Romance for Real Women

Well, ladies, hurricanes trump romance, even for real women. In fact, the most romantic gesture I expect from my partner is his willingness to help move the patio furniture, tape the windows and fill buckets of water.

Today, that’s what we’re doing. Shopping for tinned foods; filling our tanks; and, buying batteries. Then there is always the emergency run to the liquor store where my partner reports there are no lines. Those pails have to be filled, too.

Edouard is out in the Gulf of Mexico and moving toward us at eight miles an hour with wind speeds up to fifty miles an hour. Our gleeful local reporters are warning it could easily turn into a hurricane given the warm waters of the gulf. (Tropical storms turn into hurricanes at seventy four miles an hour.) Less gleeful local officials are activating emergency preparedness systems.

I’m activating my own emergency preparedness system. The children are with Miss Moonbeam, who has called repeatedly this morning with instructions, commentary and warnings. I’m filling the tubs, inventorying tinned food, and laying in additional supplies.

I’ve contacted my friends, warriors with whom I sat out the Rita threat a few years ago. (Rita, a Cat 3 hurricane, was coming directly at us, but veered off to the northwest at the last minute. We stayed up as long as we could, finally going to sleep in the early morning. We woke to an eerie quiet, but no hurricane. We naturally congratulated ourselves on our perspicacity in not evacuating to join the rest of the state on stopped highways. In reality, we’d all left our preparations too late to evacuate.)

My friends aren’t as concerned about Edouard. It’s “only” a tropical storm. We’ll see.

Meanwhile, I’m off to inspect the pails.

My Mother, the original Miss Moonbeam from the sixties, declined to marry any of the fathers of her children. Marriage is bourgeois, an insignificant, meaningless piece of paper, an institution designed to oppress women, all according to Mom.

But real women, of which she is one, love romance-even if it involves an exchange of vows before a priest in a church and comes with all the trimmings.

We just can’t help ourselves. And, it’s fun to see her in full wedding planning mode as her sister’s grandchild gets married.

The kids are just starting out, a couple of years out of college, so the original concept was that it was to be a small, intimate wedding in my aunt’s backyard as befitting the couple’s age and current economic status.

That of course was before Mom and Auntie drew up the guest list and realized there were fully 200 people that must be, had to be invited. Leaving one, even one, off the list would result in deeply hurt, never to be mended feelings

The church had already been reserved and it can easily accommodate the anticipated rally. But it didn’t take these two matriarchs long to figure out that the backyard just wouldn’t do.

So with Mom leading the charge, a country club has been rented for the reception.

The original plan had been for the bride to wear a sweet summer dress with perhaps a floppy hat. (That was Miss Moonbeam’s suggestion.) Now the search is on for an appropriate pattern and a thoroughly vetted dress maker.

An even more vigorous search is on for a veil purportedly worn by my great grandmother which has somehow disappeared. I won’t say these two perfectly charming women are pointing fingers at each other, but…

Currently, the telephones, landlines and cells, are burning up over issues involving flowers for the church, food for the reception and the merits of a morning coat versus a tuxedo.

I honestly don’t know how much input the poor bride is having into these weighty issues, but I assume everything is fine since I’ve heard nothing to the contrary. And I would have because I’m being brought up to date every night, although my opinion is never sought.

My sisters and I were raised on the aforementioned philosophy subscribed to by Miss Moonbeam. So, we are thoroughly enjoying her absorption in every detail of her great nephew’s upcoming nuptials. Unable to help myself, I went so far as to ask Mom why she was so involved since she didn’t believe in the institution.

She gave me the thousand yard stare she reserves for really stupid questions from her children.

“Bunny,” she said using her nickname for me, “you really don’t understand?”

“No, Mom, I don’t.” No chance of letting her off the hook on this one.

“They need my help,” she said before taking a call from her sister.

Oh, of course. Right.

Like real women everywhere, I have friends who don’t read romance novels. I ignore this failing in these friends, the same way I ignore people who like well done steak. That is, I discount it against other, more appealing qualities.

Reading romance novels is a way of life. Sure, there are some which fail the most elementary literacy/plot/character tests. But not many. And, although I like paranormals, I will admit I’m getting a little tired of sexy vamp stories, although I read those by J.R. Ward like the weekly grocery ads. And, trust me, if one appears that my friends love, I’m right back in line at the bookstore. I know myself well enough to understand this is just a temporary malaise.

A marvelous blog at www.smartbitchestrashybooks.com reviews romance novels exclusively and grades them from A-F and includes another category which consigns the worst to “The Dump.”

I tend to follow their advice.

And I’m sure to always pick up books reviewed by egregious snots beginning their comments with such witticisms such as “a book for readers who move their lips.”

