Top 10 Things for a Great First Date

10.  Get clean – shower, comb your hair, brush your teeth.

9.    Ditch the jeans, tennis shoes and sweatshirt. Ever hear of Dockers?!

8.    Open the door, pull out my chair, offer to pay for the drink – even if it is $8.00.

7.   Ex the ex – do not dis your ex wife, deceased wife or mention your ex girlfriend. If asked “what     happened”, answer in 50 words or less.

6.   If asked “are you over your girlfriend/wife” and you can’t answer yes, go home and get busy.

5.   Never state that you believe the divorce laws in your state are prejudiced towards women – Remember you are sitting across from a divorced woman.
4.   Remember my name so you don't have to call me baby, honey, sweetheart, babe, babydoll, or little girl.

3.   Leave the blackberry home. It's not the only way to tell time.  That's why you wear a watch.

2.   Do not compare me to your mother – living or dead.

1.   Show up!

IJL Chronicles: Chapter 5 - Random Notes

These three experiences are from my year’s membership with It’s Just Lunch. These dates are more memorable for their insipidness than anything else, and sadly, they are representative of the kinds of guys IJL felt I “matched”.  I reiterate that I believe the only thing we had in common was that we were upright and breathing. So… here we go.

Mr. October – It was indeed October when I got the second call from IJL. Mr. October was 52, single, had just moved back to the area and was looking to meet new people. He liked dining out, movies, baseball, and live theatre. Dare I get my hopes up? Our designated meeting place was Palomino’s in the Golden Triangle and that’s where I found myself at 7 pm on a weekday night. This meeting was a little easier than my first (you may remember the man who worked 50 hour weeks?) as Mr. O loved to talk… and talk… and talk… about … Mr. O! He ordered a drink and didn’t ask me if I wanted anything. He ordered a salad and didn’t ask me if I wanted anything. Luckily, the waiter asked me if I wanted a drink and I nursed a good pinot noir while Mr. O finally answered some of my questions. Never married? No, he never found the “right one”. Kids? No, he “dodged that bullet”. Why did you move back? Well, he moved back to care for his parents – who are healthy so he simply moved in with them. His hair was out of the 70’s while his glasses were an 80’s throwback. His suit wasn’t exactly a match but at least the jacket color did match the color of the trousers. I found my attention wandering and as I sipped my wine he asked, “So when you’re not doing the Mom thing, what do you with your time? mom THING? MOM thing? I took a deep breath and said that being a mother isn’t something you do – it is something YOU ARE. Within short order the check came, and I was out the door.

The Virgin – When I re-entered the dating world after more than 25 years, I promised myself that I would be open to a great guy regardless of his size, shape or hair situation. After all, a great guy can come in just about any package. Can’t he? IJL told me that Dave was reentering the dating world after a long absence – and like me, he liked good food, and good wine, and was active in his kids’ lives. He was particularly looking for a long term relationship as the holidays were around the corner. (This was a new twist: Holiday dating). The rendezvous location was the Palm Court at the William Penn. And there he was – all 350+ pounds of him. He was wider than the side of the table where he was seated. “Okay, okay, I told myself, looks and weight shouldn’t matter. Give him the guy a chance.” Dave was right about one thing – he loved food, good or otherwise. He was attentive, talkative and very, very open. As the hour wore on, he told me about his daughter’s coming out of the closet, about his ex’s faults, his other children’s psychological struggles…. And that he considered himself a virgin because it had been over five years since… well you know. At least, he walked me to the car and held the door.

6 in 50 – Tonic Bar & Grill was hoppin’ on a Thursday when I met …er… I can’t remember his name! Again, IJL assured me we would have lots in common – baseball (What!? Since when do I like baseball?), outdoors, and sports. We were seated by a window and he orders a beer as do I. Over the course of the next 50 minutes, he drinks 6 – yes SIX – beers. I am sipping one. As he chugs #6, he puts it down and says bluntly, “So ya lookin’ fer a bedmate or what?” My hand moves away from my glass, I stand up and reply, “I’m sure I have to pick up somebody, somewhere from something.”

Is it any wonder I did not renew my IJL membership?

You've Got Mail.. er Books!

