Essay-ish: Happy Acres Kampground

Perhaps it was because I was grieving, but I couldn’t stop giggling about the sign outside Happy Acres Kampground.

Happy Acres is located just north of the Illinois state line in Bristol, Wisconsin. It has everything you’d expect from a campground that spells campground with a K.

“Tenting. Trailer & Cabin Rentals. Swimming. Fishing. Planned Activities.”

“Planned Activities” is the amenity that caught my attention. It seems like such a funny promise for people looking to get away from structure and back to nature.

Let us all line dance like Lewis and Clark!

But I guess that’s camping in 1970 and onward.

happy acres pond

At Happy Acres, the 1970’s influence abounds. That’s when it was founded. It smells of bonfires and kitsch, which is really all they would need to put on a sign to get me to go there.

“Putting the camp in camping since 1970” is the slogan of somewhere I’d want to go always.

There’s putt putt golf and a fenced-in “zoo” of lady peacocks who just chill all day. There’s a pool and a horseshoe court. A paddle boat shaped like a pirate ship and one like a giant swan. A miniature merry-go-round and the co-opting of totems from cultures who worked these grounds long ago.

happy acres totem pole

happy acres peacock

It also has those giant concrete tubes laid out in an L-shape. They’re the playground accompaniment to a swing set and plastic elephant slide. But those concrete tunnels look like a Millenial parent’s worst nightmare, conjuring images of wayward children of yesteryear surviving under bridges alone or being kidnapped by a former wayward child who grew up to be a man who really, really liked clowns.

I’m sure I’m reading into them too much, letting my imagination run away into the darkness. But that’s pretty standard for me, and my daydreaming is especially amped up here, where I have nothing to do but relax and the visual time warp beckons from every corner.

I feel like at any moment Jessica Fletcher is going to walk by in sensible kitten heels and a neck scarf.

“I found a body in the pond,” she’d say cheerfully as she passed, waving from the wrist.

Those tunnels were cool as a kid but they always gave you scraped knees, the kind of scrape made of a hundred intersecting, strawberry-red abrasions reaching down the full length of your knee. Like a lifeline of summer.

happy acres tunnel

This thought takes me to a time about 24 years ago in a campground not so different from Happy Acres. The Fox’s Den on Put-In-Bay island. My Grandma and Grandpa Mantey stayed there during my childhood summers. The campground was all trailers transformed into makeshift summer homes, and its layout was in a little circle, an excellent landscape for me and my siblings to ride our bikes around.

There’s one summer I particularly remember because of the glasses I was wearing. It would have either been between kindergarten and first grade or first grade and second.

I had these thick plastic glasses that were a nearly nude shade of brown. They were super trendy in the eyes of my parents, probably, who wore those giant rims for style points. But to me they were unwieldily and ugly. 

Whatever summer it was, I was riding my bike around the campground and I crashed. My glasses went sprawling in the opposite direction of my little body. My knee was gushing blood but all I could think about was those damn glasses. They had broken in my fall. I thought about how mad my mom was going to be. I didn’t know much, but I knew glasses were expensive.

I limped back to the campsite crying, handing the pieces to my mom and apologizing. She didn’t even notice. Everyone ran to look at my knee, cooing over me to see if I was hurt, if I needed stitches. There are many glasses, mom said, but only one Jackie.

Grandma with Dad.
Grandma with Dad.
Dad with me (and my glasses).
Dad with me (and my glasses).

I’m rubbing my knee now. At age 30 I still have a scar from that fall. I didn’t get stitches and I’m glad. The bump is a reminder of that story, a reminder of how loved I am.

Justin and I are visiting Happy Acres on vacation, one thats timing worked out well. The week before, we buried my grandma, the one who lived on Put-In-Bay for half the year.

My grandpa, her husband, had died last year. He was the first of my grandparents to pass away. (Again, how lucky I am. To have had all my grandparents around for such a big portion of my life.)