What prompted this rant is a poll by MSNBC accompanying the release of a new Danielle Steel novel which asks readers if they read, don’t read or sometimes read bodice-rippers.

The findings are sure to surprise anyone whose sole source of reliable information is reality television. At this writing, roughly 50% of respondents are voting “yes, yes, bodice-rippers are the ultimate.”

Well, of course, they are. Hunky men daring impossible odds. Conflicted, striving women. Well researched (usually) exotic or historical settings. Challenges met and overcome. The invariable happy ending.

So, if you already love romance novels, hop over to the MSNBC poll and vote. http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/25191970/

If not, do what roughly 55% of the book buying public does: pick up a romance. You’ll be hooked.

Some of my darling friends have visited this blog and because they are my darling friends, they haven’t hesitated in sharing their opinions.

“But, Lesli,” one said, “it’s supposed to be about romance. You’re talking about your daughter.”

“That’s true,” I said, “but it’s called romance for real women. Real women have children and we have to train them not only to be real women, but to appreciate real women.”

That didn’t wash.

“But that’s not romantic.”

“Try being romantic if your daughter is in a snit about a bathing suit,” I returned.

She was mum.

I went on the attack. “Try having a romantic evening when she’s in tears because you didn’t buy the bikini.”

“Try having sex while your son is whining because he wants a tattoo.”

I would go on, but it’d start to sound as if I was feeling sorry for myself.

At any rate, we went on to discuss more important subjects like the new Hulk movie. But she got me thinking.

The construct of real romance consists of all the day-to-day influences impacting our lives and how we live and think about life.

To me, it’s romantic my son feels he can share his woes with my partner and that my partner can be trusted to deal with the tattoo issue gently.

It’s romantic that my partner tells my insecure little girl she looks beautiful in her swimsuit.

These things fan the still beating flames of a long relationship. They tell me something about him and not so incidentally help me handle sensitive domestic issues.

In the bigger picture, broad, societal attitudes toward marriage, sex, and children inevitably affect our own attitudes.

Is it important for real women to know that more than 30 percent of the nation’s children don’t live with either parent while almost 20 percent of children live with a single parent, usually the mother? Does this fact affect our view of romance? Our attitudes and expectations for a partner?

I think it does and I think we need to stay aware of them.

So, I’ll continue to report and comment on them. Just as I’ll continue to report and comment on trends in sexy lingerie, chocolate, jewelry and other things dear to my still romantic heart.

Real women should take note of a study that could actually give them useful clues into the psyches of their partners. Clues, I might add, that apparently didn’t even occur to the researchers themselves.

The study on postpartum depression in men was conducted by researchers at the Eastern Virginia Medical School in Norfolk, VA. It was published in the August, 2007 issue of the journal Pediatrics although interestingly, the general media have just reported on it today, May 6, 2008, which really goes to show you how the Democrat primaries have saturated the news.

Nevertheless, apart from the cognitive dissonance real women might feel upon hearing that men suffer from postpartum depression, the study does yield some interesting findings. But only if you know how to look.

The researchers studied more than 5,000 two-parent families. Got that, ladies? Two parent families.

It found that one in ten of these new dads suffered from postpartum depression.

The reasons?

Anxiety over supporting a family.

Anxiety over relationships with their wives.

Worry over the cost of raising a child to twenty-one.

Have you got that, everyone?

These are the good guys.

In another study, the University of Chicago reports that 31% or 22.5 million of the nation’s children don’t live with either parent. Add to that the 18% or 11.9 million children who live with only one parent, usually the mother.

You can betcha those guys don’t suffer from postpartum depression.

One question the folks at Eastern Virginia don’t seem to have asked is when these new dads last had a good night’s sleep.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not belittling depression. But my advice to real women whose husbands are adjusting to the new kid by worrying about how to support their family is to uncork the champagne, pull on some sexy lingerie and dim the lights. After the fun, let him sleep all night.

He’s a keeper.

And now real women have another relationship guru to contend with, a miserable little toad called Marc Rudov who recently surfaced on national television, presenting himself as an authority on romance, relationships and women.

Mr. Rudov’s appearance was apparently prompted by the debut of his radio show, “The Mark Rudov Show” which in a perfect world should sink without a ripple.

Mr. Rudov contends that most women are “little girls occupying women’s bodies.” He further contends that men are depressed because “they’ve allowed women to take over the world.”

Huh?

Real women know we rule…behind the scenes. We don’t flaunt our authority. We don’t want men depressed. We love men. We want them happy. Really. We go to great lengths to make them happy. And, we know they’re happiest when they follow our direction.

If you must, go to www.marcrudovradio.com But, in my opinion, this is a toad not worth kissing.