Lessons on Marriage from Mr. Higgins

So, you know how there’s that theory that people look like their dogs? Well, this really worries me. And what worries me most is that I can kind of see it. You see, I own a Boston Terrier named Higgins. If you’re unfamiliar with these little gems of a dog, they are not the cutest dogs in the world. They’re a little like a cross between Yoda and a Gremlin and would fall easily into the “they’re-so-ugly-they’re-cute” category. They have squished-up faces, bulging eyes, and ears as big as the state of Texas. They are also known to continue to pee inside the house well past puppyhood—until the day they die, actually—and snort like pigs. I, ladies and gentleman, don’t really have a squished-up face, but I do have sort of bigger-than-normal eyes and I have one ear that’s pointier than the other. I’ve been known to occasionally snort when I laugh and the peeing in the house, well, there was that one time….

When I first got Higgins, he was three pounds of pure cute. His ears flopped over and he would stare up at me with his bulging eyes like he believed I would save the world. I would race home after work to see my little man and look forward to nights cuddling on the couch with him. He made my heart go pitter-pat. He did what I told him to do—except for the occasional pee in the house (but, who’re we fooling? What man doesn’t sometimes pee where he’s not supposed to?)--and gave me unconditional love. Oh, and how my friends loved him! I used to believe that some of them came over more to hang out with him than to hang out with me. His energy was contagious.

Fast forward (or slow forward, if you will) twelve-almost-thirteen years and picture this: A bulgy-eyed, squishy-faced, grey-muzzled little beast whose tail hair has been rubbed away by the hands of Time and whose smell, despite fairly regular baths, singes the nose hairs of all who enter my house. And I think he’s the perfect little lesson in marriage. I can hear some of your eyebrows furrowing—crinkle—but let me explain…

I know some of you who read this blog are in marriages that maybe aren’t as happy as you wish they were. And some of you probably wonder why I’m so longing to rush into something that proves to be more difficult than Hollywood ever told us. I get it. I assure you that I understand that marriage is one of the hardest journeys to travel and that I, in my singlehood, have freedoms that some married women would hock their engagement rings and knock their husbands over the head with their crystal candlesticks for. I also know that these difficult marriages are marriages between people who are right for each other. Don’t even get me started on the marriages between those who are unmatching puzzle pieces. Despite this, I still want it.

Back to Higgins. The pitter-pat is gone. He used to sleep with me, but now we sleep in separate rooms because he constantly pushes me to the edge of the bed and snores a snore that rumbles the house like an earthquake. He is no longer welcome on the couch without putting a sheet down because his smell rubs off on everything he touches. I am constantly picking up after him—cleaning up his urine, wiping the drool off his face, making him wipe his paws before he drags mud onto my just-cleaned floor. He gets fat (and is called Piggins by some who know him best) and then loses weight so fast that I am filled with envy at the efficiency of his metabolism. And, on most days, I fantasize about trading him in for a younger, cuter model. And, despite this, I am committed. I will see him through to his final day. I will pay his medical bills. I will put dinner on his plate. I will give him an occasional cuddle. And I will cry when he dies.

Sound like any marriages you know? Have I made my point?

These are just some little lessons on marriage from Mr. Higgins…

What Was That Guy's Name Again? A Little Moment on my Soapbox

Ambiguity seems to be the addiction of the moment. So afraid are we of offending one another that we’ve fallen into this pattern of modifying our words and even our personalities so that we are liked. I’m semi-ashamed to admit this, but one of my favorite guilty pleasures is watching Spongebob Squarepants. Oftentimes, I come home from work, make myself an early dinner—imagining all of the blue-haireds who are doing the same thing at 5:00 in the evening and raising my glass in a silent toast to them—and sit down for an hour of cartoon comedy. What I love so much about this little escape of mine is that it inspires me. Before you think me pathetic, hear me out for a sec. Each character on this little pearl of a show is unapologetically himself. Spongebob never apologizes for being overly optimistic, never blushes at his unabashed enthusiasm for life. Likewise, Patrick never apologizes for being as dumb as the rock he lives under; nor does Squidword flinch at his own unencumbered negativity; and Mr. Krabbs would never be caught mumbling regret over chasing down a penny that escaped his pinched claws. Each one of these fictitious little men hold themselves to their own standards and rarely do they ask one another to be anything but.

