The waiting room

I was sitting at the clinic waiting for Clay to find out whether he was about to sprout a curly tail and a moist snout when a couple caught my eye. Six or seven Fred Meyers bags lay heaped around their chairs, containing what looked like clothing. They were underdressed for the weather and didn’t appear to have showered in some time. The woman was crying.

I flipped a page in my People magazine and began the covert staring for which the women in my family are noted.

Were all their belongings in those bags? Why was she crying? What were they saying? Could I move closer without arousing suspicion?

He told her soothingly that everything was going to be alright; they had a little money and would leave town tonight. (Where? Why?) Between sobs I heard her say she didn’t have a driver’s license because they couldn’t afford the $45. She began crying harder. Finally, she dashed outside, presumably for some fresh air.

Staring hard at the glossy layout of Tiger Woods on my lap, I tried to remember how much cash I had in my purse.

Before I could formulate my philanthropic plan, the man pulled a fancy schmancy cell phone from his pocket and began to play a game, the volume rudely loud for a public place.

How in tarnation could he afford a cell phone much nicer than mine when they didn’t have money for his wife to have a driver’s license? And whatever was bothering her sure wasn’t keeping him from enjoying a loud video game while his wife sobbed outside in the cold.

The empathetic feelings had vanished and my $26 remained undisturbed. There was probably more to this story than met the eye. Setting the People magazine aside, I crossed my legs and settled back to continue my observations.

Who needs People when there's a real drama taking place right before your eyes?

Storytime

I love this sculpture, STORYTIME, outside the Richland Public Library. It was created by Gary Price for the city of Richland in 1993. The photo appeared in the Tri-City Herald recently. Visiting the sculpture is on my To Do List.

Trouble in the Bedroom

We're entering our second month of marriage and things are going better than I ever imagined. Clay is a funny, sweet, generous man. He's also diplomatic and resourceful, which come in handy since he's married to me. We're getting along like a house afire, except for one small thing. We're having some trouble in the bedroom.

I'm tired of the chill that surrounds our marriage bed every night. I dread the cold shoulders, the icy attempts to bring some warmth into our bed.

Putting it plainly, we cannot keep the covers on the bed. There, I've said it. The covers slide off the end of the bed. They slide off the sides. We are forever pulling them up or over -- tugging, tugging, tugging. They will not stay put.

Maybe it's inevitable, given our combined girth. Maybe Mr. and Mrs. Chubs have unrealistic expectations from their blankets. It's like balancing a potato chip on a golf ball. As long as the ball is still, everything is fine. But if someone rolls over or tries to scratch something, chip overboard.

Maybe we need a king-sized bed, which would mean bigger blankets and a larger surface area. That's it. Whew! For a slender moment there, I was considering the idea that Clay and I should go on diets, therefore reducing our girth to something akin to a marble for that potato chip.

Until I run into a mattress sale, however, I'm going to try tie-downs or tent stakes...

The cat folder

Clay had a rental car this weekend when he came to Grangeville, a cute little red Hyundai. No power locks or power windows, but it had a cat folder. I didn't even know I wanted a folded cat before I saw this.

Handy for travel, don't you think? Just slip Fluffy into the glove box with the maps or snap her behind the visor. No stuffing her into a cat carrier or allowing her to go crazy in the car on the way to the vet, either. Just run her through the cat folder and pop her into your wallet.

I'm no expert, but I've got to think a cat's going to be really cranky when she comes out of a nice, crisp fold, though.

The Joy of Listening to Books on CD

I've rediscovered the pleasure of listening to books on CD since I've been making the 3.5 hour trip to visit my fiance. My latest listen is "Starter Wife." I've enjoyed the TV series, so I looked forward to seeing how closely the series followed the original book.

Let me just say the book is an F-Bomb arsenal. I don't like hearing that word and I don't like reading it. I know the use of that sort of language is supposed to make the story seem more realistic, but it doesn't work for me. I am almost 50 and know people from all walks of life, from corporate heads to blue collar construction workers and I don't know one single person who uses the word "fu--" in conversation like that.

Anyway, back to my story. So, I was listening to "Starter Wife" coming home from work at the monastery yesterday and stopped for gas. A pickup pulled up to the pump opposite mine and a guy got out.

"What the fu-- are you doing in this neck of the woods?" he asked. (OK, of course he didn't say "fu--." I was just teasing you.)

It was the big brother of my best junior high friend, and I had not seen him in about 20 years. What a pleasant surprise. We chatted about our lives and our families. I told him about my engagement and he gallantly commented that my fiance must be a great guy to make me agree to leave Grangeville.

When the gas pump stopped, I replaced the nozzle and we said our "great-to-see-yas."

I started my pickup and turned to smile and wave goodbye as "...AFTER FOUR OR FIVE BOUTS OF INCREDIBLE SEX, EVERY INCH OF HER BODY..." blared from my CD player and bounced around the gas pumps with abandon.

I think I left some of my back tires as I bolted away.

So, note to the wise: if you're going to listen to books like that, and tend to turn up the volume to be heard over your A/C, turn it down when you stop your vehicle. You never know who is going to be there when you start the engine and the story resumes. Just glad it wasn't Sister Mary Kay or Uncle Bob.

Dirtiest bathroom gives birth to Pump Mitt

On our recent trip to eastern Washington, Molly and I stopped to potty and gas up at the dirtiest little gas station/convenience store either of us had ever seen. And we’ve both been to Mexico, so that tells you something.

Granted, I’m not a big traveler, so my scope of experience is not vast, but when you don’t want to touch the front door and a giant bottle of 409 flashes before your eyes, you know you’re in for it.

There were eight men waiting in line at the counter when we walked in the door using an acrobatic combination of hips, elbows and heels of hands. Eight pairs of eyes turned our way and I felt way too clean, cool, Caucasian and female.

We were in a major agricultural area, so I wasn’t expecting men in business suits, but most of these guys, with their sultry stares, tattooed arms and shoulders, low-slung jeans and multiple piercings looked more comfortable with dealing drugs than with harvesting apples and grapes.

We located the public one-size-fits-all bathroom and peered in. There was toilet paper all over the floor around the toilet and flies camped out on the toilet seat itself. Thick sludge puddled around the faucet. I glanced back at Molly, raised my eyebrows and mouthed, “Nice.”

While I did my business, I studied the much-used “Health Center,” conveniently bolted to the wall in front of me, offering “Rough Rider” condoms for a quarter each. I looked down at the paper-strewn floor, batted at a fly and considered sex with the sort of man who would buy a “Rough Rider” condom in a place like this. It is guaranteed his breath would smell like stale Keystone beer and Jack Link’s Teriyaki Pepper Stick. And I guarantee you, despite his concern for your health, he didn’t wash his hands after using the restroom.