But something about my grandma dying was harder. That’s not to say I loved one more than the other, but there was something about the fact that they were both gone now that I was having trouble processing. To me, grandparents came in pairs. So when one was gone but one was still alive, the first death didn’t seem absolute. Life didn’t feel like it had shifted to a new plane.

Now it did. A new perspective and understanding of the world without my grandparents in it was settling into place. And it was kind of a relief to do it in foreign territory where there were so many manmade things shaped like animals.

happy acres elephant

happy acres deer

happy acres horses

These play things were so gaudy, and the dissonance that their being around created — in a place whose whole purpose is supposedly rooted on celebrating the natural — made me feel more comfortable about feeling so uncomfortable in my understanding of the world. Happy Acres Kampground’s absurdity is exactly what I didn’t know I needed.

I’m sad my grandparents never got to meet Justin, my camping/life companion. He packed almost everything for this trip. Planned and booked it. Made all the food. Brought what we needed, and emailed me a list of what I needed to bring (like, only two things) the day before we left.

This is how we work as a couple. I’m good at making a living. He’s great at living.

Really, this kind of stuff is effortless for him. He picked all the playlists (“In My Room” by Jacob Collier, “Black Messiah” by D’Angelo, “Guapaspasea!” by Gecko Turner, and “Classic Hip Hop: The Samples Radio” on Google Play). All of which he played at the perfect moment to set whatever mood required.

He’s exactly what I didn’t know I needed, too.

At night, we sleep in a tiny cabin the size of a closet. It’s hot but I still curl helplessly into Justin, afraid of the bugs that might eat at me or lay eggs in my ears. Afraid of so much I can’t see in the dark.

It’s the not knowing that he’s so good at navigating. It’s the not knowing that makes me feel so helpless.

happy acres justin cabin

happy acres home is where the heart is

If I were to write a review of Happy Acres, it would say to definitely go on the trails. They’re a wooded area in the back of the grounds with a few benches and several unhelpful maps, but all the short trails walk you in a circle, so you can’t really get lost.

Justin and I did this on our last day at the campground, smacking at mosquitos on the other’s back in between holding hands.

The morning we left, Justin took us to a pancake place up the road. Whenever we travel together he always finds little local places to hit up, and this one had the interior that was like a set of “Grace Under Fire.”

happy acres restaurant

My grandparents would have loved it. There was straw hat decor, pink vinyl booths, family pictures hung about, and plastic tabletops that bore the art of an eagle in front of an American flag. It was so country, but also a clear clash of time periods and personalities and ideas of what happiness looked like.

After breakfast as we headed back to Chicago, I secretly wished that we could stay for the weekend’s “planned activities.” Riding and walking around in circles, knowing we were safe.

happy acres justin walk

Essay-ish: A kiss and a ham sandwich for the road

Friends stayed at my house on Friday night. I was a stopping point for their trek to a wedding further west the next evening.

We did what one should do in Chicago — eat. After a subpar experience at a restaurant with too-kind Yelp reviews and duck fritters that might have just been chicken maybe(?), we decided to walk around and wing it.

That’s always when the best things happen.

We ended up at a Thai restaurant that we smelled a block away. The weather was lovely, so the place had its sidewalk-to-ceiling windows open and the scent of spicy chili noodles, curried meats, and delicate fried crab drew us toward it. I don’t even know if we walked there or floated on the fumes, mouths agape.

The only reason we made it out of there with leftovers was because we had eaten beforehand. The next morning, I packed the cartons into a brown paper bag for my friends to take with them on their drive. I included some fruit, a few donuts, and plastic silverware I’d saved from long-forgotten takeout trips.

Before they drove away, they thanked me for taking care of them. It was nothing, I said. And really it wasn’t. It was just love by way of clean sheets and a packed lunch.

I thought of all this today as I tried to write a few lines for my grandma’s obituary, the use of which is quickly approaching.

It’s comforting that my family, like me, turns to getting work done in moments of sadness or overwhelming emotion; one might consider preparing photos for the funeral and an obituary for the newsmen before my grandma actually passes as morbid or denying in-the-moment grief, and maybe it is a little bit.

