This just in...

I did it. I got the new haircut and LOVE it.

UPDATE: Per requests, here's a photo from just this minute as well as the look I was going for. Close enough, no?

New direction?

Maybe it's because of the recent drama, but I'm beginning to crave change, perhaps a new direction in my life and lifestyle. The last 12 months in Germany have been a wonderful holiday. I've lived a slow-paced, leisurely existence, which was free from hustle, bustle, and any real commitments aside from feeding my pets and keeping a straight and humble abode.

It's been nice, but not necessarily good for me. I think I've become lazy, accustomed to doing what I want, whenever I want. I've let myself go a little because there hasn't been any real reason to...let' s say... get that regular manicure and pedicure. Most days, I don't see anyone except Charlie and Max, and they seem pretty ok with me sans the frills. And since I've been trying to get pregnant the last year, dieting hasn't been a viable option. Besides, someone told me at carrying a little extra weight was not bad, because estrogen is stored in fat cells.

Oh! Excuses, excuses...

Fortuntately, I need not look too far ahead to find the change I crave. Our move to Barcelona is only a couple months away. I could use this opportunity to shake things up in my life.

My first consideration is where Max and I might live. Do we look for housing outside or within the city limits? When I was pregnant, I felt impelled to look for a house with a garden in a neighboring town, not unlike where I live today. But I find when I live remotely, I don't make the effort to get out, explore, socialize, and do what I should to stimulate myself. And so, I am now contemplating life in the big, crowded, noisy city, where I must force myself to get dressed, get out, if only to walk Charlie to the elusive grass patch.

Is any of this making sense? I guess what I am wondering is whether I should listen to these urges and go for the life that I want today or do I continue to hold back a little and make decisions based on the life I hope to be living (complete with a baby and a white picket fence) someday?

Lord of the Rings

In my case, the old adage proved true: Love finds you when you least expect it.

I wasn't looking for my next great love because I mistakenly thought I'd already found it. I had taken up salsa dancing a couple years earlier and fell hard for its sometimes sensuous, always complicated, moves and upbeat tempo. It became my passion and addiction. I spent thousands of dollars on lessons ( a futile attempt to improve) and danced till the wee hours of the morning four nights a week.

On Thursday nights, you could find me at the Red Room, a tapas restaurant every other night of the week, but a Latin hot spot on this night. The thought of actually meeting someone, let alone a non-salsa-obsessed dancer, seemed out of the realm of possibility. I knew everyone who showed up on Thursday nights...

or so I thought.

I was dancing with one of my usual partners when Max walked in the door. Our eyes met, but he continued to his table, where a number of Latinas awaited him. I, on the other hand, continued dancing. Given the setting and his companions, I mistakenly assumed Max was also Latin, perhaps Puerto RIcan or even Cuban.

After a night of fierce dancing, I made my way off the floor to rehydrate. When I got to the bar, I looked down to find a cocktail menu and, instead, noticed a ring on a man's hand. The emblem carved on the ring, for me, was unmistakable--Alexander the Great, the young, famous Greek general, who had ruled the known world and led Greece to it's golden years until his untimely death at 34-year old. He was a Macedonian and hailed from the same part of Greece as my father.

"Oh, wow. Alexander the Great," I exclaimed. I looked up to see whose hand I was admiring, and there stood Max.

"How do you know that?'" he asked, clearly surprised to find someone who recognized his hero.

"Because I'm Greek."

"You're Greek?" Max seemed a little surprised that I, a blonde hair, blue eyed Salsera in North Carolina, claimed Greek origins, but he happily pounced on our common interest.

"I grew up in Greece," he continued.

And so, a new dance began...

Ice cream

The first time I ever heard someone describe me and Max as an "interracial couple," I stood up a little straighter in a moment of surprise. Of course, I knew that Max's pigment was darker than mine--sort of the color of Häagen Daz 's Cappuccino Commotion ice cream with a hint of cinnamon, while mine was more like your run-of-the-mill vanilla--but, in truth, I had never thought of us as different from one another.

Perhaps this is because, to me, our similarities have always stood out far more than our differences. The essence of who we are as individuals-- our attitudes toward important issues, world views, priorities, interests, likes, and dislikes--are, fundamentally, the same. Almost from the moment we met, it felt as if Max and I were one. And I suppose it surprised me to realize this oneness didn't radiate outward so as to be evident to strangers.

The man who first called us out as "interracial," wasn't doing so in a derogatory manner. To the contrary, he, an African-American, and his Latina wife spotted us in a line of people waiting to go on a four-wheeling excursion in Grand Cayman. And because we were the only other interracial couple, the pair decided Max and I would make suitable companions for the duration of the tour. It was an odd feeling to be singled out for such a reason, but I think it made them feel more comfortable. And regardless of the whos and whys, we enjoyed a lovely day and made new friends.