“When you read a book as a child, it becomes a part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your whole life does.” - Kathleen Kelly 

I believe that. I do.

While I cannot remember the first book I read, I remember my first library. When we moved from our farmhouse in Newfield to our “suburban” home in Oaklyn, I was introduced to not one, but two libraries: the Mary A. Finney Elementary School library and the Oaklyn Memorial Library.

At the school library, books were displayed on painted wooden shelves (mint green I might add). And those books had plastic covers and yellow cards in pockets for checkout purposes. The librarian would handpick which books would have the honor of being displayed. Naturally, those were the ones we read first.

By the time I was in sixth grade (Mr. Smith’s homeroom), I loved to read. I can’t attribute it to anything special – don’t remember ever seeing my parents read books, don’t remember bed time stories. I simply loved to read. It was an escape. On Tuesday nights (the only night the library was open late) my friend Debbie and I would walk to the library on warm summer evenings. We’d pour over the books and check out the limit which was something like six. By the middle of the week, we’d trade each other and the race was on to see who read the most books that summer. We read Nancy Drew which would explain my super sleuthing skills. We read the Bobbsey Twins and wished we had a twin brother. We read the Hardy Boys and decided we liked Nancy better. Heidi was a favorite as was the Brothers Grimm. Honestly, those fairy tales are frightening!

At home, I hid books and magazines around the house: One under the sofa cushions, one in the middle drawer of the hutch, one in the linen closet. You get the idea. I would read instead of doing chores and when I heard my mother coming, I’d hide the book and get back to dusting or sweeping. I think that’s when I fell in love with the Reader’s Digest. I could read those articles so fast – before she caught me.

In high school, I discovered Danielle Steel and Mary Higgins Clark. For a time, I devoured biographies like Amelia Earhart. When I got married, bride magazines and when I was pregnant, baby books. Then when I had children of my own, I discovered children’s books. A day didn’t go by when I didn’t read to them – I took Derek to story hour when he was three months old! I loved those books almost as much as my kids. Eric Carle, Tony DiPaolo, Junie B. Jones, and the Critter books to name a few.

Years have passed and college brought a different kind of reading – which is where I learned to read books I didn’t like. A book club has brought me more joy in reading for the past 13 years than I can imagine. A book club forces you to read books you might not have otherwise ever picked up. I have cried real tears over The Kite Runner and The Help. An unexpected bonus from all this reading is that I can read fairly quickly – ask my kids. Now, I work downtown and I've become one of those “T” readers. I find the selections of books in the early morning so fascinating: bodice ripping romance novels, scary sci-fi, popular best sellers, the newspaper, and of course the mandatory work related reading.

If it is true that a book becomes part of your identity as they say in “You’ve Got Mail”, who does that make me?

IJL Chronicles - Chapter 4: Spring Equinox

Today’s chapter comes from my match.com experience several years back.

In early March, I was perusing the photos of potential soul-mates when a few caught my eye. This particular profile was short, snappy, and ended with the invitation to “call me now”. So, throwing all caution to the wind, I did. Our conversation was just like his profile: short and snappy and ended with the promise of another phone call. Several calls later he invited to meet him. However, it wasn’t the usual place (i.e. Starbucks or a bar). Instead, he suggested that on a Sunday evening we meet in Sewickley to attend the Spring Equinox celebration beginning at sundown at a nature center. I have to admit he earned several points for originality and after a long, cold winter the idea of being outside was definitely appealing. I marked my calendar and it was a “date”. After a few more phone calls, I agreed to meet him early so we could get something to eat.

I parked my car on a side street in Sewickley and waited for him to arrive. I couldn’t have predicted that a 6’4” man would show up in what had to be the world’s smallest Toyota truck and that truck would be filled to overflowing with stuff – lawn chairs, bundles of twigs, coolers, weed wackers, and that’s just what I could see. In the spirit of being open to new experiences, I ignored any and all warning bells in my head. I got in the truck (WARNING TO YOUNG FEMALE READERS OF THIS BLOG: Do not attempt this!) and have to admit I had no worries as there were no less than eight laptops and a tool box on the front seat between us. What could happen, right?

