Monday, August 31, 2009

Why Mr. Right Can’t Find Me, Part Two



He couldn't find me in Seattle last week because I was gone. Of course, he could have been hiking the Skyline Trail out of Paradise on Mt. Rainier, as I was, or cycling 276 miles with me and a couple of women friends.

But he wasn't, and I had a fine time anyway.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Why Mr. Right Can’t Find Me

The title of the book is actually Why Mr. Right Can’t Find You, but frankly, what do I care about you?

The guy who wrote the book thinks nice bars are good, because the single guys with enough gumption to opt for something more than a beer and TV find bars companionable places.

I guess my fantasy though -- one of them, anyway -- is, I’ll be at a lecture at Town Hall or the library, and some guy with his bike helmet in his hands will come over after and look me right in the eyes and say, “I couldn’t help noticing how interested you were in our speaker, and how earnestly you seemed to be taking notes. I’d be happy to buy the wine if you’d feel comfortable coming with me to [some nearby comfortable bar] to talk about it.”

Or even just, “Haven’t I met you somewhere?”

On Romance

One Valentine's Day when Mary was a columnist for the Port Townsend Leader, they invited readers to write about their most romantic moments. Mary wrote this column. It comes to mind when she's fantasizing about Mr. Right.

I’m dying to read what the men write in for The Leader’s “Most Romantic Moments” thing. I’m guessing men think it’s very romantic when women leave them alone to watch the football game, occasionally appearing with that spinach dip in the round french bread loaf and more beer.

My ex might write in about the time he was in the hospital overnight for knee surgery, and the Academy Awards were on the television, and I crawled into his crankup bed with him and we watched.

Bob Hebbel was romantic at age 19, a sensitive, nature-loving type with gooey brown eyes. Boy, did he love trees. Unfortunately for me, I just had to stand by and watch him hug them. I think he was hoping I’d be able to see the romantic in him via this behavior, but all I could foresee was a lifetime of competing with maples.

On the positive side, here are some dazzling moments: My dear ex, years ago, reaching under his pillow when we woke up on my birthday morning, and pulling out a tiny velvet box. The gesture alone would have been pretty great, but the earrings, too, were wonderful.

He used to make the coffee in the morning, and bring me a mug before I got up.

He also bought me a bike for my 40th birthday, which may not seem exactly romantic to you, but you know how you feel, at 40 -- unbelievable as it is lo these many years later -- as if you’re sliding into your sunset years? And what a boost it is to have somebody believe you can still make those pedals turn!

He used to take me out to dinner on the evenings when I got back from my big monthly hikes. He was always elated, that I got to go hiking and he didn’t have to accompany me.

I don’t want you to get the idea I think buying stuff is required for romance. Once a man and I were sitting on opposite ends of my couch, getting to know each other, while some appropriate music like Sam Cooke or Michael McDonald was playing in the background. He reached over, took my hand, and pulled me up, saying, “We could dance to this.” Unforgettable.

Somebody else took me to lunch at Don’s Pharmacy lunch counter. A charming idea, and awfully good soup.

I wonder if women will be writing in to The Leader to describe how terrific it is to be able to fall asleep on a late, long drive home from the ferry. I feel like a princess when a man drives in a capable, safe way, so I never get thrown around on the turns or feel myself braking when he should be, but isn’t. I’m not impressed by how fast a man can get going again after the stop light. Sorry.

I suppose my chief romantic fantasy would be some nice man showing up in the late afternoon and stowing a bottle of champagne in my fridge, while he sets his cheese fondue fixings on the counter. “Why don’t you go put on that wonderful new long skirt of yours while I go out and cut that hanging branch off your bay tree with my chain saw?” he’d say. “Then I’ll make dinner and we’ll watch ‘Breaking Away,’ and then I thought you might like to dance me around your kitchen for awhile.”

Note to Readers: Are you thinking, Is she nuts? How does she dare put this stuff out on the internet? Or does it make you want to share your own romantic fantasies? Feedback and romantic fantasies, please.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

It’s Elders for Health Care Reform Day

One of my favorite blogs, Time Goes By, is sponsoring Elders for Health Care Reform Day. You can go there and be directed to excellent coverage by the old folks like me who support health care reform. You’ll find the stories a relief when you’re worn out with the “Keep your government hands off my Medicare” nonsense.

