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.