Nothing to See Here

L.G.C. Smith

I don't do revenge. It has a certain dramatic appeal, but when you get right down to it revenge done properly usually requires more time and energy than it's worth. Beyond high school (where all bets are off) or when someone very, very seriously harms your child, practical concerns dictate that most folks are too lazy for revenge.


When wronged, I stew a bit, then move on. There may be a fantasy or two where the offending party undergoes a humiliating public revelation of their true (dastardly) character. I may have, a few times only, pretended I was a powerful witch able to hurl bad karma acceleration curses at the odd malicious soul I've run across. Then...onward. Sometimes forgiveness is required. Fairly often a little perspective does the trick.

Fictional characters, however, have carte blanche to indulge revenge impulses of towering magnificence. This is one of the joys of fiction. As in romance where manly men readily learn to deal with emotion in ways satisfying to women, so can wronged characters fritter their lives away in service to revenge without wearying of the ass-backwardness of it all. Currently, I'm writing a couple of characters based on real people for whom revenge was as mother's milk. These guys were seventh-century Anglo-Saxon kings.


Early Germanic societies seem to have put a high premium on revenge. I comment as a novelist here, not an expert, but the legal systems in use in the early Anglo-Saxon period (450-700 AD) had a lot to say about blood feuds and compensation for crimes against persons and property. Everybody had a price, from the kings and their kin down to the slaves who cleaned up after the pigs. Families, especially those worth a lot, generally seemed to have a right to revenge. Or, possibly it would be more accurate to say that they had a duty to revenge.

My characters are based on the very real Northumbrian kings and rivals, Æthelfrith of Bernicia and Edwin of Deira. Bernicia encompassed much of what's now the county of Northumberland, while Deira was centered on York and the surrounding area. This picture is taken on the beach just south of Bamburgh, which was the main fortified settlement in early seventh century Bernicia.


Æthelfrith took over Deira to form the basis of what would become the kingdom of Northumbria. He killed Edwin's father and assorted family members, married Edwin's sister, and forced Edwin into exile.

It's not hard to understand why Edwin was impelled toward revenge on Æthelfrith, and he did achieve it ten or fifteen years down the line. Thus when Æthelfrith was killed in battle by Edwin's allies, Edwin took over a combined Northumbria and became perhaps the most powerful ruler of his time.

Then Æthelfrith's sons who were children sent into exile when Edwin took over, came roaring back another fifteen years later and killed Edwin. In succession, they they ruled Northumbria as perhaps the most powerful kings of their time. And so it went. Lather, rinse, repeat.

For men like Æthelfrith and Edwin revenge was a defining aspect of everyday life. It's not precisely fair, but one can describe the history of Britain in the seventh century as a series of revenge-driven raids by warlords who were heavily intermarried with all the other warlord kings. It was the original family feud.


Against this backdrop of constant squabbling --deadly squabbling in a population that could ill afford to lose too many farmers, blacksmiths, or cheesemakers -- I can see why the Anglo-Saxon kings, like Edwin, accepted conversion to Christianity. It offered them a way out of the endless cycles of revenge. God took over retribution duties, and paying penances to the Church reduced the toll in dead farmers and pillaged fields when the warlords couldn't contain their violence.


Times have changed when it comes to the role of revenge in our lives. We now trust many aspects of revenge to governments and call it the justice system. Flawed, yes. Very. Better than warlords? Most definitely. Ethically, we have several millennia of religious history urging us to let evildoers take their chances with the the higher powers and karma so the rest of us can worry about getting three kids to four different sports activities in three cities in two hours.


In the meantime, my time-traveling Anglo-Saxon kings are finding themselves in a world that doesn't give a rip about their mandates for revenge. What's more, they now find that the person they most seek to annihilate is the only person alive who shares their past. That's way more interesting than any revenge scenarios that may have come up in my real life.

Good Hair Is the Best Revenge

When I heard that the theme this week at Pens Fatales was “revenge,” I immediately ducked my head, hunched my shoulders, and let out a low roll of evil laughter. Finally, a topic I could sink my teeth into! One of the things I love about writing – and in particular, about writing mysteries – is that I can let my characters do all the crazy things that I would never dare to do in real life. Oh no. In real life, I’m all tight smiles when someone does me wrong.

But in fiction, oh boy. No holds barred!

