For him: |
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You're My Guy Because...by Patricia StormsHardcover $12.50Only $9.95 here |
A century and a half ago, Elizabeth Barrett Browning started a poem, to Robert Browning, with the now-famous words:
How do I love thee?
Let me count the ways...
That was then. This book is now.
This small book of many witty reasons in winning words with amusing illustrations reveals how true affection is built from little things that mean a lot to those who've shared them. So go ahead—make his day.
For her: |
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You're My Women Because...by Patrick J. MurphyHardcover $12.50Only $9.95 here |
You're my woman because...
...you're there when I need you.
...you're full of surprises.
...you're so hot.
This is a book for a man to give to a special someone in his life. It says in so many ways and in just as many wry paintings that the small stuff is sometimes big.
Original and a bit wild, it has an artfully simple message: I'm happy we connected. Bring her flowers if you will, but give her this little book to treasure.
Also for her:a book for girlfriends to laugh over. |
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NEVER KISS A FROG
A Girl's Guide to Creatures
from the Dating Swamp
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Single women can’t afford to believe in fairy tales. Frogs don’t turn into princes—men don’t change—no matter how tenderly they’re handled. Some are adept at hiding their reptilian views while others seem oblivious to their inner slime. Even an astute, Sex-and- The-City type of gal can be fooled. That’s why every lady hoping for a princely mate needs Never Kiss a Frog.
Marilyn Anderson’s zippy, illustrated guide reveals frogs and toads in their many guises. The author hilariously plumbs the romantic misadventures of herself and her friends for the early (but overlooked) signs that a plausible Mr. Right is Mr. Wrong. Armed with Never Kiss a Frog, a gal can tell who should be tossed back into the pond and who might be a keeper.
Ms. Anderson, who has written for several TV sitcoms, including Murphy Brown and FAME, has also been a stand-up comedienne at New York clubs. She lives in Los Angeles.
Meet
. . . .
Count Frogula
Any guy who drains the life out of you--sucks.
Meet
. . . .
The Godfrogger
It was a hot steamy night. I had this noisy air conditioner that was blowin'
heat. And my landlord wouldn't fix it. But I had to get some Zs.
It was a losing battle. I was tossing and turning like flapjacks in an earthquake. So I figured, what the heck? I got up and put on this cute little black number. Then I headed over to Guido's, a cool Italian place with a hot piano bar.
I sauntered up to the bar to get a martini. Then I spotted him: the guy at the microphone. He was singing "Strangers in the Night." He sounded like Sinatra and looked like Antonio Banderas. (The Italian Antonio Banderas.) And he was staring straight at me. Burning his big brown peepers into my soul. Boom! I'm smitten. "Tony" is for me!
So I'm trying to be cool, chewing on my olive. But I stab my lip with the toothpick. I scream and drop my purse, spilling the contents. I bend down to scoop up my stuff. But by the time I cram everything back inside the purse, and climb back on my perch, the song is over. Tony is gone. My heart falls.
Suddenly, there's a tap on my shoulder. I turn around. Tony is standing right there at my side--with a cocktail napkin. He blots a drop of blood from my lip.
"Should I kiss it and make it better?" He smiles.
"Maybe later," I answer.
Then I compliment him: "I like your pipes."
"I like your gams."
"I like your suit."
"I like your hair."
"I like your-"
He interrupts. "So whattaya say we have dinner?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
We get a table. I order chicken cacciatore. He orders broken leg of lamb. That should've been my first clue. But I'm too gaga to notice.
He takes my hand. It's
not raining, but I hear thunder and see lightning. As it flashes, I imagine
a big Italian Wedding. The band is playing our song. Hundreds of guests
surround us. They fill my wedding purse with checks and cash. Suddenly,
I hear a clink and I'm back to Guido's.
Tony is toasting me with a glass of Chianti: "To us!"
He tells me, "Singing's just a hobby. I'm a businessman--in construction. Cement."
That should've been my second clue. But right now, the only thing I'm trying to solve is the problem with my heart. It's beating a hundred times a minute. (My brain cells aren't functioning at all.)
We make small talk over dinner. I tell him about the difficulty I'm having with my landlord.
He squeezes my hand comfortingly. "If you want, I'll pay him a visit and break his kneecaps."
I laugh, thinking it's a joke. Then, seeing the seriousness in his deep, dark eyes, I ask, "You wouldn't really do that?"
"Nah, of course not," he says. "Not me--I'll have one of my boys do it." He points to a bruiser at the bar. "Bruno's broken more noses than Mohammed Ali. Ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom!"
Holy olive oil, I think to myself, he's serious. This is an offer I can refuse. I shake my head, "That's okay. I'm moving next week, anyway."
I finish my dinner at triple speed. Then I tell him it's been a blast meeting him. But I'm going out of town. On a cruise. With my great aunt. Around the world. For three years.
I give him a peck on the cheek, and leave. You see, even though I love movies about the mob, I don't want to be married to it.
That night I have a dream. Tony and I are making out. You think it's hard for guys to remove a bra? You should try removing a bulletproof vest!
I never saw Tony again. But I saw his picture in the newspaper. It turned out he was the one going away: for five to ten--at Sing-Sing.
Wart Warning
If he's a wiseguy, be a wise girl--Frogeddaboudit!
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