![]() In fact, if I needed a safe place to keep my secret list of all their Christmas presents, I could just print it in one of my columns and they would be sure to never see it. Sidenote: If you’re wondering how I can say all these things about my kids without any fear of them finding out, it’s because none of them will ever read this. My very unromantic-comedy moment happened one morning last week, after I’d cajoled one unwilling child out of bed, fielded countless questions from another, tried and failed to help a daughter transition from college life to productive-summer-home life, and endured a few glances from a couple sons that said, in essence, “You are so lame, please stop talking.” ![]() Real life is not like that, and I know this because I had a sad-sack moment of my own recently, and no musical montage came to the rescue to smooth it all over within a matter of minutes. It’s a quick, painless process for the viewer to watch, full of satisfying makeovers and life-changing self-affirmations, and at the end, you know the heroine is going to come out on top, a much better version of herself than the sad-sack woman she was just minutes before. The next three minutes are a series of scenes of her doing things like getting a drastic haircut, kicking out her useless boyfriend, and ripping out the cabinets in the kitchen that have been apparently blocking her progress all these years. In a rom-com, the heroine goes through her ups and downs, but at just the moment when she’s hit rock bottom and you think, “Why did I pay 13 dollars for this movie?,” she narrows her eyes and says something like, “I think I have an idea.” And then a musical montage starts as she begins to pull her down-in-the-dumps self up by her bootstraps. Sometimes, I wish I was living in a romantic comedy.
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