But we were talking about Romance. Big R. And my mother. Little m. My mother was a hand model in the mid-1950s. She knows all about romance. She knows all the best gossip about Avedon and Irving Penn. You think that was Dovima's wrist wearing the diamond Cartier bracelet in that famous Hurrell photograph that ran in Harper's Bizarre, October 1953? That was my mother's wrist. She also did a live Ivory Soap commercial on the Milton Berle show. That rumor about Berle - according to my mother it's somewhat of an exaggeration, but basically true. Forrest Tucker was bigger. According to my mother. And she should know. She dated Tucker in between Husband #1 and my father, Husband #2.

My mother and I like to get together sometimes with gin and tonics and watch the Romance Classics channel. Basically, the Romance Classics channel is just the same thing as AMC-movies made pre-1960s-plus a bunch of dopey mini-series usually starring Richard Chamberlain and based on Danielle Steele novels. Richard Chamberlain as Casanova? With Faye Dunaway (what's up with her lately? Get a new agent Faye!) as one of his many conquests. The very idea is enough to send my mother hyperventilating with laughter. Frankly, I remember Chamberlain as Tchaikovsky in that Ken Russell film "The Music Lovers." I thought he was pretty good … well, at least the music was nice.

The Romance Classics channel (RCc) is just gaga about Princess Di (does anyone call her Princess Di anymore?). They devote whole days to the "prtizcess," as my mother pronounces the word. You can watch that spooky interview she gave to the BBC, just after the divorce, where she looked like she was suddenly going to go bulimic again. Crappy makeup, bad hair, red eyes; basically, she just looked flayed. It was a coup de theatre, even if it was all a publicity stunt. Or no, not publicity, more like sympathy: a sympathy stunt. And it worked. And then she went and auctioned off all those disturbing dresses from her Duran-Duran days (Nancy Reagan used to wear the same ones), and well, the whole world is eating yams out of her ass again. (Note to Nancy: clean out the closet and call Sotheby's.)

You can also catch the wedding (or let me put it: THE WEDDING) with Di and a very glum chum of a Charles (probably looking for Camilla hidden behind the potted plants) - all of it, including that interminable carriage ride through the barricaded streets of London where the Royal Mum kept falling asleep in the back seat. It's a little embarrassing now to watch the "wedding of the century" considering everything that happened later. My mother refuses to watch that one. She says she's been through enough weddings to last her a lifetime.

The RCc is just smitten with royals in general (and which of us is not?). They also like to repeat their show on Ed VIII and his consort Mrs. Simpson. Cheeky broad that one. Quelle chic and all, but not exactly a beauty, if you know what I mean. But the royals' mistresses have always been a bit … unsightly … if recent history has taught us anything: Camilla and the Mrs. Simpson-rottweillers both.

The RCc is also a good place to catch up on your Audrey Hepburn lessons. And all of us could use a few more Audrey Hepburn lessons. Or so my mother says. There's Audrey looking very young and gamine in "Love in the Afternoon" with a rather wintry looking Gary Cooper. And there's Audrey looking incredibly glamorous and wise in "Breakfast at Tiffany's." I demand that all women dress like Audrey in that simple Givency dress and wide-brimmed black hat and the black sunglasses that she wears to visit Sally Tomato in Sing Sing. My mother promises to dress that way if she ever has to visit me in prison. And George Peppard as Truman Capote? Is that the pure definition of typecasting, or what? It's such a joke that even "Seinfeld" couldn't resist using it on one of their shows.

One of my favorite reasons to watch the RCc is for all those "Peyton Place" reruns. The original television show, not the movies (though they run those as well). My mother just loves Mia Farrow, and I have to agree (the pre-Woody Mia, not the post). Mia looked so tempting, so fragile, so fresh; no wonder Sinatra snatched her up. Talk about your trophy wife.

Ah Mia … Maybe I missed something, but doesn't anyone in Peyton Place wonder why Mia (a.k.a. Allison) speaks with a British accent? If she went to my high school, the other girls in home ec would have beat that accent right out of her. Poor Mia. Poor Allison. Forever consigned to dating Ryan O'Neil, who, I guess, from what we now know about him, would probably have beat the crap out of Allison. At least Farrah had the good sense to get out of that relationship. But from what she exhibited on the Letterman show, she doesn't seem to be holding up all that well. Break ups are like that. Or so my mother says, who, after she divorced my father took to drinking crème de menthe until her teeth turned green. A true story.

There are also, of course, some late Joan Crawford flicks haunting the RCc. Now there's one romantic gal. "No latex condoms! Ever!" And a bunch of British imports that just weren't quite good enough to make it to Masterpiece Theatre. The usual Austen suspects: Emma, Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice (and none, glorious bliss, starring that Emma Thompson who always sounds like she's dishing out her vowels with sugar tongs). A Madame Bovary and Anna Karenina just for kicks, and a wicked adaptation of Richardson's "Clarissa" starring Sean Bean, which didn't exactly leave me yearning for more, but it did send me rushing back to Richardson just to make sure they got things right. They had, more or less.