No, thank you, however tempting that name might be.

When I came out of the restroom, multiple pairs of male eyes turned my way. They all wondered whether I’d succumbed to the lure of the Health Center and had a new purchase in my purse. Even though I was innocent, I felt sleazy.

I bought a package of teriyaki pepper sticks and went outside to pump my gas.

It was all I could do to touch the pump handle. Who had touched it last? Where had those hands been? Was there a Rough Rider condom in his pocket?

That was the moment I hatched the idea for a Pump Mitt. Next time I’m in Wal-Mart, I’m buying a big oven mitt to keep under my seat. When I go to the gas pump, I’ll whip that baby out and it will serve as a protective shield against dirty-public-restroom-condom-buyers.

Sure, you can use my idea, too.

And, FYI, the horrid bathroom was in Prosser, on Wine Country Road. In its defense, there was the absolute nicest, most pleasant woman working at the counter. Cleaning the bathroom is apparently not in her job description, but she was nice as all get out.

Think, "Beautiful"

When a woman feels beautiful and sexy, she acts beautiful and sexy. After that, it's a short step to looking beautiful and sexy to everyone else. It isn’t so much the reality of what we look like as it is our personal body image that determines our attractiveness to others.

Haven’t we all seen an overweight woman who exudes confidence and sex appeal? You see her and do a double-take. That is a beautiful woman! Her positive self image is revealed in the way she dresses, her hairstyle and makeup, the way she carries herself and her warm smile.

You study her haircut and earrings. You marvel at the perfectly-applied makeup and pedicured toes. You might even go so far as to wish you had an apple figure and ship prow breasts like hers. What is it, exactly, that makes her so lovely?

Of course it is her self confidence. Although she’s too nice to say it out loud, her demeanor reads: “Out of the way, skinny chicks. Let a Real Woman through. And make the path a bit wider, already! Momma’s got booty! ”

Some women just have it figured out. Until those women start giving free seminars at supermarket deli counters, we’ll have to dig deep, girls. Think, “Beautiful!” when you look in the mirror. Come out from under those loose, sloppy clothes. Walk tall. Paint your toenails. Wear lip gloss to the grocery store. Get a push-up bra. Whatever you do, don’t hide. Be “out there” and be gorgeous.

Strut down the wide path through the skinny chicks. I’ll meet you there!

DANGER: Instantly Slims You

My new Lee Riders jeans practically jumped into my cart on their own. In fact, they met me at the door of Wal-mart. How could I resist that label?

If I was shopping for a new lawn sprinkler, I’d definitely buy the one sporting the “Instantly Slims You” tag. Who wouldn’t?

What about an Instantly Slims You fishing pole? Instantly Slims You tube socks? Heck, I’d buy a pencil that promised to instantly slim me.

Is this genius marketing, or a potentially dangerous weapon of mass destruction?

Think of the ramifications, ladies. We could be led to very destructive behavior with those three little words.

* A one-night stand instantly slims you.
* Maxing out your credit cards instantly slims you.
* Methamphetamine use instantly slims you.
* Voting Democrat instantly slims you. (sorry, donkey friends!)
* Insurance fraud instantly slims you.

The future of our country could depend on the safe use of those three magic words.

Take care, America.

The first day of the rest of my life

OK, people. New plan. You're hearing it here, first.

Exclusive report.

I've been contemplating getting serious about losing weight before my two kids' weddings this fall. I'm just contemplating because I've been on diets off and on for the past 25 years. My desire to be thinner just cannot compete with my desire to indulge my every whim when it comes to food.

Tonight I was driving home with my best friend after consuming my half of a large pizza when she surprised the heck out of me by suggesting that it might be a good idea to get with the program and lose weight before the first wedding on Sept. 12.

I was surprised because Sue and I have fallen into the habit of effectively convincing ourselves that we're jolly, fun and great all-round gals, despite our weight. It's what's on the inside that counts, and all that. And here she was, going over to the dark side, encouraging me to exercise, cut back on sweets and add more veggies to my diet. What gives?

"You always hate photos of yourself, Krista," she said. "Do you want to keep your kids' wedding photos hidden away because you don't like the way you look?

"Besides, think of it as a 'two fer.' You only have to lose weight once for two weddings!"

Of course she's right. I hate pictures of myself. I hate how my face is all puffy and my body is all boobs and belly.

So, after she dropped me off at home, I harnessed up the hounds and took them for a long walk. I highlighted the day on my calendar and vowed to get the majority of my days highlighted for the next three months. I'm formulating an eating plan and am working on my overall attitude about eating and weight.

In the vein of full disclosure, I humbly submit my official "before" photo.

And I need your help. If you see me hoovering down a pizza or buying a Hostess Berry Pie, please knock me in the head with a 2x4. (I'll thank you when I recover consciousness.)

The date bra

Yes, ANOTHER post about bras and breasts. What's up with that?

Just FYI, but if your new bra feels like you’re not wearing anything at all, it probably looks like it, too.

I have a new bra that is sinfully comfortable. For once, I don’t walk into the house at the end of the day with one thing on my mind: Let the girls out!!

I was e-mailing a friend about said new foundation undergarment, gushing in my bliss, when I happened to look down. What the heck? Through my lightweight knit top, I could see bumps and bulges that don’t fit my good girl/grandma panties public image.

A lot of men enjoy the idea that a woman is seconds from coming out of her bra, and that was exactly what was happening. I was spilling out. Depending on what you hope to accomplish, I guess you might say it is the perfect date bra.

The bra was clearly under-equipped for corralling the girls, keeping them lifted and separated and minding their own business. They’d found a gap in the fence and they were tumbling all over themselves on their way to freedom.

After a quick look around the office, I shifted things back where they were supposed to be.

For the rest of the day I was very self-conscious about the date bra. Walking down the hall, I felt like a floozy with my boobs jiggling around like a molded Jell-O salad. I carried papers in front of me and avoided unnecessary trips away from my desk.

Will I return it? No. Will I avoid wearing it to work? No. I’ll be careful about sashaying around the office, but I’ll wear it as a reminder that I need to cut loose and relax more. I may be the good girl/grandma panty type on the outside, but there’s a lot more going on on the inside. I’m way more interesting than I look. For one thing, my grandma panties are leopard print, so there!

My date bra will help me remember that.

Precious moment nipped in the bud

Molly and I were brushing Jigs last night on the kitchen floor–while I was making dinner. Right off the bat, you’re sure you don’t want to eat at my house. That works out since I don’t really like company, anyway.