There’s a fabulous scene in the movie Fried Green Tomatoes that captures perfectly what I mean. Some young bimbo steals Kathy Bates’s parking spot. In real life, we’d continue circling the parking lot, muttering under our breath. But in the movie, Kathy did what we all want to do – she deliberately crashed her car into that bimbo’s car. And then she did it again. What a moment!

Writers get to live that joy every day, by having our characters behave in ways that make us gasp and giggle and cheer. So I started thinking, who in my real life deserves revenge? Not my husband. He’s a doll. (An anatomically correct doll, too, thank goodness!) Not my editor. She’s fabulous. She helped me shape If Books Could Kill into a book that I’m proud to present to the world. It’s been pure pleasure working with her.

No, if I were to seek revenge against anyone in my life, it would have to be my hairdresser. Actually, every hairdresser who ever promised me she could turn my mop into something presentable but instead forced me to face the public looking like… well, like this, for example.

Okay, so revenge against Bitsy, a composite of every hairdresser who has failed me. And believe me, there have been major fails!

So who is Bitsy? She’s in her early 20s, and she chews gum so much that her jaw muscles rival Clint Eastwood’s. She asks me questions and then talks loudly to her colleague at the next mirror while I answer. Her fingernails are approaching Guinness Book of World Records length, and when she runs them through my hair, strands get caught and yank painfully at my scalp. Worst of all, when she’s done, she tells me I look fabulous and convinces me that it’s true. When I step outside the salon, people point and laugh. A four-year-old shrieks and hides behind her mother.

Do you recognize Bitsy?

Do you want to help me kill her?

How does Bitsy die? What does her in? Not a gun. That’s too mundane. Revenge is personal, especially in good fiction. Maybe her own shears buried between her shoulder blades? But no. She wouldn’t have seen what was coming, and Bitsy needs to admit her sins before her big death scene. Help me out here. Let’s brainstorm together. How should Bitsy die? What should her last words be? And while we’re at it, share your own hair horror stories!

Bestselling author Kate Carlisle spent over twenty years working in television production as an Associate Director for game and variety shows, including The Midnight Special, Solid Gold and The Gong Show. She traveled the world as a Dating Game chaperone and performed strange acts of silliness on The Gong Show. She also studied acting and singing, toiled in vineyards, collected books, joined a commune, sold fried chicken, modeled spring fashions and worked for a cruise ship line, but it was the year she spent in law school that finally drove her to begin writing fiction. It seemed the safest way to kill off her professors. Those professors are breathing easier now that Kate spends most of her time writing near the beach in Southern California where she lives with her perfect husband.

Visit Kate online at http://www.katecarlisle.com/ or www.Facebook.com/KateCarlisleBooks

Everything I Ever Needed To Know About Revenge I Learned From Ricardo Montalban

--Adrienne Miller

I’m not a vengeful person by nature. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a saint. I can hold one hell of a grudge (yeah, I’m looking at you, blonde girl who tripped me in 8th grade art class). But that’s sort of the problem, all I ever do is hold on to my righteous indignation and seethe. And seethe. And seethe. I never get around to the whole “taking revenge” part of the anger cycle. While this has no doubt saved me some jail time, it hasn’t been very satisfying. I’m also worried that I might be working myself up to one hell of an aneurysm.

I figure what I need is beginner course, so I’m going straight to the source. The one film that I’m certain we can all agree is the master work on the subject of revenge - Star Trek II : The Wrath of Khan. And I’ve decided to bring you all along for the ride. Lucky you.

So, **starting up dvd**  let’s see what the recipe for real revenge is. 

*Marooning a group of genetically engineered super warriors on a desert planet is bound to piss them off, but that’s nothing compared to what’s going to go down when they find out that the guy that put them there has been promoted.

*People will be even more intimidated if show off your awesome pecs. 

*Mutant earwigs are wicked effective as phase one of your revenge.

*A good revenge plan isn’t really in full swing until you give a clenched fist monologue explaining your resolve in seeing it through.

*Some part of your battle plan needs to include killing off as many obscure relatives of secondary characters as possible. This packs surprising emotional punch.

*“Revenge is a dish best served cold. *creepy breath*  It is very cold in space.” Go ahead, say it. It’s amazingly cathartic. 

*When in doubt, overact the hell out of it. 

*For a threat to be truly effective, you need to say it twice. Once in a normal-ish voice, then in a whisper/growl.

*Just cause you’re a Starfleet admiral doesn’t mean you can’t rock that popped collar.