However, their obvious wariness toward same-race couples reminded me of a conversation I had twenty-five years earlier, when I was just a teen. At the time, I had caught the attention of a young man, who happened to be black. My parents liked my friend immensely, but father discouraged me from dating him because he worried about the reaction of other people. Dad said that while he didn't oppose interracial couples, many other people did. As a result, life for those in mixed marriages was so much harder. And while the conversation didn't completely stop me, it did give me pause for thought. I grew up believing that there was a built-in barrier, an inherent complication, for interracial couples,making life more like an uphill battle.

It's funny how life turns out, isn't it? Little did dad or I know back then, but years later I would be introducing an Egyptian man into our family. And despite initial concerns and reservations, my parents ended up loving the man I chose almost as much as I did.

Also, as it turned out, my father's perceptions about interracial couples weren't so black and white after all--at least not for me and Max. Perhaps it is a sign of the times, but we have never once felt stigmatized because of our relationship. We've never even observed a sideways glance in our direction. Day to day, our marriage is far from an up-hill battle. Instead, we cruise along on a nice, even slope.

Even though Max and I come from different races, cultures, and religions, our life has not been soured. It's been oh so sweet--like a vanilla and cappuccino ice cream sundae with extra whipped cream and a cherry on top.

Dreaming

I woke up at 10:30 this morning, yet I hardly feel rested. Admittedly, it's been a hectic few weeks. Yesterday, Max and I said good bye to our 16th visitor since July. We also just returned from another whirlwind trip. And even though I paced myself like a responsible adult, Oktoberfest proved to be an overwhelming experience.

But none of this is the root cause for why I am so tired. The last several days, my sleep has been anything restful because my subconscious mind has been busy producing all-out theatrical and suspenseful productions.

In other words, I've been having a lot of dreams lately.

Sometimes, the dreams are short, but intense. Friday night, for example, I woke both Max and myself up when I screamed out loud after dreaming I had been walking in dark, narrow alley only to be seized by a madman. On Saturday, I jumped up in bed and started to shake off hundred of imaginary spiders that were crawling on my body.

Other times, however, my dreams are more complicated and seem to run on forever. Last night, Max and I were on a boat with, what turned out to be, a Doomsday cult convinced the world was coming to an end. And when we decided to try and sneak away and find a safer passage, the David Koresh-like leader ordered a manhunt to find us. Apparently, Max and I knew too much about the group and jeopardized their ulterior and sinister mission.

Yeah, it has sucked being me (and poor Max) the last several nights. With each dream, I can point to a real-life, innocent event or conversation, which sparked the subconscious, late-night explosion in my brain. But I also think my dream life is more active when I need an outlet for the underlying stress I am feeling.

Recently, I have been feeling stressed out--not because of anything going on in my life per se, but because of current events playing out on the world scene. I worry, for example, about the state of the world financial markets, wondering why, all of the sudden, there is an urgent need for a 700-billion dollar bailout. What is really going on? What isn't the government telling us? More importantly, if this plan doesn't work, then what?

I also think I am suffering from self-inflicted, post-traumatic stress over this year's election campaign. I download every political podcast I can find even though I am often outraged by the political punditry, divisive tactics, and outright lies that are passed off as fact. Moreover, a few times a days, I find myself browsing political blogs and news websites looking for the latest revelations or poll numbers. If I don't find a way to curb my election addiction, I probably will not make it to November 5th.

And then again, maybe the real problem is that I have too much time on my hands.

Whatever the causes, I am in desperate need of peaceful and easy night's sleep. Aside from turning off both my computer and television, do you have any suggestions? And while you're at it, tell me whether you have an active dream life? What's the craziest dream you remember?

Because That’s How I Roll

This week, I have been pondering unity, or rather, disunity. There is so much of it in the world, a person only needs to turn on his or her television to be reminded of it. Especially during a political season, disunity is so apparent. In the U.S., thoughtful and passionate people identify themselves as either Democrats or Republicans. The country is eagerly divided between red states and blue states when, in fact, it’s actually colored hues of violet.

But, political ideology isn’t the sole instrument of division and the problem isn't limited to the United States. Religion, race, gender, nationality, sexual orientation, educational and economic status have, for generations, been used to separate people from one and other.

And, I can’t help but wonder why it has to be this way. Because that’s how I roll.

I have my theories, of course. I believe many find it easier to hate than to love. It’s also easier to quickly throw our hands up in confusion, than take the time to understand something different, or to demonstrate fear rather than courage.

By choosing to cut a person up into categories--black, white, Muslim, Christian, Jew, gay, straight, Democrat, Republic, man, woman, poor, rich, native, or foreign--rather than seeing him or her as whole, we are being weak-minded and following a path of least resistance.

I don’t have to agree with a person in every way to be his or her friend. People don’t have to come from a similar background, share a faith, or live a particular lifestyle for me to value their existence. I wouldn’t want a world full of people just like me because it would be as interesting and beautiful as a monochromatic rainbow. And while I don’t turn a blind eye to stark differences between peoples, cultures, and ideologies, I believe in looking, first and foremost, at what is shared and common.

Because that’s how I roll.

