I was sitting on the stoop of a building on 6 St. Crying, once again, over a cowardly man, who didn't realize that we would make a great team, if only he would park his fear and preconceived notions by the door and leave them there.J came across the street, in what I came to know as "Rescue mode". He immediately started comforting me with such wonderful advice like "Life is short". I appreciated the effort, but was not in the mood!!

I had met him a year earlier at a neighborhood joint that I visited, when my friend S. was working.J was a chubby lil drunken NJ troll of a guy, the type that my "hipper than thou" ass ate for breakfast.No great shakes, he. But that night, he was the cure, at least a temporary one.

I've always been a sensualist and when my mood needed elevating, sex, drugs and rock n roll was the way back to sanity for me. And as my elders were fond of pointing out, the best way to remove one nail was with another one.And, at the moment, I needed to remove that love/lust nail from my heart!! J was the perfect tool.

Little did I know, that sexual encounter would lead to a few more, which in turn, would lead to a desire that I didn't even realize that I was serious about: motherhood. I had always assumed that I was one destined to be childless, due to physiological disorders that plagued my reproductive years, so when I discoverd that at the age of 37, I was to become a first time mom, without spouse/SO, I was overwhelmed and more than a little freaked out!! As I considered my options (and I am very much pro-choice), one thing kept coming back loud and clear, this is a miracle and probably the most enduring relationship I will ever be involved in.Seize the day!!Who cares that I'm not really ready yet and that some of my loftier career goals will have to either morph into something else or be let go.If most of our parents had waited till they thought they were ready, most of us wouldn't be here.This may never happen again.

So, I joined the ranks of single motherhood. I've never regretted my decision to have my son, who is a bright, handsome and very talented young man of almost 14 yrs. Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like without him. I can only ever see lonely times and a lot less happiness. All in all, I like the path I've chosen.

Back in 1993 I ran ten miles a week, down from twenty-five miles a week in 1980. Now, in 2008, I’m committed to burning 500 calories a day, five times a week, on the elliptical bike at my gym…just as soon as the swelling in my knee subsides.

Aging is a bitch, but it beats the alternative. I’m glad to be on the planet and I am sad that my running days slipped away from me when I wasn’t paying attention.

I remember tying my teal and orange Asics Gels before my last race—Spring, 1993. I didn’t know it was to be my last race. Who knew I’d be moving from San Diego, a thousand miles north to Corvallis, Oregon with my three-year-old daughter? Anyway, Oregon was runners’ paradise from what I’d heard. I had no idea I’d struggle with breathing there—become wed to inhalers. I didn’t know Oregon was also the grass seed capital of the country, much less the perfect topography to capture a state-wide pollen cloud between the coastal range and the cascades.

Back to that last race—on the tarmac at Mira Mar Air Force Base in beautiful San Diego County... I felt good—James Brown good. The heat painted mirages on the concrete runway, my racetrack. During the second mile, I realized the man behind me was staying put and mirrored my speed exactly. Well into the third mile the guy yelled, “Nice pace.” My hot pink shorts fluttered in the wind and I smiled to myself in agreement.

Truth was, my pace was involuntary. During the second mile, I had lapsed into the memory of the day my brother, Jim, had invited me to meet him on that very tarmac, thirteen years earlier. Jim was USAF fighter pilot on a reconnaissance mission. I was a waitress at a beach café near Del Mar. He’d called from the air base to tell me he’d be there for an hour if I could get there for a quick hug.

I’d sped in my Subaru down the coast highway and then east until I arrived at the base. Once there, I realized I had no idea how to find him on the base. To my surprise, the guard at the gate saluted me when I explained that my brother was preparing to depart for New Mexico in a bomber at any minute. He checked his clipboard and my identification. “You’re cleared, Miss. We’ll red flag you to the air field.”