Not true in our every day. In today’s world, people like Spongebob are put on Prozac to calm them down. The Patricks are enrolled in a Special Education class and told they’ll never amount to much. Squidwords write novels from some secluded hermitage, ranting and raving Salinger-style about the troubles of this world—oh, wait, is that what I’m doing now? And, people like Mr. Krabbs are owners of a thousand copies of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, all gifted to them by people who found their love of money morally concerning.

These people on the fringes suffer.

Because of this, the majority of us, myself included, have become an oatmeal-washed people. Afraid to speak up. Afraid to rock the boat. Afraid to be rejected.

And we’ve become boring.

And we are boring to date.

So, as I mentioned in my first post, I’ve been dating a lot. In July, I actually beat my own record and went on eight dates with eight different people in the span of ten days. Let me tell you, I can now get ready for a date within fifteen minutes. Lickety-split. And I don’t look too shabby either. And those nerves that should flutter in my belly before meeting someone new have been sent a-slumber by experience.

Out of those eight dates, only two were Spongebob-types—full of personality and funk, piss and vinegar, as grannies the world-round would say. The other six men sat politely across from me, asked the right questions, nodded at the right moments, chuckled at appropriate times, as if they were audience members at the taping of some sitcom and laughed only when the “Laugh” light flashed. They paid for the dates. Hugged me when the dates ended. And said “we should do this again”, both of us knowing full-well that the “again” would never come.

These polished frogs had gone to charm school where they surely had their warts filed off and their skin de-slimed.

And what I’ve learned about myself during the past few months of dating is that I’m really not seeking a frog that turns into a prince at all. I’m seeking a frog that owns his froghood. Who loves his warts and slime and knows that it is those that make him a more interesting, loveable person. After all, aren’t we all really wart-riddled, slimy souls who just want to be loved for exactly who we are?

I Now Pronounce You Mr. and Mrs. Harley Davidson

When I went into his bathroom, I nearly screamed. Not because it crawled with filth—which it did—or because a cockroach scurried across the floor—which one did…no, I lie, no cockroach. It was his showerhead. Ever since my parents let me watch the movie Poltergeist at too young an age, I have been terrified of clowns. That summer, when they first let me watch the movie, I had just moved out of the bedroom I had shared with my older sister and braved having my own. The night I watched Poltergeist, I snapped on my nightlight and dove into my bed without letting my feet hit the floor, not wanting anything to grab at my ankles from that dark place underneath, and pulled the covers just below my chin. Eyes open wide, scanning for shadows. Thump. Thump. Thump. It came from underneath my mattress. I sat up. Thump. Thump. Thump. I felt it. Literally, I did. The clown that lived under the little girl’s bed in the movie had slithered its way underneath mine. I screamed and my mom came to my rescue, turning on the light and telling me about the power of imagination. I hate to admit it, but this little chicken moved back in with my sister for another couple of years. So, you’ve made a guess about the showerhead. If you pictured a Ronald McDonald-type clown, although creepy in itself, you’re wrong. If you pictured Krusty the Klown from The Simpsons, lucky you—you’ve got a sense of humor. But, you’re wrong too. It was the Joker. From Batman. And when the shower was turned on, the water spewed from its mouth like a torrent of projectile vomit.

And, as if that weren’t disturbing enough, he had painstakingly painted the walls of his humble abode in a black and white checkerboard pattern—a pattern that was made easier by the schoolhouse-style bricks that made up his walls. But, dear Heartbreaker had gone one step further and continued the pattern, a little crookedly, on the door of his bedroom, so that when the door was closed, you wanted to put suction cups on the bottoms of your shoes and play a game of hopscotch.

And, as if that weren’t disturbing enough, my little Heartbreaker’s leather couch had seen so many better days that he had it covered with a black sheet. Sexy, huh? When you sat on it, there were certain spots where you could feel stuffing oozing out of gaping holes.

And, as if this weren’t disturbing enough, he wore wife-beater tank tops out of the house as if they put him in the annals of modern fashion, pairing them proudly with a flat-brimmed baseball cap emblazoned with the name of some skateboarding or surfing company.

And, as if all that weren’t disturbing enough, he drove a raised truck. One so high, that I couldn’t climb into it and hope to hold onto any shred of dignity.

And, as if all of this weren’t disturbing enough, this place, these things, belonged to a thirty-seven-year-old man. His dingy little shoebox of an apartment had been his for fifteen glorious years of bachelorhood.

