The Interview

I had an interview next to Carnegie Hall at 2pm yesterday. As I rushed off the subway, I realized how out of place my linen, summer suit would be in the context of an audition at Carnegie Hall--in a city of such diversity of thought and lifestyle, we're so absorbed in how we live our lives we seldom stop to think of how the other 8 million live.

My interview was at a staffing agency and it had the feel of a TV set broadcasting what NYC agencies are like to the greater world. Don't you love how TV sets expectations--unrealistic ones, but they are trend-setters nonetheless.

Cafe Rafaella

I met an old high school friend for coffee yesterday afternoon. He's doing well--recently quit another publishing job to follow his passion and WRITE. He finished ghost writing a novel and currently writes book reviews at $2/word! Isn't that A LOT? So he gets paid to read new books and meet the people that wrote them. How cool is that?

Incidentally, he is also Lauren's ex boyfriend from late high school through college and into the New York years. I'd introduced them to one another and set them up on their firt date to a school formal. They've both moved on--living with their new significant others in separate cities--still friends. That's functional. I guess there was about five minutes where that was the case for V and I too--but I haven't gotten to that place since the last one and any faith I have that I will dwindles when I think about him...

It's so good to see someone who was part of the fabric of your youth and has flowered into a happy, healthy adult independent of your influence. We shaped one another, albeit peripherally, and it's comforting and happiness-inducing to know that we can always pick up where we left off--because the years keep rolling by but our mutual affection for the others well-being grows without watering.

Still Drowning

In Apathy!

I've discovered that the career for me entails a combination of "friend-making" and presenting a prepared speil. As per my conversation with David King of Careers for Women Inc., I've learned that being a client manager at a large staffing firm and pursuing a career in recruitment at the levels above recruiter would be the best fit for my presonality and life goals. The salary for such a post ranges from $200-350K per annum including commission--not to mention the expense account.

It's sales of the highest order--selling people. Now, it's not like the slave trade, these folks want to be traded and the people who are being sold MAKE good money. Executive search firms are a booming industry and one where women can achieve the work-life balance that is critical to creating and maintaining a family. Not that I want a family, but I sure love the idea of having the time to spend good money made by moi.

Day-T

Is it called a date because it originally took up the whole day?

I spent Sunday with a man who I wish I could be attracted to--yet try as I might, I can't fabricate it. We had a late brunch at Ulysees, followed by bubble tea in Chinatown, a screening of A Scanner Darkly at The Sunshine Theater, a jaunt through the village whence he bought me a flower (I promptly decapitated said flower as I gesticulated wildly entertaining him with my banter), and walked home through Tribeca.

Incidentally, A Scanner Darkly is a dark film! Go figure. The premise isn't complicated but it is presented in a manner that lacks clarity--I'm certain that's on purpose--and I'm not a Keanu fan but I definitely recommend a trip to a theater near you playing this flick. Surprising to see Robert Downey Jr. in a film about drugs. Though I'm still not sure if it was anti-drug propoganda or merely a portrait in the life of druggies at large.

Weekend Warriors

Saturday night in light of no better plans, Tommy and I packed two flasks--one with dark rum and the other with margarita mix (the only mixer we could find in our bare fridge)--and began a walk from our apartment to Washington Square Park. We stopped at each subway stop to take a swig out of each flask. We walked and talked. We sat and bitched. We finally got to the Park and sat for a while watching a scruffy boy punch the keys of his iMac, a group of gangsta types freestyle rap, and screaming undergrads race past scurrying rats.

Not an ideal date night but that's what these two poor singles did on a Manhattan Saturday.

Staycation

When you stay put but take a vacation from work--you staycate!

Looking at my life--a constant staycation--I realize that I regret not traveling more. The last trip I took worth mention was to Prague in January and given my current monetary state I am not planning another trip anytime soon...it makes me sad.

Precious time is ticking by...my youth flowering--no longer a bud--which means wilting then withering are just around the corner. What next?

Wall Street Subway Stop

There exists a labyrinth connecting the JMZ to the 4/5 Wall Street stop. It was a surreal experience as I followed a grey-haired gentleman down the yellow brick road. I accidentally hopped a downtown train in my effort to make haste onto the Uptown track--this led to my journey underground.

The whole time this was happening, I kept thinking I was going to be trapped undergrond and never see the light of day again. Melodramatic--I think not!