But I prefer to think we’re proactive. Realistic. Farmers. Doing this work now makes logistics easier when the real loss hits. Work is where we find solace — it’s the only thing we can control. And taking control of our own lives and experiences is a way to honor the lives of the family who worked so hard before us.

I get my callous work ethic honest.

As I do my enjoyment of hosting.

A line I wrote for grandma’s article (one of only a few I could actually muster):

“Carolyn was as quick with a comeback as she was a homemade sandwich for your journey home after a visit.”


Essay-ish: America’s Horse with No Name in Warsaw, Indiana

There’s a little Indiana town I always drive through on my way to and from Ohio.

It looks like all the other little Indiana towns, which look like all the little Ohio towns, which probably look like all the little towns in the midwest. I’m assuming. I’ve never driven through them.

But it’s sweet and quaint. Green with life and dotted in small sheds, gas stations, food stops and dusty well-meaning billboards. The working-man homes pop up like stitches on an embroidered quilt, passed down from generation to generation.

I don’t know why I note it on my drive, back and forth back and forth, but I always do. Probably because it’s called Warsaw.

It was named after *that* Warsaw. So titled in 1836, in homage to the Polish capital, a place with a history that dwarfs everything about this one.

On my last trip home, “A Horse With No Name” came on the radio while in Warsaw. Maybe this is also why I mentally tick off when I’ve hit it during my drives. Its oldies station is a bright spot in a long trip of landing my radio dial on songs I love only to be hit with an accompaniment of static right when it gets to the chorus (always the best parts to sing with the windows rolled down).

I wait for the song to end before I pull over for gas.

I park my car and think why don’t I live somewhere like this?

The thing about small towns is that they’re really lovely. Mine is just not a soul that sings best in their bounty. I like the city. I particularly like this Chicago city, blue collar grit with grassroots culture—a place where I can be a horse with no name as I figure out what I want to do next.

But I get the appeal of small towns. I grew up in one and I miss it sometimes. Small town communities and all they represent were long the American Dream for a reason.

I lean on the hood as fuel chugs into my little car, my baby blue horse for the day. An old man in overalls waves and wishes me a good day. I light up and give the same in return. With my particular background, I can be a chameleon. I can fit in at a rave or in a hog barn. I know how to handle both, and some part of me longs for both lifestyles. And I really do enjoy all the different situations—city or country—I can be placed in as long as I can leave both whenever I want.

There was a grieving I went through in my twenties after college. A loss I sensed of a childhood home I knew I’d never go back to. I am fortunate to have the choice and ability to land wherever I want, but it’s still a loss to know you may never have a big backyard for your own children to play in or that you won’t be able to hop over to a sibling’s house to catch lighting bugs just because why the hell not, it’s Wednesday. No matter how close I am to my people at home, there will always be a distance and some part of me, the part that basks in the glow of concrete and skyscrapers and the potential for something new and exciting to happen, will always feel removed… understood and cherished only by me.

In that distance I’ve learned a lot about what it means to make a space for yourself where you know no one. And because of that, I know my chameleon quality extends beyond my personality and life experience. It can also be attributed to my gender, my age, my whiteness. It’s easy to fit in everywhere when you are trusted immediately. What a gift. A gift that so many people don’t get to experience. A security, safety and peace that so many will never know.

Today I’m back in Chicago. I don’t know my neighbors and I don’t really want to because I have work—creative, life-affirming, must-get-it-out-of-me work—I want to focus on without distractions for a while. We’re stacked on top of each other. It’s hot and it’s tight and it’s fucking brilliant.

I like to go and sit on the harbor and take a break to watch the water sometimes. It strikes me how I can see this huge body of water bouncing rhythmically like some apocalyptic force is moving underneath it, yet only hear the lapping of the water right beneath me.

Life feels like that today. Sometimes we get too lost in ourselves and our own experiences. We can’t hear the rest of those around us, even though we’re all moved by the same force. We don’t consider those who don’t live like us because it seems so far away.