But it gets worse. We were taking turns “brushing” him with our bare feet. A long swipe down the back produced a pile of dog hair to be picked up and tossed away. It was a very satisfying and companionable activity while we were chatting about wedding plans and making stir fry --a sweet mother-daughter-dog moment.

Maid-of-honor, reception dinner, Molly ran her foot down the dog's back and picked up the hair ball. Tuxedoes, flowers, table runners, I took my turn petting and grooming the dog in the laziest way possible.

As is usually the case when I’m home and not expecting company, I wasn’t wearing a bra. When I leaned over to pick up the clumps of fluffy yellow dog hair, the girls were dancing and swinging over poor Jigs’s head. I’m sure he thought I had a couple of squirrels in my shirt and he couldn’t resist. With remarkable speed in a dog that fat, he attacked.

I’m sorry to report, I got nipple-nipped. I yelped and jumped back. That sort of thing really takes the fun right out of grooming your dog with your foot.

The mood was gone.

I went back to stirring shrimp and asparagus and wondering how a girl would explain a dog bite on the nipple if she had to go to the emergency room. Molly went back to her big wedding binder and To Do list.

Jigs looked around eagerly, wondering where those squirrels went.

Krista's dream vacation

The cartoonist and writer, Barry McWilliams, recently personalized this cartoon for me. I love it!

Want to share a dessert?

Helpful hint to men in the dating world:

Every woman's different, but I think I can safely share two universal red flags that women watch for:

1. He doesn't like you just the way you are.

2. He's a cheapskate.

Therefore, I've come to the conclusion that, on the list of Things to Never Say on a Date, you must add, near the top:

"Want to share a dessert?"

For many women, me included, that question implies A) that you think I probably like dessert too much and you want to encourage me to cut back from now on, and B) you don't want to fork over the extra $5 for two separate desserts.

Both are deal breakers, fellas. Just FYI.

You're welcome.

Mother's Day 2009

Mom was on the phone talking to my brother, who lives in Alaska, so Dad and the kids gathered around her in my laundry/office to get a photo.
(Molly, Betty, Jim, Matt, Mitch)
I love this!

A gorgeous spring day at Shepp Ranch on the Salmon River, Idaho

Last month I went on a jet boat excursion sponsored by the City of Riggins and North Central Idaho Travel. We boated up the main Salmon to famous Buckskin Billy's place, had lunch at Mackay Bar, then stopped at Polly Bemis's ranch and Shepp Ranch on the way back.

Everything was in bloom in the canyon and it was a wonderful, pretty day to be on the river!

Tanning trials

I have entered the world of self-tanning. I love to sit in the sun and I love having a tan to even out the varicose veins and camouflage the cellulite. However, I’ve been watching a little strange spot on my face for a couple of years and it has me freaked out about skin cancer.

When I saw a gushing presentation on the miracles of Faux Tan on QVC, I picked up the phone to order it.

At first I was afraid to try it. The bottle sat on my kitchen counter for a day or two. Finally I remembered the sad truth that no one sees my bare legs these days, and we are a ways away from shorts and Capri weather, so I went for it.

This stuff isn’t like the old-fashioned self-tanner we used in high school that smelled like dirty socks and you didn’t see the results of your handiwork until the next day. Oh no, this stuff smells like dirty socks and you can see results right away.

I woke up in the next morning after nightmares about suffocating at the bottom of a teenaged boy’s gym locker, threw back the sheets to get a look at my lusciously tanned legs… and behold, giraffe legs. The healthy-looking brown, so meticulously applied, had morphed into large, orange-brown blotches.

My feet were a mess. They aren’t my best feature, anyway, but the orange “tan” highlighted my calluses and toe deformities. I immediately thought of a little Aborigine woman filthy dirty from a 6-month walkabout in the Australian outback.

I have 30 days to use Faux Tan before returning it to QVC for a full refund. Do I keep trying it, believing that I’m smart enough to figure this out, or do I return it and admit defeat, sparing myself the possible embarrassment of going to work smelling like sweaty Nikes?

Are the good ones afraid of me?

My dad once told me that guys were afraid of me, and that anyone who wasn't afraid of me just wasn't smart enough to know better.

I hope that explains why I seem to be attracting the bottom feeders lately. That sounds so mean, but you should see these guys. Unshaven, sloppy, shoes untied, shirts untucked, dumb as tapioca, goofy laughs, rancid breath...

I try to be nice because I feel sorry for them, and what does it get me? Twenty desk walk-bys during the day and covert looks of speculation and assessment-- like they are considering whether they should splurge and take me out for Gordita Grandes at Taco Johns after work. One guy even tried to call me but I have Caller ID.

And if they do ask me out, I won't hurt their feelings, so I'll make up some story about why I can't go -- elective surgery, visiting relatives, sudden-onset measles, etc. They'll walk away thinking that I really am interested but I just can't work them in. Ugh. And all because I was nice. When will I learn?

On the other hand, there is a guy at work who is tall, smart, funny and really nice. He ties his shoes, tucks in his shirts and brushes his teeth. I'd go out with him in a heartbeat and I've done just about everything but throw myself at his feet. Does he walk by my desk and cast longing looks at me? No.

I'm hoping it is because he's scared of me, and not because he thinks I'm a bottom feeder. That would serve me right.

Sister outfits

My sister, Kelly, and I took a grant writing class tonight. Imagine my surprise when I walked in and spotted her. We were wearing the very same outfit: white blouse with white tank top underneath, dark jeans, sandals and even a toe ring. Honestly! That has never happened with us before.

We were almost too embarassed to walk into the classroom, but we tossed our heads and sashayed in, pretending we didn't know we were dressed like twins.

That's FRATERNAL twins. And I was born WAY before her and got lots more to eat.

A Friend with Benefits

A friend with benefits. Maybe this isn’t such a bad idea.

I don’t want someone who comes over every single night to wear out the end cushion on my couch and take over the remote control. I don’t want someone who expects me to attend all his family’s gatherings. I don’t want someone whose opinion I have to consider when getting a new haircut, or someone who questions my shaky money management skills.

I don’t want to expect support and encouragement and not get it.

I just want someone to occasionally look across the table adoringly. Someone to spend a sunny Saturday with, geocaching or panning for gold or even fishing. Someone to call when I have a funny story to share. Someone to kiss me senseless and tell me I’m wonderful.

Wanting all those lovely aspects of a relationship but still wanting to keep someone at arm’s length… Have I absorbed an unhealthy dose of testosterone somehow?? Can you pick that up from a public toilet?

That sounds so distinctly MALE. In fact, I sound exactly like the sort of men we single women despise.