He had a crazy idea that we should go to a potluck dinner at a church he used to attend. I pointed out that we had no “potluck” but off we go anyway. After several seconds at the ticket table, he changed his mind and we ended up at a pizza place. Next stop: Equinox Celebration.

As the truck began to wind its way up a hill, I was struck by two things:

1.) It was indeed a gorgeous early spring evening; and,

2.) This man was a little unorthodox.

At the nature center, he insisted on lugging one of those large bundles of twigs up to the site. Ten to fifteen folks had gathered and the leader had marked a line on the grass with stones. Being the ultra observant person that I am, I noticed several things at once. Every person there, man or woman, had gray hair
- mostly waist length. Several folks were wearing those Navajo blankets as coats.

However, no one had a cell phone – except for my date who had three (!) How did I know this, you are wondering? Because they all had different ringtones and he kept answering them – loudly.

The celebration began with us forming a line and independently crossing over the stones into the sacred circle. (Uh-oh, what AM I doing here.) The ceremony included storytelling, a fire, shared personal experiences, Kum by Yah – it was like being at Girl Scout Camp with grown up hippies. Except for one thing – my date.

He wandered around while answering cell calls. He insisted on adding his twigs to the fire as they represented his deceased father. He interrupted and corrected the storyteller so many times that she had to ask him to sit down. He took my hand and tried to pull me into the spirit world with him so we could communicate with his father. (I firmly pulled away and stayed put.) He kept looking out over the preserve as he repeated, loudly, that a friend to whom he was donating a kidney was supposed to join us. Finally, finally, the sun had almost completely disappeared from view and the ceremony was winding down. I was about to breathe a sigh of relief when my date stood up, spread out his arms to the world, and began to howl like a coyote.

Stunned, I could only stare in silence at this spectacle. All I could think was: “Oh my god. I’m with the annoying guy. My date is the annoying guy.”

In every situation, there is an annoying guy. School, work, playground playdates, and the coffee shop¬ – we’ve all witnessed the annoying guy. And, we’ve all been thankful we could distance ourselves.

So, how did it come to pass that I found myself on a hillside in the dark with the annoying guy?

Elevator Etiquette

So much thought goes into an elevator ride. Bet you didn’t know that, did you?

Let’s take a glimpse into the elevators at the Cathedral of Learning or Alumni Hall at the University of Pittsburgh – unfortunately two examples of “no thought”. No one waits for riders to disembark; they simply stand in front of the elevator blocking the way. Students, carrying ridiculously large backpacks, take up three people spaces. No one moves when the elevator stops to let those in the back get off. Seldom does anyone offer to push buttons for those who can’t reach. This is BAD elevator etiquette.

Now let’s visit the elevators at the USX Tower or 2 PNC Plaza. Orderly, organized, with a freestanding hand sanitizer dispenser! Certain elevators go only to blocks of floors like 1-14 or 34-55 – Imagine a rocket ride to the 52nd floor at 8:10 a.m. Who needs Starbucks after that experience? People waiting for an elevator form a line so that those who need to get off of the newly arrived elevator have room to do so. While the elevator could certainly hold more, only six people get on giving each person space. (I squeezed in as number seven this morning and was given quite a glare.) AND men wait for women to get on first and get off first - imagine that!

Naturally, there is room for improvement in both elevator illustrations. In each model of elevator etiquette, I found one thing to be true: No one talks to each other. What is up with that?! At Pitt, whenever I found myself in the elevators with prospective students and their parents, I simply started asking questions of the group: Where are you from? What do you like about Pitt? Do you have your dorm assignment? Before the ride was over, everyone had participated and people were smiling. If the elevator was filled with current students, I’d simply start asking about mid terms or finals or I’d resort to the tried and true “What about this rain” statement. With little effort, people responded.

Downtown elevator riders are slightly more advanced socially. They will smile shyly, or nod to those they know. They will talk to the person immediately next to them. However, they could improve … and that’s my mission. I vow to talk to an elevator group at least once a day. It should be a very interesting experiment. Either I will make new friends… or people will avoid the “crazy lady who talks to people” in the elevator. Bets anyone?

The lunchtime tourist

It was a gorgeous day today in downtown Pittsburgh. Even though my teammates invited me to eat with them in the amazing PNC 15th floor cafeteria, I turned them down. I just wanted to walk outside.

