THAT stumped 'em. What does that say about this group?

Hah! I'm going to attribute this particular desert to the fact that the discussion does not officially begin until tomorrow. I haven't even done my Day 3 post. Come to think of it, maybe everybody is still group showering after flinging all that smut.

I'm feeling mildly apologetic (okay, more than that) about the treacly photo I posted above; waaay too Hallmarky for this savvy crowd. But try as I might, the site won't let me rip it down and replace it with an image from "The War Of The Roses."

Any tech geeks who can clue me in on how I might achieve this? Or at least dump Ozzie and Harriet?

Wait a minute, I just looked again. These two aren't married. At least not to each other. If you look closely you can tell they're naked from the waist down, groping each other and laughing at their clueless spouses, still napping by the pool.

I was gonna go the whole hog on this one, Jameliz. But now it looks like I wont be able to get to my computer on friday and Sat. So here's my last post in the writer's group love in. And this is a bit lazy as I've drawn it from a thing I've been working on lately - a fictional biography of the apostle Simon Peter (dont ask!) Still, it just about fits the bill...

Not long before my imprisonment I converted three men - young men, Romans - to the Way. I baptized them, gave them communion, and once they had accepted Christ they had this urge to talk about life and passion - how the world roots out men's hearts with love and desire. Now, as is the manner of the young, their conversation was all about the 'softness of the flesh, curves, lustrous hair, smoldering eyes' and so forth. Poetic, in a way. Stirring. Such things belong to youth, when love is all about rushing blood, expectation filling the veins and tickling the skin. But when the blood cools and youth is lost, what then?

'Come, lads,' I said to them. 'Allow me my say. Let me tell you about the time I was troubled by these eternal questions of love and so raised my eyes to heaven and ask why. "Why, Lord? Why this enchantment? Why do I still make payments of precious time to honor this woman's love? Lord," said I, "look at me - bearded now, wrinkled, weatherworn - and yet still bejeweled with these locks of love." Locks, yes. For I raise my eyes into the eyes of my love and we remain for just that second too long, entwined, joined, clasped, and we have to smile or laugh, and by that laugh unfold all the years of our fondest memories just to break the bond. And when her hand accidentally catches mine it remains, skin upon skin, adhered it seems, glued resolutely by those vows we made, until we have acknowledged the touch, and, by that acknowledgment, revealed in an instant our pasts to each other. "Oh Lord, why do I love her so," said I, "and fear the day that I should have to walk without her."'

And so I told them how God came to my aid and allowed me to look upon her beauty with his own eyes, to see her deeply. To look at her heart and see that it beats as my own, duetted, combined. To look into her eyes and see not colors but my soul, in residence, captive. To kiss her lips and know that upon them rest my own thoughts, transferred there by the decades of our union. To touch her flesh and know that I am scarcely a man without this other part of me. There is love. There is love...

We're older now. Hard to believe we've made it. That's what happens when you just keep getting up every day, put your shoes on, place one foot in front of the other, and do the same damn thing for too many days in a row. And yet, I wouldn't trade you for the world.

You've gotten pudgy and your hair is thin. I've got wrinkles and the gray hair is coming in too fast for me to pluck out anymore. I'm cranky. You're stubborn. I talk too much. You don't listen.

But, despite all this, we're good. We make each other laugh. We compliment each other, physically and otherwise. The kids are almost grown and our future life is within reach. We can almost taste the freedom to travel and sleep in and do what we want with our days and nights. And I can't think of anyone better to spend the rest of my life with. How great is that?

Considering two marriages and two divorces, I am kind of an expert in this matter.

However, here I want to tell you a romantic story of a couple I never knew personally. They were the parents of a very good friend of mine and her name is Rossi.

Rossi’s father was in the military and her mother was teacher. When Rossi was 6 years old, her mother got sick. She never told me what kind of disease was it, but her mother was confined to the bed and her father spent most of his time taking care of her mother. Rossi had to learn at that early age to take care of her self and her younger brother too. Her father loved his wife so much; he just did not have time for anything else but her.

Rossi’s mother died when she was eighteen and her father died two mounts later. No, he did not commit suicide he died of broken heart. Before he died, he told Rossi that he could not live without her mother. She said that he just gave up life.

I do not, repeat; do not want love like this. I prefer my divorces. My kids too.

PS Today something happened that is perfect for tomorrow’s story. I will write it tonight and will post it first thing in the morning. I promise not to be disturbing as this one.

@

Okay, i'ts 6:45 p.m. Let's get this party started. This is a WRITING group.