What’s next? Spitting in public? Dirty underwear on the floor? Training my dog to get me a beer?
“Pull my finger!”

Husky girls rule

I found this morsel in a 1943 story listing eleven tips on hiring and getting more efficiency out of women employees:

“General experience indicates that “husky” girls – those who are just a little on the heavy side – are more even-tempered and efficient than their underweight sisters.”

I have nothing further to say.

My retirement plan

I wish I’d been more ambitious up to this point in my life.

I had no desire to have a career that was all about making my mark in the world and making a difference. I was deliriously happy to be an at-home mom pouring all my energies into making a home and nurturing three great kids. That was my mark in the world.

I’ve always been satisfied with “good enough,” and while that attitude has allowed me to enjoy a relaxed and contented life, it doesn’t help a girl build her 401(k) or enable her to look forward to her retirement years with any anticipation. I’m pretty sure I’ll have to walk dogs and take in washing to make ends meet.

Other people are in dismay over the state of their 401(k) plans and the money they’ve lost. I lost about $23. That’s less than the late fee I paid last month on my credit card bill.

So, I’ve got my binoculars out. I’m watching for my knight in shining armor. When he appears on the horizon, he’s going to be riding a fat investment portfolio and dragging bag of gold.

Good luck to me.

The power of the Vibe-o-Meter

It’s a friend’s first day of work. Maybe your sister is driving home through the season’s worst blizzard or your best buddy is sitting in the hospital with her ailing mother. There are so many occasions when you want to send warm fuzzies or “Be Strong and Brave” vibes.

Enter the Vibe-o-Meter.

After an initial simple calibration, the Vibe-o-Meter will deliver --with variable intensity—bolstering vibes suitable for any occasion. Perhaps your friend is mourning the death of someone special. Set the dial on HI and she will feel your warm and supportive hug across the miles.

Your son is asking his boss for a raise today, so you set the Vibe-o-Meter on LO, because you don’t want him swaggering into that office like Steven Segal – he just needs a little self-confidence.

A good friend told me her daughter was having dinner with a guy she’d admired for a long time and was very nervous. I told her I’d dust off the Vibe-o-Meter, get it recalibrated and have it ready to go at 7:30. She said, “Don’t turn it on too high. We don’t want her coming home pregnant!”

Ah, the well-known power of the Vibe-o-Meter.

I’ve yet to have anyone phone me from the bar where they’re dancing on the table to ask me to turn the danged thing down, but it does pack a punch. Caution is advised. You don’t want your niece deciding to skip the parachute on her first sky dive because you’ve got the Vibe-o-Meter set on HI and the little minx is just way too comfortable with jumping from a plane.

Next time someone says they are facing a scary, sad or otherwise difficult situation, you can help. And, later, when they report how smoothly the event went, or how confident they felt, you can sniff smugly, shrug and say, “Yea, well, that was probably me and my vibe machine. Just glad to help.”

Behold, the power of the Vibe-o-Meter.

Emily's junior high Mardi Gras dance

My niece is a sweet peach -- although you probably can't tell it from this photo!

She and her friends got together to get ready for their Mardi Gras dance and this is the result.

I remember junior high very well. I felt brave as long as my friends were doing the same thing. Is junior high the beginning of that feeling of "safety in the pack?"

I have to admit that Emily has never been afraid to be her own person.

Watching her grow up is a delight.

Down with night classes

How was my Photoshop class last night? Let me just say, a three-hour night class is not a good time for me to learn anything technical – or non-technical. I start to shut down about 8 p.m. The doors and windows are locked and nothing can get in. Nothing.

Imagine me on a date. A guy’s got to make his suave moves while we’re looking at menus if he wants to leave an impression. Any later in the evening and cleverness is wasted on me.

Last night I felt like a zombie during the final hour of the class. The young whippersnapper instructor led us through a series of Photoshop projects and I was keeping up with everything very well until about 8. In the middle of the last project, I made a mistake and erased everything on my screen. I stared blankly at the screen. Fudgebiscuits.

Then apathy set in. I stifled a yawn.

Instead of asking for help to get restore the project, I just sat there and pretended I was done with it. I allowed myself to look around the room smugly, in fact, just to complete the illusion. I knew there was no point in getting help because my brain already had its jammies on and was starting to wash its face.

Sue glanced over at my screen. “Are you done, already?”
“No. I erased it by accident,” I hissed.
“Why don’t you –“
“No,” I said, shortly.

She peered at me, saw the Zs circling my pupils, and mentally handed me a fuzzy blankie.

She's a good friend, that Sue.
ZZZzzzzzzz

A teeny morning adventure

I was standing in my dark kitchen this morning, filling the coffee maker, when I happened to look out the window over the sink. There, hovering just above the arborvitae shrubs outside, the big full moon and wisps of silvery clouds were caught in a patch of silvery sky. I was entranced. In the cold dark morning, it looked magical.

I dashed out into the 12-degree darness in my jammies to start my pickup. Inside, I grabbed my camera, the first dribbles of coffee and my coat. My heart was beating like a snare drum. I was going to drive out of town and sit in my warm pickup in my comfy jammies, drink the first cup of coffee of the day and watch the moon set. It was going to be lovely and I couldn’t wait to tell everyone about it.

When I got outside to my pickup, I found all the windows iced up. Fudge. I looked around the side of the house…moon was still there. OK, so I quickly scraped little holes in the ice and jumped in.

Somewhat speeding down my sleeping street, I looked west at each intersection to make sure the moon was still there.

Before I got out of town, however, which is only a matter of three minutes, the silvery moon was gone.

I turned around and came back home.

Was I disappointed? A tad. But, mostly, I was happy. I was happy that I am the sort of person who will jump in the rig to go watch a moon set at 5:30 in the morning. I was happy that I live in a little town on a prairie, so that experience is possible.

I was happy to be me. In this life. Right now.

Danger of middle-aged learning

Maybe it is just because I’m 48 years old and learning a lot of new things after years and years of thinking I know everything. I’m learning how to blog, how to manage a Web site, doing a lot of writing and learning how to be successful at two new jobs. Sometimes I feel as though my brain is actually swelling. I’ve been periodically checking the mirror and everything looks the same, but I’m feeling unmistakable pressure.
Any day now, I expect my skull to split under the pressure and sort of mushroom. I hope my hair still fits when that happens.
Hey, think of the fringe benefit: All the wrinkles around my eyes and mouth will be pulled taut as the skin expands to accommodate my larger brain and skull!

