Pardon My (Non) Panic Attack: Thoughts on the (Don't Call It Swine) Flu

Our governor called a press conference this afternoon to announce that the (Don't Call It Swine) Flu had officially arrived in our state. It's official because he's pretty sure the unconfirmed cases we have (five middle school kids with non-life threatening symptoms who are, as we speak, resting comfortably at home and happily snockered on Nyquil) will most likely probably be sort of confirmed by Monday.

That's three days from now.

The actual information (actual information being that which can be clearly understood) was minimal. Emergency response teams were mobilizing. We were ready to respond efficiently and effectively.

I had no idea what this meant but envisioned teams of doctors and nurses dashing about the city dispensing liter shots of Nyquil because what else could be more effective and efficient? A liter shot of Nyquil and by the time you regained consciousness you would have been recovered from the (Don't Call It Swine) flu for a week or more.

So until we had official confirmation of what our governor suspected and had already announced as definite, as responsible citizens and patriotic Americans we should all take a moment to wash our hands thoroughly and break out in a mad panic.

We're talking about a flu here.

With chills, fever, nausea, vomiting, headache and basically all the same symptoms you experience after drinking anything at all containing tequila.

Should we even remotely feel unwell we must immediately sequester ourselves in our homes and cease all interaction with other human beings. Stocking up on food and getting straight with our Creator wouldn't be a bad idea, either.

I'm thinking this will be great news to all of those people still holding onto supplies purchased in the Y2K panic and wondering if they'd ever actually get any use out of them.

One of my colleagues has a bad cold. Nobody's said anything out right but you can just feel it in the office -- several people want her to go home. And barring that, for heaven's sake don't let her touch anything. Or sneeze. And honestly, a surgical mask may be just the accessory she needs to pull together that outfit.

True to media form, whatever facts that were presented (they were later discovered by a very high powered microscope) were distorted because unless you distorted them it was very hard to work the term, "life threatening" into twenty minutes of air time and still allow room for commercial breaks.

Life threatening.

I merged onto the freeway this morning and was immediately cut off by a moron disguised as a navy blue Lexus, was forced into the left lane (preferable, I thought, to rear ending the Lexus) and caused the car in the lane behind me (about
3" behind me, at the time) to hit both their brakes and their horn simultaneously and I'm sure with much more force than is advocated per manufacturer's warranty.

The entire experience scared the heck out of me and caused an adrenaline rush so strong I was able to forego my morning coffee, being right at that moment very, very much awake.

Our governor should hold press converences advising people in our state that 30mph is not the correct speed for merging here or anywhere else. Period.

That would be helpful.

Of the three hundred or so convention attendees I'm dealing with for the next six days, the ten or so who have arrived have all expressed concern. One even wanted to know if our retail shops carried hand sanitizer. I sent it up as part of the welcome amenity.

We're talking about a flu.

It's mind boggling. As a nation, I'd like to think we're fairly intelligent people (give or take the whole voting Bush in for a second term thing), so it's incredible to me to see us so easily caught up in media hype and so ready to abandon logic, unwilling to stop ourselves for even one minute and think logically. We're too ready to respond to the lead-ins for the evening news: "(Don't Call It Swine) Flu: Panic at Eleven."

No thanks.

My plan is much simpler. I'm going to turn this one to my advantage and finally get some use out of the six bottles of hand sanitizer I picked up at Rite Aid's recent dollar days at three for a dollar (I don't use a lot of hand sanitizer but can't resist a bargain. I'd buy iguanas at three for a dollar and reptiles in general just creep me out).

I'm going to make sure that until this panic subsides (about the time the media decides our next crisis and officialy announces that nobody, not even Colonel Sander's beneficiaries, knows what is now or ever has been the key ingredient in Chicken Nuggets but whatever it is /was can probably definitely for sure and maybe be life-threatening) no matter where I go, I've got hand sanitizer at the ready.

I figure five bucks a dollop would be just about right. Outrageous, yes -- but you do what you have to do.

Especially considering my income potential dwindles with every conventioneer who declines to get onto an airplane because they're afraid of the (Don't Call It Swine) Flu.

Unknown Caller

Sometimes the phone call you've waited years for can happen when you least expect it. I was sitting on Claire's couch last night, catching up with her and Sue and watching Basil collect more attention than she'd received in weeks when my cell phone rang. I didn't recognize the number and the voice on the other end of the line didn't ring a bell, either.

"So what are you doing?"

"I'm at Claire's," I said, thinking it was very strange that I would say that to a voice I didn't recognize but I was caught off guard and honesty seemed the best response.

"How have you been?"

Definitely not registering.

"I'm sorry," I finally managed, "but I'm not sure who this is."

Silence, then:

"You're kidding me."

"No, I'm sorry -- I'm not."

Longer silence, then:

"Madeleine, it's Brent. Didn't my number come up on your phone?"

Brent Babcock.

And I'd forgotten his voice already, a mere nineteen years after we'd met and nearly five since I moved out of our home.

"I don't have your number in my phone," I said, still very surprised at the call. I'd moved to the staircase and seated myself about halfway up to the second floor, leaving Claire and Sue in the kitchen trying to convince Basil that a plain Saltine was really just a flat dog bone that didn't taste like chicken.

"You don't have my number in your phone." Now it seemed his turn to be surprised.

"Brent, I haven't talked to you since December. It's almost May."

"So you don't have my number in case you needed to get a hold of me?"

This was too strange of a call and I didn't see the purpose. "I don't know of anything I'd need to get a hold of you FOR." This may not have come out as nicely as I'd wanted it to.

I wasn't upset with him for reneging on his end of a trade we'd made last fall wherein I spent nearly an entire day writing his annual review in exchange for his hanging a shower curtain for me that he'd never quite found the time to hang. I was just, after that, finally and completely convinced there was no reason for us to have any contact at all.

"Well regardless," I said with a much lighter tone, "What can I do for you?"

Because I knew there had to be something. With Brent, it was that way. If the phone rang it was with a request, whether to write a review, recite a recipe, or advise on a spelling issue. Brent was an engineer and while he could assemble an MRI or CatScan in his sleep he couldn't differentiate between 'where' and 'were' and had never been able to. I had assumed his new girlfriend was reasonably articulate and knew her way around a kitchen because I hadn't heard from him in a long time.

"I'm updating some records," he said. "And I need to know when we got married."

My first thought was to remind him that particular information could be found on page one of our divorce decree but I thought better of it and said something probably worse -- again, because it was honest and also because it just came out. "If you hadn't ripped up the marriage certificate you'd know that."

Not that it wouldn't eventually probably have been ripped up anyway, it was just unfortunate that it had been shredded in an angry moment when the marriage was still intact and it was our 12th anniversary.

"OK, I deserve that," he said.

"November ninth, 1991," I replied. "Two o'clock in the afternoon. It was a Saturday. Lake Lowell Presbyterian Church, Pastor Lloyd Byall. Your tux tie was royal blue and you threw down a shot of Jack in the back of the church before you walked in."

Silence again, then: "You remember all that?"

For some reason that made me laugh. "Yes I remember," I said, "but I'm still looking for a green baseball cap I put down somewhere three days ago. Is that all you needed?"


And that's when it struck me. I really had no desire to take the conversation anywhere, not even to extend the basic courtesies of inquiring how he'd been, how everything was going for him. I didn't feel anger, irritation -- or anything -- and it was a wonderful way to feel. It was to be in the place everyone from my girlfriends to my parents had promised I would someday be and I hadn't believed them at the time, so recently away from the marriage. I'd hoped for it but didn't realize, until this odd phone call, that I WAS there, and had been for a much longer time than I thought.

Brent Babcock wasn't a factor in my life.

"There's one more thing," he said. "Like I said, I'm updating some records, and I found some old files."

"I can't imagine anything I'd need, Brent. Unless you came across any of my old family pictures. But, thank you -- "

"Madeleine, I have your birth certificate."

Now the silence was on my end. Because having finally been convinced that I might want a passport, I'd planned this week to write vital statistics and get another copy of my birth certificate so I could get one.

