Monthly Archives: February 2013

Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2® 154: A Mid-Winter Rendezvous

Island Hideaway_Maldives_photography_6

Maldives Island–Midday Sun, Pamper-Her-Friday:

Love, though we haven’t spoken since Monday, the soul whisperer in you has sent smoke signals and poke signals my direction. I took notice of the heartwaves. They tugged on me just enough to remind me what I mean to you–what I mean to your psyche, your balance, your harmony.

You’ve been restless, huh?

But can yours match mine? I don’t know. I could be mistaken but, well, let’s just say you’ve monopolized my thoughts the weeklong. There’s this healthy paranoia we both are slave to: Neither of us wants to publicly admit that pure, unjaded, unadulterated caring is not just possible within us. But probable for us.

This thing we share is a must . . . who’re we kidding? We, together, are a must. And trust? What, you’re afraid to trust it?
Understandable. The heart is a vital organ.

And it’s indicating vital signs. Mine more than yours? Or yours more than mine?

I admit, I’m likely tipping the scales on my end. But that’s quite alright. Emotional equity, though ideal in a relationship, doesn’t always win out.

Surely, one or the other is loving just a bit more deeply.

It’s probably me.

Which is why I’m proposing a warm-weather getaway this weekend. You’re not one fond of snowplows or frozen windshields or driveway shoveling.

So I’ve arranged a lounge chaise on the shoreline under pristine skies . . . to get you away from the arctic elements for a lovely spell.

Oh, and pampering will be all there is to do.

What do you say?




Romance lives.


© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®



Posted by on February 23, 2013 in Pamper-Her-Friday


Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2® 153: My Heart’s Ask

Image: © Starlaim164908

Image: © Starlaim 164908


Love Letter from Calif.:

My Love,

Listen, I, uh, I, well, I’m not one with a flair for dramatics.
And, well, I, I’m not exactly gifted in spoken-word acrobatics.
And sometimes my silences and mental distance betray me as enigmatic.

Forgive me, woman, my heart’s not capable of insincere tactics.
But what I feel can be summed up with fairly simple mathematics.

Valentine’s Day is but once a year. And the two of us are tailor made for the occasion.


I’ve been heart- and mind-writing about love and attraction and romance for the majority of my adult life. Few, if any, have noticed–let alone read.

Except you.

You couldn’t put me down, refused to ‘write’ me off as some one-poem, some single-romancework wonder.

You’re in love with me, though you’ve never voiced it. It’s OK, Cupid heard your whispers in the dark. And put a little something in my ear, put a little extra ink in my pen, a little more energy and elan in my fingers at the keys.

A little more romance in my heart.

I’ve been writing about romantic serendipity and mystery and epiphany like a madman. A MADMAN!

I’m either foolish (but wasn’t it Steve Jobs who said, “Stay foolish”?) or I’m the Michael Jordan of Romance. Yeah, I’d write (play) for free . . . for love of the art (game).

Remember when he cried helplessly while clutching the trophy after winning his first ring? The world watched Air Jordan cry.

I, too, cried–silently, tearlessly. I understood, not so much his struggle (no one will ever know that but he), but that life struggle, that love struggle for something one wants so god-awful bad, something greater than himself . . . that blood, sweat, and tears are left on the court and on the page and even on the keys.

You kept reading. And encouraging. And wanting it for me because, unlike most other women, there lives in you a spirituality, a life-giving force of nature, a selfless generosity that says somehow,
“If he wins, we all win; life becomes just a little bit better for his efforts.”

Yeah, like MJ, I’d cry . . . I’d shed exclusive tears for my trophy.

My trophy?

Your “yes.”

This is my ask, woman.

Will you . . . by all means, will you . . . with everything within me, will you . . . ?

Eternally yours,



Romance lives.

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

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Posted by on February 16, 2013 in Pamper-Her-Friday


Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2® 152: Man Down, Woman on Fire!


The Valentine Suite, Calif.–10:29 p.m., Post-ValDay PHF:

She slaps his face furiously with her right hand and, a second later, callously smacks him with her left, as he looks on, throttled. Dazed.

“You’re coming up subpar!” she explodes. “Play your position with passion . . . or don’t play at all!” she unloads fiercely.

“Mami, don’t hit me no more,” he pleads, suddenly getting her point. And he gets his erotic mojo back instantaneously.

“To hell with Valentine sentimentality . . . and to hell with pampering. I wanna be bruised tonight!” she commands.

Lights out.

Fade to black.



Meet the woman’s demands. Or else . . . . -Rg2


Woman on fire!

