiring romance author. I read them like crazy, love them to death and want to write oodles and oodles of them.

But why does this old, 1970's "I Am Woman Hear Me Roar" feminist admit to that, much less actually, really, truly mean it?

It's not the happy ending, first of all. I'm one of those post-divorce, baby-boomer women who learned the truth about the picket fence existence and I know there's as many true happy endings, romance-wise, as there are Lotto winners. In other words, they're few and far between.

OK, so is it the perfect heroes? No.

It's the women. Whether they were the fragile flowers of femininity of the 1970 novels of Kathleen Woodiwiss, or the contemporary Stephanie Plums, they are the greatest. I love the books because the authors have given the women the minds, the souls, the hearts to withstand their trials, to rise to the occasions and to beat the odds. Whether they're Regency heroines or paranormal vampire slayers, the women are individuals who fight with whatever talents they have - be they wits or weaponry or feminine wiles.

And in the end, that's what feminism is all about, to me. The ability of a woman to take what life gives her and make a life out of it. It won't always be perfect, and it won't always be pretty. But it will always be hers.

Romance novels give me that very special happy ending. Unlike the real world where, no matter how hard a woman may try, the patriarchy gets her down, or the Man, or bad luck, death or taxes. In romance novels, a woman gives it her all and gets what she deserves. It may be the hero, or it may be a happy ending, the life of her child, the career she always wanted, or great sex.

As we all know, that's not the case off the page. So after a day of toiling for the Man, doling out the hard earned cash to pay the piper, and being pushed and shoved - figuratively as well as literally, never getting my due, or even a modicum of respect, of having to watch others get more than their share, and be reminded of the endless hard row of hoeing ahead of me, there's nothing like a romance novel to sublimate that frustration and to imagine a world where my hard work gets me my just desserts.

OK, so I guess that's what I love about romance novels. They are this feminist's idea of a happy ending.

Goodbye to The First Boy I Dated

The first boy I dated was a BMOC. That term may have gone out of style, but that is what Billy was. President of his class. Football playing star. Well-to-do in my small suburban town. Funny, well-liked and talented.

When I was a Sophomore, aged 15, I earned a part in my high school's Autumn dramatic production, "Witness for the Prosecution". Bill got a part too - one of the leads. Unfortunately, several weeks into rehearsal he got something else, too. A bad tackle on the football field that broke his thigh bone. In a full-length leg cast - and a lot of pain - he resolved to go "on with the show". The director worked on the blocking to accomodate Bill's wheelchair but he also made sure that there was accomodation made for Bill's pain and exhaustion. As it happened, my role was attendant to his and we had scenes together. I agreed to visit Bill and rehearse at his house.

And there, at some point during the process, we discovered ourselves enthralled with one another. That mad physical passion that is only experienced in one's teen years, overwhelmed us.

Indeed, I had my first orgasm (well, the first one in mixed company) grinding against Bill's erection while straddling him on his parents' sofa. Just before his Mom arrived with a plate of cookies.

We were intensely excited by one another all that Fall. With his leg in a cast we did nothing more that squirm and make out. I'd never been French kissed before Billy. And I was the girlfriend of a BMOC.

Quite a nice recovery from the Spring of my Freshman year when my love poetry to another BMOC was revealed and I was a pariah for 9 months. Indeed, my relationship with Bill raised me to new heights, status-wise.

We made out backstage, me sitting on his lap in his wheelchair. Several times our English teacher and director good-naturedly broke up our love fests.

Sadly, I can't remember much about our romance. It was wild, and heady, and we were busy students - both getting good grades and planning on advanced education.

And it was short. Mere months, in fact. Our first kiss was in late September. The play went on and was a great success. Dark, suspenseful, Witness was a fairly adult choice for our school and it was a hit.

Also in the fall was the girls' physical education program called "Sports Night". Divided into two teams - Green Team and White Team - we competed in various activities all while adhering to a theme. Drill marching, gymnastics, and skits and in the end my team, the White Team, won the day. Billy, his best friend Rob and Rob's girlfriend and I went out to celebrate.

Some celebration. With his leg still casted Billy and Rob sat in the front while Bonnie and I did our darndest to get snockered. But it was Boone's Farm Apple Wine and we were thwarted.