After following the guys waving actual red flags to the flight tower, I parked and ran into the building. I was wearing my waitress outfit, a short denim skirt, red scoop necked t-shirt and my dirty apron, stuffed with tips. The man in charge at the flight tower had his back to me and his feet propped up on the desk. I rapped on the window, “Excuse me. I’m looking for Lt. Col. Roper?” The fellow swiveled in his chair and yanked the cigar from his mouth. He looked at me in horror and held the phone receiver to his chest.

“Oh God, You’re Roper’s little sister. Gees, get out there. They’re leaving!” He pointed out to the tarmac.

On a tour of my brother’s base in Clovis, New Mexico a year before, Jim had explained, “Never ever step over the cord (raised five inches) around a military base tarmac.” Step over the cord and you were fair game for target practice. This thought kicked in as I neared the tarmac. I looked down at the cord and paused. At that moment I heard the cigar man’s voice booming from the tower, “Keep going little lady, it’s the second bomber from the left.”

I took a deep breath and stepped over the cord. I could see my brother smiling and waving to me from the cockpit of an ominous plane. I waved to him as wind whipped my hair everywhere. A few minutes later, a big guy in a green jumpsuit reached around my waist from behind and lifted me up.

“Careful there—you’ll get sucked up in intake.”

My brother motioned to me that he’d call me. Seems I’d arrived too late.

Suddenly, I snapped back into the present. The sight of the finish line in the distance and the big voice behind me, appreciative of the pace, pulled my mind back to the race, to my pace, to the finish, the final push.

My legs warbled after I crossed the finish line. Coated in sweat, I worked to catch my breath. A guy sprayed some stuff on one of my legs. Magic potion, that stuff—I felt instant relief for my overused muscles. I bought a bottle of it and had the guy spray my other leg. The stuff came with a free shirt that read, “Pain Sucks.” Years later I’d add a “T” to the end of the word “Pain” and wear it to paint my house in Oregon.

Yep, life slips up on you sometimes. Never saw my last race coming.

I have been blessed with three sons. Considering the fact that I was never a girly-girl and I identified more with my father than my mother, this was truly a Godsend.

Our home was always a mishmash of Tonka Trucks, Hot Wheels, Legos, and dirt. We had not one thing pink or frilly and the noise level was just this side of deafening. We had fun. Our nightly ritual, instead of being soothing and sleep-inducing, was instead a roughhousing session of tangled arms and legs and laughter. It produced tired boys and a tired mom and bonds that I hope will never break.

I am a short woman, I have short parents, the boys' father was not a tall man. So when my oldest hit six feet at age thirteen, I was more than a bit surprised. The middle boy was only an inch or two behind; the youngest, however, was still eye-level, at least for a while.

I have never wrestled an octopus, nor do I ever wish to. But, suddenly and without warning, that's exactly what I felt like I was doing. Instead of wrestling and laughing, I was ducking for cover; my short arms ineffective against two long-armed, strong, tall young men who seemed bent on tackling me. I used to be able to pin them, tickle them, chase them, and sometimes even win. Now my best defense was to curl into a fetal position, beg them to stop, and submit when they picked me up and carried me down the hall.

And that's when I knew. I was old. I was outnumbered. I no longer could hope to gain the upper hand physically unless they felt sorry for me and let me win one for old-times' sake. Oh, I still had their love and respect, and I was still the mom. But things had shifted, somehow. They were young men; strong and capable young men, and I was no longer their protector. They were now mine.

It was amazing to receive a letter. It was so fun to see the thin blue "par avion " envelope and the American stamps and someones familiar handwriting addressing your name. Lydia had followed a man to India where he promptly dumped her for an Italian Goddess of Botticelli proportions. She was on her own in a land she really hadn't ever been inspired to visit. She was angry at herself for not learning from the tortured lessons of her feminist pioneering mother. Lydia was alone.

To make the best of it she set forth from Bombay to Goa, a fabled land of hippie laced villages and George Harrison sightings. Before leaving Bombay she spent most of the day waiting on lines and and speaking to officials (official time wasters) in order to check the main postal station for a letter. Amazingly, at the end of her day long quest, after 3 or four bribed officials, there was indeed a letter. From her sister-in-law. Written on pink and blue stationary from Longs.