And, as if all of this weren’t disturbing enough, I liked him. I really, really liked him. Because, behind the Joker showerhead, the patterned walls, the scarred couch, the ghetto fashion, and the monster truck, was a man who saw the world through such simple lenses that he tempered the jaded side of me. His ability to live in the moment softened my need to strive for tomorrow. And, maybe even above these things, he made me feel like the wittiest woman in the world. It came easily with him, the wit. With some men, I find myself squelching my sarcasm because they so crave the limelight. With the heartbreaker, I was me. Completely me. And he thought that me was hysterical.

His appreciation of my humor was a mixed blessing. You see, he laughed just like a dolphin. The first time I heard his laugh we were talking on the phone, and I had to check the name on the screen of my cell phone to make sure I hadn’t accidentally called Flipper. But, I came to love that laugh the way Pavlov’s dogs loved the sound of a bell. It was my reward—the validation that I was funny.

He was out of work on disability, my little Heartbreaker, so he spent his days trouble-seeking on the beach boardwalk and many of his evenings with me. About two months into dating, he invited me to a barbeque at his aunt’s house. His whole family, with whom he was extremely close, was slated to be there. After the invite, I held his cheeks in my hands, looked deeply into his eyes and said, “Are you sure? Meeting the family is a big deal to me.”

To which, he held eye contact and said: “I wouldn’t have opened the door if I didn’t want you to walk through it.” My heart nearly suffocated in its happiness.

I loved his family. I mean, I really loved them. Sweet, warm, old-fashioned people who loved being together and loved to laugh. At one point in the afternoon, Heartbreaker’s uncle asked me what I do for a living. To which I responded, “I teach 7^th grade.”

He lifted his beer to his lips, smothered a chuckle, and, with a twinkle in his eye, pointed to Heartbreaker and me and said, “Ah, now I see why this is working.”

About a week after the barbeque, another woman entered the picture. She was sleek, taut, and powerful. Her voice, loud. Her curves, bodacious. She lived life as fast as she could. She was my opposite…She was his brand new Harley Davidson.

Our relationship shifted the second she entered his life. His phone calls dwindled and suddenly he started flaking on dates. He spent his days with her and she began seeping into his night hours, too.

One Friday night, Heartbreaker and I went to see a movie. After the movie, he claimed he was tired and wanted to go home rather than continue the date somewhere else…my heart sank…but he asked if he could see me Saturday night…my heart soared.

Saturday night came and he called exactly at the time he said he would. He was out with the boys and his new woman. We chatted for a few minutes, and then he said, “It’s getting dark. I better get on the road before the sun goes all the way down. Can I call you when I get there and we can figure out what we’re doing tonight?”

“Of course,” I assured him and hung up, looking at the clock and estimating how long it should take for him to get home. Twenty minutes. I began beautifying myself—the make up, the hair, the choosing of the outfit.

Twenty minutes passed. Thirty. Forty. Two hours later, I gave up and went to Blockbuster, vacillating between fury and sadness. Wondering if he’d been in an accident, almost hoping that that was the truth rather than the possibility that this was rejection.

Do you know that he never called that night? And, yes, I could have called him, but I was afraid of my anger—or worse, my sadness—dominating the conversation and revealing too much of my weakness. How did I know he was still alive, you ask? Since I’d met him on a dating site, I checked his profile. And, sure enough, he’d been active within the 24 hours during which he went missing. I’m not sure this voyeuristic world we live in really does anyone any good—but that’s a whole other blog in itself.

We've only spoken once since and that was to retrieve things we'd left at each other's places...and he gave no explanation for his disappearance or his sudden change of heart.

Nowadays, to make myself feel better about the Heartbreaker, I like to picture him riding off into the sunset on his new motorcycle. In my head, the wedding march plays as they disappear over the horizon, and in my heart I know she’s the only woman who will ever truly make him happy. And knowing that I never have to see the Joker showerhead again, well, that certainly helps the healing process…

The Cantaloupe Man

2009 began with a bang of hope. On December 31^st, I received a text message from a man whom I’d been emailing for a week or so. The message wished me a happy New Year and held a promise to be in touch on New Year’s Day. Sure enough, on the eve of New Year’s Day, I received a text asking me how my New Year’s celebration had been. We texted back and forth for two hours. I know, I know, we could have said the same things in about a thirty-minute voice-to-ear conversation. But today people are not only allowed, but are encouraged, to communicate passive-aggressively. By texting rather than calling, one can retain the right to read whatever meaning into the little words on the screen that he or she chooses. If I want a man to be in love with me, and he texts: Hey. What’s up?, I can project a ton of meaning onto those three words. For example, I could convince myself that he chose the word “Hey” rather than “Hi” because he wants to come across causal, even though he is so madly in love with he can hardly contain himself. And the “What’s up?” clearly is man-speak for “I can’t live without you!”