There was a good deal of construction going on, so the workers kept looking at me dubiously but they couldn't very well reprimand me after letting the aged man before me pass. I finally stopped following him when I got to a deserted, wide, yellowing tiled hallway that led me to a populated train stop.

Sometimes Life Shits on You

I'm not usually a beacon of tact/taste/class, but I would definitely not rank myself as lacking therein. Yesterday, I overstepped the bounds of all such measure by making a conversational blunder which I fear will haunt me till I can rectify it with a particularly clever comeback or other conversational victory.

That said, my day went to hell in a hand-basket when I stopped at Baluchi's in the village to pick up dinner and was covertly slipped a card by the lady working the counter. It was a card for HerbaLife and the words, "I was 210lbs. once don't be ashamed. My boss would be angry with me if he knew I was talking to you, but just call me." Mind you, this was not a fit woman or a particularly thin woman--she weighed at best 10-15lbs. less than I do--which does not give her the right to point fingers at me. I was not as appalled to the level one would imagine.

I had to fight the urge to throw away my Kerala Crab Curry and scurry to the subway, but after one whiff of the contents of the package and a grab of a full handful of my belly fat, I held my head high and skipped to the Astor Place stop to ride the 6 home. The reflection of my profile in passing mirrors affirmed it--thin I am not, but fat is a term I'm not ready to ascribe, mainly because as long as my breasts far outreach my gut, I'm good with it--I'm doin' alright.

Helen can vouch for the fact that Indian people will do the most inappropriate things in he most public places and I don't just mean pick their noses and examine the contents--I mean they will say things to you that are so blatantly rude with a nonchalant, well-meaning smile. You can't get particularly angry--as Helen frequently did on my behalf as we traveled through the motherland--because they do it to everyone and truly they think they are helping. However misguided it gives credence to the idiom--"The road to hell is paved with good intentions." I think those Brits came up with that one after a trip to the Hind.

In the context of the day I was having--not to mention the current apathy in which I am drowning--one would think a comment like that would really bring me down but I realized my skin was thicker than that. I've survived a fair share of insults being hurtled at me--no matter how tame a sorority at Hopkins may have been, they are still girls en masse raging against the dying of the light!

Anyway, the moral of the story is that STICK AND STONES MAY BREAK MY BONES BUT WORDS WILL NEVER HURT ME.

Alright so words can always hurt me...like the time I was in 8th grade and Norman shouted, "Your moustache is thicker than mine!"
Lexi, my enemy saw the tears prcik my cheek, so he piped in with, "Dude, don't you think that's worse for you than her?"

Time is Tissue

There were some choice quotes I wish to share from my jaunt to Regal Theater to watch Snakes on a Plane, yesterday.

"I've had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane."
"Do as I say and you'll live."
"Time is tissue."

Apparently there was a contest in which regular Joes submitted lines for the film--the winners had their line to added to the movie and had the joy of seeing it on the big screen. I wonder what kind of funny fellas submitted the above.

There was one gratuitous sex scene in the vein of some Mile High Club action--leading to a snake bite in the boob--let me tell you I CRINGED! There was a classic, man peeing leading to the requisite penis bite; sleeping woman who gets venom in the eye, and so on and so forth.

Overall, the film lived up to my expectation of a solidly good BAD movie. Yes, Trace I will continue to enjoy the lowest levels of entertainment. I don't judge you for your high brow stakes don't judge me for my low brow endeavors.

3 Snakes

IN my quest to prepare myself for Snakes on a Plane, I did a little internet research on the three dangerous snakes I was most curious about...here are the facts that I found most interesting and wish to share:

Anaconda
A type of boa (which means it constricts or squeezes its prey to death) is found mainly in South America but the name comes from Tamil attributed by the Sinhalese (Sri Lankans) "Anaikolra". These snakes are non-venomous but use their large jaws which are loosely hinged to swallow their prey whole, irrespective of prey size. They live about 30 years in the wild and give birth to live young after a gestation period of 6months. Primarily found in the Amazon and swamps of South America, these water snakes get as long as 30 feet and weigh as much as 550lbs. They tend to lie submerged in water with their eyes above the water's edge. They are prone to ticks and leeches attaching to their bodies on land, but in water they release a chemical which keeps these natural annoyances at bay. These large snakes can spend up to two years digesting a BIG meal. Makes you wonder why camels got the prize in the popular idiom of animal fasting.

