EXPERIMENT: Romancing the Novel

"With one leg in a cast and a heart hardened by bitter holiday memories, all Leslie wants for Christmas is a quiet and restful vacation at her aunt's Vermont home. But that was before she met the new neighbor, handsome Tagg Williams."

Well that sounds okay, I thought, standing in front of the holiday section at the library. It could easily be a John Irving book. Vermont. Snow. Disappointment.

I will say, reading a romance novel wasn't something that really ever interested me. I've been a hungry reader since childhood, but I never deigned to pick up a book of this breed. I may make great jokes ("breed" heh), but I simply don't read books as jokes. Allow me this snobbery. I also write poetry. Get over it.

However, I am a girl who likes to experiment. And a romance novel seems to be the perfect excuse to try it all, as they say. And a Christmas-themed romance novel at that. Also, after seeing Danielle Steel's monstrosity of a house the thought came to me, well someone must be reading her. A lot of lonely someones.

(A quick scan of the world's foremost source of cobbled information (Wikipedia) tells me this stereotype of the lonely female isn't entirely true. The core of romance readers, boast the RWA, are those in committed romantic relationships, more likely married than not, more likely Midwestern than not. In wikipedia-fact, romance novels are the most popular genre in modern literature, comprising almost 55% of all paperback books sold in the last decade. For your information.)

After 5 minutes of deliberation and quick scan of fellow library patrons, I checked it out in preparation for an 11-hour roadtrip (along with Wodehouse, hah). Moderation in all things.

The name - Mistletoe and Holly. Published in 1982 by Silhouette Romance, subdivision of Harlequin. A holiday romance with a tame-looking red and green cover. My first joke book.

The story is structured into three quick and distinct acts:

I - Leslie (a careerist - ad exec!) comes to visit lonely Aunt, has gruff run-in with comely neighbor Tagg. Tagg is a Gaston-cum-Gandhi character, a divorcee doctor gallivanting through Vermont countryside in lumberjack attire, presumably smelling of maple and Old English. In tow, Tagg's sprite daughter Holly, who serves less as daughter and more as puppy tactically placed next to men to attract females. Leslie resists Tagg's invitations to accompany him in various wintertime activities (sledding, cocoa-sipping, tree-chopping), probably because they are ridiculous date-ideas for someone on crutches. However, she is undeniably drawn to his quiet demeanor and physicality (Now that I'm grown I eat five dozen eggs, and I'm roughly the size of a baaaarge!)

II. - Aunt (bumbling Angela Lansbury type) encourages Leslie to spend time with Tagg, though Leslie is unsure. Aunt goes on an overnight trip to a friend's, and the electricity in the village goes out. Tagg the Hero arrives and carries Leslie (in a cast, remember) to his house "for [her] safety throughout the night." Peck under mistletoe, followed by light necking in front of roaring fireplace, until Holly ruins everything by coming downstairs for a drink. Tagg most likely annoyed daughter is not a puppy at this moment. Tagg reveals he is not a divorcee, but a widower. Leslie pities him and also herself. She demands to be taken home, where she indulges in a spiral of doubt and second-guessing. The thin, "intellectual" blonde wonders if she should let Tagg into her life, or he will hurt her like suitors past.

III. - Adorable Holly takes sudden interest in Leslie and comes over multiple times a day. Tagg apologetically fetches her each day, hoping to find an opportune moment to reveal his feelings and see if they are reciprocated. Sort of unsatisfying climax as Leslie decides she is in love with Tagg and wants to take care of Holly with him. Flashforward to Tagg and Leslie's wedding the next Christmas. Leslie is off her "crutches," in love, and is "walking again." Not the worst metaphor I've encountered in a book, but not the best either.

We were nearing Flagstaff as I finished the book, a wintery-landscape like unto Vermont. I closed the yellowed pages of Mistletoe and Holly and thought about it. As far as stories go, it wasn't horrible. It made sense (which is more than I can say about most movies of 2010). And it did get me in the Christmas mood. One more thing - this Reagan-era romance was incredibly tame. It was relatively smut-free, right between a PG and PG-13. Just a simple holiday story of love overcoming all.

