The subject of today's post has been on my mind now for a long time, years in fact. It's one that many of you have already dealt with and if you haven't, then it's on the horizon. It's about our children growing up and leaving home.
I suppose I'm beginning to understand why some folks (I never use that word because I dislike it. A lot.) don't thrill over the idea of Christmas the way I always do. I never understood it before, but it's becoming less of mystery as my babies grow up. This will be our third Christmas without our son. It sucks moose balls. There's just no other way to say it.
Christmas is an entirely different animal when one of your children can't be home to share it.
I refuse to allow this post to become a reflection of pre-menopausal emotions. Partly because I am, in fact, not suffering from that particular affliction. My body and I agreed years ago that I am not doing menopause. I'm just not. It's not mandatory and I refuse to participate in that crap. I don't believe in it, anyway. Back to the point, I don't want this post to be a puddle of shit during what is The Most Wonderful Time of the Year, so I won't drag out all my cry-baby thoughts about my children growing up and moving on.
However, I will take this opportunity to tell those of you who are still getting up in the middle of the night with crying babies or have toddlers in your bed, stealing the covers and kicking you in the bladder all night, that it goes fast. Too fast. Before you know it, they can drive and have the car on Friday night while you sit at home trying to remember where you put your social life. Then you remember that for the past sixteen years, your children were your social life. You have to adapt and change.
Its a time of change for all of us. Zak is a man. Grown and gone. Three years in the Navy and making his way in the world. Lauren is a sophomore. She drives herself where she needs to go and is already looking at colleges. I need old lady glasses to read my goddamn iphone and anything else that's not written in letters the size of walnuts. I've also discovered I snore, another sign of Father Time's shitty sense of humor. I have wrinkles that I can't see unless I take out my contacts, so I just don't bother looking in the mirror unless I'm wearing them. (If I can't see them, then they aren't there!) Then there's Doug, but he's been old since I was in high school. He can't hear shit but refuses to do anything about it. Instead of getting a hearing aid, we play the "Huh?" game after EVERY sentence that comes out of my mouth. Sometimes I just move my lips to make him think I'm talking and then refuse to repeat myself. I need entertainment, too.
In spite of these changes, I will never be old. I refuse to do that, just like menopause. I plan to live to be 120 years old. My kids know this plan very well. I will be 120, pushing Zak in his wheelchair - he will be 96. Lauren will be beside us with her walker. She will be 90. Doug probably won't be around, but we'll still make fun of him. While I'm happy to push his wheelchair, Zak will have to change his own diaper. Those days, like so many others, are over.
But we have the memories. Hold on tightly to your babies and relish this Christmas, whatever it brings.
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
Friday, November 21, 2014
Well that's odd....
Its an odd day no matter how I look at it.
It started with me having to drive my daughter to school; she usually gets picked up by a couple of hoodlums from the neighborhood but they were unable to get her today. When I stumbled to the bathroom to put in my contacts, I found the box empty. I tossed it in the trash and opened the bottom drawer of the cabinet to pull out a new box of contacts.
There weren't any.
The contacts are gone.
Oh my. My vision is 20/225. That means at 25 feet, objects appear to my eyes as if they were 225 feet away. That doesn't make for save driving without some sort of eye correction.
I dug out an old pair of glasses. Not only are they hideously ugly (back in my Coast Guard days, we called glasses such as these "BC glasses"....as in birth control.), they aren't the proper prescription. No matter. I managed to drive the four miles there and back without incident.
It was raining lightly when we left for school and was pouring by the time we got back. That in itself is unusual for our island. It never rains here. It can be raining at the high school but will be perfectly dry and sunny here.
I came home and let out the dogs. They refused to go in the rain. What? Don't dogs love rain? Mine took one look out the front door and went back inside to sleep.
Everything is sticky. Not just sticky, gross and sticky. The humidity level must be maxed. My feet stick to the floor, my clothes feel damp, the dogs' fur feels damp and my fingers are sticking to the keyboard. Even the furniture is damp. I hate to close up the house and turn on the A/C again, because its only 72 degrees, but everything feels so gross.
Back to the oddness...
So, it's still raining. Hours of sold rain. We don't get that. As I looked out at the canal from the porch, I saw my poor little boat filling with water. Opps. I didn't cover it.