What I really don’t get is why we act in the United States like fixing our health care system is such uncharted, potentially dangerous territory, when every other developed nation is doing it. Even we’re doing it: Why not let anybody buy Medicare insurance, at any age?

And the most ludicrous thing: Opponents don’t want a public option because too many people would choose it!

I buy catastrophic coverage via Group Health in Seattle -- and I like GH. Policies like mine seem to indicate that as long as you have your annual max deductible/co-pay figure of $5000 or so in the bank, you’re covered. So why were there all those fundraisers back in Port Townsend for folks with coverage like mine and money in the bank? Was it the hidden costs that are not covered, or the lifetime deductible?

Personally, I just pray I don’t get too sick until I’m 65 and on Medicare.

On the other hand, I’d hate for being sixty and single in Seattle to go by in a rush.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Leaving Seattle

So. I’ve been single and a Seattle-ite now for 6 months, two weeks, and three days. I’ve started exploring what we do when we want to get out of town.

Last Saturday, a friend took me to Bybee-Nims Farm, just outside North Bend, to pick blueberries. The backdrop is the fabled Mt. Si, another outside-Seattle destination still on my to-do list. After picking 15 pounds of berries, we found a little park and trails to the confluence of rivers, where we could picnic, wade, and play with river rocks.

Then yesterday, my first hike this side of the Hood Canal. In Port Townsend, I hiked with the WOWIES. You need to be able to hike 10 to 12 mountain miles to join these women. My first hike, on a December day, was also my first ever on snowshoes, up Mt Walker. I was proud to keep up.

Since then, I’ve hiked many an Olympic trail, and actually have a reputation for leading the pack. But oh dear, the Cascades! Are they all going to be like yesterday?

We hiked eight miles, gaining 3100 feet in four, to Mt Forgotten Meadows. From there, we made a short climb to a little peak with mountains in every direction. Sparkling blue sky straight up, hazy in the distance. The blueberries were ripening. The stream was icy.

But ouch! Coming down is my nemesis. Here, you’re rocking and rolling and slipping down the steeps on the trail of loose rocks. Once I fell into the stream, and later, down the slope. (True, no one else was falling....)

The last four blocks of the hike, from my friend’s place on Phinney back to mine on Evanston, I was like the cartoon guy nearing the water in the desert. I was limping as fast as I could toward my ibuprofen.

And it worked: I can walk! But I think I'll just lie here a little longer, musing on how being a citizen of somewhere includes knowing where you go when you want a day away.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Boy, Are We Connected...

I'm getting some amazing email lately. When I wrote about Chandler Burr's wonderful novel, You or Someone Like You, I got an email from him! And not computer-generated; he actually responded to what I'd written in my blog, which I guess he'd got onto in its Facebook incarnation.

Now this in response to my post, The Potato Made Me Do It? You folks with TV may wish to know this.

Michael Schwarz to zydecycle@gmail.com
9:58am

Dear Mary,

If you're reading The Botany of Desire, you might be interested to know that we've recently finished a two-hour version of the book which will be shown on PBS October 28th at 8pm. If you think you might want to write about it I can put you in touch with our publicists.

Best,
Michael



--------------------
Michael Schwarz
Kikim Media
887 Oak Grove Avenue, Suite 201
Menlo Park, CA 94025
650-617-0550
www.kikim.com

Saturday, August 15, 2009

The Potato Made Me Do It?

A friend mentioned yesterday that he's reading The Botany of Desire, and another friend is studying evolutionary biology for her nursing degree. It all put me in mind of a column I wrote for The Port Townsend Leader in March 2007. I've been praying ever since that I'll evolve into a better writer.

I have been secretly obsessed with evolution for decades. Secretly, because of course it’s not a topic for polite society. On the one hand, many of us assume agreement on some basic premises -- natural selection, say, and survival of the fittest -- as if naturalism alone explains everything. And on the other hand, many of us -- the same ones, often -- go about our daily lives behaving with kindness on behalf of our immortal souls, thanking Somebody for our miraculous parking spaces, even daydreaming about what we want to come back as, in our next lives. We don’t even blink at sentences like Michael Pollan’s, “Natural selection has designed...,” with its phantom selector/designer lurking behind the scenes. Because even when we believe life just happened, on some other level we don’t believe it.

