When I Say I'm A Divorce Lawyer

Gloves off.

These are the reactions I get when I tell people I'm a divorce lawyer:

1. Shudders and disdain: Usually that's the response from my corporate brethren and sistern, you know, the tax lawyers, commercial litigators, mergers & acquisitions specialists, intellectual property gurus -- virtually all lawyers except personal injury and criminal lawyers. Because their rep (that of the PI and criminal bar) is as bad as ours, maybe worse. They get down and dirty, too, just like we do: Sex, drugs, violence...  : )

2. Pity: Usually from the corporate crew. Because they assume divorce lawyers are too stupid to go into the more high-falutin' areas of the law. Revealing I'm a Georgetown Law alum, and a former Morgan, Lewis & Bockius lawyer, usually shuts that one down fairly quickly. Along with asking the M&A lawyer if s/he knows what a QDRO is. See, most other specialities don't realize that matrimonial law requires a breadth of knowledge. In order to be any good at it, we need to know a lot about contracts, tax, real property, pensions, and estate law. As well as how to get down and dirty, of course. ; )

3. Requests for advice: Because everybody has either had a divorce, or post-divorce issues, or their brother or sister or cousin or best friend is in a pickle. And I'm, like, do I really want to give free advice on a case I know absolutely nothing about, second-guessing the lawyers in the trenches? On the other hand, can I stop myself from butting in and pontificating? Sigh.

4. TMI: That's short for 'too much information.'  A whoosh of disclosures about the person's personal life comes flying at me. It's as if I were sitting next to a stranger on a plane who has to unload on somebody and that somebody is lucky me. It usually takes me a good fifteen minutes to extricate myself. I don't want to be rude, ya know? And the thing is, the person is usually not a stranger. So repeat encounters and additional disclosures are likely. I learned a long time ago: It comes with the territory.

5. Hostility: Okay, I saved this for last because it crosses age, gender, religion, race, occupation and socio-economics. And how can I respond when I'm barraged with what creeps divorce lawyers are? How we should be ejected from the planet, or banished to the swamps of Borneo without mosquito nets? I AGREE. Because if it weren't for the damn dabblers out there - the lawyers who toss 'divorce' on their list of practice areas (along with traffic tickets, wills, worker's comp, accidents, house closings, bankruptcy and criminal defense) on their website or on those paper placements in the local diner - the world would be a better place. My internist shouldn't attempt brain surgery. Not that divorce lawyers are the equivalent of neurosurgeons, but you get my drift. Dabblers make me soooo mad. Grrrr.

Being a divorce lawyer was my choice. No one forced me into it, and honestly? It has had more than its fair share of stressors and hassles.

But it has also been intensely gratifying. Like helping someone move on with his/her life to a far more positive place; getting kids to live with the parent who is providing them with a stable, safe home and learning, years later, that the kids are now successful and happy adults; unraveling the mess in someone's life efficiently and with a minimum of anger; cleaning up a post-divorce disaster so there's no room for future uncertainty; closing a deal that provides financial security and logical parenting arrangements in a nice, tight  agreement...

Granted, the good moments occur less frequently than the grueling ones, but when they do? Ain't nothin' like it.

The Lean In/Have It All Debate -- And Hope

This is a long post, but it's about two topics I'm quite passionate about: The near-dearth of women in leadership positions, and the so-called 'have it all' work-life balance debate, which isn't as gender-oriented as many claim.

Although these two related issues are easily melded into one, they should remain discrete.

Over the past few weeks, Sheryl Sandberg's book, 'Lean In: Women, Work and The Will To Lead' (you must have a subtitle in non-fiction!) has caused a gargantuan media splash, and even a 'catfight' among some prominent women. And in the midst of the brouhaha, I see a confusing blend of 'leaning in' advice with (I'm  grimacing) 'having it all' proclamations.

Stop the noise.

Ms. Sandberg's book (co-written with one of her fellow Harvard graduates, writer Nell Scovell), focuses on women at the top. It's about the hackneyed 'glass ceiling' and what we, as woman, can do within ourselves to break it. Ms. Sandberg does not disregard societal and corporate impediments to gender equality. She does not suggest that women are solely responsible for the scanty number of women in the 'C-Suites' and corner offices. Instead, she seeks to raise awareness about thoughts and actions -- even subconscious ones -- that can be altered by women themselves to start increasing our numbers at leadership levels.