"You're kidding me. I thought you said you threw that file out."

"Well I have it," he said, "and I can get it to you if you'd like."

"That would be great. Thank you. Your timing is uncanny -- but thank you."

"Why is my timing weird?"

"Well, I've finally decided I need a passport..." and we spent maybe ten minutes then catching up on why I would need one. And also on how my dog was, how my job was, the latest escapades of Hal his roomate, my former dog Sophie, and his Ukranian girlfriend. "It is what it is," he said about that, which was funny because the last time I used the phrase it was when presenting some very unorganized client information to staff.

"I really need to go, Brent. But -- nice talking to you."

"You sound very happy."

"I am." Truer words never spoken.

"Well, I'm glad."

"You can take partial credit. If I'd never met you I'd never have wound up here and this place has brought a lot of happiness into my life. So, I guess -- belated thank you."

"I'm still very afraid of train trips," he said, and that got a laugh out of both of us.

Claire and Sue were still figuring out the universe when I returned to the living room.

"That," I announced, "was awesome. That was Brent, and I didn't recognize him. Not his voice and not his phone number. And I think that's fabulous."

"Well girlfriend," Claire observed, chucking a throw pillow at me, "you deserve that."

I couldn't have agreed more.

The Sisterhood of the Big Panties

In a word, my job is an oxymoron.

This is because there is no such thing as 'convention management', no more than there is such a thing as herding cats. Some things defy any attempts to manage them.

Conventions are, at their essence, large gatherings of people typically conceived and planned by committee. This means details are ever-changing, definite plans are forever morphing into something completely different, and agendas are best created by Etch A Sketch.

Nothing, I like to say, is set in stone until five minutes after it happens. I have spent literal hours in talks with a a planning committee debating the relative merits of bananas over oranges in a fruit display. I've had no less than six phone calls and two meetings over the placement of a single 6' table, and I fielded an after hours (way after hours) call to discuss the possibility of removing the turkey bacon from the next morning's six a.m. breakfast buffet for twelve hundred.

I called the Chef at home and regular bacon prevailed but I literally and quite sincerely lost sleep over the stress of the whole situation.

This is both sad and ridiculous.

I have bid good morning to the same committee at five a.m. for breakfast and finally said goodnight to them after eleven-forty-five that night when their bar service ended and they'd run out of changes/additions to the next day's agenda, completely jamming up the sand in their Etch A Sketch.

This is not rocket science, I regularly remind myself, and a bit of detachment is imperative.

Fortunately I work with three women who live the same experiences on a daily basis and remind me that a sense of humor -- preferably a warped one -- is key. We remain convinced the job is impossible without it and as a consequence, you never really know what's going to happen next around here.

Case in Point: Our HR offices were recently remodeled and expanded. As a team, we remain collectively relieved the reason for the expansion was not, as we'd originally feared, strictly for our benefit.

Christmas is not Christmas without our annual White Elephant Gift Exchange. There is always at least one gift that defies not only the limits of good taste but also the parameters of personnel policies. This did not stop us from gifting our AV Salesman (at the time, one of only two men on our staff. Today there are none and to date no others have been brave enough to office around quite this much estrogen) with a pair of stress balls directly replicating a female body part (actually, a pair of them). He was never quite brave enough to display them on his desk but was notably less stressed for months afterward.

Conventions leave odd things behind.

A medical group left one fake but remarkably lifelike and equally impressive female breast after their Mammography Summit. It wound up, respectively, in the office refrigerator, on our former boss's chair and inside the desk drawer of the new administrative assistant before mysteriously disappearing one day in the middle of winter. Yes, we wondered where it went but nobody felt comfortable asking and posting a "Have You Seen Me?" poster of a lone breast in the break room was tempting but ultimately not feasible.

The Cranio Facial Symposium left me a skull.

Not, thank goodness, a real one, but another lifelike model. I forgave them only because they'd tucked a cash gratuity in the jawbone. Regardless of the good intentions behind the gift I couldn't fathom keeping it in my office, not even wedged down inside the bottom drawer of my credenza because frankly it was creeping me out and completely disturbing the Feng Shui.

Problem solved when the former boss left and we cleaned out his office. His credenzas netted one cowboy hat, a stadium blanket, one cigar and for some reason we've never understood, a waterproof radio designed for use in the shower.

There was only one thing to do and do immediately: Configure these items into a proper memorial for our departed leader before we closed up his office for good.

At last, I had a home for my skull.

It donned a cowboy hat, reclining beneath the desk in a fashioned-from-phonebooks body, and was covered with the blanket. What better position to be in to smoke a cigar and listen to the radio. We added a pair of boots (don't ask) , took several pictures to email our former leader, closed up the office and basically forgot all about him.

Until the day maybe a month ago when a planner needed a room to quickly hold a conference call. We unlocked the old boss's office and thought nothing of it. Until the call finished and The Planner stuck his head around the corner to thank us. "And you might want to remove the body," he added. Apparently his assistant had nearly screamed when she peeked under the desk, refraining only because whoever it was on the other end of the phone was pretty important. We appreciate, to this day, her restraint.

We've been shameless.

There was the sandwich bag of crushed oregano we planted in Rachel's top drawer the day the GM came through to check every one's desk for cleanliness and orderliness. As this coincided neatly with random drug testing we were pretty proud.

There was the day I retrieved the "Temporary Women's Restroom" sign from a men's room door after an all-female nursing convention departed ...

Taking full advantage of the unlocked office of the AV salesman who had gone home for the weekend, we posted the sign on his door, hung toilet paper rolls from hangers on one side of his chair, and mounted paper towels, hairspray, brushes, combs, and a liquid soap dispenser on his desk.

Yes, there is a reason men are very afraid to work with us, but we pick on each other, as well.

Nobody has ever owned up to them but, following my first real date post-divorce, I was greeted the next morning by an errant set of leather restraints that had been attached to my chair, as well as a pair of handcuffs of dubious origin.

We are consistent.

We'll never pull the same joke twice. Even our voodoo doll, now six years old and completely stuck with pins, paperclips and our own graffiti, remains stoic in the supply cabinet.

We may, however, use the same prop ad nauseaum, and this has been going on for years, ever since JC Penny messed up our Convention Concierge's order and shipped her three size four sweaters and one three pack of what we've come to call "The BIG Panties" and we only call them that because at the time the word GINORMOUS had not yet been recognized by Websters or verbalized by anyone over twenty years old.

The Big Panties turn up everywhere, most recently wedged into our reception area's couch cushions just prior to our weekly staff meeting with the sales team. They were discovered by a young male rookie sales guy and after he screamed like a girl (sorry, it's true...) and flung them across the room, we had the very first meeting ever where we had the couch to ourselves and didn't have to stand up.


The Big Panties have resided, respectively:
In the jacket pocket of one of the aforementioned former men in the office;
In a file folder about to be opened by a new Catering Manager during orientation;
Dangling from a ceiling tile outside our new boss's office;
--And even wrapped around someone's windshield wiper in the parking garage.

As a trick they're as predictable as the magician's 'flowers from the sleeve of the jacket', but somehow we never tire of them.


Its what we're known for," Diane observed.

"It's what we are," I added. "The sisterhood of the big panties."

That's very true.

We're all very grown up, mature ladies who should have better use for our time than stashing huge panties in odd places.

We should have, but we choose not to.

At least not so long as we're debating apples and oranges for a living.

What Happens At Rite Aid...

I'm convinced Rite Aids exist so single people who are never home can experience One Stop Shopping.

On any given day I'm in need of: dog food, cat food, cottage cheese, peanut butter, hairspray, nylons, an Oprah magazine and various prescriptions to keep my blood pressure normal and Basil my only child.

There's a Rite Aid directly east of my condos and I'm therefore there a lot. A 'regular' if you will and due to my habit/nature of being overly friendly, overly sociable, and an incurable chatterbox, I know roughly 99.8% of the staff on a first name basis

Sherry is a massage therapist and lives in the building behind me. Dave also works as a handyman. Natalie is undergoing a nasty divorce and Brent, who also works as a home health aid and also lives behind me, is my favorite.