Her sister-in-law was excited about the music scene in San Fransisco . ' You have to come !! ' she wrote. 'Your brothers in a band and I am too and it's too much fun. We have a job for you as a manager and booking agent. Sorry if this is messy, I'm eating a bagel and lox."

That did it. lydia did not care about the 'scene' or the job, but the idea of a lox and bagel pulled her across the continents just as enticingly as any man could have done.

Little did she know that at her first night "on the job " in San Fransisco, she would look into the eyes of the bass player and fall in love. They would go on to marry and have four children. They live happily together to this day, and Lydia always says, its because of lox and bagels.

First day of school. The kids know the drill----line up youngest to oldest for the "first day of school" photo. Travis was in kindergarten--Joanne and Brandis were 4 and almost 2 and they were neither one all that happy that he was moving off to a new adventure without them for the first time in their short lives. On the last day of school in June, they lined up again for the first "last day of school" photo and the tradition was officially begun.

The second year, the two oldest headed off on the school bus while two little sisters were left behind.

It was three years before Brandis followed the older kids to school, leaving Tracy and baby Corey behind after the annual first day of school photo was taken.

Year after year this continued--first day photos, last day photos. Year after year, the kids grew. In time, the youngest to oldest line up changed in appearance. No longer did it go from smallest to tallest. Now we had varied heights that had nothing to do with their birth order.

The years flew by and the oldest graduated from high school. His next "first day of school" photo was actually a "driving out of the driveway, leaving home to move to college" photo and mom could hardly see through the tears as she watched him head down the road.

The first day of school photo was now down to only four kids. The last day of school came all too soon, summer flew by and it was time, once again, for another child to leave for college. The oldest son had left that July on a 2 year mission for our church to Micronesia/Guam. This time, I didn't watch as my child drove away to move to college. Living in an apartment, she had much more to haul across the state to where she'd be attending college so I got to load up my van and help her move. Somehow, helping her to get unpacked and settled made leaving her there a little easier.

And our annual "first day of school" photo now was down to three kids. Two more years and the next daughter graduated. Brandis was going to attend Idaho State University, which is about a 3 1/2 hour drive and, once again, I was permitted to help her move and unpack. Sister Tracy went along, too, and we had a terrific time the two of us.

And our annual "first day of school" photo was down to two kids. This mom is beginning to wonder when these kids all grew up---I know I was right there all the time but I didn't quite see it happening.

And two years later, Tracy graduated and headed to BYU-Idaho for her first year of college. This time even Dad went along to help her move. It just took him a little longer to realize that our nest was running out of chicks.

And our annual "first day of school" photo once again was down to one lone child. No younger siblings clamoring around him to be in the picture. No siblings, stair-stepped in height grinning for the camera. Just one lone son.

And two years later, it was his turn to head to college. The last child. Having the youngest child leave home was even more difficult to accept as we had lost Tracy in a car accident just 7 weeks after she moved to college. I didn't want to seem like a clingy mother and I tried to back off and allow Corey his space. But Corey had always been in tune to his mother's feelings. He knew how hard this was and not only did he "allow" me to help him move to Eastern Idaho, I was officially "invited" to accompany him so that I would have the honor of making his bed for him. Hmmmm..... he had been doing this on his own since he was eight years old. Of course, I didn't remind him of that fact in case it would make him change his mind. Happily, I climbed into my Durango and followed his pickup truck on the five hour drive to Rexburg, Idaho. We unpacked his truck, went grocery shopping to stock his shelf of the refrigerator and his cupboard with food. I made his bed with the new cowboy sheets I had bought for him to commemorate the occasion of the youngest cowboy moving away from the farm. He took me out to dinner, hugged me goodbye and sent me on my way.

I struggled to see the road through my empty-nester's tears on that lonely drive home but, thanks to cellphones, keeping in contact with the last son after he left for college was MUCH easier than keeping in contact with the other kids who had to rely on messages from roommates.