Human history is all of ours to consider. It hurts, but we need to hear it. We need to keep listening even when we’re exhausted. Right now, my experience in America is getting to live in a place where I willingly have no name, where I don’t want to be known as I work and I know I’m probably safe regardless.

But others don’t have that.

We remember their names — names like Warsaw, like Alton Sterling — for a reason.

Essay-ish: Minimalism tres chic

Screen Shot 2016-07-04 at 2.14.02 PM

No new stuff.

Only new mottos.

About no new stuff.

No new tchotchkes, kittens, magazines, books, planners, planners for next year, journals, salt and pepper shakers, couches, love seats, air plants, gourmet lotions (?), gourmet candles (??), gourmet cooker sets, records, photo frames, posters, pillows, shoes, clothes, lamps.

Hey wait. What’s this?

Does it appear gaudy?

Would three out of five people call it “too much”?

I’ll take it!

No. Put the crush velvet macramé dream catcher down.

Go home. Get to work.

What do you want to do? What do you want to make? How do you want to spend your time?

Hey, did you know your life is slowly being ripped away from you? Every second some piece of you dies in a territorial trudge toward decay?

No, wait, sit down at that computer! Get out from under those covers.

Don’t let all this nothingness scare you away from getting started on making everything you ever *really* wanted happen! We meant that as motivation!

All we’re saying is that stuff has become a distraction. What did you buy. Oh how cute. It is. No I really think so. Here. Take a pic. Use this filter. Look what I got. Saved so much! Saved everything but myself!

Too many things to eventually give away. Too many things that own you when you’re trying to find new ways to own yourself.

“No new stuff” is rooted in focus.

… Or is it rooted in freedom?

You’re part of a generation that doesn’t need a lot of stuff. There’s a store that sells all you need.

As seen on TV.

Even if a zombie came a-knocking on your door, you could just run over to the CVS for a knife kit and Gatorade. No need to borrow sugar from your neighbor or pack up the blankets for next winter. The onion cellar is obsolete when the big box seller is right next door.

If you can’t bring yourself to cut down the amount you own, just take it to mom and dad’s. This is what the Baby Boomers fought for, after all.

Your life is better than theirs in so many ways. You feel safe and surrounded by enough to not have to store empty margarine containers under your bed just in case a Great Depression happens again and you can’t afford Tupperware. You, young adult in 2016, can free up your space, which means you can free up your mind.

No need to put water in your bottle of Pert to help it last longer. You’ve made it in America. You are free.

“No new stuff” is rooted in independence.

… Or is it rooted in guilt?

Is this just how we starve ourselves? A strike motivated by helplessness as the whole world gurgles and gasps under a pile of trash.

On second glance, maybe that’s why the zombies knocking on the door look so familiar.

How do we make this better? They howl with a hunger no amount of corner store cellophane foodstuffs could ever fill.

Save the Date(s): Book launch & author events

My first book hits Barnes & Noble books shelves… today! “100 Things to Do in Columbus Before You Die” is a bucket list of the best things to do in Ohio’s capital city. There are kid friendly and new visitor-centric entries, as well as items for people who have lived here for a long time (RIP Bernie’s, right?).


Want a signed copy? Just message me.
Want a signed copy? Just message me.

In addition to its sale at local book stores and its national representation — hello, Costco shoppers, meet the 614 — I’m doing a few author events in the next month. I’ll be selling the book ($16), doing signings and generally will just be available to hang out. Come say hi!

3/5 – The Candle Lab, Short North, 6-8 p.m. Gallery Hop

3/15 – Seventh Son Brewing Company, Italian Village, 6 p.m.-Midnight, Book launch party!

3/20 – The Book Loft, German Village, 1 p.m.

3/26 – Barnes & Noble, Pickerington, 1-3 p.m.