Anyhow, towards the end of my first texting session with The Cantaloupe Man, he asked if I would like to go to a ten o’clock movie. I checked the clock—9:40. Now, I had just finished reading yet another book that educates women on “The Rules” of dating—you know: never sleep with a man on the first date; pretend like you really aren’t interested so that he’ll feel the need to chase you; and never, never, NEVER accept a last minute invitation.

So, I, emboldened by my recent women-power read, texted him: Maybe another time? I turn into a pumpkin at midnight.

To which he responded: I like pumpkins.

And, I hate to admit it, dear readers, but that was all it took. That little, corny comment convinced me to agree to the movie… A movie that was, by the way, magical. Not the movie itself (it was actually pretty horrible), but the experience—it was just The Cantaloupe Man and I in the theater. The two of us and That Feeling. That Feeling is an elusive frenemy of mine. It makes me quiver in my flip flops and want to jump over arm rests to sit in a man’s lap and encourages me to giggle at his jokes and long for his next phone call. But it also makes me put up with too much B.S. from men who, quite frankly, aren’t worth the shoveling of their proverbial manure.

Anyway, That Feeling was there, wedging itself between us and whispering in my ear: “He’s just great, isn’t he?” and reaching into my stomach and churning it in a flutter of pleasure.

After the movie, we kissed…yet another “rule” broken…and it was one of those knee-melting kisses where you feel like it just wouldn’t matter if you never got the opportunity to kiss another man in your entire lifetime if this was the kiss that said goodbye to and greeted you everyday. He felt it too. In fact, he didn’t even say goodnight. He just looked at me, said “huh” as a statement not a question, and got in his car.

He called the next morning and we saw each other the next night. Within a week, we had seen each other five times and I had even met his parents. You know those girls I mentioned in my first post whom I love so fiercely? The ones who are married to amazing men and gloriously raising their beautiful children? They always tell stories of how easy it was when they finally met their person. How there wasn’t any of that second guessing about what they said or wondering when he was going to call or if it was okay to reach for his hand first rather than waiting for him to reach first. I thought this was finally it. My easy. My natural fit. My person.

Alas, such Disney fantasy was not in my cards. Suddenly, the phone calls stopped. Literally. We moved from two or three interactions per day to zero. Just like that. Poof. I picked up my book of rules, mustered up my feminine pride, and waited for him to contact me. He didn’t. Realizing I couldn’t NOT try, I called him. He answered and even asked me to meet him out. I did and he was doting and affectionate and I raised a mental fist and shook it at the authors of all those books I’d read and smirked: “See, rules people? See???? There’s no such thing as rules anymore!”

After that night, the silence returned.

For four months.

Out of the clear blue, he texted me to say that he missed me. I, dating someone else at this time, bravely responded: “That’s funny. How could you miss me when you haven’t even tried to see me?”

To which he replied: “I miss my Transformers, too, but I haven’t gone out to buy any new ones.”

Huh? (note the question mark).

From here, we started a sporadic texting friendship and I even saw him one night—and, you know what? He still gave me That Feeling. Months later and stupidity waving like a flag from his forehead.

Fast forward another month. I’m at a party. And this man comes onto the patio where I’m standing with a group of friends. My friend knows him. She introduces him to me, first and last name. His last name is the same as The Cantaloupe Man. I ask him, “Oh, are you the brother of The Cantaloupe Man?”

He says, “Yeah, he’s in the kitchen.”

My stomach somersaults and I go find him. There he stood. Picture this: a cantaloupe-colored T-shirt—something resembling the color of those hypercolor T-shirts that were popular in the late 80’s (for those of us who are old enough to remember), two diamond-studded earrings, a gold chain around his neck, gold-rimmed untrendy Ray Bans perched on top of his head, and on his arm, a tiny brown-haired girl with the shoulders ripped out of her T-shirt. Clearly, they hadn’t gotten the memo that this wasn’t an 80’s party.

