Wingman

The dimmer in the lights over my dining room table blew, so I hired an electrician to come to the house.   He rang the bell at the precise moment when I had just taken off my work clothes and was standing ass naked in my bedroom.  Yes, I really did answer the door in my bathrobe.

His name was Brian and he was about my age and had beautiful blue eyes. Despite my outfit, he didn't seem to think I was crazy (bonus points).

My 3-year old daughter followed me down the stairs and started in with her line of questioning.

"Are you Brian?"
"Yes."
"Where did you come from?"
"Outside."
"Why?"
"I came to fix your lights."
"Are they broken?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I'm trying to figure that out."
"Do you have a penis?"

I heard myself choke.  I tried to dodge.

"Sweetie, do you want to play with your blocks?"
"Do you have a penis?"
"Sweetie, that is a private question."
"Does he have a penis?"

Okay, there is no dodging.

"Well, he is a boy, so most likely he does have a penis,"
Did I just say that? 
"but that is a private question and not something we say in public."
"Can I see it?"

I may have an aneurysm.  The electrician is holding back a smirk and examining my transformer.  Wait a minute - why does that sound dirty?  

"No, you may not see it. And we don't ask that."
I try to explain, "I'm sorry.  We just read a book about 'Who has what'."

He was gracious, explaining that he has two small daughters and has already heard everything.  But somehow I don't think he'd heard this one.  He also explained that he is a single father and takes his girls shopping for clothes and recently had to deal with the bra scene, which embarrassed him to death.

Hmm.  I'm meeting a nice, single father who has a good sense of humor and can fix my lights.  Is my daughter my wingman?  And if so, can we please postpone a viewing of the package?  

The Cost of Being Cheap

I hate women who go out with men to get a free meal and I am not one of those women.  However, I've got a gripe with men who are cheap --- and I've met more than my share lately.

I recently went out with a guy who was driving over an hour to meet me and I offered, up front, to buy him an overpriced drink at a swanky bar.  Little did I know that he would order a scotch that was $20  for what amounted to 4 Tablespoons worth of alcohol, but hey - a deal is a deal and I was happy to pick up the tab.

We met again for a lunch date a week later and had pizza.  I kid you not, the tab was $11.  When the bill came he said, "What should we do about the bill?".  Can you imagine ???  He ended up putting it on his credit card only because he didn't have enough cash to pay for half.  And this was a date that was going well!  Unacceptable.  Meanwhile, I was paying $10/hour for a babysitter.  Wow.

A year ago a guy asked me out for a drink and we met at a Mexican restaurant and each had one drink. At his insistence, we also split an appetizer (I would much rather have just a drink on date #1).  When the bill came he was visibly uncomfortable and said something like, "I can pay the bill if you'd like me to."  Are you serious?  and so we split the bill.  Really nice guy, really low class move.

Equally as bad are men who say things like, "I'll be the nice guy and get the bill here" (last summer)  or "I'll take the hit on this one" (2 weeks ago).  Whatever happened to, "Please, it would be my pleasure"????

Men, if you can't afford to pay for one drink, one appetizer, or an $11 pizza, here is the bottom line --- don't ask the girl out.  Period.  Because you truly can't afford to look this cheap.  It's rude, it's low class and frankly, its just not acceptable.

Enough with the Dating

All I do is date.  I date men. I date nannies. I date job candidates.  Frankly, I'm exhausted.

I'm ready to stop shaving my legs, to wear tattered underwear, and to let my bikini wax grow out.

I'm sick of discussing my parenting philosophy, showing off my child's reading list and pretending that my bathrooms are always clean.

I'm exhausted from outlining my management style, showcasing my program achievements and pretending that I have a 5-year, 10-year and 15-year vision, other than escaping to a beach in Hawaii where I can throw both my cell phone and my laptop into a tidal pool.

Enough.  I've had it.  Dear Lord, all I want for Christmas is to stop dating.

Really Somebody

Sometimes I feel like all of the good lessons have already been taught, and that I just hear the same regurgitated lesson again and again (not that I always learn it).  Not so at dinner a few weeks ago.

A friend of mine has a friend from home who married an old friend of mine from college.  Friend coincidence.  We all got together for dinner to catch up on the past 20 years of our lives in 90 minutes or less.