Captions for Google Image Trust Fall results

On Tuesday, the New York Public Library uploaded more than 200,000 historical images into the public domain. It’s a wonderful time suck *and* an opportunity to finally use the new black hole emoji when talking about it with your friends! Really though, it’s interesting to see images that haven’t made it into the public consciousness but are just as arresting as those that have. It’s a great research resource for writers or artists.


Interior of miner’s shack. Scott’s Run outside of Morgantown, West Virginia. From the Farm Security Administration collection.

Clicking through I was reminded of the one time I had to Google Image search “trust falls” for some reason and thought it would be funny to caption how ridiculous they are. And, thus, this blog post. HAPPYTHURSDAY.

Van Gogh

That little-known time Van Gogh did some corporate freelance work.


A photo still from my worst nightmare.

kool aid

Prepare the Kool-Aid. She’s ready.


“I didn’t say ‘Fall on’ yet, Deborah! I didn’t say it!”

dan and andrea

“Did you see how super eager Dan was to get to the front when it was Andrea’s turn? <giggle>”

cat trust fall

My last relationship.

Spring, brought to you by Todd Rundgren

We had a yard sale in my neighborhood the other day. I didn’t have a lot to sell. I’ve purged so much in my recent moves that everything I own, which isn’t much, are things I want or need. I try not to buy tchotchkes or meaningless stuff that I’m excited about for a week but then just collects dust on a shelf somewhere.

Picture frames and Made in China sculptures and Mason jars with fake flowers are the misfit toys of adulthood. I will spend extra money on clothes and food and gifts. That’s about it.

I do have a lot of books though. And records. So I set to work picking out ones to  sell. Prepping for a yard sale can be stressful — figuring out what to sell, deciding what to charge for what you do decide to sell, and confronting a mental list of just how insignificant the crap you own is can an existential crisis make.

Adding to the frustration? Masking tape. Why is it so sticky on your fingers but never on the actual thing you need it to stick to? WHY?!

I share a house with four other people. We each live in one corner apartment of the house. The others had filled our backyard on yard sale day with so many goodies! My records and books looked kind of lonely huddled together on my back porch.

About half of my stuff sold. Turns out anything priced for more than $2 at a yard sale is just ridiculous. Who the fuck do you think you are charging $5 for an ornate antique ashtray? The buyer has all the power. He or she knows you’ve gone to all this trouble to pick out this junk, label it with that pestiferous masking tape, and sit outside while strangers dally around like zombies in your back yard. You just want it gone. So how low will you go?

The night before, when I was curating just what of my bookshelves to feed to these deal-seeking wolves, I decided there were a few records in my collection I just couldn’t part with. Surprise, they were the ones with sentimental value.

“Boys Don’t Cry” by The Cure: I listened to this album nearly every morning of my sophomore year of college.

“Abbey Road” by The Beatles: An ex-boyfriend got this for me and I still think it’s sweet because everyone has that one person from their early 20s that makes them think of a Beatles song.

“Portrait of Bobby” by Bobby Sherman: Belonged to my teenage mom.

A literal portrait of A Portrait of Bobby. So meta.
A literal portrait of A Portrait of Bobby. So meta.

The Black Keys and John Frusciante and MIA? Sell. Sell. Sell. This stuff’s gotta go! A deal you can’t refuse! But wait there’s more! I’ll sweeten the pot and let you take this masking tape off my hands! No really. Please. Can you rip this tape off my hands?

One album, though, that didn’t get purchased during my yard sale has been the focus of my last few weeks, musically speaking.


The thing with records is that you can remember where you got most of them. You remember the crazy deal you found them for, or who you pilfered it from, or what barter you made to get it, or which mom wanted you to please, annoying hipster kid, just take them from the basement so there’s less junk down there. I have three editions of “Rumors” by Fleetwood Mac from an ex’s mom’s old collection.

There is a pride to finding classics for so cheap. It is a reminder of their fragility and the way we discard or forget things that once meant so much to us. Sometimes the story means more than the music.

