STRANGER THAN FICTION: WHEN THE DAYS OF WINE AND ROSES ARE OVER

I've never been carried over a threshold. Then again, my spouse hasn't had a hernia. It evens out.

As I lingered over a cappuccino with Brianna, the conversation turned to romance and the lack of it in our lives.

Brianna is extremely organized and has a "memory shoebox" for each former boyfriend. These shoeboxes, dating back to the teen years, are full of cards, letters, dried corsages, etc. When she moves, they move with her.

She just broke up with a guy named Mike. Mike's box consists of one photo and the ticket stub to "Independence Day." I say he gets blended with some other loser boyfriend's box.

Sad to say, there are more Mikes in the world than there are Fabios.

We women want to date Fabios. Fabios carry you over thresholds and toss you onto black satin sheets. They have three dozen roses of various colors sent to your office. They leave gift-wrapped boxes of fancy underthings on your bed for you to find.

I once knew a Fabio. He ordered a dozen purple roses from California for his sweetheart one Valentine's Day. She asked him to marry her. He was irretrievably spooked and immediately turned Mike. So much for women's equality.

But smart women know Mikes are the guys to settle down with. Mikes go to work every day. They pay the rent. They run to the store for Benadryl and chicken soup when you have the sniffles, and they aren't too embarrassed to pick up a box of you-know-whats while they're out.

I'm not sure where The Other Half falls in the whole romance thing. He's never carried me over a threshold, but then I weigh about 40 pounds more than he does. There's nothing romantic about being dropped in a heap and then taken to the hospital with broken bones.

And while he's never packed a picnic lunch and taken me to eat wine and cheese on a breezy hillside, he DID make just-add-water pancakes the other day. We ate them under a breezy air conditioning vent in front of ESPN.

Granted, I've lost a little bit of inspiration in the romance department myself. Mr. Half used to come home to a gourmet dinner, soft music and a wife wearing Frederick's of Hollywood. Now he usually comes home to Hamburger Helper, "Married with Children" reruns and a wife wearing Lane Bryant of Cape Girardeau.

It's a wonder he hasn't run off with some pretty young thing in a Spandex leotard. He has been "working out" a lot lately. Hmmmmm.

Little wonder our marriage hasn't come straight out of a Harlequin romance novel. You know how most people have a white wedding? We had a white-trash wedding. It was at the courthouse. The wedding party went back to my apartment for a wedding cake purchased just that morning at a local grocery store. The cat had stepped in it. Actually, he FROLICKED in it.

The group adjourned to a local bar.

This is the complete opposite of my sister's recent wedding. The bride wore white. The groom wore a tux. They both looked absolutely gorgeous.

Never in a million years would I have expected that marriage. Back when we were all teen-agers, we used to call my sister's future husband a "Cheese Twin." Like most childish nicknames, its origin couldn't be traced but it managed to stick to the victim.

Now my sister and her beloved are all grown up and married. I wish them the best of everything life has to offer, and may their romance never die.

~Heidi Nieland is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.