Get Out of Day Free card

You know how sometimes you wake up feeling rested and fine and then you remember what is on your plate for the day?
Maybe it is something truly awful like going to court, or saying goodbye to someone special or moving. Maybe it is starting a new and challenging job or getting through your last day at a job you love.
Maybe you’re feeling fat and all your pants are a size too small. Maybe you used self tanner over the weekend and are somewhat stripey.
Maybe you’re just feeling crappy and don’t have any enthusiasm for the duties ahead of you today.
Whatever your excuse, serious or trivial, I have something for you: a Get Out of Day Free card, courtesy of Pig in Flight. (You are quite welcome.)
This card practically requires that you stay in your jammies and scuff around your house all day, take frequent naps, watch old movies and not answer the phone.
It will permit you to step out of the world temporarily to rest and regroup and should be used without guilt. In fact, guilt will cause the card to melt and render it valueless.

Enjoy!

Rose hips on Kooskia Tram Road

Don’t worry, I’m OK now, but it was a close call. After some bed rest and a little TLC from my friends and family, I’m expected to make a full recovery from the trauma I endured as a result of overexposure.
On Thursday night I attended a basketball game out of town. I know, I know, what was I thinking? The invitation was innocent enough, but the situation got out of hand and I ended up having to sit through more than five hours of college basketball. Overexposure to Sports.
My travel companions insisted on going early to get a good seat, so we were there to take in the women’s game, too. I haven’t been to a basketball game in years, so I was unprepared for the big old sloppy floppy long shorts. The home team in their white jerseys, especially, looked like they were running up and down the court in their jammies. And the girls acted so tired from the very beginning of the game, like they were exhausted and ready for bed. I’m sure they would have been more energetic if they weren’t wearing pajamas.
After the women’s game, I was ready to spend the rest of the evening bellied up to the snack bar. I’d had all the basketball I needed for the rest of my life. But I gave it a chance and the men’s game was great. I was mesmerized by the players’ skill, stamina and speed.
We were there to watch a particular Carroll College player, Christopher Kaschmitter. He’s from Grangeville and I’ve known him most of his life. He’s quite good, so it was a pleasure to watch him, big old sloppy shorts and all.

The game took me back to my own college days, specifically the 79-80 school year, when I was a cheerleader for Lewis-Clark State College’s men’s basketball team.
Don’t blow a fuse trying to picture it. I didn’t look like I do now. Ironically, I thought I was fat in those days. I hope I don’t look back at THESE days and wish I was still that “skinny.”
Games weren’t played in the snazzy new LCSC Activity Center back then, however. We played in a rickety little old gym that was old even when my mother attended school there in the late ‘50s. (She was a cheerleader, too, by the way!)
This new facility is wonderful. Plenty of light, space, great sound system, benches with backs, snack bar featuring sausage dogs – the works. Surprisingly enough, though, they have not yet started on the shrine to the 79-80 cheerleading squad. There is an empty glass case, and I’m sure that is where the shrine will be located. Watch for the grand opening.

Gem found on Twitter.com

“If I’m ever really going to get serious about running, I need to find some sense of urgency.
Who wants to chase me with a knife?”
-- fistsoffolly

Napping in a patch of sun

If this doesn't make you want to have a dog like Zoe or BE a dog like Zoe, you need your head examined.

Chat Pack to the rescue!

Have you seen Chat Pack? It is a little box of conversation starters. I found them on the counter of a darling tourist-buster boutique in McCall, Idaho, called Razzle Dazzle and they hopped right over next to the book and candle I was buying and came home with me.
Each little green card has a question and the idea is for everyone to answer it, thus sparking some conversation, hence the term “conversation starters” Duh. Where have you been?
Examples:
If everyone were required to wear hats at all times, what sort of hat would you wear?
If you had to describe your personality in terms of a farm animal, which animal would you choose?
If you could have been there to witness any specific moment in sports history, what moment would you choose?
The Chat Pack could be fun at family gatherings, around the dinner table, in the classroom or on car trips.
I was thinking Blind Dates.
So, I’m in Applebee’s, sitting across the table from a man who is growing less attractive by the minute. I have my Interested face on, but I’m trying to read the lettering on the poster across the room and wondering where the lady in the next booth got her cute purse.
My date is droning on about how he could show his boss how to turn the company around. Oops, he’s done with that. Now he’s saving up to put lifts on his pickup and get new bad ass wheels that will make his rig look sweet. Heart, be still.
Chat Pack to the rescue. I deftly whip open the box and extract a card.
“Butch, which month of the year do you feel best describes your personality, and why?”
Blessed silence.
“Check, please!”

Migrating overactive hair folicles

I used to have to shave my legs every day. Now I forget to shave for days and days. Okay, shut up. I realize that COULD have to do with the fact that no one's seeing and caressing my legs nowadays, but that's another story. Anyway, I wonder when the overactive hair folicles migrated from my legs to my chin?

If you hear me whine, just walk on by

Sing to tune of Dionne Warwick's "Walk on By:"
If you see me walking down the street
And you hear me whine each time we meet,
“My bra’s too tight! My bra’s too tight!”
Make believe you don't see the tears, just let me breathe.....

I should buy a new one, I know, but they have to be special ordered from a tarp and tent outfit.

I keep thinking I’m on this big diet, so pretty soon I should be noticing a difference in the fit. I mean, the boobs are the first to go, right? So far, though, the four pounds I’ve lost have come from someplace else – probably my neck, the only body part that actually looks good because the wrinkles are filled out.

Working from home, my dress code barely includes panties, so of course I skip the bra completely. My dogs have come to recognize me even without my boobs entering the room a couple seconds before I do. Now they compete for lap space, though.

Don’t go assuming I’ve thrown propriety out altogether. I haven’t become one of those emancipated middle-aged women who refuse to wear a bra, even in public. (Sometimes you wonder why they bother with a belt buckle if no one’s going to see it, don’t you?) No, I keep a bra slung over the front door knob so I can jump into it if the door bells rings or I have to run to the store. No sense in shocking people with nipples on my hips.

Until I lose at least 10 pounds, don’t be surprised if you catch me with an unguarded grimace of pain. Just avert your eyes and walk away slowly. The girls are struggling to get out of the elastic-and-lace torture device and it’s all I can do to keep from flinging it off right in the middle of the produce section.

Sunny day on the Camas Prairie

A couple of weeks ago I was driving around the prairie on a gorgeous blue-sky day taking photos. Whenever I saw something expecially pretty, I jumped out of the pickup and went into Ansel Adams mode.

Coming back to the pickup from a particularly pleasing photographic excursion I noticed that my lips were actually numb and I couldn't remember my hands ever being so danged COLD. They felt cold to the bone. When I got in the pickup I checked the thermometer my son gave me for Christmas: 19 degrees. That's not horribly cold. Why was I so chilled?