I’m reading Pollan’s book, The Botany of Desire. It’s a good title, no doubt the best choice, but I sort of wish he’d called it, The Potato Made Me Do It. He says what drives evolution is not individual survival so much as a reproduction imperative. He says plants use humans to achieve it. Take a look at a seed catalog, and you’ll see how the potatoes are all screaming, “Choose me! Choose me!” with their purple skin, or fingerling shapes, or buttery taste. They want us to plant them.

I’m intrigued. I told a friend the other day I was writing a column on God and evolution, and he said, Do you get much hate mail? So it’s controversial: important things are. To the Christian creationists who want equal time in school for God, obviously. Probably too, to Muslims, with their hopes of an eternal virgin-riddled paradise. And how about explaining karma evolutionarily?

No matter how much you shrink from controversy, the questions present themselves.

For example, I made turkey mole this week; I like it with chopped green olives on top. Unfortunately, one of my olives -- but only one! -- had a circle of mold on it, upon which was centered a perfect, five-pointed mold star. I carefully removed that olive, then chopped the others and put them on my dinner. I thanked God for my meal, and studied my mold as I ate.

Why a perfect circle? Probably, I hypothesized, because mold would start in one cell-sized spot and grow outward, filling in the empty contiguous spaces in one of those ubiquitous spiraling patterns. But why a star? Why five points? To what evolutionary end? I wanted to send my olive to my nephew Sam, who, inexplicably, says he wants to be a CEO or a professional sports star when he grows up. How boring, Sam. When you could be a scientist?!

My point is, just for fun, could we talk about evolution? Could we ask our questions? Scientists do. That’s the excitement of it. Sure, I get the tree of life thing, the developmental biology evidence, the obvious fossil record. I understand species variation on Galapagos, after reading Jonathan Weiner’s wonderful book, The Beak of the Finch.

But confidentially, haven’t you wondered if maybe those intelligent-design folks have a point with their idea of irreducible complexity? Because if a basic idea of evolution is that beneficial mutations result in better survival rates, your mutation must reach the stage where it actually benefits you. It’s one thing to produce a sharper or harder or shorter beak, depending on the nuts you’re trying to get into; it’s quite another to imagine an incipient pimple, say, becoming a beak at all.

It’s not a bad question, but if you’re like me, you don’t dare ask anyone. Or I didn’t until lately, when it turns out some of the hottest evolution questions relate to why we persist in believing in God. I read it in the New York Times. Now I wish I’d brought it up sooner. Anyway, what good is a God or a science you can’t question?

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Falling in love with SAM

It’s been a gradual thing. I have to admit, at the start, I thought SAM was kind of cocky. Uppity. Bit too much swagger. But I'm starting to melt.

I joined, so now I can get to know Seattle Art Museum in small sips. Today I went in, since I was downtown anyway to visit Congressman McDermott’s office to encourage him to hang in on health care reform. I went to see the Wyeths, the Helga paintings.

I rode the escalator upstairs and asked a woman where to go. She pointed, said through the door at the left. I walked that way, looked left, and -- got waylaid. By Morris Graves.

The colors and shapes pulled me in. It’s called Summer Still Life, but it’s more like a harvest buffet on a picnic cloth above the timberline in a jagged mountain range. A dismantled still life of figs and beets and squash and plums. Wondeful.

At its right, John Covert’s Temptation of St Anthony, all angles in shades of black and white. You want a handrail so you don’t fall into it, even though it’s only maybe 18”x18”.

In this same room, sculpture. Alexander Archipenko’s The Bride, what I guess artists do when they don’t believe in the Virgin Mary. Tall, spare, slinky, blonde all over.

I escaped this modern room, but further along the way to the Wyeths, couldn’t resist the come-hither call of Martin Johnson Meade’s Tropical Landscape with Ten Hummingbirds. My, but it’s humid!

Then, seven Wyeths, and the painter’s own descriptions of them. How he had to love the subjects to paint them. Chadds Ford, Wyeth's place in Pennsylvania. The old stone houses. The spot on Helga’s neck where her hair begins.

Yes. SAM is revealing his charms.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

If I’m So Wonderful, Why Am I Still Single?

This is the title of Susan Page’s book, not available at Seattle Public Library. I’m going to have to buy it. Page wrote my favorite of the many relationship books I worked my way through in 25 years of marriage: How One of You Can Bring the Two of You Together. Even though, you might suggest, it didn’t really work, I still say it’s a fine book.