King Cobra
There are plenty of varieties of Cobra but the King Cobra interested me the most as I was almost bitten by one as a young child spending her summer in a village in the South of India--my sweet pomeranian, Rueben met his death barking at my defense...he was a sweet fluffy bundle of white love and unlike Luckey NEVER gnawed at my digits--but I digress. King cobras build a nest for their young and both parents take turns guarding the eggs (20-40 are laid and take 60-90 days to hatch). They live to be about 20 years old. Unlike most cobras, the king cobra is aggressive and raises his hood ready to fight in a confrontation. He senses his enemy with flicks of the tongue gauging temperature and feeling the vibrations of sound on the ground as he slithers about. The fascinating aspect of the king cobra that illustrates why he is KING is that he can spit his lethal venom up to 1/2 the length of his body with accuracy. A single bite has enough venom to kill an elephant or 10-13 human beings. That said, every bite is not venomous--the cobra can choose whether or not to inject his victim with his venom. Baby cobras are called hatchlings while a group of cobras is called a "quiver"....just the thought of it has me a quiver. They are found in Southeast Asia and Africa.

Western Diamondback Rattlesnake
Rattlesnake
While there are a multitude of varieties of rattlesnakes--in the US alone Sidewinders and diamondbacks are the predominant types but others exist as well--they all share the common trait of the female carrying the eggs inside herself and once they hatch live snakes abound. Rattlers develop a rattle each time they molt (shed their skin)--this may occur up to three times while they are growing for the first 3-4 years but slow to an annual rate as they age. Rattles can also break or fall off over time so counting rattles is not always the best measure of a age. After 7-10 days in their mothers' vicinty they break away to find food--the little rattlers are born with all the poison they will need to survive--though most don't make it past the first few months dying of starvation or preyed on by birds. They hibernate through the winter in dens which tend to be crevices in the rock. Even in the spring and summer months when they awaken they don't venture much more than a mile or two from their dens. They rattle to warn approaching others of their presence--heed the warning and RUN the other way.

Islands like Ireland and New Zealand as well as frozen areas like the Tundra are void of snakes, but almost every part of the world had a variety of snakes that call it home. The tropics and warm climates with moisture are particularly popular in the serpentine community.

Facts aside, from Greek mythology (Medusa) to Hindu folklore people have been fascinated by snakes as long as they have coexisted. Snakes are an enormous part of Indian culture...particulary the king cobra who is left milk and believed to be an incarnation of Shiva--the God of regeneration and war.

You weren't expecting to learn something today--were ya?

Waiting...

We've all been there--sitting by the phone waiting for it to ring or buzz or vibrate. We've all picked it up as it sat silently to verify that it does IN FACT work. Why do we do it?

There's always the theory that it's a media-induced act--we've all seen that scene on TV, in a movie, as part of a reality show.

Another theory is Hope. Hope in the human condition--hope in that other person--hope that your love/the spark/connection you feel is requited--hope that there is a God and he's going to answer your prayers. Ok, maybe that last one was pushing it too far...but we're banking on hope.

Or maybe, just maybe it's a masochistic need to cling to a notion created in a moment of hopelessness. A weakness in our DNA that keeps us believing that someone who has long let you down will not let you down THIS time. Or an idea that someone you have a gut feeling of "bad news" about really is good news and it's your instincts that are off--how ridiculous is that? Years of your instincts steering you well and some stranger comes along and you're ready to put all your faith in them and disregard your gut entirely.

Circadian Rhythm

I've been going to bed between 4am-6am and waking up between 11am-2pm...flipping my life upside down.

The drinking has gone for weekly to daily. I keep thinking it's part of my job--social planning requires socializing--but I'm beginning to see that I've just been avoiding my life. Shirking responsibility and shunning adult behavior to wallow in the adolescent dreamscape portrayed in 13 going on 30. Strictly PG, but definitely not G.

This stops next week when I officially interview for a job in campus recruitment--it's time to step up to the plate--I can't vacation from real life forever yet I know I will be back. My life is segmented in patches of responsibility with sojourns in post-pubertal fantasy--free from the concerns of financial security.

Lovebirds

I went through two weeks of contemplating the purchase of Peachfaced Lovebirds. Apparently they don't need to be bought in pairs--it's a myth--if you buy just one they will bond to YOU (the owner) more than it would if it had a partner in its cage.

In lieu of turning my home into a menagerie I've decided against said lovebird ownership. There was also some concern that Luckey may interpret the bird as less of a pet and fast become a threat to poor Tweety.