You can ask Brent how his day is and he'll give you the absolute truth: It's awful. He's tired, he's owed some overtime he hasn't received and his cat lost her lunch on his patio furniture. "But hey," he always adds, "I'm just glad to be here."

And that's all you hear from Brent except, being a single person like myself, he intuited enough and maybe just worked up the nerve one evening to ask why all I ever bought were nylons, cottage cheese, bread, peanut butter, animal food, and Oprah.

"I am perpetually single," I said. "At least until I meet a man with my dog's devotion and sense of humor."

And for whatever reason, Brent offered up a personal thought. He was busy all the time, he admitted, caring for his wife.

His wife had cancer. So when he wasn't working Job Number One or Job Number Two, he was taking care of his wife.

Thinking what a beautiful example of 'in sickness and in health' he was, I was dumbfounded when he added they'd been divorced the past twelve years. But still, she was sick...

"You do what you do," he said. "I wouldn't want to not be there."

And that's Brent.

Just happy to be there, everyday.

Basil was leading me out for my walk tonight on a steady course to the dog park, when I noticed Brent en route to the garbage dumpster.

"Hey," I called out, "fancy seeing you actually not working."

"Well, it's been busy," he said, hoisting his Hefty bag into the dumpster and reaching down to pet Basil.

"How have you been?" I asked, expecting to hear the standard, "Terrible. But happy to be here."

"My wife died on Easter Sunday. We buried her Wednesday. In all that snow."

Spoken with so much heartbreak, as if she could feel the cold (I choose to believe not.)

"Brent, I'm so sorry --" Mark that as yet another occasion the English language disappointed me because its words are puny and ineffectual. I said the same to Holly when her husband died, mentally kicking myself to the curb for having no better words. In the end I hugged her and said everything. The English language may consider itself redeemed if it ever finds words for a hug but until then remains in the doghouse for being ineffectual.

He shrugged. "I was sitting in the recliner and thought, 'gosh, she's awfully quiet,' and reached over, and she was gone. "

He was sitting on the curb now and Basil, dog park temporarily forgotten, loomed in for a pet and a lean against his legs.

"I don't know...what to do without her," he said, scratching Basil's ears. "You get used to that voice every day..."

"Brent, she's in a better place. " Spoken from the heart but still very, very peeved at the English language.

"She made the best fried chicken," he said. "I have the recipe, but you can never make it like she did."

He sighed, stood, smoothed his shirt, looked me in the eye. "Twelve years married. Twenty-four years together. I'm getting all her furniture, her antique stuff. There's a clock...a small world clock...a grand kid wants it, but I'm not giving it up."

"You shouldn't."

"She made the best bundt cakes," he finished. "Every time I saw her, she made me a bundt cake. I'm going to miss those."

"You should make them for you," I said. "And remember her."

Not the same," he said, but smiled very only slightly. "I made myself dinner tonight. I haven't really been hungry."

"Life does go on," I said. "Not always quickly, but eventually it does. I'm so sorry."

"Well..." And it hung there and he shrugged.

"Gosh Brent, I'm so sorry. You need a hug." And just like that this Rite Aid regular gave a huge hug to the Rite Aid clerk she would know nothing about if she werent overly friendly, an incurable chatterbox, and too-attuned, as her colleagues reminded her, to miscellaneous people.

But that hug, as with Holly several years ago, was from the heart and meant to convey only that loss hurts and you're not alone in the unverse.

Basil and I proceeded to the dog park where she was soundly swatted by the Danish lady's schnauzer and ignored by Marta's tiny poodle, Napoleon.

Undaunted, she proudly marched her owner home, knowing tomorrow was another day and there was time for her to re-assert her position as Alpha Female of the Old Dutch Village Condominiums.

As for her owner, I was walked home hoping Brent was having an OK evening -- as much of an OK evening as possible. I was very glad he held onto that clock. I hoped he would try to duplicate those bundt cakes and that fried chicken.

And I know you shouldn't go around hugging store clerks, but I give myself some slack here and say if you are ever presented with an opportunity, no matter how small, to let another person know they are not alone in the universe, you should take it.

That's what I believe.

And I'm sticking to it.

Wild Horses, Without A Doubt

Ramon more or less just appeared in my office yesterday, grinning in a way that made the Cheshire Cat appear stoic. He dropped a gold envelope on my desk, my name scrawled across the front (spelling butchered but that's my parent's fault for not being more user-friendly, grammatically speaking).

"You're kidding!"

"Open it."

Expecting to find an official announcement, I found instead an invitation. May thirtieth, at three.

And there they were in a series of photos on the tri-fold invitation, Tia's unbelievably green eyes beaming like spotlights, Ramon ever the Cheshire Cat with gaze never leaving her. If true love could be printed on card stock, I was holding it in my hands right then.

It was everything I'd ever hoped for both of them, two of the most genuine people I have ever known.

In general terms, I have little problem expressing myself but caught as I was right then in realizing how hard they'd both worked to make the day happen at all and affording the wedding that would be small but still all they wanted, I was overwhelmed and completely caught by surprise to be holding an invitation.

"I'm so happy for you!" was the best I could manage. "And I'll be there."

I pulled my calendar from the credenza and marked the date. With a Sharpie. Because they're permanent.

"Wild horses couldn't keep me away."

I am looking forward to May thirtieth, never mind attending weddings isn't always my favorite thing to do. For some unfathomable reason I inevitably find myself tearing up during the ceremony, although they're not sad events and I'm not sad to be there. Getting married is a huge undertaking. I've wondered, at many weddings, if the bride and groom had any real idea of what they were signing on for.

Once all the hoopla ended, did they understand it took a lot of work?

I thought about that when Eileen was married in New York after three days of catered pre-parties and a motorcade for the wedding party through Central Park.

I thought about it when Dale married Karin in Cheyenne, Wyoming, all ten groomsmen and maids of honor navigating the aisle on horseback, in boots, cowboy hats and dark sunglasses which were ceremoniously tossed in the air at the end, where the couple was pronounced man and wife.

I wondered when James Easter married Sundae Poling in Tucson. Did she realize the ramifications of taking that particular last name?

I didn't wonder with Ramon and Tia, having known them through work for the past seven years. I'd seen them evolve and grow up together and have to admit I've rarely seen that depth of commitment but was never surprised by it. No two people worked harder at their jobs and at preserving their relationship.

So I'll be very happily in attendance for the wedding, just remain unsure what to choose as their wedding gift. Ramon and Tia are not registered anywhere, finding that whole idea, 'kind of silly, right?'. I'd felt the same way in 1991. Explained why through some of my ex-husband's more practical minded friends, we received not one but two, dartboards and cabinets.

The wedding gift, I'll have to think about.

The wedding I'm simply excited for. It's not every day you're invited to see the official beginning of something you know without doubt will truly last forever.

Hanging Chad: Observations From A Stairwell

On more than one occasion I've likened living in the Old Dutch Village condominiums to existing quite happily in a never ending episode of Seinfeld. Last night was no exception.

I stepped out onto the landing, Basil looking expectantly down the stairs to the courtyard doors, and was immediately caught by Chad's voice drifting down from the third floor landing.

Chad.

My Newman only much younger, and attractive.

Unlike Newman he isn't a loner, sharing the two bedroom above me with three other college students. He is, however, just as irritating and has been successfully driving me nuts with his behavior since moving in above me about a year ago.

While his roommates walk down the stairs, Chad feels it necessary to stomp down them, all three flights, with all the diligence of a contractor testing the durability of his product before calling the job complete. He especially enjoys this late at night and very early in the morning, perhaps having been born knowing not only how much it irritates me but also that, as the only non-soundproof area in the building, the foyer should be exploited to its maximum noisiness.

On no less than three occasions Chad has almost knocked me into the mailboxes because he flew through the courtyard doors at something just short of ninety miles an hour.