Anyway, If I’m so wonderful, why am I still single? Peaches.

Let me say first, peaches are my favorite fruit, and within at least the top ten of my favorite of all foods. In college, my friend David would go to the train station in St Paul and come back with a full box of the biggest sweetest juiciest peaches I had ever seen. In my twenties, working in Sacramento, I journeyed to the peach farm to buy myself a 24-pound flat of peaches. I ate them for every meal, until I started to feel funny and gain weight and my skin broke out; I finally saw a doctor who asked me what I’d been eating. Then he said, ‘It may be natural sugar, but it’s still sugar, you know. Lay off.’

I try to be moderate, but fresh peaches are only at their best for a month out of the year, at most. Some years I eat so many my mouth hurts, and I have to rinse it out with baking soda solutions to moderate the acid.

So, new to Seattle, where shall I find my peaches? Should be easy; they grow them in Eastern Washington. I asked a friend, and he said, “Get them in Ellensburg.” While I’m trying to think where that is, he offers -- or did I ask? -- to bring some home for me on his upcoming trip.

I think I said to him, Be sure you taste them. But I don’t think I conveyed to him the full importance and excitement of a trip to the peach stand. You taste them all. You smell them. You heft them and feel that they are heavy for their size.

I think maybe what he understood from me was sort of like if someone said, Pick up something for dessert tonight, will you please? When what I really meant was more like, “It’s my 60th birthday; would you like to select the dessert?”

So he brought me a box of peaches. I was paying, and was amazed to learn these 24 pounds of peaches only cost $7.50. They tasted okay, but they weren’t perfuming my whole kitchen as I expected, and they’re small. Over the next few days, on the counter to ripen more, they acquired mold spots everywhere they had little round bruises. I’ve come to believe they were a cull box, a lovely option for bargain hunters and peach canners.

But for me, the peach maniac, it was as if that birthday dessert had been a great bargain in the day-old section. Perfectly good in itself, but just not what I was picturing.

So I made a peach cobbler last night, and I was invited to dinner tonight, so I have a pie in the oven. I took peaches upstairs to Olga and Andrei. I’m eating them, and they’re fine.

But they aren’t The Great Peaches of 2009. They have yet to be acquired.

So imagine you’re that nice man who offered to bring me peaches and went out of his way to do so. And here I am writing my snotty little meditations on how his peaches aren’t good enough.

Of course I’m single! Who’d want a picky chick like me?

Monday, August 10, 2009

Reading Old New Yorkers

I’ve never subscribed to The New Yorker; I couldn’t take the pressure of a new one every week.

But I love reading it. I used to pick up previously-owned issues in the free box at the library in Port Townsend, especially when I had a plane trip coming up.

I haven’t found a free box here in Fremont, so when planning my trip to Michigan, I asked a subscriber friend if he had old issues he’d be willing to lend. He laughed, a little hysterically I thought, then gave me four, never read, from early 2003.

Fine by me. I’ve been working my way through them ever since. I knew there’d be good stuff, but the timeliness of it surprised me.

For example, in recent conversations, I discover that nobody remembers ever thinking maybe the US was going to have to do something about Saddam. Even good friends I could swear were in my living room watching on television the UN weapons inspectors who had been ejected from Iraq. So I was relieved to read this from David Resnick, February 3, 2003:

The United States has been wrong, politically and morally, about Iraq more than once in the past; Washington has supported Saddam against Iran and overlooked some of his bloodiest adventures. The price of being wrong yet again could be incalculable. History will not easily excuse us if, by deciding not to decide, we defer a reckoning with an aggressive totalitarian leader who intends not only to develop weapons of mass destruction but also to use them.

So, I don’t know, maybe it was just David and me, but at least I wasn’t entirely on my own.

And then, as I’ve written before, I was blown away by Chandler Burr’s recent novel, You Or Someone Like You, wherein it is suggested that the racial criteria conservative Jews apply to determine Jewishness is no more acceptable than the racial standards the Nazis used. We don’t say such things. We don’t even really let ourselves think them.

But according to a Jeffrey Toobin piece (1.27.03), Irish poet Tom Paulin, who had been invited to speak at Harvard, had said worse. Rita Goldberg, a non-tenured lecturer, though reluctant to curb free speech, protested. Paulin had said in an interview, referring to “Jewish settlers on the West Bank: ‘They should be shot dead. I think they are Nazis, racists. I feel nothing but hatred for them.’”