I ran outside to begin the bailing out. As I scooped water from the bottom and poured it over the side, I heard the unmistakable sound of dolphin exhaling. If you've ever heard it, you know exactly what I mean. I looked up and not far from the boat was a single dolphin. He eyeballed me and then dove. I waited and watched, occasionally bailing. He surfaced again, closer that time. I smiled and said hello. I asked him if he was enjoying the rain and he smiled before diving again.
Mr. Dolphin and I played that game until I was well beyond soaked through. He surfaced several times near the boat, never close enough to touch, but close enough that we spent several minutes just looking at each other. I suppose he wondered just what the hell this human was doing. He seemed curious. Just about the time I considered slipping over the side to join him, he showed me his tail flukes one last time and headed for Snake Creek.
I came back inside to get dry (that's not really possible today) and then called my eye doctor to order more contacts.
'I'm sorry, but you're due for your annual exam. We can't supply you with more contacts until you have another exam."
"But I'm completely out. I can't see to drive or work. Can't I buy a few pairs to carry me over until I can have an exam?"
"We don't usually do that."
(This is exactly what they did for me last time this happened.)
"What if I bring you some homemade fudge? Then would you do it?"
There was a long pause.
"How soon can you be here?"
It's only 9:41am and I've had lots of oddness. I wonder what else this day holds in store...
It started with me having to drive my daughter to school; she usually gets picked up by a couple of hoodlums from the neighborhood but they were unable to get her today. When I stumbled to the bathroom to put in my contacts, I found the box empty. I tossed it in the trash and opened the bottom drawer of the cabinet to pull out a new box of contacts.
There weren't any.
The contacts are gone.
Oh my. My vision is 20/225. That means at 25 feet, objects appear to my eyes as if they were 225 feet away. That doesn't make for save driving without some sort of eye correction.
I dug out an old pair of glasses. Not only are they hideously ugly (back in my Coast Guard days, we called glasses such as these "BC glasses"....as in birth control.), they aren't the proper prescription. No matter. I managed to drive the four miles there and back without incident.
It was raining lightly when we left for school and was pouring by the time we got back. That in itself is unusual for our island. It never rains here. It can be raining at the high school but will be perfectly dry and sunny here.
I came home and let out the dogs. They refused to go in the rain. What? Don't dogs love rain? Mine took one look out the front door and went back inside to sleep.
Everything is sticky. Not just sticky, gross and sticky. The humidity level must be maxed. My feet stick to the floor, my clothes feel damp, the dogs' fur feels damp and my fingers are sticking to the keyboard. Even the furniture is damp. I hate to close up the house and turn on the A/C again, because its only 72 degrees, but everything feels so gross.
Back to the oddness...
So, it's still raining. Hours of sold rain. We don't get that. As I looked out at the canal from the porch, I saw my poor little boat filling with water. Opps. I didn't cover it.
I ran outside to begin the bailing out. As I scooped water from the bottom and poured it over the side, I heard the unmistakable sound of dolphin exhaling. If you've ever heard it, you know exactly what I mean. I looked up and not far from the boat was a single dolphin. He eyeballed me and then dove. I waited and watched, occasionally bailing. He surfaced again, closer that time. I smiled and said hello. I asked him if he was enjoying the rain and he smiled before diving again.
Mr. Dolphin and I played that game until I was well beyond soaked through. He surfaced several times near the boat, never close enough to touch, but close enough that we spent several minutes just looking at each other. I suppose he wondered just what the hell this human was doing. He seemed curious. Just about the time I considered slipping over the side to join him, he showed me his tail flukes one last time and headed for Snake Creek.
I came back inside to get dry (that's not really possible today) and then called my eye doctor to order more contacts.
'I'm sorry, but you're due for your annual exam. We can't supply you with more contacts until you have another exam."
"But I'm completely out. I can't see to drive or work. Can't I buy a few pairs to carry me over until I can have an exam?"
"We don't usually do that."
(This is exactly what they did for me last time this happened.)
"What if I bring you some homemade fudge? Then would you do it?"
There was a long pause.
"How soon can you be here?"
It's only 9:41am and I've had lots of oddness. I wonder what else this day holds in store...
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Food For Thought
Last week I attended the graduation of six of my former recruits. I was a proud Momma as I watched my babies stand before the community and receive their certificates. I'd be lying if I said I was I impressed with the way it was put together.... no honor guard and no bag pipes. Hello FKCC? My kids deserved better than the bush league ceremony that the college put together. My former supervisor didn't even know the names of the police officers that he was trying to introduce. I was embarrassed for him. Oh wait, no I wasn't. He showed everyone in attendance just what a donkey he really is. I may have smiled about it. A lot.