But I just cannot remember how I got “Something/ Anything” by Todd Rundgren. It’s such a random pick and I am not familiar with him except for this album. Hell, I didn’t even know he sings that insurance commercial song “I DON’T WANT TO WORK. I JUST WANT TO BANG ON THE DRUM ALL DAY.” until I was recently Spotifying all his work.

But I have this album completely memorized. This album has been in my rotation for about seven years.  I can’t believe I was trying to sell it for only $2 the other day. Talk about not knowing something’s, anything’s worth.

This album is the ultimate in spring listening. And if there’s a time to be easy and smooth and optimistic, it is the time when spring is folding into summer. You’ve settled into rainy nights and a warmth that feels like a hug rather than a chokehold. “Something/ Anything” makes me feel like I’m on the water. Just laying on my back, eyes closed.

I’m thankful no one bought this up. Sometimes one woman’s trash is actually her own treasure.

See me tonight at this professional panel!

(BYOB because it’s prob more profesh than professional.) Today at 6:30 p.m. I’ll be speaking on a panel with three incredible professionals I just happen to be friends with as we talk about “The Art of Breaking Into Freelancing.” There is a photographer, a writer and two event and marketing consultants on the panel. Things kick off at 6:30 p.m. Run through 8:30 p.m. This is part of the Goose’s The Art of Breaking Into series about art-centric entrepreneurship and how to do it sustainably. More info here! See you tonight.


The Art of Breaking Into Freelance


Struck A Nerve Rom Com Edition: Facebook Killed the Rom Com Star


The Romantic Comedy as we know it is dead.

This beloved genre’s demise is not just because TV is getting better or because Tom Hanks and Freddie Prinze Jr. are getting old.

Nay, the culprit is coming from inside your pocket.

Social Media has murdered the rom com.

Yes, the time suck that is Facebook, Tinder, Pinterest, Twitter, Instagram, SnapChat, ChatChat, TapDat, AssHat…

has irrevocably changed how we interact with, write and consume the time-honored first-world tradition of romantic comedy.

First, let us consider the plotline problem.

The lost-then-found lover is a motif as important to the rom com as spritely mischief is to Shakespeare.

These tales of old-flame-returns-for-high-school-reunion or mysterious-man’s-child-keeps-calling-me-from-Seattle seem quaint in the era of social media.

They seem *so* not plausible today that if you tried to make a movie with these storylines, you’d lose viewers. Instead of getting lost in the story, they’d be thinking about how this just wouldn’t happen. Why wouldn’t she just look him up on LinkedIn?

The last thing you, as a writer, want your audience to do is to start asking questions about plausibility. We all know love isn’t real.

Here’s a specific example of rom com plotline extinction.

Do you guys remember the movie 40 Days and 40 Nights? It’s a movie with Josh Harnett and the hot girl from Wristcutters (that’s the better movie to watch if we’re doling out Netflix suggestions here).

Anyway, Josh’s character swears off sex for 40 days and 40 nights, but, alas, during this time he meets the would-be love of his life, hot girl from Wristcutters! So he hides from her what he’s doing, she thinks he isn’t that into her, cupid’s arrow is nearly for naught. (The moral of the story, to 17-year-old boys, here is to always have sex asap.)

Social media’s role in our modern lives would not allow for any of this story to unfold the way it does. First, the couple meets in a Laundromat and connects over how hot girl from Wristcutters circles words she doesn’t know in the book she’s reading so she can go look them up in the dictionary.

HA! She’s reading a real book!

If this were happening in 2015 and not 2002, she’d be all up on her phone either googling the words she doesn’t know as soon as she finds them or, let’s be honest, digging into her ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend’s step sister’s Instagram photos from a beach vacay to the Dominican Republic.

“Her baby is super ugly.”

So not only would this couple likely not meet, if they did, the dude character would have a hard time hiding his abstinence mission and thus, hot girl from Wristcutters would never go experience the folly of misunderstanding her potential lover’s intentions.

After all, in 2015 he will have taken this opportunity to start a blog and podcast series following his sex-free adventures so he could share them on his Facebook, Twitter and LinkedIn pages and hopefully get a book deal.