After the next romp out through a pasture in my tennis shoes I jumped into the pickup and turned up the heater. How could I be so cold? It had warmed up to 29. Practically shorts weather.

Then I looked more carefully. (fat AND blind) Oh. It was 2 POINT 9 degrees. Before, it had been 1 POINT 9. OK, now, that IS cold. I'd better put on my gloves and button my coat.

Should I be let out alone???

Don't admit to affinity for NASCAR

Here’s a shout-out to all the men on match.com:

Do Not… I repeat, Do Not include “watching NASCAR” in your list of hobbies.

Honestly, fellas, that’s like bragging about picking your nose at stoplights or letting your niece braid the hair in your ears. Do you have a toenail clippings collection? Do you spit tobacco into empty beer cans and leave them sitting around?

The image of you zoned out in front of the telly for hours watching cars make left turns….NO. Total deal breaker. Trust me.

And, that said, don't wear your favorite NASCAR pit jacket on your first date. There are women who enjoy NASCAR, I hear (but don't believe), but by and large, women see NASCAR as something to be overlooked in a man, like involuntary farting while asleep or ignorantly eating mounds of garlic and onions on a date, thereby curbing any desire I might have had for a kiss or three.

Of course, wearing the NASCAR jacket is like a full disclosure thing. If I'm meeting you at a restaurant and spy the jacket, I could turn on my heels and scoot right back to my car before we say hello. That would thereby avoid all sorts of heated discussions about toilet seats and underwear on the floor in the future.

Cupcake marathon

I did something yesterday that I bet you’ve never done. I spent the morning in a monastery kitchen baking 500 cupcakes for a wedding reception.

My best friend’s son got married in Vegas last month, so Sue is having a reception for them next weekend in their hometown. Kevin was opposed to having a big reception, but Sue knew all the relatives (a.k.a. the entire population of their small town) would expect a traditional Greencreek “do” to christen the new marriage and initiate Jeana to the family.

So, Sue talked her son into a Party instead of a Reception. What Kevin has forgotten about his mother is that she always gets what she wants, and no one ever called her Simple Sue. The Party will have big band music, alcohol flowing freely and a catered dinner for about 250 people. Hmmm. Sounds a lot like a wedding reception, doesn’t it?

Kevin didn’t want a big fussy wedding cake, so Sue offered the idea of cupcakes. Cupcakes definitely whisk the event out of the Wedding Reception category and place it in the Casual Party section.

Kevin wanted things simple. And what’s not simple about a tower of 500 decorated cupcakes? His father and grandfather built the tower out of Plexi-glass, and Sue organized a cupcake-baking marathon in the biggest kitchen she could find. Another lady is going to frost and decorate each little cake.

Yes, indeedy, cupcakes are MUCH easier and less fussy than a big wedding cake. Yes, sir.

And that’s how I happened to find myself making cupcakes in the monastery kitchen yesterday.

I arrived at the Monastery of St. Gertrude on the hill behind Cottonwood, Idaho, at 9:00 Saturday morning and let myself in at the laundry door. Two or three sisters were doing their weekly washing and ironing, and one of them led me to where Sue was getting the kitchen ready.
Throughout the morning sisters popped in to say hello and see what we were up to, drawn by hen party laughter and the sweet aroma coming from the bakery. Sister Carlotta offered to help, and we took her on board immediately.

It was a fun and busy morning! Sue was the official cook, putting together the ingredients for her secret cake recipe. Her daughter Maureen and Sister Carlotta carefully filled muffin tins lined with pink and white polka-dotted cupcake papers, 9 dozen at a time.

Since I proved early on to be hopelessly sloppy with the cake batter, I was put in charge of the baking. During the 25-minute segments of baking time, I leaned expertly against the huge ovens and oversaw the flurry of activity. Oh, and I repeatedly checked the baking progress, causing at least 250 of the cupcakes to be concave. Sue couldn’t kick me off that job, too, so she just kindly pointed out that a lot of heat escapes every time I fan the damned oven door. She suggested that I trust timer.

When the timer went off, we all scrambled to get the cupcakes out as quickly as possible, with me operating the reach-to-the-back stick. (The baking chairman gets to use the gadgets, of course.)

Throughout the morning we planned a cupcake business franchise, reviewed the Super Bowl commercials, dissected and examined Maureen's new boyfriend from Argentina and laughed and laughed. By noon, we had finished baking 500 cupcakes, and joined the sisters for a delicious lunch in the cafeteria.

What a lovely morning! I hope Sue’s other son and daughter choose to have Parties instead of Wedding Receptions, and that I’m included in the ensuing cupcake marathons!

(Photo by Sue. L-R: Me wielding the reach-to-the-back stick, Sr. Carlotta and Maureen)

New site!

Check out my new Web site

www.letsgoforaspin.com

Celebrating the people, places and lifestyle

of North Central Idaho

Don't forget to add it to your favorites!

****************************

The captivating smile

I got an e-mail from a match.com guy this week. And girlfriends, that is big news. Guys on match don’t initiate anything. They don’t wink, they don’t e-mail…they just wait for the women to make all the first moves. I’ve had maybe four initial e-mails from match.com guys all year long.

Excuse me, what’s that? You and all your friends get e-mails from match.com guys all the time? Your Aunt Mavis in the nursing home can’t keep up with responding to all the winks she gets?

Oh.

This is how it works. You scroll through all the profiles and someone catches your eye. You have the option of e-mailing that person or sending them a wink. When you choose the wink, they get an e-mail from match.com that says, “ScrumptiousKitty just winked at you!” Then they have the option of winking back, responding with an e-mail or, the most popular option of all, Delete and Forget.

So, I got this e-mail from montanateddybear:
I’m on my way out the door to take the kids to the movie, but I just wanted to tell you that you have the most captivating smile. I imagine you get a lot of attention with that wonderful smile.

Naturally I had to recheck my profile photo to see what was so captivating. I also ran to the bathroom mirror and checked my grin under the lights. Captivating? Hmmm. That might be a stretch.

I pulled up the guy’s photo. The best mullet you can manage with bald. And long hair. And an earring. And he’s from Montana. Bet he wears Birkenstocks with socks and has Save the Wolves stickers all over his Subaru Outback. But he had very nice eyes and a sweet smile and I liked that he had a master’s degree in education. His profile was well-written and he sounded like someone I might like. I was already planning to bring my barber kit to our first coffee date.

So I e-mailed back:
Thank you for the very generous compliment! It made my day. What movie did you see?
Tone meant to be friendly and encouraging, but not desperate, possibly sounding like I still have oodles of complimentary e-mails to get through before my date tonight.