Time has passed--the youngest son is the only one left that is still in college.

Fall of 2007 was when, after all the kids had grown, this mom was finally able to return to college. The night before my first day of class, I received three phone calls telling me to be sure to have someone take a "first day of school" picture. The next morning as I was getting ready to leave, my husband grabbed my camera and said , "Smile, Grandma--this is your first day of school!" And, as I headed out to the car, my youngest son and his sweet little wife came riding up to the house through the barnyard on their 4 wheeler with a camera--"Wait! Mom--I need to take a "first day of school" picture for you!"

And so the tradition continues--it just has a new "twist" to it this year!

"I don't buy green bananas," my friend Tyzoon was fond of saying as he sucked in oxygen from the thin silver tank he wheeled behind him on a golf-bag cart. Tyzoon was born at St. Elizabeth's hospital in Breach Candy, on the oceanfront in Bombay -- the same place my daughter Kiran spent her first month of life. He grew up in a large family compound behind the Taj Hotel near the Gate of India, in a traditional Muslim household littered with relatives.

Tyzoon's mother once surprised us by showing up at the door to our hotel room at the Taj, handing over her driver to us, and inviting us to her mountain home. That was the kind of family Tyzoon came from, open and welcoming.

I can hardly remember not knowing Tyzoon. His son, Saleh, went to French school with our son Dan, and it was our house where he and his wife, Joyce, left the kids after the Oakland fire, when they went back in to see if their house was gone (thankfully, it survived, though the houses nearby burned). Every holiday season Tyzoon and his family joined us for our annual latke party, which has been a tradition for decades and includes all religious persuasions: Hindu, Muslim, Jewish, Christian, Zen Buddhist, agnostic and atheist -- all religions who pay homage to a delicious potato pancake.

It was a few years ago when I was attending one of the French School's many kitchen tours, when I asked Tyzoon, without thinking what I was really saying -- as we all do -- "And how are you?" We were standing next to the swimming pool of a big house in Piedmont, and there was a rhododendron bush blooming beside us.

I was drinking a glass of orange juice and eating a chocolate croissant. There was a steel band playing Caribbean music on the lawn.

"There is some news, actually," he said. "It seems I have a disease." He coughed.

I must have said something. I know he did not tell me what the disease was. I thought at the time that it might have been lung cancer.

As it turned out, Tyzoon had an ideopathic type of lung fibrosis, and though he looked for cures, he found none. He was turned down for a lung transplant at UCSF. Then, he told me, he realized that he was wasting his time trying to find ways to make his life longer, and he made the decision to simply enjoy the life he had.

I saw him every so often after that, and communicated with him by email often. We had a lively exchange of travel tales from his trips back to India, and to the Canadian Eastern shore. We discussed politics by email, and I was part of his survey of a few select friends on the issue of who he should vote for in the California Democratic Primary (he decided on Obama because of the need to change the image of America abroad, something he felt could not be done by a "dynastic" choice).

The last time I saw Tyzoon in person was over lunch last fall. We had sandwiches and wonderful sauteed hot peppers. The lunch lasted three hours, and I encouraged him to write more of his story, since he had such a flair for story telling.

The next day I got a sixteen page summary of his life up to age three (thus I know about where he was born), and I hope he wrote more of this after that.

Tomorrow I will go to his house again, this time for the celebration of his life: the memorial his wife and son and daughter plan. He passed away yesterday, as I already knew was coming soon. I knew it, in fact, as I drank my orange juice and we chatted that spring day at the French School Kitchen tour in Piedmont.

Sometimes you just know there is nothing that can fix the situation, nothing that will change the outcome. That moment talking to Tyzoon was such a moment for me. Hearing now, from his wife Joyce, that he is gone I feel the two moments coming together, like two ends of a string, to tie the knot that makes his life a complete circle.

Why is it so important to me to tie these two ends together? Because this circle is the one that saves us all, the one where we learn how important it is not to buy green bananas.