Awfully strong words. Too strong for me. But brave to speak out about the arrogant disregard for Palestinians at the mercy of West Bank settlers? All relevant to questions today about the frightening but protected political speech of the “birthers” and the raucous protests against health care reform in Congressional district offices.

Outside the political sphere, these old New Yorkers have further delighted me. Alma Guillermoprieto writes (2.10.03) about dance in New York City in the 1960s. I not only learned about Merce Cunningham, in the news lately because of his recent death, but loved these lines:

No one ever asked me then, and I don’t know if I myself understood, that I had a life that was not only extraordinary but real -- the kind of life that doesn’t happen by accident but is put together only slowly and with effort.

I could go on, but let me close with John Updike’s 1.13.03 first sentence in a piece on writer Alvaro Mutis: “A writer’s time is hard to waste.”

My new motto.

Sunday, August 9, 2009

"Mars and Venus!"

I got a comment on my post about chickening out on the block party, which I reproduce here below in part, because I love it! Especially, is this writer using "Mars and Venus" as an expletive, like Italians (in movies, at least) use "Jesus Mary and Joseph"?:


Mars and Venus! Why do (some) women insist that there is a hidden, underlying message in things men say? There's not! We don't generally think before we talk, we just let the first thing that rolls through our brain, fall out our mouth. (Yes, even Presidents!) What he meant by "There's no hurry" is that "There is no need to hurry". It's just what came to mind.


And there, ladies, is the definitive word on understanding what men mean.

More Safe Thrills for Single Women

I know women who go for casual sex, but it’s not for me. I’m saving sex for serious. What I like are the safe substitutes, like dancing. Seattle dance instructor MaryLee Lykes says, “In the moment of the dance, dance with everyone as if you’re in love with them. But remember, it’s just dancing.” (Or something like that, is what she says.)

And here’s a new safe substitute: riding on the back of a motorcycle. You know me and carpooling, and sharing a motorcycle was my best option for getting from a zydeco dance Friday night in Port Townsend back to the Bainbridge ferry. I rode behind guys in college, so I knew to lean when the driver leans, like following your partner in dance. And I was kind of gripping his butt with my thighs. But was there more I needed to know? I asked. Steve said, “I notice my bike doesn’t handle as well when your arms aren’t around me.”

So what could I do? I didn’t want the bike to fall over, now did I?

Friday, August 7, 2009

Life in Seattle

I believe I’m getting pretty good at my own neighborhood, other than that block-party phobia attack, but downtown Seattle is still a bit daunting. I was headed down there yesterday for Dancing ‘til Dusk in Freeway Park, a free blues dance lesson at 6 pm followed by dancing to Maia Santell and her band until 9. My conflict was, Douglas Brinkley was appearing at the Central Library to read from/discuss his latest book, on Theodore Roosevelt. But hey, I can always read the book; I can’t read the dance.

And I thought, since I’m going downtown anyway, I’ll stop in at Seattle Art Museum first. And maybe I’ll eat out. (I’m considering taking me out to dinner once a month, since nobody else does. I’m a big girl.)

So I put on my dancing tee-shirt and tight-ish jeans and my cowboy boots, and caught the bus. On my way into SAM, I spied The Brooklyn restaurant on the corner. Big happy hour sign. Hmm.

Decided to save Wyeth/Helga for later, and saw the exhibit instead where artists beat up on art after World War II for reasons that still elude me. Why not, when things are ugly, make something lovely? Like the newly acquired Gilliam set of four bright canvases on the second floor in that room with the wonderful sort of kimono/armor made of dogtags?

Underlying my art conversations with myself, I’m thinking, Hmm, who do you suppose goes to The Brooklyn for happy hour? Maybe some bicycle-riding lawyer/banker/businessman will be intrigued by my combination of cowboy boots and the Updike poetry book I have in my bag.

But, eek! Maybe everyone will look down on me in there! It looks so posh! I’m in jeans!

But it’s Seattle, Mary, I reply. Breathe.

So in I go, and the staff is extraordinarily kind when I ask how it all works. A waiter actually escorts me to a seat at the bar. I choose champagne and half a dozen oysters on a tray of ice with various condiments. So I ate all those, and then I ordered the fish tacos -- only $5 for three dainty little things with a ton of fish in them.