Standing by WTC

The Namesake

I finished reading The Namesake a few weeks ago and ever since I've been trying to hand the book over to someone with whom I can discuss the novel. Sadly, Tracey claims she has begun so I can't pawn it off on her for a quicker discussion date.

Tommy won't read anything that doesn't have to do with stocks, poker, american history, jewish history, or sports (be it atheletes or atheltics). Bah. But he did read The Alchemist upon my insistence--sadly he was high at the time--so no discussion could follow.

I'm very close to assign it as required reading for one of the boys I'm currently dating--how fun a date would that be? It's a book club of two.

Phoenix

I'm not usually a cat person, but how ADORABLE is this kitten?

Tracey, unlike me, goes photo crazy with her kitty Phoenix!

Private Terrace Party

Friday night, I had a few friends over to my diamond dealer friend's penthouse apartment in that foggy area between Hell's Kitchen and the UWS.
Here's a great shot of DC K, Lauren, and I with the classic westside backdrop.

Shout Out to Tom Tom!

Tommy assembled my chest of drawers--they'd been sitting half done in my room for weeks when we'd abandoned the crude shell and perfect drawers we'd created from particle board and tiny tools--as an impromptu surprise late last week. Now, I have no excuse for the horrific mess my room remains.

Tom also aided me in shampooing Luckey this evening for his bi-monthly bathing rituals which will be instituted moving forward between visits to the groomers. I can't bear the sight of a drenched Luckey--he looks remarkably like a rat and it creeps me out to a degree that diminshes my love for his doe eyes peering up at me.

Last week as Tom Tom prepared for his third date with cute girl--dinner at our apartment--he made an extra serving of chocolate mousse just for me because I rave every time he creates it--from scratch. Tom's one of those cooks who makes everything form RAW materials and without a microwave.

So...Thanks Tom. I love livin' with ya and I greatly appreciate the big and little things you do with and without me asking you. Big love!

Dating

Here's a pic of Jeff and I he took on his camera phone at Ulysees last week...you can't tell he's 6'9" in this photo, can you?

The Real Thing

A few weeks ago, as I was clearing out my mom's house--she bought it after I graduated from high school, so it's hard to feel like it was the house I grew up in--I stumbled across love letters, poems, phone cards, e-mails, paper cards, and photos from my time with V. It made me feel loved. It made me feel real. It reminded me that at some point someone had loved ME that much. I'm not the most emotional person, especially for a woman, but I teared up and finally had a good cry when I stumbled across the faded wedding band and certificate of marriage we'd been issued at Spring Fair by a Hopkins authorized judge cum religious figure played by someone a year or two our senior. I cried for me and I cried for US, but I didn't cry for him because he's in a good place: working a stable job, living in a solid house, driving a safe car, and dating a girl who loves him with the might his love exudes. V's love, for me, will always be the real thing; the barometer by which I stake every claim.

Today, as I was flipping through a scrapbook from the tail end of 2004, I re-read a card and found some photos of my New York X--I've hardly spoken of him here--I haven't had much to say because I haven't been ready to say anything. The truth is everything I'd ever wanted to say to him I've said a million times to him. But looking at the cards and e-mails (he traveled a lot), I realized something. Something that is the basis for why we broke up. He loved me. In a real, tangible, heartfelt way--he loved me. I was so busy super-imposing his love on V's love, I never noticed that in his way, as best he could, he loved me. That's all we can every ask of anyone, Lord knows that's more than we deserve from someone. As I type this it becomes more real. I spent a long time missing him, wanting him back, and crying over him--I spent even more time mourning the loss that was loving him. Today I'm ready to talk about it. His love was real. It may not be what I wanted at the time or what I could have lived with in the future, but that he loved me, really loved me, is enough in the present.

So, the thing I wanted to tell you, Zayan is this: Thanks for loving me. I'm sorry for the way some parts of myself expressed themselves to you and I'm sorrier for the parts of myself I kept from showing you. I never did give us a real chance and now we'll never know what could have been--but I'm grateful for what we did have. I still don't think there is anyone out there in this great big world who can swim in my brain the way you seem to...I really wish we could be friends--real friends--let bygones be bygones and such.

I grew up in flats, condos, townhouses, and condos--maybe that's the draw to Manhattan, small spaces always made breathe easier.

Luckey Ducky Love Bug

Tracey calls me routinely and poses the question, "Do you love Luckey?"