And so, I did.

I can’t remember the last time I just walked around downtown Pittsburgh. So much is going on at lunch time. So many people were out – it was wonderful.

After a brief stop at the bank (friendliest service EVER – way to go PNC), I started off. I looked at everything. I examined everyone. I gazed at the cerulean blue sky. It led to many questions:

 

1. Why do so, so, so many people smoke?
2. Why would a man wear a terrific grey pinstripe suit with coordinating shirt and tie then positively ruin it with tan alligator shoes?
3. How come I saw only one hot dog street vendor?
4. Why is a policeman needed outside the 7-11?
5. Just how many drug stores are needed downtown anyway?
6. There is a Prantl’s bakery in Market Square? Burnt almond torte here I come!
7. When do the outdoor tables come out in PPG Place and Steel Plaza?
8. What kind of daredevil becomes a bike messenger?
9. Do you think without cell phones attached to their ears people would be friendlier?
10. How do women walk in those heels while I am still clumsy in shoes that are barely above flats?

The weather forecast is for sunnier, warmer days the rest of the week. Can’t wait for lunchtime!

 

IJL Chronicles - Chapter 3: The Organ Donor

A few years ago, I decided to bypass actually paying to meet anyone (i.e. match.com or IJL) and went straight to that venerable internet institution for want ads: craigslist. If you know craigslist, you know anything goes: boats to business management, deviled egg platters to DVDs, and if you want company! Well, you can seek a man/woman/friend/platonic/other or you can rant and rave. I've never seen such a selection of stuff. So, curiosity got the better of me and I clicked the "accept" button to read ads from "men seeking women". Should I have worried when I read the next sentence: "Choosing safer sex for you and your partner greatly reduces the risk of contracting STDs including HIV..."? Nah, I was just plain curious.


I searched for men around my age and in my city. The results were astounding. The ads were dated and hadheadlines with a city and sometimes a picture. (Today for example: I LIKE TUBE TOPS - 50, North Pgh.) What an education! Men looking for things that I didn't even know existed or more importantly, don't really want to know exist. Married men, single men, men looking for one night hookups, men looking for ... I don't know what all. I am quite happy to have led a somewhat sheltered life I can tell you that.

By and large, the ads themselves are short such as "need a date tonight - email a pic and let's talk". Sometimes they are verbose, or anger filled or just plain lonely. Many are poorly written and filled with spelling errors. It's astonishing how many men describe themselves as good looking. It may surprise you to know how many men use the word "cuddle". This was posted today: "Suffice it to say I am pretty much the cuddliest piece of manflesh ever known to man." (It sure is entertaining, isn't it?)

So when I read an ad a few Octobers ago that was well written, made sense and seemed "normal", I answered. Within a few emails, we agreed to meet for lunch on the Pitt campus on a Friday afternoon. However... there were a few things that didn't quite add up so I asked him are you employed and are you widowed or are you divorced? His reply was that he was twice divorced with his first wife passing away a few years after the divorce, and his employment was "in transition". (Translation please: UNEMPLOYED - not retired, not in transition, just plain unemployed.) The next sentence was curious, he said he had a "resolvable medical issue" and he would explain at lunch.

Naturally, I told the ladies at work and we wondered what the heck it could be: high blood pressure, broken wrist, a sex change operation? What?!?!?

He said he would be wearing khaki pants. So at 12:15 on a sunny, warm October day in a small park on Forbes Avenue, I spot him. Not only is he wearing khaki pants but a khaki shirt. His shoes are beige; his socks are beige -- my word! His hair and his skin are beige. What is going on!?!?

We meet, shake hands and quickly decide to walk to lunch - as we are crossing Forbes Avenue, he says, "I guess you're wondering what my resolvable medical condition is, aren't you?" I gulp and tell him actually yes I am. He then says, "Well I need a new liver." Without thinking, I blurt out "At least it's not a sex change operation." I explain my theory from the day before -- he doesn't even laugh.

As we are walking, I realize that I am ahead of him and I slow down. This happens two more times before I realize he can’t keep pace with me. He's talking and talking and begins to tell me how he discovered he needed a new liver. Well, this is just way more information than I need or want and I literally put my hands up to stop the story of how much blood was found in his abdomen during the first surgery.