Four times he nearly ran me over in the parking lot and two weeks ago we exchanged words because he cut me off in the laundry room. This is a deft and insensitive move whereby he went to the laundry room where I had just deposited a load of wash and liberally added powdered detergent. Suddenly remembering I had another dark item I could toss in, I went upstairs to retrieve it only to return not five minutes later to find my wash removed from the machine and shoved back into my basket -- soap and all -- and his laundry happily churning away.

I admit we exchanged words over that one a few minutes later when I knocked on his door. True, I got an apology, but only by reminding him that I knew his landlord and would be only too Happy, at that moment, to call him and share my feelings about his tenant selections.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But you've gotta realize I'm young, I'm just a college kid trying to get by."

The final irritation with Chad is his Parade of Girls. I have never seen more twenty somethings in my life, especially not in one location. Every evening, someone new up the stairs. And always, in the foyer at high Chad-volume as they leave, "Baby, I'll call you. I love you -- I'll call."

Secretly I consoled myself with the thought that eventually one of them would wise up and figure him out. Someday cocky, arrogant, insensitive Chad would receive a reality check from the universe.

The check arrived as Basil and I stepped onto the landing last night.

"I THOUGHT WE HOOKED UP LAST NIGHT!" This at high twenty-something female volume.

"Baby, we did, we did -- you need to chill...we really did..." This from Chad at slow, smooth, 'dig-myself-from-this-very-deep-hole' volume.

"YOU LIAR!" This loud enough to perhaps break the soundproof barrier. "I READ YOUR FACEBOOK YOU JERK!"

Honestly?

I wanted to hear this.

I am not a mean-spirited or vengeful person. A judge awarded me half of my ex-husband's pension and I never filed to claim it, but I was secretly delighted when his big screen TV blew up for no reason on Superbowl weekend.

This, I wanted to hear.

But Basil, now seated by the doors and lowering her head as if she'd just been consigned to the dog pound, won out. Yes, I'd love to have stayed to eavesdrop on Chad's demise but my dog comes first. Just ask anyone who knows either of us. It was enough to know that the universe had finally called on Mr. Chad to let him know he was not really "all that" - - or the bag of chips that came with it.

Twenty minutes later Basil and I are back and I'm surprised to still hear voices from the third floor.

Honestly?

I took a moment to reacquaint myself with the fact that I am a grown up and grown ups do not linger in stairwells (not even when they're disguising the fact that they are thus lingering by scrutinizing the kick plate on their door to check for defects) when their irritating neighbors are getting their rightful comeuppance. The thing to do was to unlock the door, go inside, and go on with life.

Um, OK, but ---

Door unlocked, Basil unleashed.

Door shut.

I'm just on the wrong side of it, technically speaking.

"Baby, you know that really meant something to me! How many times can I say it --"

"YOU TEXTED HER. SHE SHOWED ME!"

"Oh, baby, oh..." and here conversation, if it can be called that, faded. Faded because he kissed her.

Yes, even that you could hear.

"But your FACEBOOK..." she more or less gushed.

"Oh, baby -- c'mon. You know me, right?"

And apparently she mistakenly thought she did because he realized perhaps the stairwell wasn't the best location for this conversation (if it can even be called that). I heard a door open and shut...and that was it. As I said earlier, this place is soundproof. Built like a bunker.

So OK, I thought, the universe gave Mr. Irritating Chad a break. Karma is on vacation this week at an all-inclusive in Mexico.

Like any new day, this morning had its way of presenting the world in a new light should you only take a moment to look.

Walking to my carport I kept an eye toward Chad's, never anxious to let down my guard and have him finally accidentally run me over. To my surprise, his car was in its carport, just....smaller.

Detouring, I took a look.

Thinking to myself as I did, that poor Chad was at that moment soundly sleeping, convinced he'd dodged one more bullet and managed not to lose Float #1 in his Parade of Girls.

Worse than he or anyone deserves, I thought, on closer inspection. But still.

Poor Chad.

Three of four tires, flat as a pancake, and a simple lipsticked message on his windshield:

"I READ THE TEXTS"

I am so glad I am not Chad, twenty-something and in the process of being educated beyond my intelligence.

The Damndest Divorce I've Ever Seen

Memorial Day weekend I'm going to Lake Powell. That much is decided. I've even managed to find decent dog care for Basil with someone who understands she's not a dog, she's an active participant in the Witness Protection Program disguised as a Wheaten Terrier and she has her requirements. Number one, when she's in residence it's no longer your house, it's hers. Number two, when it comes time to go to bed at night, scoot over. Way over.

So I was in from the minute Claire suggested the trip that snowy Sunday morning when we were indulging in one of our regular "figure the world out' late Sunday breakfasts at Cherry's Cafe, a hole in the wall across the boulevard from my condos that makes without question the best $8 huevos rancheros this side of heaven.

"We'll fly down and stay on the houseboat. It will be great."

"I'm absolutely in."

"So it's a done deal."

"With one exception," I said. "Bill. Don't you think we should run it past him? I mean, it's his plane and it's his houseboat, and last time I checked neither one of us was a pilot or had a boat."

"Are you kidding, Mad? It's Bill. Of course we're going."

And just the thought of it at that moment, sipping on a scalding cup of coffee even worse than I've ever made, looking out at the pouring snow and sliding traffic, May couldn't come soon enough.

And it was Bill and Claire was right. He couldn't wait to go. Bill is in for everything, and usually is the organizer of trips like these. He even threw in his speed boat. But Bill is in for everything. Every Friday night after work cocktail hour, every housewarming, and he's even wound up on the guest list of one or the other of Holly's 'I'm just gathering people together' gatherings. Bill loves to go and do and he's got the gear for every adventure. Boats, planes, snowmobiles.

He's also the saddest person I've ever known and while he doesn't say much about it he pretty much said it all last year when he insisted on coming over and installing my ceiling fan because in his mind I had better uses for my money than using it to over pay (and is there any other kind of pay?) an electrician to do the same.

Bill has been married for twenty years. And he and his wife are, he said, 'the best of roommates, period'. He'd have left long ago, he went on, except for his son. "I would never," he said, "be a weekend Dad." And to be bluntly honest and openly materialistic he explained, he wasn't in any hurry to lose half of what he'd worked twenty years to build. So he roomed with someone who shared zilch of his passions and when he wanted to boat, fly, snowmobile, or just laugh -- he'd assemble a crew from work.

Claire and I, as I said, were in. That left two seats on the plane. Beth from Graphics filled one. Beth is a lot of fun and she cooks. That left one seat.

"You fill it," Bill said over lunch in the cafeteria. "Or not."

I wracked my brain and came up with nothing. I may know a lot of people but not many I would be comfortable: a) being cooped up in a plane with and b)hanging out with in no make-up and completely not in work mode. Of those who fit the bill, three were elsewhere committed that weekend and the other two had gotten married since the last trip and couldn't 'break away'.

Claire solved the dilemma today, motioning me into her office. "Dex," she said. "He's been wanting to go. He thinks the world of Bill and besides, he's instrument rated. We'd have two pilots." As if there was a chance the first one may keel over mid-flight, but you never knew.

Which immediately, never mind I grew up basically being shuttled around in the back seat of my grandparent's Cessna, made me feel better.

"Great," I said. "Sounds perfect."

So I called Bill in his office this afternoon. "We're set," I said. "Dex is coming to Powell."

Bill was thrilled. Dex is a great guy, he said. Even I found myself actually looking forward to meeting him.

"Honestly," I observed, "that's the damndest divorce I've ever seen. I struggle to get Brent to return a phone call and Claire and Dex vacation together, for Pete's sake."

"I know it," Bill replied, chuckling. "All married people should be so lucky."

So Lake Powell is finalized and I'll finally meet the semi world famous Dex. I'm sure we'll all have a great weekend and when it's all over life goes back to being life and Claire continues dating on Match and Dex goes back to San Francisco and flies people around for a living.

Don't get me wrong -- I think it's great they're friends. I could never imagine the same situation for Brent and I.