Because rom coms, the gluttonous slinger of gender stereotypes that they are, teach us that all guys are all about the Benjamins until he finds love he didn’t know he wanted… and they need you to stop fucking playing Sixpence None The Richer’s “Kiss Me” on repeat already.


Furthermore, catching a cheater is no longer visually interesting, which is kind of a key element of a film.

And cheating, or at least thinking someone is cheating, is a blockbuster plot device. But today, this is what it looks like:

1) Receive text from friend about potential cheating.

2) Turn red, hyperventilate, furiously text lover.

3) Cry quietly as you scroll through now-ex’s Facebook feed looking for any shred of evidence.

4) Chug whiskey alone.

Not exactly the most sexy, riveting stuff. And because things can happen so quickly, romance is kind of a lost art. On Tinder, you can literally scroll through hundreds of potential lovers while doing nothing but eating cheese and crackers off your belly.

This is not the type of scenario for which God made men as gorgeous as Ryan Gosling.

We’ve become desensitized to romance. After all, your girl can just get on Pinterest and post quotes full of loving sentiment you could never come up with. Oh, and your guy can just go read your Pins to figure out what is required for you in particular to woo.

It’s why kids these days prefer their romance from the mouths of babes that turn into werewolves during the full moon.

Social media lets you be whoever you want to be, let’s you concoct or express a whole well-rounded personality and, on the positive side of that, helps eliminate stereotypes – you are not just the weird girl in art class with glasses, you are a complete person who has family photos and interesting things to say about world events and look at this whole album of selfies taken without your glasses on!!! Social media is a confidence booster. It reinforces the idea that you can be whatever you want!

But here’s one thing you can’t be anymore. And it’s a thing that is also incredibly important to the rom com cannon—a magazine reporter.

Some of my favorite romantic comedies revolve around the career field of magazine journalism. I think this is because it’s glamorous without being too POWER BABE (heaven forbid), plus most of these screenplay writers were probably once journalists so publishing is a world they understand.

How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days, Sex and the City, The Devil Wears Prada and Morning Glory are all great rom coms starring characters who work in journalism.

Here’s the thing though. Social media is also singlehandedly murdering print journalism. Today’s newsroom is anything but glamorous. The editorial meetings are no longer about which champagne to offer on the set of a fancy photo shoot but how to convince the unpaid intern who is five out of journalism school to stay on board – man, at least after sweeps!

Hardworking journalists are being replaced by hardworking bloggers and freelance content sharers. But finagling in your pajamas with your accountant on the phone about tax writeoffs isn’t nearly as sexy as a fun loving, wacky work crew that always seems to be there for you when your dream man is aloof.

Finally, because of the fast paced and argumentative nature of social media, some of our favorite rom coms wouldn’t even get made today.

Consider, Grease. If you do not know the plot of Grease and the melody of at least one of its songs, you clearly didn’t know a theater kid in high school.

Cover your ears if it is possible to spoil the ending of Grease for you, grandpa.

Olivia Newton John’s wholesome Sandy gets all slutifued by her pink ladies to impress the Danny Zucko.

Granted Danny also donned a letterman sweater at the school carnival to impress Sandy but that decision was quickly revoked when everyone just silently admitted that it’s way more fun to be a bad bitch than a basic one.

But you know who would’ve been all over that plot line of woman giving up it all for a love?

And probably all the Christian organizations you can think of, for other reasons. But basically this movie would’ve been a flop before it went direct to DVD, jazz hands cart wheels and dancing hotdogs be damned.

Same goes for the abusive principal in The Breakfast Club. And the patriarchal town in Footloose would’ve had its own reality TV show before that movie could ever get made.

We are think piecing  ourselves out of a good old-fashioned, gender-roled love story, people.

So in conclusion social media has made us too savvy, too homogeneous and too stalker-prone to enjoy  romantic comedies. The stories seem as fake and contrived as Channing Tatum’s abs.

For the real funny drama we’ll just all turn to Facebook.