Acceptance doesn’t mean agreement. Tolerance doesn’t always equal condonation. All I strive for is respect and understanding. It’s really not that lofty of a goal.

I support thoughtful and vigorous debate, but to disagree without being disagreeable. I believe my own truths as well people’s right to have and believe in their own truths. Rather than see the world in terms of black and white, I much prefer a pleasing sepia tone or any shade of grey. Unfortunately, I’m not seeing much grey matter-- figuratively and literally--in what is presented in the media, from the pulpit, and from world leaders these days. And I can’t help but hang my head in embarrassment and grieve for a better, more united, world.

Because that’s how I roll.

Things I don’t remember (but wish I did)

The name of the first boy I kissed

How to knit

The bubblegum wrappers I once collected in the hopes of sending away for a camera

What the news was like before the advent of cable TV

German vocabulary

The lyrics to “Louie Louie”

What I ever saw in Leif Garrett

Star Wars before the prequel

How to make a strawberry shortcake martini

My grandfather’s voice

The first time I tried ice cream

Your turn! What are some things you don’t remember, but wish you did?

Got My Groove Back

I feel as though I’ve been away from a computer since forever.

Between Jules’ visit and trips to Rome and Athens, it’s been a hectic, but joyous, two weeks. Remember when I told you I had lost the “wow factor?” Forget I ever mentioned it. I’m still buzzing from the sights and sounds of the last couple weeks.

However, I don’t think it was the new geography that impressed me as much as it was the quality time with good friends and my Max, who was able to accompany me on both trips.

Rome and Athens were more than just a way to spend vacation time. In both cities, I met some of my husband’s lifelong friends. I got the opportunity to see his old elementary school yearbook, hear funny stories from his college days, and order a shake at his favorite high school hang out. Max also drove me by his childhood home in Voula, a coastal suburb of Athens.

In just a few short days, I was able to get a glimpse of my husband from days gone by. It was not surprising to hear from his friends that, even as a young person, Max displayed the same joy, warmth, and integrity, which I have also witnessed over the last three years. Finally, I got to see Athens, a city I have visited before, and Greece, a country where I have roots, through his eyes. And I could understand why he loved the time he spent there so much. I wish we could have stayed a little longer.

But all good things must come to an end. Max returns to work, where he faces a hard couple weeks and I am going on a hunger strike—for real this time. Needless to say, I ate my way through Rome and Athens. It was impossible to do otherwise because the food was delectable. I am also happy to stay I have probably staved off aging for a few years. After sampling ample quantities of the wine of Italy and ouzo of Greece, I am sufficiently pickled.

I'm done with over-doing

Despite its negative connotation, I, for one, believe in being a little self-indulgent. On occasion and when it doesn’t hurt another being, indulging in your desires, passions, and whims without restraint can be a therapeutic experience.

I remember with great fondness the period in my life after divorce, when I let my pendulum unabashedly swing left for about a year in order to bring myself back to center.

My 10-year marriage had been incredibly difficult. Dean, my husband, slowly and inexplicably developed mental and emotional problems, which, after year 8 of marriage, was finally diagnosed as Bipolar Disorder. In periods of mania, Dean would go on wild spending sprees, racking credit card debt in the tens of thousands of dollars on trivial things like baseball caps and psychology books. Moreover, his aggression came out in many ways. He totaled his car, he lost three jobs, he’d would disappear for days on end without explanation. After 9/11 Dean flew to Ground Zero without my knowledge and was arrested for criminal trespassing. And, when he finally came home, he threw me out of the house and called his mother, a registered nurse, who promptly had him hospitalized.

Life was horrible, to be sure. Yet, I never seriously thought of leaving my husband. I could no more divorce him because of mental illness than I would for a physical one. After all, what kind of person would that make me? It didn’t matter that I did not love this man as my husband any longer. Dean hadn’t touched me in five years, and the loneliness was palpable. Still, I believed in the guiding principle of agape love, a godly, self- sacrificing love, which told me to stay in my marriage because it was the ‘right thing to do.’


Even after he was correctly diagnosed and properly medicated, my husband did not return to me. And after a few more years, of Dean going on and off his medication, I inadvertently discovered he was having an affair.

The discovery offered me the greatest relief. I could finally justify to God and my family grounds for separation and divorce. And after all the years of pain and struggle, my husband and I broke up on good terms, remaining friends to this day. Every time we speak, Dean thanks me for what I did to support him during our marriage, and tells me, if the situation were reversed, he could not have done the same for me. But, I already knew that.

In the wake of separation, I started to become resentful of all the years I had wasted because I had foolishly equated putting one’s self first as being selfish and ungodly. Subconsciously, I made it my aim to right the imbalance that had been my life and spent a year pursuing my desires.

I rented a room from a girlfriend, paying her a year in advance. Then, I spent every penny of income and every moment of life pleasing me. I went to five countries in one year, acquired a wardrobe that would make Paris Hilton envious, regularly visited the day spa, dated whoever and did whatever I pleased. This was my year of saying yes, without restraint, and it was the best time in my life until I met Max.