I last saw him in September after making the final payment on my car. We met for lunch and he signed off on the title. We reminisced but not morbidly and not for one minute did I wish or think about our being together.

Honestly, I wished him the best and also wished he'd ordered something less expensive because I was the one who'd just lost a $500/month obligation to Chrysler Financial and picked up the check.

I talked with him several times in December. He'd heard about the closest thing I'd ever had to a health crisis from friends, and wanted to offer support.

But...vacation with him?

No.

There's no animosity. Maybe it's just me, in the long run. You couldn't have asked for a more committed married person than yours truly. I forgave, in the last analysis, everything and finally drew the line at the one unforgivable. I stayed when I should have left and maybe, not so unlike Bill, talked myself into a life without feeling because I loved my over sized home, many toys, and in my heart couldn't stand the thought of breaking up the dogs (in the end, he kept both. No reason they should have to divorce, too). I left exactly once, never having been one of those dramatic people who 'leave forever' in the heat of an argument and return a few hours later. And being me, I always knew I'd only leave once and if I did once meant always.

The divorce itself happened in slow motion. Separated for two years and one month before it ever even saw a judge.

One heck of a 'cooling off' period.

But it saw the judge and it was done and it was...done. Once you're done there was no looking back because I don't believe you can move forward with your eyes behind you. The time comes to let go and I did.

So in my mind, Claire has the damndest divorce I've ever seen. One that would never work for me, but I'm glad it works for her, or seems to.

She and Dex are kind of like Bruce Willis and Demi Moore, only minus any kids to tie them together.

We're a mishmash of a Lake Powell crew. Two divorced who have never really let go, one married who quit holding on to what's meaningful long ago, me who's let go, moved on, and just really wants to get some sun, read a book and catch some fish, and Beth who's never married and honestly just wants to water ski.

I just know that Basil will be well taken care of and I don't have to cook or set the alarm for a few days, so as I said, May can't get here soon enough.

Bailing on Book Club

I admit it.

I am the worst at keeping hair appointments and it drives Suzi, my hair stylist of the last nine years, absolutely nuts. "Nobody, nobody, goes six to eight weeks between appointments," she regularly berates me. "Just you, Madeleine. You're the only one of my clients that I have to call and tell you you're just coming in, damnit, that's all." To which I tell her that understanding her frustration with trying to keep my head in any kind of maintenance, I made life easier on both of us about four years ago and decided to grow my hair out. The bangs, too. I mean, how hard can it be to maintain that?

Hair appointments to me are like oil changes for the car. They're just something I have to do so I do them. I am unlike a lot of my friends and half of my colleagues in this regard, as these ladies have hair appointments, waxing appointments, nail appointments, and massage appointments. Also the seasonal pedicure appointments. Makes my head spin. I have never seen the point of paying $50 to put acrylic, which is harmful to my nails, on my nails. I don't like my feet touched and can do my own pedicure, and as far as the waxing is concerned....well, let's just say I'm sure it has its applications but some people get carried away. No human body, especially not mine, should require that much maintenance.

Bailing on a hair appointment doesn't bother me. Even Suzi has gotten used to it and forgives me because we get along so well. Four hours in her chair is as much fun for her as anything. Between the two of us we pretty much figure out the universe in the time it takes to make me blonde again and get rid of dead ends and as an added bonus I get to catch up on six weeks worth of People magazines lying around the salon.

I've also occasionally re-scheduled a doctor appointment but not often because my primary physician of the last nine years, a 4' 2" Ukrainian sweetheart, can really scare me when she gets stern.

I've been late to work. I always make up for it by bringing donuts (that's our rule: fifteen minutes is fine. At the sixteenth minute, you're bringing breakfast). But I've never, ever, bailed on book club.

Monday nights are book club. It is what it is and it's not negotiable. It's been that way for six months, since the book club was formed. True, a weekly book club is odd. Most normal people in a book club meet once a month when everyone has actually read the book. But somehow the universe threw together this mishmash of six women who require a weekly book club, and I've never been happier than since I joined. Sara, in the west end of the complex, posted a notice in the clubhouse, I signed on, Jessie followed, Anna was next, Julie and Rita weren't far behind, and there you go.

The rules, such as they are, are pretty easy to follow: We rotate locations each week so it's always at someone or the other's condo. Bring something to eat that's remotely healthy, hostess provides wine and a non-alcoholic option. We discuss the actual book on the last meeting of the month. In the interim times, we may discuss only as far as group concensus agrees we've read to, so no surprises are ruined as far as plotline, and the 'excused absences' are simple and it's a short list. Half of us are married. Half of us are single. Therefore, you may excuse yourself from book club if your child is sick or your spousal unit is cranky and doesn't want to be left at home that night. These options are fine as long as they don't become habitual. Single members (myself, Jessie, and Rita) may consider themselves excused if they are sick, or have an opportunity for a date they just really don't want to miss. With one caveat: It must not be a first date. Acceptable excuse for non-attendance, but you must expect to get grilled by the group et al about it on the following Monday, which is generally enough to have you not be absent.

Book club is at 8:00pm sharp, and tonight it was at Sara's.

I had a second date this afternoon with that incredible person who, in the course of one dinner, managed to make an impression on me that hadn't been made in years and that, to be honest with you, I'd rather thought would never be made on me again. We had a great time at the zoo (I met his youngest child) and while I knew I would be home in time for book club, when I was returned to my car at seven-thirty, I called Sara.

"I'm not going to make it," I told her, knowing that even getting home in fifteen minutes (traffic was beautifully non-existent), by the time I took Basil out all I'd really want to do is throw on my pajamas, go through the mail, and call it a day. "Second date."

Heavy sigh, then:

"It's your book this month."

"I know."

"I've actually started reading it."

"Good! I mean, I hope you like it."

"Joyce Carol Oates? You're kidding, right? Who actually likes Joyce Carol Oates?"

"I do," I said, and then, "Maybe I'm just paying you back for Norman Mailer. 'Castle in the Forest'? Are you serious? That was a rough one to get through."

"But you did. And I think we all enjoyed it. Mailer is a genius."

"He's something," I agreed, "but a whole month of reading about Adolf Hitler and his childhood? That kind of genius I can do without."

"And your kind of Joyce Carol Oates I can, too. It's my pick next month and I'm really leaning toward something light." She paused. "So...before I assign us all to a complete reading of last month's Mad Magazine, when does this date happen?"

I explained that it already had, I was on my way home but really all I wanted to do was put on my pajamas and go through the mail. I was, I explained, rather in my own personal happy place and nothing would put the end on a more perfect day than to be able to put on my pajamas, turn on the TV and attempt to catch the day's news on one of the 1,007 channels I've had since I had the Dish Network installed, half of which I haven't even located yet, and just go to bed.

Another heavy silence.

"I see," Sara said. "So...is there going to be a third date?"

"I think and absolutely hope so," I said.

"Well..." she paused, then laughed. "OK, I understand. But you were bringing cheese, and wine."

"Picked them up Saturday. I have a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and those ridiculous Babybels Jessie was going on and on about last week in the fridge. Should I run them over?"

"I'll send Alex. Ten til?"

Ah, the luxury of the married woman who doesn't want to run an errand: She sends her spousal unit. I remember the days.

"Sounds good," I said. "I'll be out back with Basil, but I'll leave them outside my door."

"Then I forgive you," she said. "But you know you're going to get the third degree on Monday."

"Thanks. But that's next week. Hopefully you guys have memories as short as mine and will have forgotten by then."

"You really shouldn't plan Monday night dates, Mad."

"I usually don't. It's just that I've not up until now met so incredible a person."

"You're making us read Joyce Carol Oates--!"

"OK, no more Monday night dates."

"OK then, I forgive you, but only because of that."

So that business taken care of, I hooked Basil up to her I-am-a-spoiled-dog-and-therefore-have-a-sixteen-foot-leash, and we went off to the dog park at the south end of the property. When I came home, the wine and cheese were gone. Alex. Such a great husband.