*Apparently you have a son you’ve never met, because with all the scientific and technical advances of the 23rd century the one thing they can’t figure out is effective contraception. (And he’s kind of a wussie that likes to wear sweater-capes. Sorry about that.)

*Whatever you do don’t battle face to face, or even in the same room, for heavens sake. Just keep repeating threats and dramatic monologues over intercoms and space age wrist watches. 

*Go on. Cheat. Then just tell everyone that you “Don’t believe in a no-win scenario”. 

*Somebody needs to go flying over the rail. I don’t care who it is, make them do it.

*Get a flashing COMMIT sign installed somewhere in your revenge lair. It’s going to look so cool when you’re rolling around quoting Herman Melville and dying. 

*Don’t feel too bad when your best friend sacrifices his own life to save yours. You can always bring him back in the next installment.

Now that you know how to do it right, go forth and avenge! I know I will. That’s right, Blondie. You better hide. 

Is There a Time to Kill? by Juliet

I would have no trouble shooting a child-molester, point blank, if he harmed my child.

I know this about myself. At least I think I do – I thank whatever gods that be that I’ve never been tested. But I’m pretty certain, deep down in my primal, mama-tigress bones, that it’s true.

I would think about it…. Plan for it…. Lay in wait…. See it through. My actions would pretty much qualify me for Murder One, any way you look at it.

I might even be moved to torture the fiend, just a little, before dispatching him to the Great Beyond. And in that knowledge, that acceptance that there are some things we just can’t bear without lashing out in violence, I find a certain understanding of the motivation behind the seemingly undoable: Murder of a fellow human being.

I think crime writers are attracted to the field because it’s about people being driven to that unspeakable moment: The moment in time when taking someone out makes sense. The instant our wrath defies our judgment, our primal nature surges from within the civilized veneer.

Personally, I’m not interested in stories about serial killers and assassins, because to me those types have made their peace with causing death long before the story begins. No, I’m fascinated by the person who wouldn’t normally kill, but who makes an exception in the case at hand –because of blind fury, or terror …or revenge.

Recently a man named Aaron Vargas went to the home of a man named Darrell McNeill, an upstanding fellow in the community who had, for years, been a Boy Scout leader and Big Brother.

Vargas shot McNeill in his doorway. Point blank. In front of McNeill’s wife. Vargas then stayed with McNeill for half an hour while he died. He has never denied that he murdered the man.

(to the right: Aaron Vargas not long before falling prey to Darrell McNeill)


Even McNeill’s wife (now widow), eyewitness to the crime, herself has pleaded leniency for Vargas, saying she has “no reason not to believe Aaron.”

It seems McNeill's stepson, his friends, other boy scouts, and scores of vulnerable boys in Fort Bragg had been raped and preyed upon, repeatedly, by Darrell McNeill over the years.

The town has rallied to Vargas’s defense, saying that there is revenge, and then there is justice, and that this shooting was the latter: A way of seeking justice, putting things aright.

Now, I know that giving Aaron Vargas a pass on ridding the world of the monster named Darrell McNeill is tantamount to endorsing vigilante justice, and believe me, I don’t believe in the populace taking justice and retribution into their own hands. And I don’t envy the police and prosecutors in Fort Bragg – no one wants to make those kinds of gut-wrenching decisions.

I’m just saying. Sometimes revenge looks pretty sweet. Like justice, in fact.


And the knowledge that I could go there, just that fast -- just like Aaron Vargas did--does inform my writing...especially the really hard stuff. Like justice, vengeance, and revenge.

The Wrath of Rachael

I'm terrible at revenge. Given a good night's sleep and a sunny morning, I'll forgive most people most things. I stubbornly refuse to see the worst in people, even when they're displaying their ugliness for all the world to view. Even when they're pointing at it, showing it to me, saying, "Look here, I'm a terrible, awful person, and I hate you, you're ugly, and your mama's ugly, too," I'm the one saying soothingly, "Oh, no, you don't mean that, it's just been a long day and you're tired. Just have a rest and a sandwich. You'll feel better tomorrow."

So when people are actually mean, I don't understand it and I can only think that they're sad and scared. When people are actually angry, I can only think that they're hurt. I'm not sure that mean or angry really exist, except as mile markers, signposts for sad and hurt. (Don't say that to an angry person, though. They won't buy it, and you might get clobbered.)