Lunch is marginally better and I can finally, actually take a good look at him. The first thing I notice (besides all the beige-ness) is that he is nowhere near the age of the man in the photo he emailed me. He admits that it was taken 15 years earlier, but hey, wasn't it a great photo?! Then I look closer and realize that all this beige-ness really has a yellow tint and that this is one very sick man.

He gave up his home, his belongings, and his job to move in with his daughter and her family until his medical issue is resolved. Now, I'm no doctor but I can only really see two ways to resolve this issue and neither is appealing to me... transplant or death.

After lunch, I report back to my friends in the office and I wonder aloud: A liver? The man needs a new liver? What are the chances that I would find the one man on craigslist (or even in Pittsburgh) that needed a new liver? Really? And then I wonder, if that were me, would I really be posting ads on craigslist looking for a long-term relationship? Really?

IJL – Chapter 2: match.com and The Doctor

Job hunting is grueling. Finding romance is no picnic either. However, they do have similarities – more than you can imagine.

When looking for a job, you must write your resume. In the e-dating world, it’s called your profile. You send your resume out over the internet, many times to response at all. Your profile is posted for hundreds to see, again most times to no response at all.

When job hunting you have the phone interview, the in person interview, hopefully the final interview and then the job offer. In internet dating, you have the phone interview, the in person interview, and hopefully the request for a date. Sigh. If only it were that simple. Today’s IJL is from my internet experiences.

His profile seemed okay. Not too wordy, not too needy, not too boastful. The photos focused on his big white car. (Why do men post pictures of their cars, Harleys, and dogs? I don’t want to date a dog, a Harley or a car. And why post photos from the 80’s?) The phone call flowed pretty well, no self-conscious pauses or lengthy silences. So we decided to do what I call the “meet ‘n’ greet” at Damon’s during the first half of the Steelers game. He walked in – and thank god – looked just like his photo. (Believe me that is NOT always the case.) We ordered a beer and began to talk. After the fourth reference to his deceased mother (God rest her soul) and how much I reminded him of her (Warning! Warning! Warning!), I needed a second beer. He then offered that he had full custody of his children, asked if I was impressed. More chat, more references to his mother.

Then it happened.

He asked… and yes this is a direct quote: “So, do you have any diseases?”

Again, direct quote, I replied: “Oh. Just the usual ones.”

This was followed by a blank stare and an uncomfortable silence.

So, I continued: “You know high cholesterol, high blood pressure, the usual.”

He said something similar, but then gosh! It was half time and I had to leave.

Five weeks later. I am cleaning on a Sunday afternoon and for some reason I am replaying this conversation in my head when it hits me. HE DIDN’T MEAN THOSE DISEASES – he meant THOSE diseases. I was furious! And then I laughed and laughed and laughed. Honestly, I don’t think I could have come up with a more perfect answer if I tried.

1st Day of Kindergarten

I was five years, two months old when I started kindergarten. My family plus my grandmother and great-grandfather lived on a farm in Newfield, New Jersey.  We only had one neighbor, but we did have lots and lots of pets. At one time, we had 8 cats, 2 ducks, 1 dog, assorted chickens, and a canary. (Can you understand why I’m not so crazy about pets?)

In 1962, there wasn’t preschool and I didn’t go to Sunday school so you can understand my anticipation to go to school with other children.  I was so excited to start school that when the yellow school bus pulled up at the end of my gravel driveway, I flew to the bus, climbed those steps and sat down right in the front row. Only to have the bus driver say, “Not you! Your sister! Your bus comes later!” I was that eager.

That type of excitement doesn’t come along very often, but I felt it Sunday night. By 8 p.m., my clothes for the next day were already ironed – usually a task left for 6:55 a.m.! My handbag was organized. My newly purchased monthly T pass looked perfect in a little navy blue and green Vera Bradley wallet. I had studied the schedule and drove a dry run to the T parking lot. I read and re-read the company website and links I had been sent prior to my start date.

And, still… I was nervous.

Just like kindergarten. Would I make friends? Would they like me? Would I do well?

Up early, ready early and 45 minutes early – not much has changed since 1962!