I sure liked The Brooklyn. And then I went dancing.

And in case you think this life is getting too precious for words, let me just say, I rode home on the bus. The #5 at 9:26 pm, where we stopped for a guy who walked in with his wheelchair and then sat down on it and coughed who knows what everywhere, and randomly pulled the wheelchair bell because, he said, the sound disrupts the laser rays that otherwise were attacking him. And the bus driver said, “Regardless of what’s going on on your astral plane, the next time you pull that bell is the stop you’re getting off at.”

I love Seattle.

It's Not about Guys!!!

Hurray! Julie and Julia est arrivee in local theaters, a hot hot hot new movie about women! Women not looking for men! Women looking for work and life and themselves. Oh yeah!

Not that there's anything wrong with looking for a man, but it is not what most women's lives are about.

Oh, and, of course, the movie itself is written by a woman.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Mary Chickens Out

Since Sunday, at least, I’ve been seeing “Block Party” flyers, red yellow blue, on telephone poles in my neighborhood. They say bring something to barbecue, utensils, and a side to share. They say Tuesday, August 4, 5:30. I can see the intersection to be blocked from my balcony. I started looking for action out there Tuesday at 4:30; I could help set up! I got out my Ballpark Franks to thaw. I cut up melons for my side. I thought, Hey, I've got that cool red leather case with picnic utensils...

I would have liked to go with somebody. I asked my upstairs neighbors, but Olga is studying for a test.

I finally heard a little noise down the block at about 6:30. I felt shy. I decided to just casually saunter down and check it out, and come back for my food once I saw it was going to happen. Over near the family home with the great garden and the chicken house, a gas barbecue had been turned on and a few tables set up in the street. I saw two women with sides moving toward a table, a couple tow-head kids, and a curly-white-haired guy.

I introduced myself to the women and said I love that they’re doing this. They said it was part of National Night Out. I said, I’ll go get my hot dogs.

Then the guy said, “There’s no hurry.” Which pierced my already flaccid balloon of courage. I walked home and I never went back.

I don’t know why I was so touchy. He probably just meant people wouldn’t show up for awhile. Maybe the “5:30” in the flyers just meant that’s when the street would start being blocked.

Anyway, I chickened out. I put the hot dogs back in the fridge. I ate leftovers: chicken.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Fun for Single Women

What a life I live! Flew home from Michigan Friday night, and woke up Saturday morning thinking, "I'm gonna get my arms around some men tonight!" Three and a half weeks was a long famine, but I'm making up for it. I've been dancing three times: Saturday, Sunday, and Monday nights. True, no dance tonight, but there's one tomorrow.

And I do have the very best men to dance with. Half the time I feel like I'm Cinderella at the ball, and the other half, like Jennifer Grey in Dirty Dancing: Not quite sure I'm allowed to be doing what I'm doing...

What is it about dancers? They flirt with me, snuggle me up, tell me I look good; one of them just closes his eyes and literally inhales me as soon as I'm in his arms!

Of course, I do have my intellectual pursuits, and my civic duties, like reading the New York Times on-line. And who has to know that I got sidetracked this morning on the NYT site by AO Scott's Critic's Picks video on Doris Day/Rock Hudson romantic comedies? The truth is, I watched it twice. Can't wait until Video Isle opens so I can go rent the movies....

Honestly, my life is filled with romance!

Monday, August 3, 2009

I Buy It

The most-emailed New York Times article today -- and maybe yesterday, for all I know -- was Laura Munson’s Modern Love piece, Those Aren’t Fighting Words, Dear. I myself have read it twice, and emailed it once.

Munson’s husband said one day, as many a husband has done, ‘I don’t love you any more. I want to leave.’

And she said, ‘I don’t buy it.’ Munson decided the problem was about him, not about her or even them, so she just got out of his way. It took awhile, but it worked out.

I mention this here because I regularly read blogs by other single women who would enjoy a man in their lives, but that’s the second thing we say. The first is, I’m okay as I am.

What I saw in Munson’s piece was the kind of relationship most of my happily-single colleagues would probably go for. A whole person, in a relationship.

Of course it can be done. One of these days, I’m gonna do it.
 


All material copyright © 2009 by Mary Davies