I’m reading an older man/younger woman romance right now. You’d think, since my hubby is 17 years my senior, I’d enjoy them. I don’t. Why? They spend WAY too much time dwelling on the age difference. Having it as the primary conflict isn’t really believable for me, so I end up being disappointed nearly every time.

Conversation with short kid at Applebee’s last night:

Short kid: When I grow up I’m either going to be an actor and play James Bond or not work at all.

Me: If you don’t work, how will you get money?

Short kid: (*gives me sneering “Hello?” look*) Umm…from my WIFE.

Okay, then.

Heading out this afternoon, but here’s a bit from Becoming Miss Becky:

Becky ducked inside her parlor, then closed the door and leaned against it, wondering if the sheriff would come after her. Was what she’d done an arrestable offense?

Sadie looked up from the skirt she’d been mending. ‘‘What happened? Did Lucy Barnes get after you?”

“I just pushed Sheriff Caldwell into a horse trough.”

The woman’s eyes got big and she pressed a hand to her belly. “In front of everybody?”

“Yes.” It was more of a strangled squeak than a word. ‘‘Do you think I should bar the door?”

‘‘I…holy hell, Miss Becky, I don’t know. I don’t think so. I mean, he threatened to shoot Mrs. Martinson a whole heap of times when she first came to town, but he never did.”

‘‘Oh. Well, that’s good, I suppose.”

‘‘Course, she never pushed him into a horse trough, neither.”

The heavy pound of boots against the plank sidewalk gave Becky just enough notice to get out of the way before the door flew open and over six feet of sopping wet, furious male stormed in.