Now, brave soul that I am...I have difficultly answering this question in the affirmative. It's not that I don't love the little guy, it's just that I find it hard to declare my love for a creature that bites and fights me incessantly.

He's hardly irreplacable--yet if anything were to happen to him, I would be quick to get myself a duplicate love bug to numb the pain of losing that precious puppy face and inquisite doting eyes, not to mention his pristine pallored fur.

It may not be him that I love, but I sure love the unconditional love and affection he represents.

Tommy will attest to my daily shouts of "Luckey Ducky Love Bug" in a fine British accent...that's gotta count for something!

Cheating Hearts

Off late, I've noticed a trend in girlfriends' whose eyes wander...girls who've been with their boyfriends upwards of two years are finding themselves with a 7-year Itch.

I remember going through something similar with V. After a few years go by, you forget what it's like on the outside--in the land of singles--you want to flirt and be desired, but you have no recollection of the sleaze and solitude.

Human nature, neither friend nor foe but most certainly getting us in troue...

Snakes on a Plane

The Samuel L Jackson movie--which is reminiscent of Anaconda and it's equally superfluous sequel--is an inside joke my ex and I share...we've been back on track with the emergence of this film's trailers and various blogposts.

I think August 18 may lead to a trip to the theaters--I'm weary of calling it a date...but what else can a girl term smuggled samosas and a flask in a theater with an ex-boyfriend?

A

A from 2002-03 has been joined with a whole new A in 2006.

What the A's share besides their brown skin and investment banking roots is a predisposition for treating women like crap and an ego firmly embedded in a culture of selfishness. Yet I find them irresistible.

What is it about Indian Investment Bankers that turns me on--without fail? It's the asshole who is upfront about being an asshole...I'm a sucker for honesty even in the disrespectful.

Neil

There is a sexy man in my tennis clinic...his name is Neil.

I would say he didn't know I was alive, except that would be a lie. He picked me to be on his team and frequently teases me--in a non-malicious way--whilst cheering me on. I can't tell if it's sportsmanship or a lingering interest but he hasn't made any effort to see me off the court...two weeks down, four to go. IF he's going to make a move...it's Love Love.

Phoney Insurance

Today I learned the benefits of insuring your cell phone.

Due to the reality that I am a paragon of precaution, I have never invested in phone insurance. Today when my phone fell victim to water damage, based on the faulty closure of a Fiji water bottle, I paid the price for not paying the meager $5.99/month to ensure a damage-free life.

I found myself pouting at the Verizon store on B'way in Union Square lamenting my fate of phone failure to an unsympathetic clerk who advised me to buy a new phone for $129. I rejected his offer and took the plunge--purchasing a silver Razor for $289 and adding a series of ringtons (Promiscuous Girl and 21 Questions) to my need for Ace of Base's The Sign, 50-cent's PIMP and In Da Club coupled with Nelly's Ride Wit Me (my anthem).

For someone who is unemployed, I sure am blowing some serious mulah.

Remi

Rosie and I had a falling out a few months ago surrounding an incident I still don't fully understand. I was on a date with Dr. Aidan--I insisted she join us for a drink at Sin Sin--upon her arrival, Aidan on my implication insisted I was cuter than she....she flipped out and departed never to be close to me again.

I saw her at my mom's wedding where we pretended nothing had ever happened and a family friend of ours, Remi, took an instant liking to her actress persona and has been hounding me for her number. I tried e-maling her and cc-ing him on an e-mail to her but no response. I think her point that she is, in fact, cuter tha me at least in one man's eyes has been adequately proven yet she eludes me in contact.

Remi in the interim has been stalking me, in the pretense of rental real estate advice, to attain Rosie's digits. I've been nothing but accommodating and sincere but my patience wears thin as his antics show transparency. He's a sweet. young guy who barely realizes he's but a pawn in Rosie's game to prove herself to me. How unfortunate.

Diamond Dealer

A few years ago, I responded to a post on craigslist for the position of social planner to a diamond dealer in Midtown's famous diamond district. I worked for him sporadically in '03 and '04 disappearing into the fog of banking when my lottery number was called.

On Sunday, I got a call from my former party part-time employer. He's on a mission to fill my post, this time with a wing-man, and he wants me to handle the interview process. I was flattered and stunned by the impeccable timing. My dealer has always been generous and compassionate...particularly now, I needed his kindness to bide me through this hour of financial need.

