A Slice of Orange

By Geralyn Ruane

My fiancé Ron puts up with a lot from me, but I never expected him to put up with Viggo.

I am thirty-four years old; I pay taxes; I am engaged to be married. My life contains several outward signs that I am an adult. Yet I have this seriously girly celebrity crush on Viggo Mortensen – the guy who plays the emotionally scarred hero Aragorn in The Lord of the Rings movies. Sure, Viggo’s also a poet, photographer, painter, and political activist (see? here I go!) – but it’s still a celebrity crush. I buy magazines such as GQ, Vanity Fair and Cowboys and Indians when he’s on the cover (and I haven’t read magazines for fun since my subscription of Highlights ran out); I order books of his photography from Amazon; I have a “Viggo” wishlist on Tivo; I visit Viggo fan websites with alarming frequency. I haven’t acted this cuckoo since I spent my middle school library time looking up magazine articles about Duran Duran! And that was over twenty years ago! Part of me is ashamed of this gash of immaturity blazing through my life . . . but the other part will talk to almost anyone about Viggo.

But Ron is cool with it.

I could never be that way if the situation were reversed. If he were to bring home magazines with . . . say . . . Salma Hayek on the cover and visit her fan websites on the net, I’d be like, “Dude, what is up with you and Salma Hayek?”

So why isn’t Ron ticked off? I asked him that very question not so long ago. He simply said he wasn’t jealous. He knows I love him.

And he also knows that I have this tendency to obsess. I went to see Bridget Jones’s Diary in the theatre 6 times, seeing how many new allusions to Pride and Prejudice I could spot each time. When I was a Lakers fan, I owned 9 T-shirts, 4 flags on my car, 3 game jerseys, 1 ball cap, and a winter jacket – and I wanted to paint my house purple and gold. When I was crazy about the show The Crocodile Hunter, I ordered an extra pay channel so I could see one more episode a day.

Yup. I can obsess. Last year, I stood outside a Borders waiting for it to open because the first customers to buy the Return of the King DVD got a free, really HOT poster of a fierce and wild Aragorn, aka Viggo. I was the only idiot waiting, but I got my poster of Viggo! For my birthday, Ron framed that poster for me. A custom, hand-made frame that he did himself at some framing place that lets you do that. All because he knew I would love it.

Ron gets me. He knows how silly and compulsive and crazy I can be, but he doesn’t try to change me or chide me or fix me. He loves me, Viggo crush and all.

By Geralyn Ruane
Author of “Jane Austen Meets the New York Giants”
in Marlo Thomas’ book THE RIGHT WORDS AT THE RIGHT TIME, Vol. 2, April 2006

By Barbara DeLong

Oh yes, I can make all the proper noises at all the proper times – the ooh’s and aah’s, the gasps of delight, the sucked in breath when mere words won’t suffice. The “wow, that’s hot,” when I just have to say something. And being a mere man, whose love of cars is barely five mph behind his love for his wife, my husband doesn’t catch on.

Okay, make that ten mph.

As he talks about his Mustang, my eyes glaze over; my mind wanders to thoughts of dinner. Will I make the halibut?

“…and I don’t think I’ll get the hi-po spark plugs…”

I shake my head. Naw, fish is not my favorite. Maybe the juicy porterhouse I’ve had marinating in those exotic herbs and spices.

“…the Flowmasters give the car a throaty roar, don’t you think?”

“Ooh, yes, yes, YES!” I enthuse, agreeing to my choice of succulent steak.

He looks so satisfied, bless his heart.

I wasn’t always this good. In that first romantic blush, during the courtship dance that’s as old as time, I blew it once in awhile.

“…then it dropped a valve into the piston.”

“Hmmm, great,” I purred, thinking about our cozy date the night before.

“Not great. Bad. Very bad,” he’d said.

What can I tell you? There was a learning curve.