His response the next morning:
We saw Hotel for Dogs. It was OK. Pretty good for kids, though. Good luck finding someone to share that wonderful smile of yours.

Well, then.

I guess I can put my barber kit away.

Things that make us smile

A dachsund puppy named Pickles

A nap in a patch of sun on a cold day,

especially if your name is Pickles

Laughing until your stomach hurts.

(Wait. Are those abs?? I have abs?)

A warm, gooey brownie

(Hence the issue with abs.)

The sound of rain on the roof.

The smell of ripe wheat on a summer evening

Getting a surprise discount at the checkstand

Kittens at war with a piece of string.

Quail.

What makes you smile?

There's always hope, and you can get it on auto-delivery

I know what you're thinkin' and I'm thinkin' it, too. Philosophy makes "hope in a jar" for your face and "hope in a tube" for your delicate eye area. Why not....?

I think we've got something here, ladies.

A shiny new apple in the old produce section

This weekend, while the rest of you were playing and being irresponsible, I was busy reading match.com profiles and looking for the next subject of the Pig in Flight, Inc. Emergency Makeover.

The line of wannabees goes around the block, downtown and then doubles back, girlfriends. So much NASCAR, so many Harleys, so many “toned and fit” guys looking for toned and attractive women to take to exotic places, share gym memberships and kick back enjoy a cold one in cozy out-of-the-way dives; so many tank shirts on men who shouldn’t be wearing tanks; so many sleeveless tees, knit shorts and beer cans; so much gray hair foaming out of unbuttoned shirts.

Oh my. I’m considering hiring on additional staff. The cries for help are overwhelming; I’m only one soaring swine and there are only so many hours in a day.

Imagine my delight when I spotted the photo of a normal-looking guy. He was balding and had twinkling blue eyes like he was caught in the middle of a great laugh. I clicked on him and looked at the rest of his photos. Very normal – no “sexy” leers, no golden eagles nestled in gray chest hairs (it’s OK if they have it; it isn’t OK if they think it is a turn-on.), no beers balanced on bellies…Just a guy playing with his dog, standing with his daughter at her graduation, picking up shells on the beach and at his kitchen sink washing dishes. (Is that really playing fair???)

And his profile was well-written, too. He sounded like someone I’d really like to know. He likes the kind of music I like, is well-read and likes to do the same sorts of things I like to do. He spoke of physical attraction but said that an intellectual and emotional connection were the basis for any real and lasting relationship. He was funny and I got the impression he is confident enough that he doesn’t need to lie on his match.com profile. He knows he’s a good catch.

Again, I couldn’t resist. I had to e-mail him:

IDGuy,
Finally, a guy who isn't featured in the lobby of the post office. I have to tell you that reading your profile made my afternoon and restored my hope. Wait. I think I might actually be smiling. Yes, I am.

Your well-written profile and photos are the shiny, crisp, in-season Red Delicious apples in the otherwise old and mushy produce department of match.com at the moment.I'm sure I speak for all the women on the site when I say, "Thank you, IDGuy."

Naturally, I was absolutely sure he was going to take one look at my stellar profile and gorgeous photos and call match.com to cancel his membership before packing an overnight bag and heading straight for Grangeville to claim the woman of his dreams.

Naturally, I was mistaken.

Thanks for the kind words. At our age we should know exactly what we want and don't want. I've met some "interesting ladies" through Match, yet I'm still looking....go figure. : )Best of luck with your search.

Call me stunned. How could I be on someone's "don't want" list? Is it possible someone is conducting an Emergency Profile Makeover on moi???

So I had a couple handfuls of M&Ms and got back to work. That’s what I get for trying to mix business with pleasure.

Coolin' my dogs

A couple of days ago I found myself in a town with a mall. Although I wasn’t wearing proper supportive footwear for shopping, and knew I’d pay for it, I was like a little kid who can’t resist seeing if a bean will fit in his nose. It was calling me.

I didn't stop shopping until I was starting to actually limp and then I drug my huge, swollen tender dogs to the pickup and called it a day. They whimpered all the way home, “I hope you’re happy. Walking and standing around on cement floors for hours and all you have to show for it is a picture frame?! I hope you’re proud of yourself. After all we do for you...” Whimper, sniff……

I didn’t sleep well that night, waking frequently to the burning and throbbing of my feet. I dreamed that Al Gore had traced Global Warming right to my size 11s.

The next morning I added insult to injury by walking on the treadmill. Imagine the yelping and howling as my poor feet carried 300 pounds of blubber for 30 minutes with no destination. “What?! We’re still here? Half an hour of pounding and we’re still here??”

The dogs were BARKIN’, Baby! What my feet didn’t know, though, was that while I was torturing them on the treadmill, I was hatching a stellar idea.

Before I settled at my desk for the morning, I scooped snow from a snow drift in my backyard and filled a dish pan. I put the whole shebang inside a garbage bag, put on socks and invited my dogs to hop in and settle onto the cool decadence. Oh yea….the dogs were smiling then.

My last thought before falling asleep last night was, “Oh goody, I get to do the snow-in-the-dish-pan thing again tomorrow!” My life is quite full, isn’t it?

The only thing that is somewhat spoiling my bliss is the awareness that spring will come. Where will I get the icy answer to my dreams then? Anyone know of a used snow cone machine I can get for cheap?

What's that? I could use that piggy scoop for ice cream? You don't say. Hmmm. I'll have to try that sometime.

Emergency Profile Intervention

It might be safe to say that I’ve been a member of match.com too long when I start writing to guys and giving them tips about their profiles, just to help out.

About once a week I go on the site, click on Search and troll for single men within a 100-mile radius of my town. It’s a sad business, let me tell you. But that’s another story. There are a number of guys who appear every week, of course, and they’re starting to seem like old friends. They’ve been on match.com as long as I have and I’ve become curious about how they’re holding up with the whole mid-life dating thing.

The profiles indicate the person’s match.com activity, such as “active within 24 hours,” or “online now,” etc. When I see that one of my old friends' profile says, “active within 3 weeks,” I know he must be seeing someone and I am stupidly pleased for him. If it is 9 p.m. on a Saturday night and it says, “online now,” I think, “Poor desperate sap, I hear ya.”

One guy in particular, LonelyinLewiston, keeps changing the main photo on his profile and that amuses me. He’s trying everything, like the fisherman who is always switching lures, never leaving the hook in the water long enough to get wet. I noticed he had posted close-up photos of his mouth and his eyes. I couldn’t help it. I had to e-mail him and ask what, "What the heck??" A brief but cheerful exchange of e-mails followed.