Even though balance has returned to my life, there are still moments and areas where I am self-indulgent. Over the last few months in Germany, back home in the U.S., and during vacation in Italy, food has been my vice of choice. And just as was the case during my year of saying yes, I haven't regretted one delicious morsel or minute. However, my ever-expanding waistline tells me that it’s time to say good-bye to self-indulging and say hello to self-denial if I am ever to get into any of the clothes from my fabulous wardrobe again. And even though I have yet to step on a scale, I guess I have about 15 pounds to lose.

That’s right, people. I’m talking the dreaded four-letter word

…D-I-E-T.

The self-indulgent party is over and the pity party has just begun.

Ugh!

The clinic

Forty-five minutes in a nondescript waiting room afforded me ample time to experience sense of surrealism. In all my life, I never pictured myself here--a center for reproductive medicine.

Like an expectant father at his first appointment, Max waited anxiously by my side. This appointment was important to him. He understood the risks dating a late-30 something woman with a less-than-stellar medical history. But in the end, he decided that I meant more than any chance at fatherhood. And for this, I felt I owed it to him to be sure.

Even though this was only a consultation, I came prepared with the surgical records from the multiple myomectomy I had undergone in 2004. Before the procedure, my uterus was the size of a woman in her 14th week of pregnancy. I wasn't pregnant, but carried sizeable, twin fibroid tumors instead. And even though the surgery to remove the unwanted went well, I felt certain that with the tumors also went my chances at motherhood.

"Not so," said Dr. Mulvaney, a 6'4", 350-pound OB/GYN with hands the size of baseball gloves. I knew the minute I saw him that this was the doctor who had delivered my friend's second child. There could only be one doctor in town with mitts like those.

"Based on what I've read in the surgical notes, your fibroids were located on the back of your uterus and probably didn't affect the cavity," continued the good doctor, his kind but booming voice revealing island roots. "We can run a test to be sure, but I don't see anything that suggests you couldn't get pregnant or carry a baby to term."

Max was about to do a victory dance, when Mulvaney thwarted the celebration.

"The real concern is your age," he said. At this point, Ms. Mandy, you're racing against the clock. As he explained the fertility statistics of women over 40, I could feel Max doing calculations in his head. We had 10 months before my ovaries exploded.

After deciding on a course of action--a couple blood tests, an ultrasound, and Hysterosalpinogram for me, and a sperm analysis for Max-- we left the clinic completely overwhelmed and a little discombobulated. And before we made it to the car, Max started second-guessing our plans for a fall or winter wedding.

"Maybe we should move things up?" As Max began undoing all the plans we'd made, my heart began pounding as certain ambivalences I feel about motherhood rushed through my veins. In all his excitment, Max unintentionally had me feeling backed against a wall. But instead of a defensive posture, I broke down in tears. We drove the rest of the way in silence. And after arriving home, I crawled in bed and took a two-hour nap.

Later that evening, Max apologized for his behavior.

"I don't want to be the only one who wants this," he said.

"It is not that I don't want to have a child with you," I replied. "I feel as though we already have a lot ahead of us. We have to get through telling my parents about this relationship, preparing for a wedding, and moving to some unknown foreign country. I can't imagine setting up house, negotiating our new life together...and starting a family. It would be too much for me."

Max said that he agreed and completely understood my feelings and fears. We would leave plans unchanged, and take our chances. "The time has to be right for both of us," he said reassuringly.

I felt comforted by our conversations. And even though we have no immediate plans to try to get pregnant, I have decided to go through the fertility testing suggested by Doctor Mulvaney. In the meantime, Max will learn more about his future job responsibilities and our relocation, and I will (hopefully) get a better handle on my fears and ambivalence toward motherhood. Despite Max's reassurances, I understand that time really isn't on our side. It's the 9th inning. Even with Dr. Mulvaney's golden gloves and Max's excellent coaching, I'm still standing in the batter box and looking at a full count.

It's me-day not v-day, silly!

Most of my past 40 Valentine's days were anything but romantic. And, so you know how bad it was at one particularly low point, I will share this tale from Valentine's past.

Back in the day, Franklin County High School, my alma mater, accepted floral deliveries for students on Valentine's Day. Given the fact that our county-wide school boasted a population of over 1500 students, the administration had to make two or three 20-minute announcements (cumulatively an entire class period) for the purpose of requesting that floral recipients drop by the administration building. Trust me-- Valentine's Day was the one day during the school year when you wanted to hear your name on the loud speaker followed by the words, "Please come to the principal's office."

On Valentine's Day it seemed like every female student, even the otherwise unpopular, received flowers...sed one. Every year I walked the narrow halls of Franklin County High School unloved and empty-handed. It was humiliating. Year one, I blamed the problem on being a freshman. There just hadn't been time to acquire a boyfriend. But by my junior year, I could tolerate the humiliation no longer.