The purpose of the event was to celebrate the accomplishments of my babies and that's exactly what I did. They've come a long way from the day they stumbled into my office to hand in an application to the police academy. Wow. It's been a long ten months for them, but they are well on their way to bright futures. Congrats to them. They each made me very proud and I've no doubt that they will continue to do so. I look forward to rolling through Homestead/Florida City/Miami Dade and seeing them speed by in a patrol car.
On a related but different subject, I have decided not to pursue a career with the local law enforcement agency. Some of you think that a most unwise decision, but there's no way I could publish book #3 if I was on their payroll. I'd also have to seriously monitor what I publish on social media and we all know how difficult that can be for me. (Think back to the late July, voodoo doll fiasco.) I am who I am. I can't change it and probably wouldn't even if I could. I'm damn near 47 years old (how the flip did that happen??) and I don't enjoy the thought of returning to an environment where I have to bite my tongue, monitor every word that comes out of my face, and refrain from expressing my opinions. It wouldn't be worth the pay, the hours, or the irritation.
Fortunately, my Island Momma business has taken off like gangbusters, affording me the freedom to decline a more "traditional" means of earning a living. (I just looked up the phrase "coming on like gangbusters" on urban dictionary to learn about its origins...does anyone under the age of 70 say that? I mean other than me, of course.) I am fortunate and thankful to those who make this profession a wonderful way to support my family.
One of the greatest things about cooking for people is the ability to pick my hours. I don't have to miss important family events and I refuse to work holidays. My family time is so important. My baby girl is a sophomore in high school and I don't want to miss one minute of the time I have left. I can read the handwriting on the wall and that girl is destined for great things...but they won't be in the Keys. Her brains and talent will take her far away from this little island. I plan to do as much as possible with her before that happens.
I am very fortunate to be able to live the life I do. Thanks to those who make it possible, especially my husband Doug, who puts up with my latest and greatest most brilliant ideas and occasional mood swings (wink, wink...they might be more than occasional, but he's smart enough not to mention them). I know how lucky I am.
The purpose of the event was to celebrate the accomplishments of my babies and that's exactly what I did. They've come a long way from the day they stumbled into my office to hand in an application to the police academy. Wow. It's been a long ten months for them, but they are well on their way to bright futures. Congrats to them. They each made me very proud and I've no doubt that they will continue to do so. I look forward to rolling through Homestead/Florida City/Miami Dade and seeing them speed by in a patrol car.
On a related but different subject, I have decided not to pursue a career with the local law enforcement agency. Some of you think that a most unwise decision, but there's no way I could publish book #3 if I was on their payroll. I'd also have to seriously monitor what I publish on social media and we all know how difficult that can be for me. (Think back to the late July, voodoo doll fiasco.) I am who I am. I can't change it and probably wouldn't even if I could. I'm damn near 47 years old (how the flip did that happen??) and I don't enjoy the thought of returning to an environment where I have to bite my tongue, monitor every word that comes out of my face, and refrain from expressing my opinions. It wouldn't be worth the pay, the hours, or the irritation.
Fortunately, my Island Momma business has taken off like gangbusters, affording me the freedom to decline a more "traditional" means of earning a living. (I just looked up the phrase "coming on like gangbusters" on urban dictionary to learn about its origins...does anyone under the age of 70 say that? I mean other than me, of course.) I am fortunate and thankful to those who make this profession a wonderful way to support my family.
One of the greatest things about cooking for people is the ability to pick my hours. I don't have to miss important family events and I refuse to work holidays. My family time is so important. My baby girl is a sophomore in high school and I don't want to miss one minute of the time I have left. I can read the handwriting on the wall and that girl is destined for great things...but they won't be in the Keys. Her brains and talent will take her far away from this little island. I plan to do as much as possible with her before that happens.
I am very fortunate to be able to live the life I do. Thanks to those who make it possible, especially my husband Doug, who puts up with my latest and greatest most brilliant ideas and occasional mood swings (wink, wink...they might be more than occasional, but he's smart enough not to mention them). I know how lucky I am.
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Truth and Lies
My need to blog was temporarily overshadowed by my need to earn a living. I know, I know. I need to get my priorities straight.