Now, after thirty-five years of marriage, I’ve taken faking an interest in cars to an art form. At least, I thought I had. I may have faltered these past couple of years, which could explain how I ended up being on the board of the Mustang Club as editor of their newsletter. I had a weak moment and got sucked into his world as surely as 92 Octane gets sucked into Bosch forty-two pound injectors. Ah well, could be worse. I could be writing a romance set in the world of cars – wait a minute. I am writing a romance set in the world of cars. “Joy Ride” is my road rally romance-in-progress.

Which reminds me . . .

“Honey, I need some advice.” I trail him out to the garage, notepad in hand. “Tell me, should my hero’s ’65 Mustang have the original V8?”

“I’d give it a Cobra 5.0 engine with a Vortech supercharger and a Crane high lift cam,” he says.

Funny, as I’m listening to him, I know just what he’s talking about.

And my eyes don’t glaze over once.

Barbara DeLong

By Catherine Snodgrass

People measure romance differently. For most it’s flowers, quiet walks on the beach, a romantic candlelit dinner, or perhaps a box of candy. For me, nothing says love more than ice chips. My husband and I had been married nine years when I had to have major surgery. Now, he’s always been the traditional romantic, but I knew the man really and truly loved me more than anything else in the world when I woke up in my room and he was sitting by my side. All I could have was ice chips. Not only did he have the ice chips ready, but he also made “the supreme sacrifice of having an ice cream sundae” in order to get a plastic spoon to feed the ice chips to me. All the hospital had were wooden tongue depressors and he knew I hated to touch rough wood much less put it in my mouth.

Catherine Snodgrass
http://www.catherinesnodgrass.com
aka Cailtyn Willows www.caitlynwillows.com
Author newsletter: CatherineSnodgrassNewsletter-subscribe@yahoogroups.com

By Barbara McCauley

When I was asked to write a Valentine Day’s blog for OCC, my mind absolutely went blank. I mean blank, as in, nothing there. Empty. No memories of long-stemmed roses. No intimate dinners arranged by my darling husband. No diamonds that say, “I love you.” No box of chocolates or surprise trip to…well, anywhere.

I wracked my brain. There had to be something I could write about—even one romantic Valentine evening or hastily picked up bouquet of flowers from a corner street vendor. I rummaged through a box of cards I’ve kept throughout the years (got distracted reading all those cute hand made cards from my kids) I was hoping something would jog my memory. Nada.

This was downright embarrassing.

I was feeling just a tad inadequate, knowing that all the other blogs would be heart warming, sigh evoking stories of romantic husbands who bring home champagne and sprinkle rose petals on the bed. (The only rose petals on my bed would have been the ones stuck in my hair when I came in from the garden) I thought, well, I am a writer. I could make up a story. Who would be the wiser?

I would.

Whatever I wrote, I knew it had to be true, and it had to be heartfelt.
So I thought about my husband and everything he does do and has done, not what he hadn’t….

He always fills my car with gas for me (he knows I hate to) He stays up late to help me with website projects. (because I don’t know how) He rubs my back. (my favorite) He’s very very patient when I’m having a hormonal day. (often) He’s building a storybook garden for me and did all the heavy work in the garden, even when he’d rather be doing a hundred other things. He makes me coffee in the morning before he goes to work and leaves me notes wishing me a happy day. If we wake up in the middle of the night, he’ll always tell me he loves me.

Jeez. I could go on and on.

So maybe he isn’t that great at remembering birthdays and anniversaries and special occasions. I realize I don’t care.

He remembers what’s most important in a relationship. The little things that in the end mean a lot more to me than a diamond necklace or roses or even a trip to Paris.
I don’t have to wait for Valentine’s Day for him to show me he loves me. He does it every day, in a hundred ways.

I’m one hell of a lucky girl.

Barbara McCauley

PS. And what do I do for him for Valentine’s Day? A card,(sometimes) a heart shaped meat loaf or macaroni and cheese. (Two of his favorite meals) Aren’t we a pair?