I am happy to report, that just like my first day of kindergarten, my first day at PricewaterhouseCoopers was fantastic. I can’t remember taking a job where I felt so strongly that it was a perfect fit. I’m so excited for what is to come – I feel like a 5 year old!



...

The IJL Chronicles - Chapter 1

Friends have asked me many times over the past 5+ years to share or even write down my dating experiences. The time has come. So I would like to introduce: The IJL Chronicles. This will be a series (Lord only knows how many!) of true life stories published when the mood strikes. You’re wondering about the title, aren’t you?

I thought it would be poetic justice to use a portion of my “settlement” money to join a dating service. With very little research other than reading a few magazine ads and their extremely positive and successful sounding website, I joined the dating service It’s Just Lunch. Their theory is that we’re all busy people leading busy lives with no time to invest in searching for the right partner. They will do it for you! It’s Just Lunch matches you up with a like-minded person and you invest no more than 45 minutes or so over a taco salad to determine if the two of you have that special spark.

Before I continue, let me say - universally - the only thing I had in common with any of my 12 matches was we were both upright and breathing. And apparently, we are all so, so busy that I never had lunch with anyone – drinks, yes; dinner, once.

My very first date went like this. I got the call from IJL describing my date: what he likes, what he does his interests. Our date was set and I was to meet him at Lidia’s. What to wear? What to say? I went classic with linen slacks and a flowered linen summer top. I was anxious about being early (which I was) so I had a book with me. So there I am – alone at a table with a book in a fancy restaurant – waiting for my first date since 1979. No, I am not kidding – 1979.

Disaster. This man was absolutely obsessed with two things: how much he worked (50 hours per week) and how much water he got in his basement. I listened, I nodded, and I offered various comments. Finally, I could no longer stand his complaining about his lack of time to do anything. I snapped. (Let me point out here, that at the time my three kids were living at home, I was working and I was going to college so I didn’t really have much empathy for a single guy living in an empty house who has no time to do anything.)

I did the math for him. You work 50 hours a week? Well, that’s only 10 hours a day. You commute? Oh, that’s included in the 50 hours? Let’s see. There are 168 hours in a week. You work 50. You sleep 56. That leaves 62 hours do to whatever you want. Hmm, what exactly is the problem?

That left only the water issue to discuss. I learned how often his basement flooded, how much it cost each time, what the damage was.  He told me, in great detail, how he attempted to resolve the issue – over and over – until my eyes glazed over.

Two days later, Hurricane Ivan struck his hometown here in Pittsburgh.

Panty Problems

White lace, black thong. Stripes, flowers, polka dots. Soft ones, scratchy ones. Thick ones and diaphanous ones. We have ones on sale ($1 a pair at Gabe’s) and ones full price ($24 a pair at Macy’s). We have ones that fit and ones that don’t. We even have them marked by event; church, work, special evenings, running, tennis. Not all women have all these panties, but what ALL women have had are Panty Problems.

Yesterday started out like any other Friday. I picked my white bikini hipsters with wide lace trim from Gap. I love ‘em as they exemplify soft, sexy and comfortable. Never had a problem with them so, without hesitation, they were the day’s choice. Now, my normal work day doesn’t involve much exercise. I walk upstairs. I work. I walk downstairs to the kitchen to get coffee. I walk upstairs. You get the idea. All was dandy in panty land, however that was about to change.

Last evening I head off to my part-time job, with a little stop at Talbot’s and Ann Taylor beforehand. That’s when it hit. Panty Problems with a Capital P!

Walking from Talbot’s to Ann Taylor I feel the first little bit of movement – the lace on the right side is sliding downwards. I surreptitiously tug and all is well. By the time I arrive at my job at Williams Sonoma, a mere 10 minutes later, all the elastic ever sewn in those lace bikini hipsters simultaneously gives way. There is no way - absolutely none - those panties are going to stay in place for FOUR MORE HOURS. Do I remove them? Do I wear them? Do I tug all night while hiding in the cookbook section or while standing back in bakeware? Sigh.