Everyone knows the number of women leaders -- in business, politics, the professions, the trades, even the arts -- has flatlined, despite our 50/50 + numbers in colleges and graduate schools, and our oft-hailed academic superiority over the brawnier sex. Ms. Sandberg, who is the Chief Operating Officer at Facebook, is a staunch believer that women can work to improve their chances of becoming leaders if we are more self-aware of certain gender-based stereotypes, assumptions, internal behaviors, and societal expectations that hold us back. And then take action to change those biases in specified ways.

Absolutely. It's been said countless times before in recent decades. But NOT by a major corporate leader with a huge media platform, who also happens to be a woman.  Finally. A prominent female COO with the brains, power and visibility to ignite the fire under an issue that should have been in the forefront of workers and management, instead of hidden on the back burner.

So why would Ms. Sandberg's book lead to so much back-biting and anger?

Because the issues of gender-leadership lag, and 'having it all' work-life balance, are being wrapped up together in one untidy, imbalanced package. Except Ms. Sandberg barely touches on the 'work-life balance.' Is that because she 'has it all?' I'll get to that in a minute.

A phony, media-touted 'catfight' has been fabricated -- where none actually exists -- between Ms. Sandberg and Anne-Marie Slaughter, who is a lawyer, Princeton professor and former senior State Department official. In July 2012, Ms. Slaughter wrote an article in The Atlantic entitled 'Why Women Still Can't Have It All,' which noted some of the major institutional obstacles to raising a family while working, including overwhelming travel commitments. http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2012/07/why-women-still-cant-have-it-all/309020/  Some have latched on to Professor Slaughter's article as a rejection of the feminist working mom ideal, when, in fact, the article was written after Professor Slaughter faced a family crisis and turned down a promotion in order to handle it.

In fact, in a recent interview at Wharton, Professor Slaughter acknowledged the validity of Ms. Sandberg's exhortations, and reiterated that external change was also needed to ensure that both women and men need to pursue a proper balance, both within themselves and via organizational changes, as they attained leadership positions. Or as she put it: "[Women and men need to] own what we want and recognize that if we want both the power and dignity of a profession and the love of family -- however family is constructed -- that is entirely legitimate....[And then] have the courage to both talk about it and ask for change. http://knowledge.wharton.upenn.edu/article.cfm?articleid=3181

Neither Ms. Sandberg nor Professor Slaughter ignore the need for systemic change, either, as stated beautifully by a Latina psychologist: "Companies and organizations [must] begin to implement major structural and policy changes designed to promote leadership among women." http://www.huffingtonpost.com/angelica-perezlitwin-phd/sheryl-sandbergs-lean-in_b_2901372.html

I can't omit to mention the searing essay written by former Lehman Brothers CFO Erin Callan, who mulls over her empty personal life during her hard-charging Lehman days: "I did have relationships - a spouse, friends and family - and none of them got the best version of me. They got what was left over." She ends her essay with a terrible lesson: If Lehman hadn't gone down in flames, she may never have discovered that she needed to learn to appreciate her life. http://www.nytimes.com/2013/03/10/opinion/sunday/is-there-life-after-work.html?ref=opinion&_r=2&

In the aftermath of Ms. Callan's essay, she has done some back-tracking, insisting she isn't sad at all. She says her essay was just a cautionary be-careful-what-you wish-for tale. A 'do what feels right, but think about it first' kind of piece.  http://rockcenter.nbcnews.com/_news/2013/03/15/17301962-former-lehman-cfo-erin-callan-dont-do-it-like-me?lite
That makes me raise my eyebrows a little. Her words in the essay, "I did not know how to value who I was versus what I did," and "I can't make up for lost time" are laced with incredible sorrow and regret. I think her interviewer, Ann Curry at NBC News, summarized Ms. Callan's current views better than Ms. Callan: "Just look before you lean."

Ms. Sandberg, who doesn't focus her 'Lean In' initiative on the 'work-life balance' at all, is not at odds with Ms. Slaughter. Or with Ms. Callan. Their credos are complementary: Internal initiative - if you want to 'go for it ' - plus institutional change will yield a new, more positive dynamic between work and personal life. For both women and men.