So here I am, and I've bailed on book club and no regrets, really. Rules are rules, and this is the first, and probably will be the only, time I have called in an acceptable excuse. Anna, on the other hand, has missed three meetings (she probably, like me, was just trying to stay conscious through Norman Mailer) due to 'cranky spouse', so if I felt bad at all it wasn't so terrible.

There's no reason I couldn't have run over there, and been maybe a half hour late. It's just that I had such a perfect day, to tell you the truth. I moved a paperwork mountain at my desk I'd been hoping to move. I was able to see someone again that I really wanted to see. And having seen him again, I look forward to seeing him again.

And I met an incredible little girl and was eye to eye with a zebra for the first time in eighteen years.

Some days just don't need anything more added to them.

Today was one of them.

So today I bailed on book club, but in the back and even in the front of my mind: No Regrets.

Wednesdays with Emmanuel

It's become a regular Wednesday night thing.

We work on writing, we read books, and last week we wrapped up the evening playing checkers. I enjoy his company. I love his perspective on life in general, totally connect with his sense of humor and look completely forward to every minute we have together. He's got a smile that warms a room more completely than a raging fireplace ever could and laughter that could defrost the entire polar ice cap. He's hard working but never hesitant to play, and he's honest in a way most people only aspire to being. There's something about Emmanuel. To borrow from that very cheesy (and is there any other kind?) Tom Cruise movie, the guy flat had me at hello.

I know what you're thinking, so go ahead:

"Yikes! He sounds incredible! When did you meet him? He's Mr. Perfect!"

Well, calm down.

He is incredible, he is pretty perfect, and he's only four. He's Holly's oldest, and as I mentioned we've evolved these Wednesday night things where I just more or less appear and it's as natural as if I happened to get my mail there, which I don't.

Certain friendships feel like homecomings, and that's what I've been blessed with, with Holly and her family.

So back to last Wednesday, and this game of checkers. The kid is good, I'll give him that much. Very, very good. Either that or my own checker playing skills have evaporated since I last played at age twelve. He could see things on that board, potentials and opportunities, that completely eluded me.

This perhaps explained why, after about thirty minutes, he has six -- yes, a half dozen -- kings, and I had one. One king, zero subjects. In a word, I'm toast.

Game over, I'm thinking, and waited. Waited for this pint sized checker playing whiz to finish, capture my king and maybe do that little four year old celebratory "I won!" thing I've seen him launch into after a particularly good game of SORRY!

He was having none of that, moving his army of kings in every direction except where they needed to go to capture mine and win the game.

"Emmanuel," I finally pointed out, "the object of the game is to win, sweetie. So look--you want to take this king and move here -- over my king -- and you win."

"And then where do you go?"

"Well, I don't go anywhere," I explained. "I'm captured, and I'm not out there any more, and you win."

He frowned, really considering this and all its ramifications. Then, with as close to a worried look as he's ever sent in my direction, he 'captured' my king only to break it up into the two pieces it was comprised of and put both back on the board.

"Now there's more of you!" he observed, "and we keep playing..."

OK clearly, we needed to review the basics of the game.

But there was something about that laughter, as I mentioned. Something about the absolute guilelessness of that smile, and for that very perfect reason I had no problem with the reincarnation of that lone king into two players who were, eventually, captured and game over.

But not a minute before he was willing to stop playing. Because maybe, and here's another very special something I learn from Emmanuel, it's not really about winning or losing, it's about playing the game because that's what brings you happiness. And when happiness is the by-product of the game, bending a few rules and breaking apart a few kings is absolutely acceptable and even to be encouraged.

Wednesdays with Emmanuel have a way of bringing a smile to my face that's pretty hard to shake. Holly likes to say I'm 'helping' her, spending time with him and working on books, etc.

Don't believe it for a minute.

As I've observed before, Holly is pretty shrewd. She knows perfectly well who derives the most joy from those Wednesday evenings and she knows very well it's the person driving down the hill and going home when they're over.

Life Without Diet Coke

Lunch.
Nearly my favorite of favorite things as it frees me from my desk, my computer, and the client I've been glued to since arriving that morning.

Lunch in our cafeteria is, as Forrest Gump put it so well, exactly like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get but you do know you can always wash whatever it is down with a Diet Coke. Even when you're still wondering later what exactly it was that you got.

Today was no different. I set down my tray and my Diet Coke and as I did, my best friend Holly, setting down her own tray, said, "Ah...you're not drinking Diet Coke -- ?"

I'd planned to but I know that tone. I'd missed something.

"The cancer article," she said. "They found the same stuff in brain cancer that is in Diet Coke."

Ok, that definitely planted a visual in my head that made the thought of drinking it much less attractive.

"Now it's not just the Diet Coke," she went on. "If you read the article, it's everything diet."

"Well good," I said, pushing my drink away, "no more of that then."

And I made a mental note to myself to read the cancer article I'd as yet only skimmed since she sent it.

Keeping up with everything you shouldn't have vs. what you should is daunting enough. At least learning I should remove diet everything simplified the process. Until, that is, the next article came out.

Case in point: Soy milk. Love it. Prefer it over the regular kind. Read Dr. Christine Northrop's book and was so impressed with the miracle properties of soy I seriously considered moving to a remote island somewhere in the Pacific and existing on a diet of nothing more than edamame beans (even if I'd have to have them flown in daily and disregarding the fact that it wasn't necessary to move to an island to implement the dietary change but it did sound like fun). If it was a soy-based product, it was in my pantry.

Then came the day I pulled my soy milk from the office fridge.

"Be careful with that stuff," Diane, who offices next to me, warned. "You're just inviting breast cancer."

She wasn't kidding. She produced a copy of Prevention magazine, and there you go.

So the soy went the way of the caffeine (difficult at first but only in the a.m. and once I learned to blowdry and roll my hair while still completely asleep, it wasn't so bad) all sodium (hereditary high blood pressure), processed flour, and the use of all things aerosol.

And life was good and July arrived and I enjoyed as always my weekends at the pool until Diane reminded me, producing yet another issue of Prevention, that I was setting myself up for skin cancer.

Completely disheartened, I asked my doctor, at that year's physical, where she stood on soy.

"There are such benefits!" she said, and listed just about every one I'd already heard about, adding a half dozen more. "And there are risks," she said, and shrugged. "It's like with anything, you weigh the risks and the benefits and you make choices."

She should write for Prevention.

Still, I stayed the course as best I could but honestly, if I couldn't have caffeine and if it were truly toxic to your liver to take more than one B-complex daily in addition to a multiple vitamin, something had to give. Sooner or later, I thought, I'm going in for that Diet Coke.

But then I thought about Holly. I'd never get away with it. She's so intuitive, and she'd get it out of me somehow. I think, having told her no more Diet Coke for me, she'd know it if I even thought about having one. She'd ask me, at some point, "So, you haven't had a Diet Coke?" and if I had and tried to lie, she'd reveal the lie before I'd even finished saying, "Me? No! Absolutely no..."

Getting through life without keeling over from eating the wrong things should not be this hard.

I think tomorrow I'm going to petition management to extend our restaurant license to the cafeteria in the best interests of all employees, and expand on the beverage services. Let's rip out the Diet Coke tap and put in a wine cooler, stocked with red only, of course.

It's very good for you. The cancer article even said so.

The Definition of Wow

When I was growing up there was a great TV program called Candid Camera. Unsuspecting People would be set up for semi-surreal situations and inevitably, at the point where these people were not sure themselves whether or not they'd just fallen down a rabbit hole, the announcer would intone, "Smile! You're on Candid Camera!"

They'd suddenly thus understand how they'd found themselves in such unexpected situations.

Last night I had a dinner date with someone I met on that site aforementioned. We'd been exchanging emails for four days and had talked on the phone and I'd be lying if I said looking forward to meeting him wasn't something I'd been doing since...well, since I'd read his profile. Yet at the back of my mind the Realist came to life and I reflected briefly over my past experiences with that site.

They didn't exactly result in any second dates, and that was my choice.

If you don't connect, you don't connect.