Since I worked at my father's restaurant most nights, I had a lot of expendable capital for a girl my age. For my 17th Valentine's, I decided to use my cold hard cash to warm up the cold February day by sending myself a dozen red roses. I beamed when I heard Mrs. Bateman call my name over the loud speakers.

"Who sent you flowers?" the curious asked.

"It was a secret admirer!" I flaunted the hand-written card and pretended to gush, my acting job worthy of an Oscar.

I adored the attention the delivery brought me on Valentine's Day. It didn't matter that I had to be my own Valentine. As far as anyone else knew, I was among the cherished few chosen by 1-800-FLOWERS.

Sadly, my thrill ended by the time school came to an end and before I got home. I couldn't bear to have my sister Christina discover what I had done, and subsequently ditched the bouquet in the dumpster just down the road from where I lived. It was like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight.

Still, this all-time Valentine's low reaped a wonderful benefit. In its aftermath I learned an important lesson on that particular day--that there wasn't any harm in being your own Valentine. I didn't need anyone else to validate that I was lovable. I just was...

In the years after through broken relationships and fail marriages, I've never forgotten this lesson of my youth. And just to make sure, I treat myself to fresh flowers or a box of chocolates every February 14th and never feel a twinge of silliness in doing so.

Happy Valentine's Day everyone!

Mirror, Mirror

I am one of those people who always stop to observe my own reflection when I pass by a mirror or shiny structure.

Far from a narcissistic gaze, it is not vanity that prompts my attention. Unable to escape my own biases, fearful that what I am seeing is not the reality, I check my reflection hoping to reconcile my self image with the true one. It is a futile effort, to be sure.

I only wish that I could physically step outside myself to understand exactly what others see when they look at me. Am I portraying the image I want to convey? Do I come across competent, confident, and open? If I could step outside the bonds of my own being and look at myself as an impartial observer, would I like what I see?

There are so many questions, so few answers.

Every once in a while, I hear an opinion that calls into serious question the validity of my self perceptions. Recently, for example, I learned that someone close to me said that I "get by on" my looks. I couldn't help but be taken aback by the characterization. My initial reaction was twofold. First came denial--if true, my average existence would be far more meager because I am not a looker. Then came disappointment--does my friend think so little of my accomplishments?

In an effort to ward off the sting of such a comment, I began rationalizing the perception (ergo the need to step outside myself). Maybe he doesn't really believe it. The truth is that I am not as smart or as well educated as my friend, but I am financially better off. Is this his way of explaining away my successes? Or perhaps he looks at my relationships with somewhat successful men and makes assumptions he ought not be making.

I'm dumfounded by the comment, really.

I could simply dismiss the comment with an all too common, "who cares what people think." But in this case, I do care. I long for a impartial, unbiased assessment of self. I want to know what he sees that I am not. What am I doing to give him the impression that I flaunt feminine charms to make my way through this world? What doesn't he think I bring to the table on my own right?

Rudolph the Red Nosed

It's bad enough that I'm not feeling "it" today. Max, my daily shot of self esteem, is away on business. I feel pudgy, pale, and overwhelmingly unappealing. Despite trying on five different outfits, nothing seems to look or feel good enough to be dressed in. And for a moment I seriously consider wearing my pajamas to work.

Could it get any worse?

After settling on an outfit for a cold, dreary Monday, I go to wash and get ready for the day. Looking in the bathroom mirror, I make the horrific discovery--a big, fat whitehead perfectly positioned at the tip of my nose.

I didn't think you were suppose to get pimples at my age? I'm long past Clearsil. What's a girl to do? Do I leave it alone and let nature take its course? Or, do I pop it in hopes of making it less obvious. Is there even a way of making a pimple on the very tip of your nose less obvious?

This is my fate on a dreary Monday morning. With every conversation, I'll be wondering whether my coworker is looking at me or the huge pimple on my nose. Who am I kidding? I already know the answer to that one. (Sigh)

something to chew on

"You can easily judge the character of a man by how he treats those who can do nothing for him." --James D Mills

When it came time to look for companionship, I decided to use this quote as my guide. During my teens and young adulthood, mother would advise me to take notice of the way a potential boyfriend would treat his mother or sisters, and to carefully listen to how he would talk about his family. "Pay attention to the little everyday things. This will give you a pretty good indication of how a boyfriend might behave as your husband," she counseled.

Either I didn't heed mother's advice, or I was an awful judge of character when it came to choosing a husband. Twice burned, I didn't even consider marrying for a third time. But once I started dating again, I understood my standards would need to be a little higher if I were to ever consider delving into a relationship.

Not every man I dated had a particularly good character, mind you. But in the early days of my singlehood, I wasn't looking for commitment. Still ambivalent about relationships, I only sought attention, excitement, and the momentary pleasures that dating brings. But after going out with eighteen different men over a period of two years, I met Max. I knew he was different on our very first meeting, but didn't fully appreciate the depths his character.