And, do you know what? Even in the hindsight that this blessed life gives us, gives me, and in the present sight of him all guido-ed out, I still wished he were mine. Maybe if I’d only cut some shoulders out of some of my shirts, it would have been love…

The Man Who Cried “Unhhnnnhh”

Will Ferrell is a man whom people either love or hate. For some, he’s too overgrown-kid; for others, that’s exactly why he’s loveable. I happen to love him. He can sit wordlessly and get certain looks on his face that make me want to pee my pants. One of my favorite movies of his is Anchorman, in which he plays an overly confident news anchor, Ron Burgundy, searching for fame in San Diego. Inadvertently, he falls in love with his new female coworker. In one of the most pee-in-your-pants moments of the movie, Ferrell takes his coworker out to a nightclub where a musician plays jazz flute. After a particularly “jazzy” set, Burgundy does a little white-man’s-overbite dance and gutturally moans: “Unhhhnnhh, Unhhhnhhh—that’s baby-making music, that’s what that is.”

Oh goodness, have I already given away this post’s punchline?

Ohmygod, he was cute. He walked toward me—hair: a dark sea of waves; eyes: sparkling, with just the right measure of mischief; clothes: stylishly casual—jeans, white button-down shirt, flip-flops—and I prayed a quick prayer of thanks. Someone upstairs got it right this time.

“Heather?” he crooked smiled at me. I nodded, one hand outstretched, the other grasping my purse. He took my hand and squeezed. Momma always said that a man’s handshake tells a person a lot. His handshake spoke promises of hand-holding at the Sunday farmer’s market, after-work backrubs, finely chopped onions in the nightly gourmet meals he was sure to cook. “I’m Chris.”

He opened the door to the sushi restaurant he had chosen, pulled out my chair, and asked if it were okay if he did the ordering. Now, I’m a girl who tends to get a bit bristled up when someone tries to help me too much or take too much control, but on this night, I dove, head-first, eyes wide open, into his chivalry. How nice to hand over the reins for a bit. A little rest for this weary I-can-take-care-of-myself warrior.

The agreement was that we would have sushi and then go see a movie. Pretty standard, Southern Californian date. After a quick round of banter-boxing, during which we took turns wittily jabbing at one another in typical kindergarten love fashion, he suggested an alternative plan: “Since we’re getting along so well, why don’t we skip the movie? We can have a sort of progressive dinner—eat a bit here, walk down the street and eat a bit there… Sound good?” I lifted my sake glass in a toast of agreement. Could this get any better?

After the sushi session, which was filled with sake toasts and a shared large bottle of Sapporo beer, we walked down the street to a sportsbar where we shared an order of fish tacos and had a couple more drinks, both of our eyes crinkled with laughter. My insides melting at the comfort in our connection. At this point, I stood outside of myself and made a decision: it was time to stop drinking. I was feeling a bit too comfortable—too loose. Remember, I’m a girl who likes to have control—over my choices and my self—and my thirty-five years of experience have taught me that alcohol is a quick death for the control freak. So, I stopped. He, however, did not. He tumbled forward on the road to drunkenness. I stumbled, and then walked, back into sobriety, happy to discover that the connection remained even in our differing states of coherence.

We ended the date at a dive bar. I know, I know, bad news, right? A Beatles cover band played in the corner. By this time, we were holding hands. The night had been dotted by an occasional kiss. He had continued to drink and, by this time, was becoming a bit sloppy. He kept dabbing at his sweaty brow. And he began to grunt along with the music. “Unhhnnnhh! Unhhnnnhh! Unhhnnnhh!” I waited for the Will Ferrell reference to make me laugh…but none came. He was drop-dead serious with the grunting. I stared at him; hair: disheveled and droopy; eyes: glazed over; clothes: underarms seeped sweat through his once crisp white shirt.

Out of the blue, he turned to me and glared: “I saw you looking over my shoulder. Is there someone over there you’d rather be with?”

At that, I clambered out, head first and eyes wide-open, of his control-disguised-as-chivalry presence and the dream of what-could-have-been.

The Fumigator

So, when grapes from South America come into port, before they are shipped to your grocery store, they must undergo fumigation to ensure that you and I don't end up with the unpleasant experience of biting into a grape only to realize we have just bitten a worm in two. Sometimes the world of the fumigator becomes very stressful because grapes come into two ports at once, San Diego and Los Angeles, for example. Imagine the whirlwind of competition and paper-signing that ensues in the fumigating world during these bountiful times. It's cutthroat, I assure you. The stress overwhelming. The fumigators' brows bead with sweat as they work to defend us all from those terrible little bugs munching on their very natural food source.