The biggest news is that I finished the third book! Well, that's not completely accurate. I wrote the ending, but now I need to go back to edit and fill in. There are some timeline issues that need to be addressed, which will take time to work out. I'm a long way from publishing. I'd say at least three months, but still...it's pretty gosh darn exciting.
I still don't have a title for the damn thing. That could be a problem.
So, maybe you could stop sending voodoo dolls of the Prez of FKCC (although they are adorable and line the back of my desk) and start brainstorming titles. I realize that you don't know what the book is really about, but I have given a few clues. The setting is mostly Islamorada during mini season. It tells the story of several characters, some are locals who struggle to make a living and others are just passing through. Some are dangerous criminals, others are the salt of the earth. The novel is fiction, although as Stephen King once said, "fiction is the truth inside the lie".
I'll never be in the same league as King (Hello Captain Obvious!), but here's my take on what he meant. To write good fiction, you start with the truth and then build the lies around it. You know bad fiction when you read it. It's when the author doesn't do their research and things aren't believable because you recognize the inaccuracies. I've been guilty of this, especially when the characters in my books continue to insist that's how they want their stories written. I'm trying to get better at reining my characters in, rather than being a slave to their whisperings. It's not easy.
Back to the point. The third novel is fiction, which means there are snippets of truth woven through the lies to hold it all together. Maybe therein lies the title...Hmmm.
As always, your suggestions are most welcome. Until then, I have a lot of editing and cleaning up to do.
I plan to start a pool before the book is released. We'll bet on how many people will be pissed off about a fictional book that isn't about them.
About that - just this past weekend during our annual Halloween party, one of my ghoulishly-costumed guests began picking out characters from Fat Chance as they wandered through the buffet line or stood at the bar. It was so damn entertaining to watch the light bulb turn on and then she'd say, "Maude, right?" or "That's gotta be Donna!"
After all, fiction really is the truth inside the lie.
The biggest news is that I finished the third book! Well, that's not completely accurate. I wrote the ending, but now I need to go back to edit and fill in. There are some timeline issues that need to be addressed, which will take time to work out. I'm a long way from publishing. I'd say at least three months, but still...it's pretty gosh darn exciting.
I still don't have a title for the damn thing. That could be a problem.
So, maybe you could stop sending voodoo dolls of the Prez of FKCC (although they are adorable and line the back of my desk) and start brainstorming titles. I realize that you don't know what the book is really about, but I have given a few clues. The setting is mostly Islamorada during mini season. It tells the story of several characters, some are locals who struggle to make a living and others are just passing through. Some are dangerous criminals, others are the salt of the earth. The novel is fiction, although as Stephen King once said, "fiction is the truth inside the lie".
I'll never be in the same league as King (Hello Captain Obvious!), but here's my take on what he meant. To write good fiction, you start with the truth and then build the lies around it. You know bad fiction when you read it. It's when the author doesn't do their research and things aren't believable because you recognize the inaccuracies. I've been guilty of this, especially when the characters in my books continue to insist that's how they want their stories written. I'm trying to get better at reining my characters in, rather than being a slave to their whisperings. It's not easy.
Back to the point. The third novel is fiction, which means there are snippets of truth woven through the lies to hold it all together. Maybe therein lies the title...Hmmm.
As always, your suggestions are most welcome. Until then, I have a lot of editing and cleaning up to do.
I plan to start a pool before the book is released. We'll bet on how many people will be pissed off about a fictional book that isn't about them.
About that - just this past weekend during our annual Halloween party, one of my ghoulishly-costumed guests began picking out characters from Fat Chance as they wandered through the buffet line or stood at the bar. It was so damn entertaining to watch the light bulb turn on and then she'd say, "Maude, right?" or "That's gotta be Donna!"
After all, fiction really is the truth inside the lie.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Surprise!
I love when my books write themselves and that's exactly what's been happening over the past couple of days. I thought I knew where this thing was headed, but man was I wrong!
These characters have minds of their own. They do whatever they want. Apparently, I'm just along for the ride. I've lost all control and, while that may sound frightening, it's also exhilarating! Surprise!
I often wonder if some of what's unraveling in book number three is just too unrealistic to publish, but maybe that's the wrong attitude. Weird shit is happening and that's okay; it's fiction. Fortunately, there aren't hard and fast rules about what can and can't happen in a fictional story. I'm going to stick with my method of letting the book happen. I won't try to control or shape it. I'll just let the story unravel and then share it with you. Take the parts that you like and ignore the rest.