Then we went shopping at BJ's, a membership-only wholesale club that Max, a bonafied power buyer, frequents. Ordinarily after shopping at BJ's with my boyfriend, I come away with one thought: "Why the heck does this man think we need a 5-pack of barbeque sauce?" But on this particular shopping excursion, I left realizing that I was the person who walked away with such a find.

Loaded down with what turned out to be $400 in merchandise after an hour of shopping, Max and I proceeded to the self check-out stand. It took some time to not only scan but also pack the large amount of groceries into the shopping cart, even with two people working together. An impatient woman, accompanied by a small child, couldn't wait for us to finish checking out. Max and I still had more than half the items to load, when we noticed her groceries barreling down the conveyer belt and into our purchases. Max said nothing, as we carefully tried to discern what was hers and what was ours. It wasn't until we left the store that Max spoke.

"I can't believe how rude that woman was! Why didn't she let us finish?"

Still, it was a small inconvenience. Shrugging it off as we loaded the car, I noticed a pack of Bubblicious bubble gum, and started to make fun of Max's purchase.

"I didn't see you get this. Are you a 12-year old, or what?" I dangled the gum in his face.

"It's not mine," he replied. "I guess it belongs to that woman or her son."

"Oh well! It's their loss." I began to fling the gum in the car when Max stopped me.

"No. Keep an eye out for them. See if they exit, and we'll return the gum," he requested.

I thought this effort to be a little ridiculous, but complied with Max's request. By the time he finished loading our stuff, I still hadn't spotted the woman or her son.

"They must have left already. Let's get home," I said.

But Max disagreed. He took the Bubblicious back into the store, and located its rightful owner.

"That's ok. The clerk already gave me a new pack," the woman flatly stated as she walked by without stopping. There was no "thank you", no "sorry about the confusion." This woman had been rude during check out, why should Max be surprised that she wasn't more polite on their second meeting?

You can easily judge the character of a man (or woman) by how he treats those who can do nothing for him.

However, the Bubblicious not withstanding, it was actually my bubble that had been burst. I recognized that while the woman hadn't showed much in the way of character, neither had I. With a small, simple gesture Max had shamed us both. He wasn't trying to demonstrate his superiority to me or anyone else. Max was just being Max. He took another few minutes to return the Bubblicious to a check-out clerk, who thanked him for his honesty. I thanked him for his example.

I always felt that I was a good-hearted, honest person with a strong character.Still, I would not have made the effort under similar circumstances. Max's was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes as to his character. And, hopefully, I got the message loud and clear. When contemplating a relationship, it is a good to pay close attention to your partner, just don't forget to also examine youself.

Something new

I am to meet with the editor of a small, monthly, city guide, which features news and events around downtown. He's looking for someone to cover local events; and I'm looking for a hobby.

Maybe this is the "something" I need to ease the boredom I've been feeling. The restlessness I described in a previous post isn't a reflection of the newfound domesticity in my life. Rather, it's an indication that I am not finding fulfillment in other aspects of my life apart from Max.

This opportunity presented itself. I picked up the paper this past weekend because it featured a cover story on pet-friendly, downtown businesses. Max and I love to take Charlie along with us on the town, but we've only found a couple establishments that accept pets.

As I thumbed through the pages, noting the new bars and restaurants opening, I saw something else--Help Wanted. I decided to e-mail the editor.

Dear Editor,

My 4-month-old Cocker Spaniel, Charlie, practically ripped the magazine off the rack when he noticed the "Downtown Dogs" cover featured in this month's edition. He's lived with me at my downtown condominium just over two months, and has often complained that there is "nothing to do." You can't teach an old dog new tricks, and you certainly can't dissuade a young one from his opinions. I've done my best to show Charlie some of what downtown has to offer, but this issue has continued to be a bone of contention between us.

Fortunately, [writer’s name]'s article caused Charlie to eat his words (actually [writer's name]’s words). Who knew there were so many places and services that cater to the posh pooch? Charlie and I plan to check out Seaboard Imports, Red Pin, and Oakwood Park Unleashed Dog Park this very weekend!

Before Charlie devoured his new favorite paper, I noticed that you were looking for people to cover area events. I'm interested in finding out more. How would I apply?

Diane Mandy

To my surprise, the editor telephoned to arrange a meeting after receiving my inquiry. Obviously, he knows that I am not a professional writer. I only promised him that I could dependably provide content so long as he provided a press pass. Strangely enough, the editor still seemed interested in my offer.

We'll see what transpires. At worst, I'll have one more story to blog about. And at best, Il obtain a free ticket to area events, along with a commitment that will keep me busier and bring some fulfillment.

Wish me luck!

The Badgering Badger

I felt like a common criminal, sneaking through an unlocked window of a poorly guarded home. I wasn't doing anything illegal, to be sure. Still, I found myself evading security as I tried to make it in to my office this morning.

Like many large company employees, I was issued a badge on my very first day at work and instructed to wear it any time I was on the premises. I respect the policy. I don't feel as though any civil liberties are being violated despite the fact that I am forced to where a photo ID that hasn’t been updated since 1994.