Recently there was a whole new group of photos on his profile, like his TV was broken one evening and he didn't have anything else to do but stage a photo shoot. Naturally, I had to e-mail and comment. I had quite a lot of free time on my hands recently, so cut me some slack.

He explained that he is trying to find a “killer photo.” He also asked whether I’d noticed that he shaved his goatee and he thought it made him look younger and what did I think? I said I liked the goatee, and he should consult me before making any other changes. He said he was thinking about dyeing his hair and his mustache, was trying to lose weight and was taking dancing lessons. What did I think about that?

Oh, heart be still! A request for advice from a man AND a time-wasting job to do. Life is good.

This is a copy of my response to LonelyinLewiston:

Oh, good! A job for the Profile Advice Patrol. I have my official hat on. Where's my security ID?

Since I'm not sure of the type of woman you're after, my task is complicated. I'm going to put women into two categories and offer advice for attracting each. Normally there would be a fee for this extra effort, but I'm feeling generous this morning.

If you want to attract the sort of woman who laughs at nothing and then doesn't get jokes, spends 2 hours on her hair, is unrecognizable without makeup, refuses to do yard work or anything that will ruin her nails, cannot carry on a conversation beyond the latest People magazine, has a name like Sissy, has 5 credit cards maxed out and is all show in public but a cold disappointment when you're alone:
By all means, dye the hair and goatee, lose the weight, get a pair of shiny black cowboy boots and a thick gold necklace. Leave your shirt unbuttoned. An earring would be perfect, too. Oh, and post a photo of yourself just out of the shower wearing only a towel. There are a lot of those on match.com. And in your profile, mention your annual trips to Cancun, your Porsche and your home in Palm Springs, whether true or not.

If you're looking for a real woman who has a brain, is funny, is a good companion whether you're camping, working in the yard or attending a concert in Spokane, looks like herself whether she's dolled up or not, can talk about anything you want to talk about, and loves to turn it on just for you:
Be happy with yourself. Don't worry about extra pounds unless your doctor says differently. Don't dye anything. Grow the goatee back since you obviously enjoyed having it for 10 years. Be the best you, inside and out.

Think carefully about who you want to attract and go from there. Let me warn you, though. If you choose Bachelorette #1, expect a long relationship with match.com.

On a more practical note. Whether you're on your way to buy hair dye or not, try a photo without the jacket, wearing the blue button-up shirt. You look good in blue. It brightens your face and accentuates your eyes. The blue shirt with a friendly smile would be a killer photo. Can't wait to see it!

This concludes the emergency profile intervention. Good luck! -k

LonelyinLewiston’s response 2 days later:

K - Thanks for all the great advice….you are very funny and have a gift for writing. However, to confuse things (especially me) I think I am looking for a woman with some characteristics of both categories. Physical attraction is huge for me. I know….I’m bad, bad, bad. I want a woman who wants to look great…and does, but also one that is fairly intelligent, financially responsible, willing to get dirty on a 4 wheeler or sweat a little in the yard, can be a blast in public and is wonderful behind closed doors too.

I guess I want to look physically good too….at least as good as I can. It’s easy for guys to kind of let themselves go in their 40’s ….gain weight….not dress well….not take care of hair, etc. Then, when you are single and looking…you find you need to pick up the pace a little. My ex always liked me in blue…….brings out my eyes she said too. So, I should be listening…… I will try and get a new pic on.

Yea, so LonelyinLewiston is a lost cause, honestly. He didn’t get the sarcasm and is probably already admiring his gold chain in the mirror while he does a home dye job on his hair and beard. Probably has NASCAR blaring on the big screen TV in the background. Dreamboat.

I’m going to have to give up on LonelyinLewiston. Cut him loose. Acknowledging the truth is the first step toward change, and he clearly isn’t going to get there without a 2x4 on the back of his head. And I don’t know where he lives. And that might be considered a misdemeanor, anyway.

But there are thousands more on match.com who need Emergency Profile Intervention. Who’s next? There’s a guy who says, “No offense, but fat girls shouldn’t bother contacting me.” While that is very insulting, it is also a crystal-clear glimpse into his shallow personality, so he’s doing us women a big favor. Dare I e-mail to find out whether ANYONE is contacting him at all? I’m just dying to find out.

He's one who definitely needs my services. One of So Many...

The roller-coaster world of match.com or Why you should hang onto your husband

I’ve been a starry-eyed devotee of http://www.match.com/ for an entire year. That should tell you a lot about me and my stubborn insistence on the happily-ever-after scenario right there An entire year of repeatedly checking to see who’s looking at my profile, who’s new, who’s winking at me, and so on. I study men’s profiles seriously, looking for the ones who seem normal and who seem to be looking for someone normal, as well. I read with an open mind, usually having to dip generously from the Benefit of the Doubt jar, which is my specialty.

Sometimes, however, a profile jumps out at me and restores my faith and interest in men. Justagoodguy is attractive, seems bright, has a job, plays the piano and is a voracious reader. He’s looking for a stable life partner who is willing to connect on a deep emotional level. He loves dogs and children and the simple things in life like sitting on his deck with a cup of coffee and watching the sun come up. He’s not into the bar scene and prefers quiet evenings at home with his lady. If he includes “full-figured” or “a few extra pounds” in the list of qualities he likes in a woman, I’m picking out my trousseau.

Those moments of bliss are usually short-lived, however.

I bravely send Justagoodguy a short friendly e-mail, expecting it to be received with equal feelings of “Ah ha! Finally!”

And then I wait. Finally I shut the computer down and go to bed. Nothing from Justagoodguy in my Inbox the next day. Or the next. A week goes by. Maybe he’s on vacation. Two weeks pass without acknowledgement of my symbolic extended hand.

By then my disappointment has turned to anger. If he isn’t interested, why not respond with a simple, “No thanks.” Or, do like I do when I get a wink or an e-mail from someone I’m not interested in: Lie. I say, “You seem like someone I’d like to know, but I’m pursuing another relationship right now. Thank you for your interest in me. Good luck in your search.” A polite and inoffensive acknowledgement of their expression of interest in me. It’s just common courtesy. Maybe the guy gets so many winks that he doesn’t have time to acknowledge all of them. Or maybe he just doesn’t have any manners.

I delete Justagoodguy from my “Favorites” list with a loud Click and push the Search button to look for other possible matches within a 100-mile radius of my home.

Oh! Here’s one! LMG1955 is a professor at a local university. He’s 6’3”, has been divorced for seven years and is tired of living alone and craves the sweet companionship only a woman can provide. He has a lot to offer the right woman. Loves cuddling on the couch in front of a roaring fire on a crisp fall evening…