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®


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Posted by on February 16, 2013 in Pamper-Her-Friday


Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2® 151: No Ordinary Ask. . . ‘A Valentine Romance’ by Rg2 (Intro 1) 179636

Image: © catmycat3


Cupid’s Hideaway, Calif.–12:28 a.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

He walks nonchalantly into the corner drugstore to pick up a bottle of aspirin, 70% rubbing alcohol, and a roll of Hall’s menthol cough drops. The first aisle that runs astride the main-entrance corridor
is lined with gold-speckled, red bow-striped, heart-shaped boxed chocolates–those last-resort gifts for the man who either procrastinates or lacks imagination.

He pauses about midway, faces the expansive shelves stockful of candies, scans the length of the eye-level gold-rush hearts, and rubs his chin with his hand. Struck by a notion, he.

A blue smock-wearing, bespeckled middle-aged gentleman with a manager’s tag on his lapel approaches, speaks a hello, and continues his brisk pace. “Excuse me,” he addresses the store clerk. “How much do you want for the candies?”

Incredulous, the manager replies, “Beg your pardon, sir?”

“All the boxes on the shelf, how much do you want for the entire inventory?”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

He pulls out both an AmEx and a debit card. “Which do you prefer? I’ll take them all off your hands. Will you actually sell all of them by the 14th?”

The manager struggles for words, still in disbelief but his eyes now beaming matching dollar signs like a hologram. He then escorts the buyer to the register to transact the tender.

“Let’s see now,” the manager says with a slightly nervous excitement, “128 times $5.99 . . . .”

“Make that 127,” he chimes in. “I want one left on the shelf, unbought until I return. Oh, and could you shrinkwrap them on a pallet for me? I’ll need a hand-truck as well.”

“Yes, sir! No problem.”

He pockets the receipt and exits the sliding glass doors into the early night, the manager and the few customers who’d been standing in line having eye-trailed him out, bewildered faces on them all.


5:11 p.m.:

Her handset chirps, a text: “2013 is officially the last year for Valentine’s Day.” A sad-faced icon punctuates the message.

She texts back: “What?! Oh, no, it’s the end of the world,” she plays along after a moment of ponder. “So what’s a girl to do without a big, strong, romantic Cupid to look forward to?” Double sad-faced icons follow her reply.

“She should make certain she spends the send-off with someone worthy of the very last ValDay as we know it.” His icon turned smiley. “In fact, I hear there’s a run on chocolates all over the city . . . people snapping up all the boxes in sight at retailers everywhere, like 1980s cabbage patch dolls. Mayhem!”

She laughs to herself at his message.

“Do me a favor,” he concludes, “I won’t be leaving the office for another couple of hours, last-minute paperwork. There’s a Rite Aid on your way to the metro. Could you pick up a Whitman’s or whatever might be left and I’ll reimburse you? If this is the last run, those heart boxes will only go up in value over time.”

“Oh, c’mon, don’t be silly. A run on those chintzy candies at the pharmacy?” Her giggle continues as she types the words. “I’d rather just make my way straight to you instead . . . you promised me Thai food tonight, remember?”

“Of course,” he replies. “The play’s at 9:30. I’ll be there by 8.”

She sends a heart icon as confirmation. After resting her mobile atop her desk, she turns toward her west-facing office window and peers out at a beautiful Southern California winter’s sunset–between its beckoning tangerine glow and the imagery still lingering from his just-read texts, she’s eager to start her weekend.

It’s Thai night.

5:32 p.m., PHF:

As silly a notion as it was, the thought of a Valentine chocolates run sparked just enough curiosity for her to pay the drugstore an oh-what-the-heck visit, if only for a few needed toiletries.

Making her way to the feminine products section, she remembers his request and redirects her steps to the main artery of the store, where in-season items are most readily reached. She lets go a humored chagrin when she approaches the holiday-theme aisle–candy aplenty! M&Ms, red hots, licorice and candy bars galore, all a hand-grab away.

But, eerily, the top shelf is without merchandise. She walks around the huge display to its opposite side, only to discover an exact visual: wrapped candies in abundance from eye-level down but the crown shelf bare. None of the familiar heart-shaped, Valentine-theme boxes of less-than-premium chocolates she (and so many others) had taken for granted.

“Excuse me,” she approaches a bespeckled man at the checkout counter. “Are you out of the chocolates?”

“Oh, yes. They sold out just recently . . . the whole lot of ’em. Wouldn’t you know it? Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Puzzled she stood. Her inner voice–his–seemingly laughing at her while thumping her noggin at the same time.

Could this be?

“No thanks,” she says, deflated, as she begins making her way out of the store, a sudden jones–out of nowhere–for sweet chocolate having crept onto her taste buds.

Funny how we miss nothing.

Until it’s gone . . . .


(The conclusion: Next week)



There’s an art to the ask. -Rg2

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Posted by on February 3, 2013 in Pamper-Her-Friday

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