Two people died this week. (Relax. I'm referring to two fictional characters in the book.) I felt pretty bad about one of them and didn't feel like writing for about a day afterwards. Is that weird? The other one had it coming, but I may rewrite it to make that particular ending a bit more awful. Is that more weird?
Do you wonder where these stories come from? I do. What's going on in my grey matter? Honestly, I don't sit around contemplating murder, but it sure is happening frequently in my books as of late. One thing I know for sure; I always feel better after writing, whatever it is that comes out. Certainly, writing is cheaper than therapy. So is wine. Combine the two and BAM!
I've gotta get back to the madness. An idea just came to me and I want to see where it goes. The book is still without a title, but I hope that will resolve itself in the near future or it'll be published as "The Next One" and that just won't do.
Suggestions?!
These characters have minds of their own. They do whatever they want. Apparently, I'm just along for the ride. I've lost all control and, while that may sound frightening, it's also exhilarating! Surprise!
I often wonder if some of what's unraveling in book number three is just too unrealistic to publish, but maybe that's the wrong attitude. Weird shit is happening and that's okay; it's fiction. Fortunately, there aren't hard and fast rules about what can and can't happen in a fictional story. I'm going to stick with my method of letting the book happen. I won't try to control or shape it. I'll just let the story unravel and then share it with you. Take the parts that you like and ignore the rest.
Two people died this week. (Relax. I'm referring to two fictional characters in the book.) I felt pretty bad about one of them and didn't feel like writing for about a day afterwards. Is that weird? The other one had it coming, but I may rewrite it to make that particular ending a bit more awful. Is that more weird?
Do you wonder where these stories come from? I do. What's going on in my grey matter? Honestly, I don't sit around contemplating murder, but it sure is happening frequently in my books as of late. One thing I know for sure; I always feel better after writing, whatever it is that comes out. Certainly, writing is cheaper than therapy. So is wine. Combine the two and BAM!
I've gotta get back to the madness. An idea just came to me and I want to see where it goes. The book is still without a title, but I hope that will resolve itself in the near future or it'll be published as "The Next One" and that just won't do.
Suggestions?!
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Twice in One Day?
Yeah, I know I already posted to this blog today, but I'm posting again. Its mine and well, there you have it. I can do what I want with it.
I really have a bug up my butt right now. I had a conversation with another woman about menopause (something I don't believe in) and it was downright ridiculous. She blamed everything in her life on the dang thing. That's like blaming everything on aliens or unicorns. It doesn't exist!! You are tired because you go out drinking every night. You are gaining weight because, much like me, you sit on on your duff most of the day and eat whatever you feel like. You are getting wrinkles because you're in your forties! Your boobs are drooping because you're in your forties! Stop the madness.
I tried to be delicate at first, but that approach just never works well for me. I may have said something like this:
"Pull your head outta your ass for God's sake! You can't blame all that shit on menopause. It's not real. You're doing it to yourself and Father Time is lending a helping hand. For Christ's sake, shut the hell up."
I don't know if I'll be on her Christmas card list this December.
The bottom line is that I don't believe in menopause. My body and I have an agreement. We're not doing it. Period. End of story. I don't think any woman should have to do it.
Here are other things I don't believe in (We may have covered this before, but it's worth repeating):
- PMS
- Valentine's Day
- Mother's Day
- Father's Day
- That marshmallow peeps are a food
- That people eat candy corn
- That red wine is bad for you
Okay. I feel better now.
Remember: Menopause is not real. Just Don't Do It!!!
I really have a bug up my butt right now. I had a conversation with another woman about menopause (something I don't believe in) and it was downright ridiculous. She blamed everything in her life on the dang thing. That's like blaming everything on aliens or unicorns. It doesn't exist!! You are tired because you go out drinking every night. You are gaining weight because, much like me, you sit on on your duff most of the day and eat whatever you feel like. You are getting wrinkles because you're in your forties! Your boobs are drooping because you're in your forties! Stop the madness.
I tried to be delicate at first, but that approach just never works well for me. I may have said something like this:
"Pull your head outta your ass for God's sake! You can't blame all that shit on menopause. It's not real. You're doing it to yourself and Father Time is lending a helping hand. For Christ's sake, shut the hell up."
I don't know if I'll be on her Christmas card list this December.