So why all the critical disgust and judgment of romance novels? They don't seem to be any more insipid than their visual counterparts. Most rom-coms of the last 10 years have been incredibly banal and suffered from horrible scripts. If we read a novelization of one of them would it sound any more socially acceptable?

Beth is a young, ambitious New Yorker who is completely unlucky in love. However, on a whirlwind trip to Rome, she impulsively steals some coins from a reputed fountain of love, and is then aggressively pursued by a band of suitors. These suitors are among the most annoying of Hollywood's current male actors and as they drive around the city in a small Italian car, you kind of hope they will all die a fiery death.

Or how about

Abby Richter produces a morning news show that's about to be canceled. To boost ratings, her boss hires Mike Chadway, a local cable call-in host who promotes the ugly truth: sex is the only glue in a relationship. Mike offends Abby's sensibility: she has a checklist about the perfect man, and she's found him in her new neighbor, Colin, a hunky doctor. Mike offers to help her reel in Colin if she'll work with Mike on the show.


(When in Rome, The Ugly Truth)

Or how about

Creative Director Adrienne is about to engage on a 11-hour roadtrip with her hunky filmmaker husband Jared, when she decides to spice things up by bringing along a "comical" romance novel. However, her plans fall flat when the book turns out to be decidedly unfunny, and the two end up listening to Love Among the Chickens on audiotape and singing along to Cher. Things really heat up when they stop to buy Navajo jewelry and pick up a mysterious stranger - "Wandering Fingers."

I'm working on the novel now. You should read it. As far as romance goes, it'll be better than most rom coms. And you won't have to watch any Katherine Heigl. She is the worst.

Month in Pixels

Regrets of 1992

2010 was a pretty even-keeled year. I doubt there would be much drama in a 2010 recap. You know what year was full of misfortune and regret? 1992.

SPRING - 8 years old. On the walk home from school, pair of bully boys start teasing my older sister. Throw rocks at them. Called one an "asshole." Ran home with sister and made teary confession to Mom that I said "the A-word." Eat some homemade bread.

SPRING - 8 years old. School is over, chilled Midwestern March. Rainstorm. My ride has not arrived. Wait underneath awning outside school for an hour. Finally walk home. Soaking upon arrival, locked out. Sit in a lawn chair outside house for an hour in the rain, shivering. Play it tough. Like I want to sit in the rain. Mom arrives home, feels terrible. Warm up in the bath, Mom fixes bean burrito.

SUMMER - 8 years old. Summon courage, finally dive off high-dive at public pool in Geneva. Over-rotate and land on my back.

FALL - 8 years old. Fawn over Michael Pentek all year, even though as an adult I will find him kind of funny-looking. Draw hearts over his 2nd-grade yearbook picture, write "mea mora" in red pen (thinking my secret will remain safe from my non Spanish-speaking sisters). Square dance with him in gym class. Act relatively uninterested with him during gym, though I have carefully selected outfits on gym days for his benefit. Never tell him I write songs about him at home. Never, ever talk to him. Regret this decision for more than a few years.

FALL - 9 years old. Mrs. Keen promises 3rd grade class cookies to accommodate Geology units - Igneous (angel crisps), Sedimentary (brownie bars) Metamorphic (who knows). Keen never delivers on Metamorphic cookies. Remember this broken promise till this day. Harbor vendetta against all elementary teachers.

WINTER - 9 years old. Ask for a "poet's blouse" for Christmas. Also ask for Marvin the Martian stickers. Receive both. Wear poet's blouse weekly. Write a lot of poetry, mostly woeful stuff about Michael Pentek.

Happy 1992 Everyone!

Mythological Holiday Creatures

Because I'm the type of person who takes on way more projects and freelance work than I can handle, of course I insisted on making some kind of video Christmas card this year. And with my filmmaker husband's assistance, we did.

Merry Christmas from the Cardons.



Sorry for the puns. Oh wait, no I'm not.

Experiment: Laser Tag

First of all, the place smells like bad pizza.

A pizza cooked days ago, kept lukewarm under a heatlamp. Like worse than a Hot-n-Ready smell. A sweaty, public pool pizza.