Honestly, I'm appalled by the reactions of Ms. Sandberg's critics -- mostly women -- who mistakenly combine Lean In's leadership self-help suggestions with the 'having it all' issue. Maureen Dowd lambasts Ms. Sandberg personally for 'having it all' and ipso facto unqualified to write about the gender leadership gap, denigrating Ms. Sandberg as a "PowerPoint Pied Piper in Prada ankle boots reigniting the women’s revolution." She snarks away with tart lines like: "[Sandberg] seems to think she can remedy social paradigms with a new kind of club — a combo gabfest, Oprah session and corporate pep talk. (Where’s the yoga?)"  http://www.nytimes.com/2013/02/24/opinion/sunday/dowd-pompom-girl-for-feminism.html?_r=0

I find Ms. Dowd's insults patently offensive. (Ms. Dowd had to correct one of her comments, post-publication, for quoting something from 'Lean In' completely out of context to support her ridiculous thesis.) What an counter-productuve non-sequitur, by a journalist I used to respect, to an incredibly important conversation. Another reason I'm glad I cancelled my subscription to The New York Times.

Other critics similarly have blasted away at Ms. Sandberg's wealth and background, again confusing her leadership focus with lifestyle issues. For example, her book is referred to as a 'privileged manifesto'  (e.g., http://www.post-gazette.com/stories/ae/book-reviews/lean-in-sheryl-sandbergs-privileged-manifesto-679615/).  Even self-styled critics on Amazon lob these kinds of grenades at her, instead of leaning BACK in their armchairs to read what Ms. Sandberg actually wrote.

All these critics completely disregard the positive impact 'Lean In' is already having -- It's bringing the gender-leadership lag in issue back into the limelight. Okay Ms. Sandberg may have it all: Brains, money, looks, power, platform, position. But none of that dilutes the power of her message, and her insights ito how woman can help empower themselves.

Forbes writer Anne Doyle got it right. I totally agree with her statement: "[Sandberg] has the vision, the skill and the pure guts to pour gasoline on the cooling embers of the women’s movement." http://www.forbes.com/sites/annedoyle/2013/03/15/its-sheryl-sandbergs-courage-to-raise-her-voice-thats-hot-news-not-lean-in/print/

But... if the conversation is going to be about both leaning in and 'having it all,' because the gender leadership gap and work-life balance are inevitably connected? Well, maybe that's inevitable. Maybe my attempt to keep them discrete is artificial.

In which case, the perspective of a 'Millennial' professional woman -- the audience to whom Lean In is really addressed -- may have the greatest validity and poignancy yet. Valarie Kaur, a thirty-something activist-writer, acknowledges that 'leaning in' to careers requires female and male professionals, of all backgrounds, to 'lean on' others to perform household services. That systemic change is required, to revolutionize and innovate the workplace, in addition to personal ambition.

But, most important - and what gives me hope for the next generation of leaders, Ms. Kaur suggests that 'leaning toward' is what should really be the focus of this conversation. She writes that 'having it all' (i.e., having a fabulous career and a wonderful family life) was never part of the equation for her many many of her peers.  She writes: "We never wanted to 'have it all' for ourselves. We wanted to have enough for everyone. And that is what we’re leaning toward." http://tv.msnbc.com/2013/03/15/lean-in-for-millennials-the-question-is-what-are-we-leaning-towards/

Ah. Hope. Now that's something we can all agree on.  

I hope!

Addendum:
This article has been published in  Huffington Post Women:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/terri-weiss/lean-in-have-it-all-and-h_b_2904666.html

Sex Shop Valentine: A Short Story

Okay, I just wrote another short story, just for fun, in honor of last week's plasticine holiday. Sometimes the day meanders by uneventfully, and sometimes it's a make-or-break celebration. It all depends, I guess, on the status of your romantic relationship(s) or lack thereof!

So here it is :

Sex Shop Valentine

By: Terri L. Weiss

So I’m always the one who changes the toilet paper roll. Always. Because two or three little sheets are stuck to the cardboard on, like, every roll, after my boyfriend’s done. Sorry, but I’m definitely not a guy. I need more than that to get clean, you know? And another thing? I don’t understand why he thinks bottle caps need to be screwed on so tight I need a pair of pliers to open them. I mean, peanut butter doesn’t evaporate. And omigod, can’t he stick with watching one show from start to finish? I wish he’d hand over the remote to me, cuz at least I know how to be decisive. I think the only reason we’re still dating after a whole year is, well, you know. Some things make us more tolerant.

I have to admit, I’ve been feeling a little guilty about something I did two weeks ago. Okay, it was 

pretty bad. Not like he didn’t deserve it. He’d dropped his clean laundry basket on the floor, right near the bed, a week earlier. Then, instead of putting his things away, he used the basket like a dresser. Because his actual dresser is a disaster. I know, I know, more typical guy behavior, right? But an entire week? Really?