A new kid joined the group. I sat next to his mom. We struck up a conversation like I always do with someone I sit next to. She told me she felt so relaxed and good. She just had reiki and a reading from this amazing woman who is a psychic.

After she said it she suddenly felt uncomfortable waiting for a negative reaction from me. I was actually fascinated with the subject and wanted to know more. We quickly connected and became friends. Her reaction, she explained, was because you just never know how receptive or judgemental someone could be. Yup, I know that one.

I also know that we meet people for various reasons.

The next week I saw this woman for reiki and a reading. She was a few years younger than me and beautiful both inside and out. I don't know what I was expecting but I was pleasantly surprised.

The reiki was fine. The reading was interesting. She kept talking about my maternal grandmother and gave an accurate description of her and how she might express herself. I was very close to her. She passed away when I was 13. She went on & on about how proud she is of me and how strong I am and I much I have grown up.

Ok, anyone could say that.

Did I have any questions?

Well yes, I had a million questions. I really wanted to know about my brother. She asked me what his name was. I told her.

He is healing. He is ok. He wants you to know he is ok. She asked if I like cookies. Yes but nothing out of the ordinary. Who doesn't like cookies, I thought.

Did you like cookie monster? Not really. She kept seeing a cookie jar. He wants you to know it's really him and keeps showing me things related to cookies.

On the drive home it all made sense. It didn't at first, but it took about 10 minutes for me to realize it really was my brother.

My nickname as a little girl was Cookie.

Knowing that our loved ones never really leave us gives me great comfort.

@

It was time for the late news. Carmel came into the TV room and started her dance, letting us know she had to go outside. It was the same routine every night. I open the back door… I could smell spring in the air. We had spent all day working in the back yard fertilizing the roses and raking up the winter’s debris. I return to the front room to finish watching the news, five minutes later Carmel is barking to come in, and then she jumps onto the couch. I never go to bed before 1am so I just relax but, Carmel is making a menace of herself. She insists on going out again but this time I don’t hear her barking to come back into the house. I go outside and find her hiding in the back of the property, her body is limp and she is breathing heavy with a strange odor to her breath.

I approach her and she didn’t make eye contact, now I am panicky. I am a CCU nurse and able to deal with anxious situations but this dilemma was very alarming. I picked her up and brought her in; she was dead weight she does not move. What happened in the five minutes she was outside to make her act this way? I get a towel and put her on the couch and sit next to her, just reassuring her that she wasn’t alone. A short time later I notice that she was bleeding from the rectum and seemed to be slipping into a coma. Carmel was also drooling and the color of her gums was ashen. I finally realized that she was dying right in front of me and I don’t know what to do, at 3am I called the Vet. He said that there was nothing I could do in the middle of the night but to bring her in at 6am. The hours of watching her get more and more unresponsive were unbearable. Finally I arrived at the Vets and they whisked her away to what they call the CCU/ICU unit of the Vet hospital. The staff returned and told me that she had been poisoned, most likely by a fertilizer product. Oh my God, I did this to her… it was the rose food. There is bone meal in the fertilizer mixture I use. The bone meal is non-toxic but it smells like “bones” to dogs so they dig it up, but they also get fertilizer and that is lethal. When I first let her out she ate the mixture around the roses. That is also why her breath smelled odd. The Vet told me that, when animals are dying they like to be alone, that is why she went to the back of the property.

After five days in the hospital she came home and was on a restricted diet but thank God I was with her and got her to the Vets as soon as I could. She lived to be fifteen years old and I paid a great deal more attention to my environment so I could take better care of all my family.

“Mind if I join you for breakfast?”

I looked up at the balding, 50’ish guy looming over me in the Official Judging Room and shrugged.

“Have a seat.”

He sat down and offered me a Danish, so I asked him where he was from. Both of us were in New York to judge the Direct Marketing Association’s prestigious “Echo” Awards for creative excellence, and making business contacts was all part of the gig.