The bottom line is that I don't believe in menopause. My body and I have an agreement. We're not doing it. Period. End of story. I don't think any woman should have to do it.
Here are other things I don't believe in (We may have covered this before, but it's worth repeating):
- PMS
- Valentine's Day
- Mother's Day
- Father's Day
- That marshmallow peeps are a food
- That people eat candy corn
- That red wine is bad for you
Okay. I feel better now.
Remember: Menopause is not real. Just Don't Do It!!!
Autumn Dreams
I've always been drawn to stories and movies about the medieval period and Renaissance. Long, flowing gowns with elaborate closures, castles, feasts, art, dance, and learning...Some of my favorite movies involve these images; The Man In The Iron Mask, King Arthur, Braveheart, Robin Hood, and don't forget Monty Python and The Holy Grail.
One of my favorite places on Earth is the Renaissance Festival in Crownsville, MD. It's one of the biggest I've been to, covering twenty-five wooded acres. They offer costume rentals so that visitors can shed their jeans and t-shirts for period clothing. Vendors sell tankards of beer and wine. Others sell giant smoked turkey legs. There's song and dance, jousting, and magic. Even as an adult, I've often wished that I could live there all year long.
For whatever reason (please enlighten me if you make the connection), autumn always renews this particular fascination. Even though it's hard to tell that Fall has arrived on my little island, I long for castles and gowns just a little bit more this time of year.
I woke from a dream about Minard Castle early this morning. It's on Ireland's Dingle Peninsula and I was there this past June. (I had quite the experience - but that's for another post.) I don't remember much about the dream, but in it, Minard Castle was young again. It was whole and beautiful and I lived there.
As I lay in bed trying to remember the details of the Castle, I felt kinda sad. I wished that I could have lived during the Renaissance, back when Minard Castle was a place of happiness and celebrations. I longed for the romance of that age, Isn't it odd how easy it is to miss something that you never had? I suppose that's because I don't really understand what it was like to live during that time period. I only imagine the parts that I would like.
Castles are not heated, nor do they have indoor plumbing. Ireland gets pretty damn cold and there is nothing romantic about doing one's business in the chamber pot. (And where the hell do you empty it the next morning?) There was no refrigeration during the Renaissance. I don't like warm beer...although that wouldn't be a problem in the winter. A hot shower? Please. You'd be lucky to slide a tub in front of the fire and then hope to convince someone to heat water on the fire while you try to stay warm in your luke-warm water. Food poisoning, STDs, and errant arrows were daily challenges.
Does any of that really sound romantic?
*sigh* Yes. Somehow it really does.
One of my favorite places on Earth is the Renaissance Festival in Crownsville, MD. It's one of the biggest I've been to, covering twenty-five wooded acres. They offer costume rentals so that visitors can shed their jeans and t-shirts for period clothing. Vendors sell tankards of beer and wine. Others sell giant smoked turkey legs. There's song and dance, jousting, and magic. Even as an adult, I've often wished that I could live there all year long.
For whatever reason (please enlighten me if you make the connection), autumn always renews this particular fascination. Even though it's hard to tell that Fall has arrived on my little island, I long for castles and gowns just a little bit more this time of year.
I woke from a dream about Minard Castle early this morning. It's on Ireland's Dingle Peninsula and I was there this past June. (I had quite the experience - but that's for another post.) I don't remember much about the dream, but in it, Minard Castle was young again. It was whole and beautiful and I lived there.
As I lay in bed trying to remember the details of the Castle, I felt kinda sad. I wished that I could have lived during the Renaissance, back when Minard Castle was a place of happiness and celebrations. I longed for the romance of that age, Isn't it odd how easy it is to miss something that you never had? I suppose that's because I don't really understand what it was like to live during that time period. I only imagine the parts that I would like.
Castles are not heated, nor do they have indoor plumbing. Ireland gets pretty damn cold and there is nothing romantic about doing one's business in the chamber pot. (And where the hell do you empty it the next morning?) There was no refrigeration during the Renaissance. I don't like warm beer...although that wouldn't be a problem in the winter. A hot shower? Please. You'd be lucky to slide a tub in front of the fire and then hope to convince someone to heat water on the fire while you try to stay warm in your luke-warm water. Food poisoning, STDs, and errant arrows were daily challenges.
Does any of that really sound romantic?
*sigh* Yes. Somehow it really does.
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