Maybe I went a teeny bit far when I dumped the cat box in the remaining pile of clean underwear and socks in the basket. I told him, “Slob doesn’t work for me, dude. Next time, put your laundry away like the rest of the world.” The thing is, the rest of the world was hanging out in our apartment at that moment, watching the Superbowl. Awkward. Not for me, but definitely for him. I suspect his friends were embarrassed for him, too, even though they know what I’m like. Hell, I've dated half of them, which is how I met him in the first place. All the tech guys at Slate.com get take-out from the deli where I work.

As I said, slob doesn’t work for me, but full-out psycho isn't gonna work for my boyfriend once he stops thinking with his dick. Cuz, to be honest, I’d crawl into a hole and never come out if he dumped me. He might be The One, as dumb as that sounds.

With Valentine’s Day looming, I decide it’s time for me to turn over a new leaf before it’s too late. I don’t want to hear it’s a Hallmark holiday, blah blah blah. For me, Valentine’s Day is gonna be Terminator Salvation Day. The big question is, exactly what do I do? A sudden burst of supercali sweetness would make my boyfriend suspicious, like I’m insincere or up to no good. Plus I don’t know if I could live with myself if I OD on sugar. On the other hand, gradual reform would test my resolve to the breaking point, and he might be long gone by the time my transformation from the Dark Side is complete.

No, I need to do something übercool, and make it count. How ‘bout Yankees tickets on Opening Day? Nah, his boss would never let him take time off work. Besides, that’s over two months away. Suppose I cook him an amazing meal? Boringggg. I do that already. Umm, take him to the zoo, cuz he loves animals? It’s February in New York. Fuggedaboudit.

I have a brain flash, unoriginal but totally appealing: buy a great sex toy online to make Valentine’s Day something special. Then, after an incredible night, I’ll stay motivated to behave myself, and he’ll be so blown away by our tremendous feats of magic that he’ll never realize I've been kinda over the top. To keep it a surprise, I’ll do my sex toy research when he’s working late or asleep.

Life between the Superbowl kitty poo event and Valentine’s Day goes on as usual. Work, dinner, tv, sex, sleep, rinse, repeat. Then Thursday rolls around a week earlier than I’d expected. Don’t ask me why I thought I had more time. It must be from slicing all that meat and cheese. One too many ham-and-swiss-on-rye, hold-the-mustard, sandwiches. Cuz here it is, Valentine’s Day, and, except for a bunch of e-cards, I’m empty-handed after I finish work. I’m actually terrified that my boyfriend will come home with flowers when I have nothing for him.

Talk about feeling like a total loser. It’s too late to order something on the Internet. Unless it’s an instant download, like a video stream, or movie tickets, or an e-book, none of which is exactly übercool. I want to give him something amazing that he can hold in his hands, besides me, of course.

There’s only one thing I can do now: Go to an actual sex store -- for the first time since I turned 18 and thought I was so badass -- and buy something for tonight. As per my original plan. So I Google ‘sex shops New York’ and add my county. In an Adobe flash, three stores pop up. One is only eight miles away. I vaguely remember commercials for the place on a local cable station.

          Okay, even with my navi on, I have to do two u-turns to find True Blue Rendezvous. So how weird is it that a shop could be right on an entrance ramp to the highway? There it is, along a little squiggly bypass road. Easy off, easy on, for the horny people who go to these stores. Buy a dildo, throw it in the car, head to the Super 8 motel at the next exit. Damn. I can’t believe I’m pulling into the parking lot to join the Super 8 crowd.

I wait in my car for a few minutes to check out the customers. The other cars could’ve been parked at Dunkin' Donuts. Nothing skanky. A Camry, a Civic, a Wrangler. One beaten-up Econoline with an NRA sticker --  well, there’s always somebody like that around. Although, in all fairness, if I were in Tennessee with my New York plates and my ‘First Amendment First’ decal, the locals would think I was a flaming crazy. But this is New York -- who says I gotta be fair? 

An average-looking blonde in average-looking clothes wanders out of the store. She disappears into the Civic, and drives off. Hopefully I won't be the only woman in the store now. I’m in the middle of zipping up my jacket when a black car pulls into the lot. Two swarthy guys, probably in their late 20’s, like me, pop out. They laugh as they go into the store, Clickkk, off goes the engine. I grab my handbag and slam the door behind me.