He mentioned a famous New York ad agency, and I said, “Wow, you must know Gary McKee.” Know him? Turned out the guy not only knew the head art director from my current agency in Philadelphia, but was his former writing partner!

As we chatted amiably, suddenly a voice came from the table behind us: “Did I hear the name Gary McKee?” A dark, good-looking guy in his 40’s joined the conversation, and we discussed the now-famous Gary, with me presuming the new guy had also worked with him in New York.

The three of us spent eight hours in that dark, windowless room with about twenty-five other men and women, critiquing direct mail packages from around the world . . . and for some reason I never did get the second guy’s name.

The next day, Gary and I tried to figure out who he was and finally gave up. “The Mystery Man” he was and “The Mystery Man” he would remain.

Except. Two hours later, Gary came running into my office. “I just talked to the creative director at MBNA. He said he met you yesterday.” We just looked at each other. The Mystery Man!

“Why not call him right now?” Gary said, “I hear they’re looking for writers.”

So I did. Acted like I knew who he was all along. Sent some writing samples. And landed a job that paid twenty-five grand more than I’d been making.

Not bad for sharing a Danish.

Removed.

I was 35 years old and had been trying for 10 years to have a baby -- but perhaps not quite in the way you might think. Then came an unimportant little chance meeting...

My first husband was a very charming Palestinian engineer. He came on like gangbusters, and we got married just months after we'd met. Our romance was joyfully whirlwind. We had talked about all the important things, and I thought we had all the big issues settled. Back then, I believed peoples' words as much as their actions -- plus, he had a huge, loving family that I just couldn't wait to be a part of. I was 26, about to graduate from grad school, and had already started a business that was starting to take off. Everything seemed in sync!

I got pregnant almost as quickly as we'd gotten married. I figured that was a sign that things were on the right track (I was big into signs back then). Hubby became obsessed with _not_ having the baby. The timing wasn't right. We didn't have enough money. A litany of excuses.

My Jewish parents (stepmother, Jewish by birth; father, Jewish by way of conversion after being a Catholic-then-Baptist) had pretty much stopped having anything to do with me when I married a Palestinian. I felt I had no choice but to have an abortion. Bad, bad mistake. I went through five years of agonizing depression and self-hatred afterward. I was so ashamed for not having the strength to leave the asshole and have the baby on my own, as other, braver women are wont to do. The baby-hating hubby and I eventually divorced, and not amicably. (By the way, he's been married six more times since then. He left five of the wives when they got pregnant -- can anyone say "condom"? The sixth wife got pregnant and told him he could hate her all he wanted but she was going to live in his house and raise his child. Good for her! Anyhow, I finally realized his desire not to have a baby had nothing to do with me.)

Hubby number two was a sexy Peruvian business scholar whom I found absolutely irresistible. He wanted a baby as much as I did -- another sign from God, right? I had a miscarriage and then simply couldn't get pregnant again. We went for consultations; I took fertility drugs, did the ovulation kits. Nothing. Finally, the doctor checked hubby's sperm. On the verge of death, it was. The nurse took me aside and told me the only reason such a healthy man his age would have that problem was most likely drugs. Turns out, it was drugs; he was a clever and sneaky cokehead. Once I made that discovery, he found his stuff on the front porch that evening, and divorce quickly ensued.

So, I took my biological-clock-booming, 35-year-old self to one of the best-pedigreed fertility specialists in town. He did some tests, came in looking all somber, rattled off the names of several multisyallabic conditions, told me that women -- including me! -- can have wonderful, fulfilling lives, even though they cannot have children.

So, things were pretty bleak for a while. I threw myself into work to drown everything else. My business boomed because, hey, what else did I have in my life?

Except a little English-as-a-Second-Language class I taught, as a volunteer, at a local church every Sunday. It got me out of the house on the weekends, and the students were very cool.

One day, I was pulling out of the parking lot of my downtown office, in my nearly-new car, which really shouldn't have had anything wrong with it, and it just died. I got out of the car and was getting ready to push it forward, back into the parking space.