That's the last time I remember being "a couple" with Billy.

I don't remember that Thanksgiving. I don't remember the remains of the school days leading up to Christmas.

But on Christmas eve I walked the mile to Billy's house. I had bought a Brut cologne gift set. I had wrapped it in gold foil with a forest green ribbon. It was snowing that night, but the gentle, quiet kind of snow. I walked all the way in the dark. I was going to surprise Billy with my gift. It was the first gift I'd ever purchased for a boy. I was in love.

I arrived at his house and waited for someone to answer my knock.

Billy's mother answered the door. The family had money and stature and some political presence in my town. I was the daughter of a broken family from, literally, the wrong side of the tracks. My house was modest, my clothes not terribly chic.

Billy's Mom answered the door and to this day I remember the cold look on her face.

"Billy's dating his old girlfriend again. He doesn't want to see you anymore."

And she closed the door in my face.

I walked home in the snow, crying. I had the wrapped present in my closet for several years before I gave it away to my brother for some other Christmas.

There were other boys after Billy. Come the Spring musical, Camelot, in which I was cast, ironically, as Gueneviere to Billy's Arthur, we were not speaking but playing lovers. It was a young trombone player in the orchestra who caught sight of me and set out to pursue me and later that same Spring I danced the night away and got my first kiss from a boy named Amato who would become one of the greatest loves of my life.

The play was a hit and Billy and I went our separate ways once again.

Come June, he signed my yearbook. He apologized for what had happened. He wished me well and offered to be my friend. To talk if I ever needed to.

I rarely saw Billy after that. Eventually I moved into Manhattan and dove into an acting and singing career. I made new friends and got crushes on other men. Gay men who couldn't return my affections. Life went on.

And I learned yesterday that while my life was moving on, Billy's had too.

He died at the age of 40, in 1994, of a freak infection. His broken leg had released marrow into his bloodstream in 1972. He had developed various problems as result. It may have been that injury that led to a weakened in some anatomical system or other that allowed the infection to kill him. Or perhaps he was just one of those unlucky ones.

I've been thinking about Billy ever since. That I never knew he was gone. How sad that I can't remember the quality of his kisses. That the memory of his hands on my body have faded completely away. That my melodramatic obsession with him had evaporated that Spring when Amato came on the scene.

He was the first boy I ever dated. He was the first boy I ever kissed with serious dedication. He was the first boy I ever loved. He was the first boy who ever broke my heart.

Goodbye, Billy. I hope you were happy with your life. I hope that you found joy and satisfaction and, above all, I hope that you found love.

You're Never Too Old To Be A Romantic

Most people who know me, if asked, would say I was cynical, sarcastic, witty, smart, filled with trivia, well-read or stubborn. Probably not a one of them would say I was a romantic.

But I am. Foolishly so. Hallmark romantic. Walking hand-in-hand into the sunset, kissing on a balcony in Paris, floating down the canals of Venice, or sitting in front of a roaring fire reading poetry and sipping wine romantic.

I'm also skinny-dipping, morning sex, naughty whisperings, and French kissing romantic, too.

And that's why I am a romance writer. Because I believe in romance. Because I have seen that grey-haired couple staring into one another's eyes with great passion. I have watched a couple hold their child for the first time. I have heard a woman speak of her man with pride - regardless of bank accounts or house size or Sexiest Man Alive status. I have seen couples share the hard times as well as the good times. Share the joys as well as the sorrows. I have heard single women speak of the Mr. Right they know is out there. I have watched a man pick out the perfect rose for his woman.

Despite the headlines, the news stories, the ugliness - I know that love and romance exists. It is, as Fox Mulder would say, out there (and yes, I always knew he and Scully were, truly, in love!). And I believe! I believe in the power of love, the power of romance, to bring people together.

I believe that you can fall in love with someone you have never met. And I believe that love is blind. Because in the end, it is all about the heart and the soul. Never the wallet. Never the country club membership. Never the impressive job, or the fame or the boobs.

I hope you will wander the romantic highways and by-ways with me. Explore romance in all its many shapes and forms. The sweet and the bittersweet. The poignant and the yearning. The magnificence of love.

It is, after all, what makes the world go round.