The rest of this week you will see me at B Bar, cosmo in hand, interviewing men from all walks of fashion to be the right hand to this mogul's social schema.

Shreeman Sisters

I had an interview at Shreeman Sisters earlier this week for an Associate Recruiter position. I think this is the logical next step in my disorganized career...a position in corporate America that requires boozing and exclusivity. Talk about the culmination of my sorority experience with my impending liver disorders--a match made in Hell.

I usually excel at interviews. This particular one the result of networking at my tennis clinic with a fellow student who is a Campus Recruiter at Shreeman.

However, this particular interview was a disaster. The recruiting manager was far from impressed by my lack of knowledge on the recruitment process and my uncertainity surrounding my career prospects. My would-be colleagues were civil and silly--at once laughing at my jokes and knowing that their opinions were secondary to management.

While I was impressed by their towering office building in Times Square and captivated by the uniformity of the feminie dress code, I know I won't be called back for another round at Shreeman Sisters--much to my chagrin. C'est la vie. Que sera sera.

How rude!

Gary and I were at brunch at Sapore in the Village as per a recommendation by Jo and Ken--as well as my keen-ness to enjoy a meal at this particular quaint venue--when he was rebuffed by another patron. Apparently he was being loud.

Now, Gary is the OPPOSITE of loud. A mild mannered Asian...he was horrified at this slander. We spent the bulk of the meal with him reverting to shocked commentary and wild gesticulating behind the back of the strange, foreign woman (who was undoubtedly nursing a hangover) that had had the audacity to rebuke him.

It's curious how one reacts to statements that question the basis of who we think we are. It was riveting to see Gary's reaction to the incident as it unfolded.

Subway Scare

A few nights ago, Jo and her boyfriend--whom she recently moved in with--were traveling with me by subway from Park Slope in BK to Fulton St. in Manhattan after Lauren's housewarming party. Seems everyone in sight is moving in with a boyfriend these days.

Anyway, as we rode the 2/3 crossing from Brooklyn to Manhattan a rail thin black man with his requisite du-rag began screaming at Ken. Apparently he was under the misconception that Ken was staring at his sleeping girlfriend's exposed cleavage. Jo tried to jump in and dissolve the situation, "I was admiring her dress," she claimed. The fine man was having none of that, "You can look as much as you like, but he better keep his eyes to himself," he bellowed.

I stayed out of the matter but couldn't help but feel responsible sitting on that side of Ken that required him to turn his cheek away from Jo toward me and the drunken couple when he addressed me. sigh.

Ken was a picture of composure. We felt his brow stiffen and his muscles tense but he didn't pick a fight. It behooved him to maintain his calm--who knew if the jealous boyfriend had a gun or a knife. I was alarmed by this display--but I couldn't help but think in a similar situation how V would have reacted.

Knowing V as I do...the man would not only NOT have backed down from a fight, he would have started one up over the ridiculous notion that he could have looked at another woman when I was present. Of course, no such thing had ever happened so there is no real way of knowing but it is this exact brand of recklessness that dropped my head over my heels for V. He's not that guy anymore...or maybe he is--I wouldn't know. All I know is that Jo was glad, and so was I, that Ken was the kind of mild-mannered, composaed adult as to let it go.

51

My mom turned 51 yesterday...

In the last few weeks she's remarried, moved from her 4-bedroom house in rural NJ to a 1.5 bedroom house on a lake in NJ, and begun a steady descent into retirement. It's been an eventful year for her--wish I could say the same.

My whole life it's been my mom and I; but now she has a husband. A man I will never refer to as Dad or even introduce as my stepdad--this much I know for sure. I have nothing against the guy. He's your typical pot-bellied, middle-aged, former all-American athelete but he's Jewish--by birth if not by choice. They met at a singles ministry at church so he's clearly a convert which is very much to my mother's liking.

I was surprised by the lack of resistance my grandparents exercised on this matter. I suppose in some respects they are glad. My mother is remarried at 51. Her new husband has no children of his own. He is a home-owner and he's self-employed. He's a Christian. Really, what else is there?

I can't help but wish things had worked out with her last boyfriend--a nice, Indian man in good health and a father of two grown daughters. He'd been a part of my life more than any other man. To this day, when I hear the song, "Butterfly Kisses" by Bob Carlisle it's his face that comes to my mind. Alas, it was not to be and my mother is Mrs. Winter.