I know what you're thinking. You're about to click out of this little blog of mine, thinking: Oh no, not another blog by some hippie, earth-kisser, no-deodorant-wearing, braided-armpit-hair-sporting chick who's trying to make me feel guilty about eating non-organic in a world where I am barely scrimping enough money together to buy a meal at the fast food joint down the street, knowing full-well that I'm not doing my body good and, quite honestly, not really giving a rat's tail about it. Okay, so maybe that's not exactly what you're thinking, but I'd bet I'm pretty close. This, I assure you, is not a blog about vegan cooking or undermining corporate America. It's a blog about dating. Yes, dating--I know, I know, so original.

Here's the thing: I am a 35-year-old woman, attractive by most accounts, giving, successful, blah blah blah blah and I am, like most single women my age, looking for love. Around me, most of my friends have fallen into varying degrees of marital bliss; most have birthed and loved babies; many spend their days play-dating with other moms, sharing their mothering secrets with others in their club. I love these women fiercely. They are glorious and golden. But somehow we are different. You know, the 'haves' and 'have nots'? I digress...

So, I've been dating. A lot. I've been using two of those more well-known, a-hem, online dating sites. Some of these dates have been pleasant, others painful, all entertaining. I thought I would create this little space where you could grab a pillow, hunker-down for a few, and I could share my war wounds with you ladies (and gents, if you should choose) in my club...and those outside my club who just want a bit of a giggle.

"What does all of this have to do with fumigating?", you ask. Not much. I'll be honest. That little tidbit of vital grape-safety information I learned from one of my recent frogs.

Picture this: A photograph of a well-muscled man in his late 30's. Hair dark. Eyes dark (just my type). He holds his little boy, grins sunshining on both of their faces. He and I email, set up a date for a Tuesday night. 7:30. In typical me fashion, I arrive early. I would rather get there before my dates so that I'm not the one walking in and looking stupid as I search for some man I've never met. I think this fear is a remnant of middle-school moments when I would call to my friends across the quad and they wouldn't turn around and I would just look like I was shouting to the wind.

So, I arrive. I sit. I wait. A dark-haired man walks in. He's cute, I think to myself. He looks at me, full eye-contact, I start to stand, heart pitter-pattering. He keeps walking. Wrong guy. Disappointed.

Moments later, the door opens and another dark-haired man enters and walks towards me. Recognition beaming on his face. Whatever muscles he had in the picture had melted like wax to settle just below his belt. A pear shape. Speaking of his belt, it was shiny brown leather and cut him in two like a string wrapped around a pork roast, little tires settling above and below it. He smiles, his glasses rising on his crinkling nose, and walks toward me. Here we go, I think to myself and stand, hand outstretched to shake his. He hugs me, of course. I know, I know, he seems really nice, right? I'm all for a sweet, pudgy man. I often like them, actually, but he was different. You know that moment when you realize the spark will never arrive--you will never want to tussle in a bed with this person.

You must be thinking I'm a judgmental hussy. I guess I am. But I do give it a chance. I always give it a chance.

So, we proceed to our table. We order. He begins to talk. He talks and talks and talks and talks and talks. For forty-five minutes. About fumigating. I could have been a fork on the table for all of the interaction we had. On second thought, I should have used the fork on the table to gouge my heart out and stop the pain. At one point, misery must have plastered itself so plainly on my on my face that the group of ladies sitting at the table across from us gave me a poor-you look of sympathy.

After the fumigating lesson, we start sharing growing-up stories--where? siblings? parents? family pets?--and he reveals that he grew up in the same town as the last guy who broke my heart.

"Oh, really?" I ask. "I know a couple of families who are from there."

"Yeah?" he smiles. We've made a connection--he can feel it. "What are their names?"

"The Smiths (non-Heartbreaker's family) and the Turners (Heartbreaker's family)," I venture.

"I don't know the Smiths, but I know the Turners." He's nodding now, teeth a-blazing.

I don't want to ask, but, being a glutton for punishment, I do. "Really? So you know Daniel (Heartbreaker)?"

"Oh, yeah! He was my best friend in high school. How do you know him?" He leans in. The overhead lights sparkle on his glasses.

Did I mention there was a fork on the table and that I should have used it to put myself out of my misery which I should have done before this topic even entered the conversation?

I put in an hour-and-a-half of time. During which I said maybe, oh, twelve words. Nodded politely. Watched him eat dessert--which I had claimed not to want only in hopes that our date would stumble to its end but he had ordered it anyway. Hugged him at the end. And prayed that he wouldn't call.

He did, of course. It's always The Fumigators who do....