I did what any woman would do. I tugged. I pulled. I walked ever so slowly so as not to have the panties fall even faster. I extolled the virtues of the new All-Clad D5 cookware with my back to the wall so customers couldn’t see what was happening. I gave out recipe website ideas (I like Williams-Sonoma's recipes) for slow cookers with my hands on my back hips trying to hold the depleted panties in place. It was exhausting I tell ya. Finally, the store closes and we clean up and lock the doors. That’s when I gave up. I walked to my car without caring who saw what. By the time I unlocked the car door, the only thing holding up those hipsters were my slacks.

Thank god a panty problem doesn’t happen often. You’re wondering if it has happened to me before, aren’t you? Yep, at my son’s 2008 college graduation. I ran several blocks down Massachusetts Avenue in the pouring rain, holding my shoes in one hand and holding up my panties with the other. A dress just doesn’t cut it when you’re having panty problems.









 

Body parts

In my 8+ years in the record business, never did I once ask anyone to autograph any part of my body. Not after lunch with Pete Townshend. Not after late night drinks with Keith Emerson. Not even after bowling with Rod Stewart. So how is it that I asked a local writer/author to autograph my hand?

My friend Tracy invited me to her Book Club last night to discuss "The Paris of Appalachia" and meet the author; Brian O'Neill. So off to Aspinwall I went. Now, I know what you’re thinking if you’re from the South Hills: “You went all the way to Aspinwall?” Yes I did! And it’s lovely!

Surrounded by copious amounts of good food, cold drinks and men and women (yes, a co-ed Book Club evening), Brian regaled us with stories from and about the book. Funnier in person than in his columns, Brian had us laughing with tales of book distribution, bar conversations and more. He is witty, self deprecating and – no surprise – a natural storyteller.

About the book: It was released last fall after four years. Among the reviews, the Pittsburgh City Paper says “…reading Paris is like talking with the funny, knowledgeable guy on the next barstool. The conversation might wander a bit, but if you're like me (or like O'Neill, judging from his book), that's a great way spend an afternoon.


Paris is on sale at Bradley's Books and Aspinwall Books, and O'Neill hopes to handle orders through his Web site (www.parisofappalachia.com) soon. For now, he says, he's using an unusual distribution system: ‘I'm pretty confident this will be the only book available both on Amazon and at Gus' ice-ball stand.’”

Now about the autographed body part: The evening was winding down, people were milling about drinking and talking. I began to think about my little blog (and its devoted 4 followers) and thought this would make a perfect entry. But wanting to spice things up, I thought perhaps a photo will do – but of what? It hit me while watching Brian autograph books: He could autograph my hand and I’d take a photo and post it. Great plan. One hitch. How do you photograph your own hand when your arm isn’t long enough?! A quick, late night phone call to my friend Mo (who just happens to be a freelance photographer) and she agreed to take the photo and email it to me. Thanks Mo!

Read the book. I’ll know you’ll love it.

Long time friends

What's so awesome about friends?  Well, there is no sibling rivalry.  You don't live together.  They don't care if you are fat or thin or if your roots are showing.  One of the best kind of friends, I think, is the kind who can pick up right where you last left off - whether it's been five minutes or five months. Usually, they have known you a very long time and you don't have to fill in any blanks.  I had dinner tonight with just such a friend. It made me thankful to have known her for over 24 years.  I have several friends like that and I hope you do too.

Changing your life

It's hard.  Changing your life.  Regardless of the reason, it's hard and it's slow and it's lonely and often times necessary.  But on those days when the change seems too good, it's all worth it.  Today is one of those "great" days.  I accepted a new job at PricewaterhouseCoopers. 

On March 1st, I will begin a job that is tailor made for me.  One that will challenge me, stretch me, and move me forward.

Today is a good day for change.

Valentine's Day

Valentine's Day is definitely NOT a day for singles... Old couples, young couples, happy couples were in abundance today while I was out and about.  Only at Eat 'n Park could you find singles (all with a book I might add) sitting in their very large booths, reading and eating. (Should we have all sat together, so we weren't alone?)  Reading selections included Sybill, a dark looking goth type novel (the book was too far away and my eyeglass Rx isn't that strong) and of course my selection, The South Beach Diet.  More about that later.  Note to self:  Should one really chug a large chocolate milkshake and the All American Burger the night before The South Beach Diet.  Just wonderin'.