My old college friend, Darcy, was ready to take the marine biology world by storm the last time I saw her, when the first Bush was President.  She was excited, invigorated, well-educated and energetic - nothing would stop her.  But then she got married, had children, and made the active decision to stay at home with her children.  I'm sure she is a great mom and it sounds like she has great kids.  But I was surprised to see that the life had been sucked out of her a bit --- she didn't sound very cheery about marriage, being a stay-at-home mom, and the June Cleaver lifestyle.  I mentioned that the good ole dating world ain't so rosy either, and that it certainly wasn't easy to make the decision to parent a child alone.  And then she told me this story:

Her teenage daughter's biology teacher was telling Darby about a class project and Darby mentioned that she is a marine biologist and would love to help out.  The next day Darby's daughter came home and said, "Mom, I am so embarrassed.  Mr. Beason asked me if you could give him some plankton from your lab.  He thought you were really somebody."  Darby turned to me and said, "Your daughter will never wonder if her mom is really somebody."

This comment hit me in the gut.  I've never once considered if my daughter would think I'm competent, important or 'really somebody' --- most likely because I've never questioned this about my mother, grandmother or great-grandmother (all professional women).  I, of course, reminded Darby that being a stay-at-home mom is being somebody.  To which she replied, "You and I know that, and she'll know it someday.  But today this really hurts."

Biebersil

Most single sexually active adults have not only a wide array of 'bad date' stories, but also HPV. HPV is that fun virus that causes women to have bad pap smears, multiple pap smears, decidedly unpleasant gynecological procedures and, yes, cervical cancer. It is now known to cause head and neck cancers as well (and you thought oral sex was safe, silly you) and affects both men and women. Oh, and more good news, condoms don't prevent HPV transmission. I had been lucky enough to dodge the bullet on HPV until my last pap smear. It was then that I learned that I'd likely joined the masses and was invited back in for 'further testing'. Several months later I was cleared and breathed a deep sigh of relief.  And then I decided to get the Gardasil vaccine series.  Granted, it does not protect against all forms of HPV, but offers some protection against some of the nastiest strains.  Sounds good to me.

I marched into my large health plan and was directed toward the vaccination office.  The receptionist took one look at me when I said I wanted the Gardasil vaccine and said,
"You're here for what?"
"Gardasil.  Its the HPV vaccine."
"You want this for yourself?", she asked, looking around for my teenage daughter.
"Yes, its for me."
"Okay then, please have a seat under the Miley Cyrus poster."

Ah ha, I'm not the usual Gardasil demographic.  I get it.

I bravely sat through the shot and praised myself when the nurse said I'd been brave and asked how I was doing in Algebra (I told her I got an A - hey, its the truth. She didn't ask when.)  She explained that the vaccine comes in three doses, spread out over several months, and that they've had trouble with girls coming back for all three.

I've now had 2 of the three,  and was promised a Justin Bieber t-shirt after the third.

Dating Advice: What Would Jesus Do?

Most Jewish girls don't take dating advice from JC, but I do. "Don't hide your light under a bushel." Somehow I doubt JC meant this as one of 'The Rules', but I'm adding it to my version (and deleting all of the others by the plastic surgery twins). Last night I had dinner with a single friend of mine who is attractive, well-educated, kind and an all-around great person. To my horror, she shared with me that she had been advised by some of her 'friends' that she is single because she is too honest with men too early on about herself. More specifically, that she is Ivy-league educated, has a good job and owns her own home. She doesn't flaunt these details - in fact, she is one of the most modest people I know - but also doesn't lie about them when asked questions like, 'Where did you go to college?'. Her advisees instructed that the next time she should answer, "A small school in New England" rather than the truth, which is Yale.

 Are you fkg kidding me ????????????

 I went on a date two weeks ago with a guy from my town, who was decent looking, gainfully employed and even in my age range. To top it off, he was also Jewish-lite and we had lived in many of the same cities. The first date went quite well and he asked me out again within 48 hours. What could be better, right? On the second date we somehow got on the subject of sports and whether we'd played them in high school (who cares?). He had not been athletic, and admitted that one of his brothers was a jock and the other a cool guy. I watched this 45-year old man travel backwards in time to the 'nerdy smart kid' from 1985 who felt inferior to his older brothers. He asked me if I played sports and I said yes, I was was on the swim team and was a cheerleader. The moment those words floated out of my mouth I realized that I'd just shattered his ego. He then asked me some questions about my job and my home (I'm more senior and have a nicer home than he does) and I realized there wouldn't be a third date. Really???