There’s a bzzzz when I climb the stoop, push open the door and step inside the store. Behind the front counter is an array of bongs and pipes. A surly-looking Indian guy slouches by the cash register.

“Excuse me,” I say. My voice sounds squeaky. “Can I ask you a few questions?” What am I, an undercover cop?

The Indian guy points at the door. “No questions, no answers. Get this clam, then maybe. You leave now.”

Huh? C‘mon, I need help, give me a break, I think. “This clam?” I ask.

“This clam-UH’” he says. “No liability that way.” For a guy who’s English-challenged, he sure knows how to turn a legal phrase or two.

“Disclaimer?” I ask. “I’m not suing anyone.”

He shrugs and turns his back to me.

“Lookit,” I say. “I want to buy something for my boyfriend, that’s all.”

He busies himself with the bong display. Hell with him. I march toward the center of the store where I spot the two guys from the black car.

“Nothin’ good left,” says the taller one. He points to an empty metal rack. “Fatty Patty’s gone.” There’s a blow up display doll above the rack. She’s obese and red-cheeked, say, two feet tall and just as wide. Taped to her belly, a torn strip of paper proclaims, 'Love my fat.' Right next to her dangles a single pair of plus-sized crotchless fishnets. The tall dude pulls the fishnets off the rack and frowns. “Wrong color.”

The shorter dude hands him a package. “Think she’ll like this?” he asks.

"Absolutely." Mr. Tall grins, and tucks a plus-sized schoolgirl costume under his arm. “See anything else?”

I edge past the big girl teddy rack -- also empty, I’m afraid. I want to tell Mr. Tall there are plenty of Judy inflatables, but Judy is an average white girl, probably unappealing to a dude like him. Maybe he’d like a blow-up Guidette, The Whore From The Jersey Shore. There are two packaged Guidettes left on the rack, with a logo that says: ‘I want your friggin’ sausage.’

Wait a sec, who am I shopping for?

I pass the video department. Why would anyone buy videos in this day and age, with free porn all over the Internet? An old guy, that’s who. A grey-haired guy in a suit looks frazzled in front of the ‘Big Tits’ section. He flags down a girl with a nametag on her sweatshirt. “Miss? Do you have a searchable database?” he asks.

I don't hang around for the answer. In the near-empty BDSM section, a lonely pair of panties with an attached leash lies in a heap on the floor. I hurry past the handcuff shelf. There's a rhinestones studded pair that catches my eye. Nah, I'm not into that stuff anymore. In the back of the store, the dildo aisle beckons. I‘m hoping to find something there, even if it’s just for laughs. Lots of six-inch white-guy ‘American Topper’ dildos stand nice and perky, all in a row. Labels for ‘Antonio,’ ‘Juan’ and ‘Leroy’ are taped above empty shelves. Sold out. I glance at the photos: Seven, eight and nine-inch Hispanic and Af-Ams. Plain vanilla is definitely lameass at True Blue Rendezvous.

The girl with the nametag dashes over to me. “We had a run on these for Valentine’s Day, sorry. But I just found one Suavé at the register, if he'll do.” She pronounces it ‘Swah-vay’ with an authoritative accent, and hands me a twelve-inch Hispanic model.

“Not quite what I was looking for.” I head toward what I think is a locked jewelry case with a side-mounted spotlight. ‘Vibrators, $199.99 And Up.’

“I know, they're expensive, right?” I jump, because I didn’t see the girl following me. “How 'bout these? They start at $99.99, made in the USA and guaranteed safe.” She tugs a sealed plastic box from a metal rod. It looks like it contains purple jumper cables. ‘Vibrating Nipple Clamps.’ The purple control box has a red, heart-shaped button. 

The plastic casing looks strong enough to house a rocket-launcher. I mean, it would take so long to break open the package, my nipples would fall off. I guess that's where pliers, aka bottle-opener, would come in handy again.

“Um, thanks. I think I’ll need to come back here with my boyfriend.” This isn’t working out like I planned. I’m not buying anything, just wasting my time. When I don't have time to waste. I hear the same bzzzz as I push through the front door and unlock my car.

What the hell am I gonna do?

On the way back to my apartment complex, I pass a Barnes & Noble. I make a U and head in. Even though the store is deserted, I hope I’ll find a cute card or something. Most of the Valentine’s Day cards at B&N are gone, so it won’t take me long to scour the leftovers.

A cue-ball dude with a soul patch appears by my side. The green apron he’s wearing looks pretty silly, but I know it’s not his choice. I mean, my yellow-and-white uniform is totally idiotic, but that’s what all the deli clerks wear. So who am I to judge, right?