However, in all honestly, because I can be a bit scatterbrained when it comes to personal possessions, I probably lose or forget my badge more than the average worker.

I've been employed for the same company 11 years next month, and the tendency to lose my badge hasn't been an issue. I walk in, go directly to Kathy the security receptionist, and apologize for my faux pas. In return, she validates my existence and issues me a temporary badge until I locate my permanent one.

No big deal, right?

That's what I thought last Thursday, when true to form, I walked in without my badge.

"I'm sorry, Kathy! I might have dropped my badge in the parking lot this morning. Can I get a temporary?" I asked politely.

'"Why don't you go out and look for it?" Kathy responded.

I was a little surprised by her terse reaction. Given that I was already 15 minutes late for work and the parking lot, which accommodates 400 workers, is enormous I told Kathy I would prefer not to retrace my steps that particular morning.

The following day and still without the proper ID, Kathy issued me another temporary badge. I planned to call and have a new one issued when a Good Samaritan called my office. He had found my badge and left it with Kathy at the front desk.

I went to the front desk to picked up my badge. I started to put it in my purse so I wouldn't lose it again. Kathy stopped me.

"You know, you are really supposed to WEAR your badge," she said. "It's company policy."

I complied with Kathy's request and put the badge on my jacket, never giving it another thought. When I turned in for bed that evening, I still wasn't thinking about my badge. It remained on the jacket and in my closet, even when I returned to work the following Monday.

Sheepishly, I walked up to Kathy.

"I am really, really sorry, but I left my badge on the jacket I wore Friday."

Without a word, she issued me yet another temporary badge. I felt so guilty about my error that I went home at lunch and found my badge that very day.

Kathy must have been unimpressed because I got an e-mail from her supervisor.

"Diane, I understand that you forgot your badge three times last week and that, in fact, you can't find it. Would you like me to order you a new one?"

Wow. Big brother and the badge patrol are watching! I emailed the supervisor, thanked her for the concern, and informed her that I did, in fact, have my badge this particular afternoon.

And then this morning came...

I just couldn’t face Kathy again without my badge, so I waited at a locked, back entrance for someone I know to let me in, on the sly, to the place where I am rightfully suppose to be. And, at lunch, I'll go home and get my badge yet again to avoid the wrath of Kathy.

Am I pathetic or what?

Cover Girl

Standing in the checkout line, I pass time by scanning the headlines of all the various gossip and star rags. I've never subscribed to any of them. Yet, part of the reason I look forward to grocery shopping is that after I've finished scouring the isles, I rest both body and soul by getting my entertainment fix.

You can always count on Globe and Star to offer the most outlandish headlines. I especially appreciate the blurry 'fat pictures' of otherwise skinny starlets. Somehow, seeing a distorted picture of the cellulite on Jennifer Aniston's thigh makes me feel better about myself. Never mind that the picture is probably as real as the evidence of the little green alien found in Phoenix. Just the thought of Aniston having fat thighs perks me up just the same.

Moving through the checkout isle and skipping over an uninspiring Reader's Digest, I fixate on the latest Cosmo and Glamour magazines, which always seem to battle for the most titillating headlines. Bold, red letters-- "100 Sex Trick's Revealed" or "XXX Sex: What Men Really Want" --get me curious enough to think about spending the $3 to purchase the magazines. But then I notice other featured articles such as child exploitation and female mutilation that don't even rate a single, smaller-print heading. "Where are their priorities?" I ask myself. Indignant at such wanton manipulation, I forgo the sex tips, feeling all the more noble-minded for doing so.

Still, it doesn't matter whether someone with 11 items snuck into the express lane or had their order redone after discovering a meager 25-cents coupon. Thanks to the sometimes laugh-out-loud funny but always mindlessly entertaining headlines offered on the magazine racks, I can usually count on a delightful experience in the checkout line.

But today, I had a rare and surprisingly negative reaction to US Weekly and People magazines, which both featured Jessica Simpson on their covers.

"I'M IN LOVE! Just two months after her divorce became final, Jessica Simpson takes a chance on a new romance with singer John Mayer," announced People.

"A NEW LOVE FOR JESSICA! For the first time, Simpson reveals her romance with rocker John Mayer--and a shocking confession about Nick," echoed US Weekly.

After seeing the dueling covers, I felt a sour pit in my stomach. "Who the hell cares?" I mutter angrily at Simpson, whose bright smile egged on my disdain.

Normally, I pay little mind to the media hype given to celebrities. TomKat, Benifer, Brangelina--I have always been able to stomach the never-ending barrage of coverage given to celebrity couples. But today, in the midst of all the sex secrets revealed and alien encounter headlines, I found Jessica Simpson love life to be the most objectionable of all.

Is it the little green monster creeping around inside of me? I don't think so? Sure, Simpson is adorable and talented (I know, the point is arguable), but I'm not put off by her successes. If not, then what? As I gaze at the cover I grow suspicious of the timing and motive of the revelation. Most of us have experienced breakup and heartache, suffering quietly, except for the care and concern of a few close friends. We don't have the luxury of press agents or spin doctors who tout our side of the story or stage publicity stunts to make sure that our image goes untarnished.