I hate to admit it but hopeless romantic or not there was a part of me that was beginning to suspect that feeling of meeting someone and 'just knowing', that spending five minutes with someone and having it feel like you had always been meant to spend time with them, was an experience only doled out by the universe one to a person, and I'd already had mine.

It had appeared unanticipated that four a.m. rain-sodden morning (is there any other kind?) in Seattle, Washington when I spied Brent Babcock across the lobby of a very vacant Amtrak station. We were married two weeks shy of twelve months later and even when it ended after thirteen years together and two years legally separated, all things considered to have had that feeling made it time well spent.

Even looking very forward to meeting this person, I was completely taken by surprise because we hadn't been seated at our table that long, we hadn't exchanged that many words, I don't think we'd even ordered an entree, and completely unexpectedly, it began to feel very much like a very rainy four a.m. in Seattle.

And it rained all through dinner and it poured when I looked in his eyes and especially when he walked me to my car in a downpour and kissed me goodnight.

I never kiss on the first date.

Never.

And there I was, never having felt so right both being kissed and kissing back and -- I'm positive of it--messing up his excellent hair because I couldn't keep my hands out of it.

Wow.

That's about the extent of my communicative abilities today and has been my most coherent comment when asked by any of my friends how the date went. Seemed sufficient enough when coupled with the look on my face but I did expand on it once. This is all I could come up with:

"Wow. It's a three letter English word for 'incredible', 'amazing', '...didn't see that one coming', 'Oh my gosh,' and 'hot damn!', respectively.

That seemed explanation enough.

I wasn't home five minutes when the doorbell rang and there was Lainie without even a hello, sizing me up I'm sure.

"Oh. My. God," she said.

"Yep."

Basil and I edged past her and she followed us around on a short but necessary pre-bed walk.

"So what's he like?"

I tried, you know, to say something. Just like I tried again and again and for some reason I will never understand (that's not true. I understand perfectly well. Blame it on the rain), the ability to form sentences, conjugate simple verbs and enunciate at all had left me.

Lainie stared for a minute, fished a Marlboro from her jacket pocket, and laughed as she lit it.

"Well damn," she finally managed, "Good for you!"

I am ever grateful Basil is not one of those companion animals who require witty repartee because I didn't have any to offer. I was too busy reliving the evening in my head if you want to know the truth and I'm sure that explains why, when I showered and reached for the hair conditioner later what I actually applied was the shampoo -- again.

I went to bed and fell asleep still reliving the evening in my mind, happy to rewind over every detail.

Very happy to note that at no point did an announcer's voice shatter the idyll, announcing my presence on Candid Camera.

I can't swear to it, but the last thing I heard before falling asleep was a distinct, "Wow!"

Could have been me.

Could have been Basil.

Could have just been the universe.

Giving My Own Judgement Another Chance

For those unfamiliar with my piece of the cyber universe here into which I regularly cast my observations, musings and the occasional coherent thought, allow me to bring you current.

I have had a series of regrettable first dates brought about by my lising myself on match.com. I was hesitant. It was my ex-husband who insisted I try it. "You have a lot to offer," he said, "and you won't meet them sitting at home. Get out there and keep your social skills sharp." Well who could argue with that? He made it sound more like attending a seminar than actual dating.

Once listed, the website did what it does: Suggested a few matches (um, no thanks) and made it possible for other people on the site to see my profile and email if interested in getting to know me.

An email, I naively thought, says a great deal about a person. So blindly trusting my own judgement (note to self: not always the best game plan) I proceeded to date.

The first two experiences were brutal. Nowhere in my email exchanges with Bachelor #1 did he even hint at being still so enamored of his ex-wife that the mere act of waking every morning was almost too painful to be borne. No, this minor detail was withheld until we were not halfway through dinner and he was blinking back man crocodile tears and attempting to form a complete sentence without his voice breaking (wasn't happening. His voice had other, very broken plans). I wound up spending almost two hours counseling him as best I could on how to win her back and insisted on picking up the check.

Bachelor #2, so positive in his emails and chipper on the phone, was a complete black cloud in person. Here he was, he said, on a dating site. How pathetic was he? No more so, I thought but didn't say, than your date, except I saw nothing pathetic about it.

Bachelor #3 had posted pictures that were twelve years old. If he'd had any hair left -- which he did not -- it would have been as gray as I felt when we met outside the restaurant.

Bachelors #4 and #5 were not even five feet six, a deal breaker because they'd claimed to be 6' 2". Bachelor #6 assumed splitting the check implied rights to follow me home (I hadn't even wanted him to walk me to the parking garage) and Bachelor #7 was nice enough.

We had a companionable hour together having a drink after work and OK, even if he was one foot three inches taller than my 5' 2" (yes, the universe has a sense of humor at me for disregarding the short guys), it was pleasant enough and I would have seen him again except for one thing.

I felt no connection.

I'm huge about connections. Not the best at describing them in detail but I know when I feel one.

And I just hadn't.

Only somewhat discouraged (it is not in my nature -- ever -- to be anything more than somewhat discouraged. There's always a different way to look at things), I retreated into my weekend determined to regroup, so to speak, and indulge in my own odd but effective restorative therapy. Don't try this at home but here goes:

I refinished a chair in antique white;
I made a pot roast in the slow cooker;
I broke out the Cuisinart and made salsa;
I finished reading that very heavy Norman Mailer novel and buzzed through two Dave Barry's to purge my brain;
I walked the dog several times;
I put on mismatched sweats, donned a baseball cap and pulled my hair into a ponytail, watched two chick flicks on HBO, one Lifetime movie, and two episodes of HGTV's Design On A Dime.

Life immediately looked better and after a good night's sleep I returned to the computer, conducting my own search and was bold enough to send an electronic wink to someone who intrigued me with what I thought (OK, so there I went thinking again but I'm giving my judgement another chance) was a great, sensitive, honest profile.

It was only when I delved further into his profile and noted his astrology sign that I forgave Cosmic Cupid for all the previous disastrous dates.

He was a Gemini.

Like me.

Not to put too much on astrology, but there has never been a Gemini I didn't connect with. My most long standing girlfriends are Geminis -- we're the only people who can keep up with us. Because a Gemini is forever thinking, dreaming, designing, imagining, creating, and generally always, always talking.

Cupid only once blessed me with a Gemini romance. Back when I was twenty-two and my heart could stand it.

We emailed throughout the weekend. He was as intriguing, and genuinely nice, on the phone as via email.

I am meeting him for dinner this evening. I am hopeful -- because that's just the way I am -- that in person nothing changes.

That ridiculous Tom Cruise movie (and aren't they all ridiculous?) had a line in it that said, "You had me at hello." This profile had me the same way and very intrigued where it said, "I don't need another person to be happy, but I would like to find that special someone to share life with and possibly grow old with, even if I haven't gotten it right up until now."

My thoughts exactly.

And I Thought Only Vampires Were Defeated By Garlic

The definition of insanity has been rightfully deemed to be, "doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result."

When it comes to that little jar of garlic in my fridge, I am certifiably insane.

Yesterday, like so many Sundays before it, my slow cooker awaiting the pot roast I'd trudged through snow to obtain and carry home in my earth-friendly reuseable canvas tote (yep, I'm one of those), I extracted the jar from the fridge, determined that today would be the day and that jar would open.

Never mind it never has before.

As I've done an embarrasingly large number of times before, I grasped the lid, applied all the force and determination I had within me, and believed that jar would open. So much so that I would have bet money on it and I never bet money on anything.

I did this, you see, because when it comes to that unopenable jar, I am insane.

The pot roast survived. The jar went back into the fridge and I chopped fresh garlic. Next week, I told myself. Next week it will open.

Now, a non-garlic-insane person, which I'm not, would have simply crossed the hall, rang the bell of the Nice Married Couple Always Happy To Help With Anything At All, and Mr. Nice Married Man would have (happily) opened the jar and never thought anything more about it. That would have been the logical course.

Note that when it comes to matters like these, I am completely illogical. I do not want to be 'that nice single lady in 4B who really could use a man around the place, poor thing'.