But revenge, in writing, is so interesting. As is anger. And meanness. And pain. I always need to UP those things in my writing. I can't run around to all my characters soothing them (although I try), making every little hurt better. What I'd like to do is let them all sit around chatting, engaging in funny banter. Then, ideally, someone would stand up and say something mildly rude. Then my characters would spend the next hundred pages engaging in friendly therapeutic encouraging dialogue, and then everyone would sing a rousing kumbaya around a pretty campfire and turn in for an early night.

However, my editor won't let me do that (DAMN IT). Something about "emotional depth" and "real conflict." Whatever. Books with plot. Ahem. (I jest, of course. I want to read books with depth. They're just slightly harder to write than books without.)

So revenge. I need to dwell on the possibilities, even if I can't seem to act on them.

(The urge to insert a smiley face is almost physically unbearable. So...)

:)

Seriously - Don't Mess With Me

by Sophie

REVENGE

Everyone thinks I'm such a nice person.

Oh, in many ways, I suppose I am. I try to do more good than harm, give my all to being a worthy parent, and attempt to encourage and appreciate the people around me. I was raised to be polite, including the old-fashioned values of modesty and deferring to others. I believe in the value of social conventions like pleasant greetings and good conversation and the currency of favors.

But I do not care to be crossed.

If someone deliberately threatens, harms, or betrays me or mine, my rage is immeasurable. And I can hold a grudge nearly forever.

In the past few years, a number of people have earned my wrath. As my friends can attest, I do not forget. I add it to the simmering brew in my soul, a sort of sourdough starter for vengeance.

I do not react quickly. Usually, I do not react at all, at least in perceptible ways. I don't key people's cars or hack their facebook pages or even undermine them subtly in conversation.

No, what I do is even worse: I wait.

I wait with the unshakeable conviction that my self-justified rage is enough to tip the balance of the universe, in the long run, in ways that will restore balance. By not getting on their level and fighting back, I don't risk damaging my own karma; I sleep fine at night. But I do send red-hot mental poxes their way with the expectation that misfortune will follow. And you know what - freakily, frighteningly, it often does.

I will tell you only the tiniest historic example rather than risk upsetting the delicate balance of the Soph-iverse by revealing any situations still in play:

Many years ago I belonged to a different RWA chapter in another state. 99.9% of the members were lovely. One was not. In fact, she was rude, condescending, and mean. She had several books out, and I had only enthusiasm, ideas, and a lame first manuscript. She took many opportunities to remind me that I was lesser: unwelcome to hang out with the "real" writers, unqualified to give my opinion, uninitiated into the inner circle of publishing. Every snub hurt, though I tried not to show it at the time.

Fast forward many, many years. I still see her, every year, at the national conference. She doesn't remember me. I don't acknowledge her. But I outlasted her. I won't go into the details, but suffice it to say that she isn't at the top of any bestseller lists.

Never in a million years will I tell her name. First of all, it feels kind of...mean. Now that she's the one who's struggling, I don't want to be the person who gloats or takes any success I've had for granted. And second, it's just possible that I was wr...that I was wr-wr-wr...that I was (someone smack me on the back and fast) wr-WRONG! Okay, okay, it's possible that I was wrong. That she truly is a lovely gal who just didn't care for me. It happens. *

Just for balance, I'll tell you one author who was much, much nicer to me than she ever had to be, and encouraged me to keep writing: Martha Powers. Just in case you find this through google alerts or something Martha - BIG THANKS! You rock!

* for anyone who doubts that it happens - that there are people who don't care for me for no good reason - i give you exhibit A, our regular waitress at the venue where my RWA chapter has its monthly meetings. "She don't care for me," I observed one recent Saturday when she'd scowled and sighed and smirked her way through our lunch. This surprised me mostly because I usually have great waitress rapport, having been one for a zillion years - we sorta stick together, the sisterhood. Anyway the next month when the gal snapped and spat and did everything but pour tea in my lap, my friend says to me "She sure doesn't like you." See? It wasn't in my head! This one, however, requires no revenge; I figure a monthly encounter with two dozen rowdy RWA members is punishment enough...

The Mystery of Romance

Today's guest --with the last word on romance-- is, appropriately enough, Penny Warner, author of the newly published HOW TO HOST A KILLER PARTY.

I was forced to offer Penny a guest spot on Pensfatales in exchange for a highly coveted invitation to her release party at the Peasant and the Pear in Danville...and a suitably killer party it was, too. Live music, an auction, tips on party planning, chocolate roses, more cool homemade party schwag than you could shake your free wine at...this woman's got it all.