At that very moment, one of my ESL students from the church happened by, a really sweet young guy from Acapulco, named Paul. He came and helped me push the car.

"You have mechanic?" he asked.

"No," I said. "I guess I'll call triple-A."

"No, don't do that," he said. "Too much money. I have a friend, a mechanic."

"Well, okay, but how about a towtruck?" I asked.

"No towtruck," he said. "My mechanic make house calls. Or parking lot calls," he said, looking around.

"Well, okay," I said. "Do you have his number?"

Paul said, "Don't worry. I will call him."

The next morning, true to Paul's word, the mechanic showed up to check on my car.

Long story short, the mechanic and I had the most gorgeous wedding, right at sunrise on our favorite beach. Our beautiful five-year-old son is in his bedroom right now, watching his favorite Disney movie and building a Lego masterpiece. My husband will be home soon so that we can have dinner and go for a walk together, one of the many things we do to keep our beloved family healthy.

When I got married in '87 I was 33 and half way through law school. While I wanted to have a baby I assumed, at the rusty age of 33, this would require a few months of 'trying' followed by fertility treatments and then maybe a stint at the Mayo Clinic. Plenty of time to finish school.

Two months later I'm throwing up at the Christmas party. This was still fine. I'd have the baby in July and come back in January. I would breastfeed while I studied, maybe even take the baby to class if I could be discreet.

I went in to my advisor, a motherly type with four grown boys herself,and told her my plan:

"I'll be back in January," I said.

"Umm, hummm," she said with a warm smile.

"And I should have no problem with studying. I only have three semesters left and the baby won't be walking until.."

"Ummm..hmmm."

"I can bring him with me."

"Ummm...hmmm."

I laid out my entire plan. "OK, see you in Janurary!"

"Umm-hmmmm...bye dear."

Between gurgles and smiles and big wet kisses,January snuck up on me so fast! My husband had mentioned that it was maybe time to start calling nanny agencies back in November so in January I placed a small ad in the Jewish Bulletin for a part time babysitter. Occasionally I answered the phone.

One gal showed up with dirty hair.

One came with her oxygen tank

Another came, laid down on my couch, and spent the entire interview complaining about her menstrual cramps

Another only spoke Russian...which might have been OK except I didn't like her.

I had the perfect person in mind, she'd had to be out there, she simply wasn't showing up.

Then I got a call from a wonderful-sounding woman. Seemingly sane, native English speaker. I could tell on the phone that we clicked. She would bring her own child with her but said emphatically that this would not interfere with the care given my son. Even better I thought. That night I actually pictured myself going back to school.

Next day I called her, chatted some, and began giving her directions to the house. "OK, you go down Lincoln till you hit 12th avenue."

"Wait," she says. "How do you spell that?"

I gulped. "L I N C O.."

" No, 12th"

"12th?" It's the number."

"Right," she answered. "How do you spell it?"

That was the moment

But I was definitely going back in September!

Ummm...hmmmmm. .

The whole thing started with a purple dress and a guy named Al. When the huge company I worked for bought out its competitor, Management decided that the annual sales meeting would have to be a Blow-Out to impress all the newly-acquired salespeople with their opportunities with their giant (and voracious) new employer.

Accordingly, the annual meeting was set up at a resort near Fort Lauderdale in conjunction with an industry trade show. All four hundred of us wore logo shirts and kakis on the show floor to show competitors and vendors that our company was IN THE HOUSE.

Whenever we weren’t all bussed to the Show to intimidate vendors and competitors, there were seminars, training sessions and motivational speakers and whatever else to make sure we knew we existing and new employees were Special as Hell to The Company.

When we bought out the Competitor, The Company got Al. He came from the Competitor as a Regional Vice-President, replacing the regional vice president who was my boss' friend.

During the Holidays, when we were all busy setting up Christmas decorations in clients’ lobbies and headquarters, I worked with Al on a couple of projects. I decided I liked him, and that he was attracted to me..