I've been this way since I was a kid. Damsels in distress always more or less peeved me. Had I been Rapunzel I'd have tied my hair to the doorknob, done a backflip out the tower window, more or less bungee jumped to within 3' of the ground, whipped a pair of scissors from my pocket, sacrificed a couple feet or so of hair to free myself, and put to rest right then and there the whole, "Oh dear, I'm stuck in a tower" thing. And if Cinderella let her sisters tell her she couldn't go to the ball and they could she needed to toughen up and do what I did with my sisters. Sometimes a simple, "Oh yeah? Well you're not the boss of me!" goes a long way, especially if you consider getting beaten up worthwile in the right circumstances. It sure put the kybash on a lot of Barbie abductions when I was growing up.

So it's that, and it's the fact that I'm stubborn. Some things, I have to ask for help with. The installation of a light fixture, a ceiling fan, and my doorbell, for example. I know myself. Fortunately, I also know someone who knows something about electricity. The only thing I truly understand about electricity is that you pay a bill every month to keep it turned on.

Jars that won't open are an entirely different matter. I refuse to ask for help.

So that jar of garlic is back in the fridge and I remain convinced that next Sunday, perhaps when the planets are aligned differently and the moon has entered a new phase, it will open.

That's my insanity and I'm sticking to it.

Chopping Down The Family Tree

Between Lifetime movies this weekend I was riveted to ads for a new website called ancestry.com. With a few simple mouse clicks you can uncover your complete geneaology, slice it and dice it and roll around in it until all questions about your lineage are answered.

Well sign me up.

I'm only trying to answer one question so no matter what membership costs it's got to be worth it. Maybe they offer a 'Free Trial", which should be long enough to post my single query:

"Dear ancestry.com, Is it possible that I am not related to my oldest sister?"

A few mouse clicks and voila! Proof positive that much as I suspected she was never birthed at all, just fell from an errant planet, crawled under a rock, was later discovered and left on my parent's doorstep and accidentally brought indoors with that morning's delivery from the milk man.

No discovery would please me more, at this point.

Quite simply, my sister -- that person claiming to be my sister -- is insane. Not in the kind of way that would prevent her from functioning because she functions at high speed every day, sending emails and making phone calls and insuring that at any given moment every one of the siblings knows what the others are up to, what's going on in their lives (both real and imagined) and otherwise, as she puts it, "Keeping this family together!"

Admirable plan with one exception: The family really doesn't want to be so together and plugged in. We got enough of that whole togetherness thing trying to share one bathroom without beating each other on a daily basis growing up. I love my siblings. What I love most about them is that, like myself, they stay too busy with their own lives to devote much attention to speculation about mine.

Note that my use of the word "siblings" excludes the one who fell from a planet and was later found under a rock.

So the latest thing is this: Having spent countless hours and cell phone minutes dredging up 'the scoop' on a third cousin I only met once when I was five and we were arguing over the last cupcake at a reunion picnic, I get a phone call with news about this cousin I 'absolutely HAVE to hear', the problem being it's a quarter to twelve on a Sunday night. The only thing I want to hear is the sound of my own breathing.

I'm not a complete hot head. It takes something rather large to make me blow up. Something like an unneccessary midnight phone call. You always expect the worst from those, like Ed McMahon and the prize patrol calling to say they rang your doorbell but you didn't answer so they awarded the prize money to your neighbor, instead.

I blew. I know I called her a lot of things, beginning with 'ratchet jaw', progressing to all the conjugations of 'idiot' and only stopped at 'insensitive gossip' because my dog shot me a glance clearly communicating from her spot at my feet that now I was messing with her beauty sleep and that wasn't going to be tolerated. I value my shoes so I shut up.

There was silence at the end of the phone line. The kind of silence there had been until the phone rang at all and the kind that should have continued uninterrupted until shattered by the electronic beeping of my alarm at five a.m.

Silence, and then:

"Well Madeleine Elaine, being upset with me is SO LIKE YOU. If you had any feelings at all! But you don't! You don't care about the family and you never have!"

Pause for dramatic sigh and to inhale, then:

"You are a cold-hearted, self-centered, unfeeling ICE QUEEN and I can't believe you could be so HURTFUL. I will NEVER NEVER speak to you again!"

One more dramatic pause and then, just as she hangs up, a fervent:

"How DARE you!"

You see how having my From A Planet To A Rock theory hold true is so important.

This is the fourth time this year she has promised never to speak to me again. Unfortunately she's as good with promises as she is with meddling, which is to say not at all.

I actually look forward to these times of being 'forever disowned', as she puts it. True, I fall out of the information loop and have no idea what second and third cousins, siblings and great aunts are up to, but at least when the phone rings past eleven at night I rest assured knowing it's just Ed McMahon and the Prize Patrol calling to wish me better luck next time.

The Jolly White Giant

The giant. He said he was 6'5".

He wasn't kidding.

I think he may even have underestimated and I wondered more than once in the hour or so we spent together if at that daunting height you'd have to start each day with a multi-vitamin and a Dramamine just to fend off altitude sickness.

Points in his favor: He's quick-witted and we share the same dry humor. We went to a quiet, out of the way club, sat on a couch and barely noticed the other two people in the place. He had a martini and I had a Pinot Gris.

He was heading out of town for the weekend and said I'd definitely be hearing from him. Already he's sent a text, which is nice but...it's about the extent of his communications in writing. He prefers the phone. Hmmm. Call me too cerebral, but that was if not a deal breaker, at least something that caused a flagging in my own enthusiasm.

So there you go. A very nice guy, a nice evening -- but no real 'sparks'. Not that the first meeting should hit you with all the force of jamming a fork into an electrical outlet, but something like that. Call me a hopeless romantic but you know a connection when you make one.

OK, call me a hopeless romantic. I just haven't given up hope.

And really, the date wasn't totally unenjoyable. It was enjoyable. It just wasn't...like being mildly electrocuted and I guess that's more important to me than I realized or I would have gone home, logged on to Match and hidden my profile, not interested in meeting anyone further.

My neighbor Lainie could read it on my face as I came home. Psychic, I swear the girl is. She was on the front step smoking and texting somebody on her phone. Barely looked up and then, "Not the one, huh?"

"Nope." I dropped to the steps beside her. "Nope, but it wasn't all terrible or anything."

"Look," she said, "neither is a root canal but that doesn't mean you volunteer for one."

Lainie. The voice of reason.

We probably talked out there for thirty minutes, catching up on all her misadventures on the same site. I swear she's been in love four times and that's just since the first of the month. Lainie's unflappable. She knows what she wants and she's going for it one date at a time until she unearths Mr. Right like that perfect tulip bulb you'd missed during spring planting.

So she's off to Vegas with an old boyfriend on Wednesday because he's calling again and apparently she's forgotten why they ever broke up in the first place. I'm going to babysit Blue, her cat, and I'm looking forward to it. He's talkative, attentive, affectionate, and loyal.

If he were a man, I'd buy him dinner.

...Do I Really Want To Do This?

Update on Saturday's date...
The dinner was good. The company was good. Everything would have been great, I suppose, except at the end of the date (which was three hours long) he walked me to my car and said, "Well, what do we do now?"
"I need to get home," I said, and didn't add I have a pot roast in the slow cooker because that's what I do every weekend. Not neccessarily pot roast, but something, goes into the slow cooker so I don't have to cook during the week if and when I hit the rare occasion that I'm hungry and it's after work hours.
"Do you want me to follow you home?"
Um, NO.
"Um," I said, not quite eloquently but at a minimum honestly, "I think I can find it."
OK, so that and the fact that he was definitely NOT five nine. I had 3" heels on which made me 5'5" and I still felt like Nicole Kidman in the days she was married to Tom.
Tomorrow...because I'm nuts if for no other reason, I'm meeting P--for a drink downtown after work. He claims to be 6'5". He seems nice enough.
He will probably be a dwarf with multiple personalities.
OK, not a fair statement and now is no time to become cynical. It's just that sometimes, I can't help myself.
Mental note to self: Laugh about this later. :)