Oh, she's also an incredibly accomplished writer of both fiction and non-fiction, as well as being wicked funny. Thanks, Penny, for agreeing to post!

P.S. I was kidding about having to buy my way into her party -- it was open to all, and jam-packed with her rabid fans, friends, and family! Nonetheless, I managed to score three chocolate roses...;-)

Thanks, Julie and the Pens Fatales, for letting me share some space on your wonderful blog! I love the current topic—romance! And while I write primarily murder mysteries, I always include a love interest in my stories. All murder and no sex makes mysteries a dull read, don’t you think?

As for me, I prefer “sexual tension” to on-the-page sex, mainly because I find the “game of love” a more compelling page-turner than reading about a comfortable relationship between a couple. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s what I’ve had with my husband of 40 years.

Still, fantasy romance is fun. In my first series, my deaf protagonist, Connor Westphal, meets attractive Dan Smith in DEAD BODY LANGUAGE. Connor publishes her own weekly newspaper in the town of Flat Skunk, located in the California Gold country. Her office neighbor is a mysterious guy, newly arrived in town, looking for his private investigator brother. When bro turns up dead after following a case, Dan takes over his job, using his former police officer background to help Connor solve the mystery.

But it’s their first meeting that was the most fun to write.

“Who the hell are you?” asks Connor when she discovers the man with arms of steel in the office next door. When he tries to flirt with her by saying, “With that accent, you don’t sound like you’re from around here. Where’d you get it?” But the attempt falls flat when Connor responds, “Meningitis.”

Right off the bat, the reader knows this will be a cat-and-mouse game of love between the two very different personalities. Through the series Connor takes the romance slowly, having been burned by an old boyfriend who cheated on her. But by book three, Connor finds herself in bed with Dan. Instead of writing the details of their “body language,” I turn the sex into sex play—and have fun with it.

For example, when Dan is awakened in Connor’s bed by fairly violent shaking, he fears it’s an earthquake—common in the area—and jumps up, stark naked, to brace himself under a door jamb. Meanwhile, Connor enjoys the view of Dan’s naked body, then pushes a button on the side of her bed. There’s been no earthquake. Connor, being deaf and unable to use a standard alarm clock, has a “Shake-Awake” alarm attached to her bed, which causes it to tremble in the morning, waking her for the day ahead. Mortified, Dan returns to bed, but his embarrassment quickly disappears when he realizes Connor’s bed has other uses in the romance department….

So you see, I like to have fun with it. That way if my mother reads it, she may blush but she won’t die of a heart attack.

Now that I’m starting a new series, HOW TO HOST A KILLER PARTY, I’ve got a new protagonist, Presley Parker, event planner who lives and works on Treasure Island in the San Francisco Bay Area. She meets Brad Matthews, an attractive Crime Scene Cleaner, who joins her in her pursuit of truth, justice, and the solving of mysteries. When they first meet, Presley calls Brad a “lunatic,” and he tries to check her breath for alcohol. Not an auspicious beginning—but just the kind I like. And between murders, the two characters enjoy some back-and-forth repartee, often laced with sexual innuendoes.

Brad reached over to accept Pandora’s box. As he did, his shirt rose, revealing a glimpse of his tan, tight waist. That wasn’t all. There was a definite bulge in his pants. As flattering as it would have been, Brad Matthews wasn’t necessarily happy to see me.

That was a gun in his pocket.

So while I’m not quite ready to write a full-on sex scene for the page, I’m looking forward to doing a lot more research on the topic….:0

Penny Warner has published over 50 books, both fiction and non-fiction, for adults and children, including over a dozen party books. Her latest book, HOW TO HOST A KILLER PARTY, is the first in a new mystery series. Her books have won national awards, garnered excellent reviews, and have been printed in 14 countries. Her first mystery, DEAD BODY LANGUAGE, in her Connor Westphal series featuring a deaf reporter in the California Gold Country, won a Macavity Award for Best First Mystery and was nominated for an Agatha Award. Her non-fiction book, THE OFFICIAL NANCY DREW HANDBOOK, was nominated for an Agatha Award. Warner writes for party sites such as OrientalTradingCompany.com, BirthdaysRUs.com, iParty.com, and BalloonTime.com, and with her husband Tom creates interactive murder mystery fundraisers for libraries across the country. She can be reached at http://www.pennywarner.com.