After my most painful breakups, I could have only dreamed of issuing a well-timed press release that both preserved my dignity and told the other party to fuck off in the same perfectly worded sentence. As it was, the best I could have hoped for was accidentally bumping into my ex at the grocery store with a well-chiseled man on my arm, looking as dazzling and flawless as one can without the benefit of an airbrush. As reality would have it, however, the ex bumped in to me at the checkout counter, reading Globe, all alone, as I waited in line intensley examining the supposed dimples on Jennifer Aniston's thighs.

If you can't beat 'em, beat 'em

Every inch of my body aches. Stiff, soar, and ever conscious of the pain, I wobble around gingerly, like a little old lady who has seen better days. I've seen better days, that's for sure. Hopefully this pain will not only be short-lived, but also will put me back on the path to good health and physical excellence.

That's right. I'm working out again. After losing my motivation around the same time I lost my hair, coupled with the endless barrage of vacations and business trips, my bulging waistline and lower energy level forced me back to the gym for a fitness evaluation. The results were bad, very bad.

As the personal training director worked out every last one of my vital statistics, a computer-generated me, complete with a short, bleach blond do and bloating belly, popped on the computer screen.

"Based on your height, weight, BMI, and other factors, this is a generated model of what you look like," he offered.

I didn't like what I was seeing.

"...But with diet and exercise, we can have you looking like this in 10-12 months."

The computer-generated me began morphing into someone resembling Sienna Miller. This time, I did like what I was seeing and promptly pulled out my credit card.

"Where do I sign?" I asked?

It's not just vanity that prompts me back to the hot, sweaty, smelly house of physical torture. With the extra pounds, I am increasing my risk of diabetes and high blood pressure. More importantly, if the training director is correct, I'm no longer 38. I am the fitness equivalent of a 41-year old. I won't stand for premature aging. If maxing out my credit card and working up a whole lot of sweat will keep me in my 30s a little longer, then let the work outs begin.

So for the next month I will be working with Simone, personal trainer extraordinaire and former beauty queen, no fewer than four times a week. Then, for the next 11 months after, I'll be working with her twice a week. I paid for the entire year in full in the hopes of sticking to the program. So far, we've only had only one session and I already feel like I'm dying. Still if I die tragically on a treadmill looking like Princess Diana or a young Marilyn Monroe. I will at least have piece of mind knowing that at my open-casket funeral friends whispered about how great I looked, albeit stiff and lifeless. "Death becomes her...But she looked so young!"

Ok, So IT IS VANITY. Sue me.

It takes a village??

Today marks the beginning of my week-long adventure serving as a caretaker to a 10-year old and a 5-year old. Their parents, dear old friends, have decided to take their first vacation without the kids. Not that I mind, but why they chose me is mind boggling. If you hadn't noticed, I'm not exactly kid friendly. Until recently, I thought child-proofing meant something totally different.

This morning, I woke the kids up, fed them pop tarts, and managed to get them to school on time and without killing them. I guess we're off to a good start.

Poor kids! They'll need all of your prayers for the next week.

Lucky numbers

Ordinarily, I'm not the superstitious sort and don't believe in luck. But, I do have a pair a favorite numbers--5 and 7. Like everything else both fanciful and fallacious, there isn't a rational reason for the affection. I just like them. Prime and whole, I've always found these numbers rather smart. Additionally, I have noticed a pattern with these numbers, one that doesn't seem to be of a random nature.

For instance, performing in my very first dance recital at five years old, I was the prima ballerina, the center of seven other Thumbelina wannabes. Later in adulthood, my first marriage ended after five miserable years, the same time I became fully vested with my company.

Coincidence, you say? I think not.

There are other, more personal reasons that I like the numbers. My favorite board game, Scrabble, features bonus points for 7-letter words. Both Diane and Mandy, are five-letter words, as are many of my most favorite things -- LATIN, SALSA, TANGO, SWING, MONEY, SHOES. Seven-letter favorites include BOY TOYS, JEWELRY, FASHION, and of course, MARTINI.

It's kismet, I tell you. Kismet. I've had a long, satisfying relationship with my two lucky numbers.

Until today...

It only took a few minutes for the computer to tabulate my score from the online exam I had taken in my distance-learning class.

57

Both my favorite numbers were present. But somehow, like chocolate chips on pizza (my two favorite foods), the pair just didn't go together.Then the reality of it all hit me--I had just failed my first exam EVER, with a whopping 57.

My 4.0 grade point average might be coming to an end thanks to my two favorite numbers and one particularly obtuse, 75-question, 50-minute, timed, exam. (I tell you, folks, I'm not that clever to be making this sort of thing up. Reality is stranger than fiction.)

After tonight, I may have to choose a new favorite number-- only this time, one of the four-letter variety.