This is because they have one of these pizzas (pepperoni) under a sallow heatlamp, sitting next to the cash-register. From the looks, a consumer-grade heatlamp. You might buy something similar from SkyMall, to accompany the Old Fashioned Looking Popcorn Machine you keep in your "game den." And the $2.50-a-slice pizza looks completely desaturated. Ninja Turtles would cry.

Speaking of Ninja Turtles, the whole place is actually sort of sewerlike. The walls are black and foamy with low ceilings. Accents of neon green and pink. It's humid. Teenage-boy-voice frequency. Which mostly means lots of awkward laughter that sounds like it's being choked out of them. They are excited. They occupy every last seat on the opposing benches. Team Green and Team Red. They throw taunts to each other, though friends. They are remarkably different in size, some still pushing 100 pounds, others like newborn giants. (Were teenage boys always so strange?)

We are the oldest people in the place by at least ten years. It is my first time playing laser tag.

The guy running the register is dressed in all black and I don't even think that's part of his work uniform. I bet he is 15. We ask him for two tickets for one 30-minute game of laser tag. He says we can't pay him for another 10 minutes. We don't understand but comply and wander back into the arcade area to kill time.

There is a birthday party going on. It's seems like a big downer, even for the 13-year old birthday boy. Maybe next year, kid.

We finally pay, get split up as a couple and join our respective teammates. Jared gets greeted by his team. I get a scan and a nod from mine. I am the only female in the whole place. They offer to let Jared select the game music since he is new (which will be blasted from the stereo system during play). He looks through the options and selects Star Wars. They quickly veto that ("no way" "stupid" "lame"), and instead pick something that sounds like it'd be under the "angry" filter on Killer Tracks.

This snobbery and shunning of Star Wars makes me upset. I conspire to rub up against them and make them nervous during play, or whisper sultry things into their ears to disarm them, then go for the kill.

I never get the chance. I am completely blindsided by the game.

The second I slip on the still-sweaty vest and grab the gun, I'm the last to get up the stairs. Upon entering the warehouse section, I'm memorized by the artwork, the black lights and the insane neon. Part dorm room, part glow-in-the-dark-gang-scene from Batman Forever, if you saw that.)

My first plan of action is to strategically survey the land. I want to know exactly how the passageways connect. I do this with zero interference. Then I hear some yelling and follow the noise, keeping my distance. I duck behind an old barrel labeled TOXIC. I get in position. I wait for someone to walk by.

I wait for someone to walk by.

Wait.

No one is coming. I am a useless sniper.

I strategically take the perimeter route to where I hear voices. I see some red flashes (indicating gunfire). I crouch down and follow the lights. I run (against the rules, absurdly) towards the silhouette. I take aim at his right shoulder blade and fire. HIT!

The tiny teenager just laughs at me.

I turn around. The entire Red Team is perched on a landing above me. I walked right into an ambush. It's a turkey shoot.

When you get hit by the other team, you have three seconds of immunity. After I get hit, I take about 2 of those 3 and run (against the rules) out of harm's way.

Where are my Green comrades? Why is it so humid in here?

Did I mention I am wearing a silk blouse (surprise date).

The remaining 20 minutes are just as disappointing. No one is playing strategically. They are only using 5 percent of the warehouse. No sneak attack. No snipery. Just teenage boys being irritating and smelling up the place.

I still manage to make about 20 hits in the next ten minutes.

I run into Jared the one and only time. We stop and give each other a quick kiss.

I turn a corner in haste and hit a guy in the face with my gun (accident).

I overhear a guy say, "Don't go after that guy's girlfriend. He'll probably kick your ass."

I get pissed off overhearing this. I can play dirty. I can play reckless. And I do for the last 10 minutes of the game. I run the whole time, sweating up my very stylish outfit.

I hit another guy in the head with my gun (accident?)

And then, just as fast as it starts, it's over. 30 minutes down.

I make my way downstairs, find Jared waiting at the bottom, remove the even-sweatier vest.

We get our scores. Jared comes in 4th overall. I come in 14th. Out of 19.

I am completed outraged by this as any natural athlete would be. I vow then and there never to play again. Not so much because of the humidity, the lack of respect for one of the great movies of our time, the CHEATER behavior of the teenage boys. Not even because of the pizza smell.

But because I was terrible at laser tag. Call me a snob or a pessimist or a bad loser but it's not worth playing if you can't win.