A Tough Act To Follow

They met in graduate school in the 1960s.

They were immediately inseparable, and continued to be so--until the plane crash.

It was a small plane. During the flight, one of the engines caught on fire. It wasn't like in the movies, where everyone runs around screaming. Passengers were silent and contemplative. They knew they were going to die.

Only they didn't. The pilot manage to land safely. But that experience left its mark.

They had a baby in the 1970s. Whenever they had to fly somewhere without their child, they bought tickets for flights one after the other--they wouldn't get on the same flight, for fear that they would orphan their beloved child.

It didn't matter how old the child got. I graduated from high school; they flew separately. I graduated from college; still, they wouldn't get on the same plane if it was just the two of them without me.

This didn't change until I was 26 years old and met the love of my life. It wasn't long after I met him, and they must have known it, too. I got a call that they were flying somewhere together.

I now had someone in my life who loved me as much as they loved each other, and as much as they loved me. Whatever happened out there in the crazy world, it would be all right.

--Gigi

Martha's First Love Story

Caveat: this post makes me seem like a total douchebag, especially in light of everyone else's lovely posts.

My first love story went like this.

I was eight when my family moved to a duplex in the Tokyo burbs. My neighbor, Paul, was a few years older with shaggy blond hair, blue eyes and amazing cheekbones. I was obsessed with him and timed my commute to school so we had to walk together.

One day, the neighborhood boys invited me to their snowball fight.

I wasn't fast, and I couldn't throw very far. I solved this by packing my snowballs with sand from the local park to give them extra weight - and I nailed Paul right in the face.

(As an adult, I know this is sucky, but I was eight - gimme a break.)

Paul clutched his cheek and ran from the park. A few minutes later, the neighborhood boys scattered as his mom approached. I remember this moment with crystal clarity. She strode over in brown leather equestrian boots and a puffy marooon coat, hands stuffed in pockets.

She proceeded to lecture me.

I had hurt Paul.
I should be more careful.
She knew I "wasn't a bad person, per se," but was obviously misguided.

I listened. I nodded. Five minutes went by. Then ten. It occurred to me this wouldn't end until I apologized. So I did, and lemme tell ya, it was disingenuous as hell.

Because on the inside...

On the inside I was thinking, "Are you kidding me?"

(8 yrs old and future love cynic)

The next time I saw Paul, his hair was not so shiny and his cheekbones were rather dull. He was just such a dweeb (total 80's insult).

How could I have been in love with someone who couldn't take a rigged snowball to the face? I had endured worse (we're talking metal-nunchucks-to-the-head worse) and I was younger and a girl.

Paul and I lived next door to each other for five years. He got taller and better looking. But it didn't matter. Even as he sparked the interest of my friends, he never again sparked mine.

I never found him hot, funny, clever, or cool again.

So maybe his mom had it wrong. Maybe I'm not merely misguided. Maybe I am a bad person. But at least I'm not a weak-ass narc.

Ah, first love. Ain't it grand?

love's romance

how do i define this topic? how do i transcend the beautiful relationships that have already been depicted at pens fatales? I can't. Frankly, I'm not crazy about Valentine's Day. It annoys me that one day a year, men and women are supposed to honor something that should take precedence all year long.

i believe in romance. i believe in the power of love to transcend other boundaries.

but, you may be cynical. you may nay say. and that is your right. however, i believe that if you believe in the power of love, your life will be better, richer, and happier.

all i can do is offer my own examples and hope that you are open to my interpretation of romance:

romance is not giving a dozen roses on february 14th, it's impromptu delivery when life has thrown a curve ball, and you are down in the dumps.

romance is traveling thru a blizzard to buy a torchiere (that while beautiful was outside of a budget) to be waiting in the living room when you get home from a business trip!

love is refusing to let others take care of your spouse when she is beyond reasoning and really cannot function without care.

romance is picking up take out when life has totally kicked you in the butt and/or cooking dinner, even deciding what to cook for dinner, is beyond your capability.

love is spending four hours at the mall when all you want is to sit in front of the t.v.

love is taking out the garbage when you are tired but your loved one is exhausted.

i know that there are many other examples that i should be defining, but my husband is sick and all i can do is worry and plan how i can make his life easier. because ....
love is defined in all the little things. Anyone can be thoughtful one day a year, but for me, the true definition of love is a partner who cares for you, who tends to your needs and who looks out for you all year long....