“Can I help you, miss?”

“Just browsing,” I answer. “Looks like you’re pretty cleaned out.”

“Who are you shopping for?” he asks. “Boyfriend, husband?”

“Boyfriend.” Lucky for him I’m not a lesbian.

“Follow me.” He crosses the store and stops in front of a table stacked with glossy, all-black books. No writing on the black covers, just thin blue lines along the inside edge. He hands me one of the books, and when I flip it over, I see the back is solid black, too. As well as the spine. There’s nothing on the book flaps, either. No title, no author, no description. “We just got these in,” he says. “They’ll be sold out by tomorrow night. Can’t keep ‘em in stock.”

“What is it?” I ask. I flip the pages, expecting it to be a sex manual, but all I see are words. I peer at one of the pages. The first sentence has big words I don’t understand. Except for the word ‘cock,’ which shows up like twenty times. Mmm-hmm, must be a sex book.

“Bestseller," he says, "There are seven books in the set. One blue line is Book One, two blue lines for 

Book Two, and so on. You can read them separately, or pick one or two. It all works, no matter how many you have. You choose to read them whatever way you want, in whatever order you want.” He opens one of the books to the title page. ‘Book One. Military Confusion.’

“What’s the book about?”

“Nothing, really. Absurdist flash fiction is the best way for me to explain it. It appeals to men much more than women, which is why I’m suggesting it to you."

I rummage through the stack of black covers for two, three, four blue lines, for each of the books.

‘Book Three. Family Inclusion.’ I flip to a random page toward the middle of the book. Besides having a penis obsession, whoever wrote this has a sick vocabulary. Sick as in unbelievable. Like “lissotrichous,” I mean, is that even a word? And “a quasi-compendium of flaggelating paramecium illuminated by phosphorescent lampyridae…” This stuff’s way over my head.

There’s ‘Book Two. Criminal Delusion.’ On page 3, I read, “Busted piston and all, the cannibal rattled south on his 1979 Honda CBX six-cylinder superbike, with a large order of McDonald’s fries wedged in his pocket.” Kinda cool, I could understand this one, I think. I find ‘Book Six. Literary Seclusion.’ Another stack teeters on the edge of the table: ‘Book Five. Cerebral Occlusion.’ The hell? What’s with all the ‘shuns?’ There are only three books left in this pile: ‘Book Four. ‘Sexual Intrusion.’ Ah, finally, there’s a sentence I can figure out, even if I don’t understand every word: “Entry from behind increased my erection to quadrinomial proportions, but the sound of ‘Macarena’ blasting from the kitchen perniciously pounded ten minutes of pump and hump into a Sisyphean waste of energy.”

I can’t find Book Seven.

“Here you go, miss.” The clerk hands me a black book with seven thin lines along the side. The title is ‘Book Seven. Attribution.’

“I don’t get it,” I say. But my boyfriend, who’s a whole lot smarter than me, might. At least I’m coming home with something. I buy the lot and have them gift-wrapped.

The apartment is a ten-minute drive away. When I pull up to our building and pop the keys in the front door, my boyfriend is already home.

“Got out of work early, baby,” he says, and gives me a hungry kiss. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” He presents a dozen long-stemmed roses to me with a flourish.

I pass him my Barnes & Noble bag. “I hope you like it. I didn’t know what to get you,” I say. As I put my roses in a vase, I hear him tearing off the giftwrap.

“Shit!”

My heart sinks. I should’ve gotten the electric nipple clamps. Or twelve-inch-long Suavé.

“Baby, you outdid yourself this time, you know that?” He runs over to hug me, and relief washes over me.

“I did good?” I ask, smiling.

He gives me a kiss so deep I can hardly breathe. When he releases me, he says, “The guy’s a fucking rock star. We’re trying to land an interview with him, but he’s booked solid for the next month.”

“I didn’t think people read books anymore.” Oops.

He raises his eyebrows at me. “People read this. When they can get their hands on it.” Then he points to charcoal gray letters on the back cover. So dark I never noticed them: Caliban.

I still don’t get it. “Wasn’t that the name of some metal song?”

“Metalcore, lust, and Shakespeare.” He leads me into the bedroom. “Power of words, baby. It means there’s hope for the world.”

We peel off each other’s clothes. Even without vibrating nipples and Suavé, I guess there's hope for me, too. Although those rhinestone handcuffs did look pretty nice.