Al wasn’t anything to get excited about physically—forties, thin on top, and a bit pudgy, but he had that way of looking at a woman as though she was just about the most beautiful and interesting thing he ever saw. It’d been a long time since I’d run into that, but I’d just turned fifty and I guess I needed it. He didn’t wear a ring, so in spite of being my boss' unwelcome new boss, he was fair game.

When the word came down about the Sales Meeting, I knew I’d want to make sure Al noticed me. The Meeting closed Friday night with a big formal party so I saw my chance to make an impression

I needed an evening dress for the Party, and combed the department stores and consignment shops to find something that wouln’t make me look like the Grandmother of the Bride.

I finally found it at Saks, on a clearance rack labeled “Bridesmaid’s Dresses.” It was silky, eggplant-purple wrap dress that had just the right low neckline that makes your face look slim without hanging your chest out like a twenty-year-old’s. It tied on the side, and had a graceful, bell-shaped skirt. Best of all, it was marked down from $350 to $89. It was the most beautiful dress I ever had, and I looked and felt gorgeous wearing it.

Well, the Dress and I got to the meeting, and it was one grueling week. Besides working the Trade Show, we started early at the resort every morning and kept going until late at night. Evening events included live entertainment with a lavish buffet and open bar. It was meant to impress the new people, and it did. But for me, a diabetic since childhood, it took a bit of management.

For one thing, there was a Continental Breakfast at the crack of damn dawn every day. Continental Breakfasts are a problem for a diabetic, because they’re all carbs and fat, but no protein. I got up an hour before everyone else so I could go to the restaurant and pay for a breakfast out of my own pocket that had eggs or other protein so that I could make it through the morning meetings without low or high blood glucose.

Evenings always involved an elaborate buffet with an open bar, and we attendees were expected to show a Positive Attitude and show up to eat and drink. The mantra was “We Work Hard and We Play Hard.”

I wanted nothing so much as to sneak off and rest. All this food and alcohol, plus the long hours, wore me out and I didn’t dare admit to anybody that I wasn’t having that much of a good time. That would not have been the requisite Positive Attitude.

If I could just get to the Party Friday night and wear my dress, I would go home Saturday and sleep for a couple of days. I figured I could keep smiling and show a Positive Attitude through Friday, at least.

On Friday, the schedule allowed a couple of hours of personal time before the Party, so I had a chance to get a facial at the resort’s salon. The facial felt so good I hated to even put on makeup, but I did and wrapped myself into the purple dress, slipped my feet into glittering gold pumps and stuck some ID, insulin and syringes into my vintage gold evening bag . Even I could see the effect. I just needed for Al to see and appreciate me, get through the Party and slip back to the room early.

The Party featured lots of rich food, open bars and a very loud band with speakers that would have serviced a football field. Though most of the sales reps for the company were middle-aged women, the musical theme of the evening was “WHO LET THE DOGS OUT? WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! “ The whole building vibrated, and my ears went mercifully numb from the din. Some of the drunkest attempted to dance.

Al came over to our table and told me how pretty I looked. YES! But, since he was the Regional VP, he went around to all the tables for the region and spoke to everybody, which is something a Regional VP does. I figured if the band would do something we could dance to, I’d ask him to dance.

When I had a chance to slip out of the conga line to the luxurious, mirror-lined ladies’ room, I found a knot of women propping up their feet on the couches and benches, savoring the relative quiet. I sat down in relief.

That’s when I felt the sharp, stabbing pain in my chest and tightening in my left arm. I felt hot, sweaty and nauseous. I don’t know who called the EMTs, but suddenly they seemed to be all around me. They slipped a plastic thing into my nose, a stethoscope under my elegant purple dress and loaded me onto a gurney.

Al and the Company President were there saying things to me. Out of the fog of nausea and pain and the realization that I really was having a heart attack, I saw that Al was wearing a wedding ring.

I’ve never had another chance to wear my beautiful purple dress.