 Maybe my friend's advisees are correct --- maybe I should have told this guy that I was the unpopular girl in high school who stayed home on prom night. Maybe I should have told him that I work at the local supermarket and live in my parents' basement apartment. Maybe then he would feel less intimidated and we could have gone out on a 3rd date. No thanks. I'm done hiding my light under a bushel and I think that's what Jesus would do.

Dating by Contract

Luke left 2 weeks ago for a job in the mid-west. We laughed, we cried, we laughed some more. We had some really good times and some very good sex. From the beginning of the relationship we knew that it would most likely be short-term, and it was. Now he is gone and it is unlikely that we will see each other again anytime soon. And I'm okay with that. This is the first time I've ever had a defined relationship of short duration with a known expiration date. Neither of us could change that date and the date was not due to a fault on either end. There was no bad guy. When he did something I found irritating or unacceptable, I found myself thinking, "Well, its only for 3 more weeks anyway." Its hardly worth a major confrontation if its ending in 3 weeks, now is it? I never had to give much thought to whether this could really work long-term, because the term was short. And because the term was short, I felt free to really get to know him without worrying if he was getting too attached, if I was, if I really thought there was potential, if he was 'relationship' material, if I could live with his baggage, if he could live with mine --- I must tell you, the short-term contract was really freeing.

The Sperminator

I was speaking at a conference on Friday and decided to wear a bright orange/hot pink color block mini dress that I bought on a whim a few months ago. It is 40% Austin Powers, 40% Laugh In, and 20% What in the Hell am I doing? But it matched my mood and the sunny spring day, so I decided WTF? Let me back up for a moment. Three and a half years ago, I had 5 frozen embryos in the cooler while I was looking for my gestational carrier extraordinaire. We used the 3 best quality embryos in round one, with no success. While waiting to cycle and implant the last 2 (one of whom is now Lucy), I decided to transfer my care and my sperm samples to another center that would be covered by my new health insurance. I was told to contact the head of the sperm center, The Sperminator, which I did on multiple occasions by both e-mail and phone. He repeatedly put me off, took weeks to respond to my requests,refused to help me and generally pissed me off. I finally asked if I needed to speak to his supervisor when, voila!, I learned I was expecting a baby. My focus changed and the sperm transfer was temporarily forgotten. A few months later the center that held my sample contacted me to ask about my plans. I explained that I'd tried to transfer the sample, without success, and the woman there said, "Well, you know why, right?" "No, I have no idea. Why?" "Dr. Sperminator refuses to work with single women. He says its an "ethical" issue for him." Gasp. "You have absolutely got to be kidding me?" "Unfortunately, I'm not". A New York Times headline flashed before my eyes. The Nightly News. A lawsuit. The ACLU. A public flogging. A public castration. But, fortunately or unfortunately, the raging bull was lost in the tidal wave of the pregnancy and I never got to confront the Sperminator. Until last Friday. The Sperminator was the MC at this conference and apparently forgot our email tirade, my name, and my threats. I, however, did not forget The Sperminator. The Sperminator is a 70ish looking schmarmy guy with sparse gray hair who very much liked my Austin Powers get up. He shook my hand, welcomed me to the conference, and sweet talked me onto the stage. After my lecture he stopped me on the stage, held my arm (yuck!), and told me what a star I was. He then came up to me after and asked me to stay for the entire conference (no, thanks). I think The Sperminator would have liked to make his own sperm donation - the old fashioned way. I never reminded The Sperminator who I was or how we knew each other. It seemed strangely satisfying to instead give a great lecture wearing a bold mini-dress, to walk out on his invitation to join him for the day without looking back, and to instead go home to take Lucy to the park. These boots were made for walking, Sperminator.

Living the French Movie

A few weeks ago I received an e-mail via yet another internet dating site from a guy I'll call Luke. Luke's profile was basically blank and his picture had a lot to be desired --- but his e-mails were charming and well-written, and his sense of humor was endearing. Luke was on the tail end of a nasty divorce and entering the dating game after 10+ of being married. He was therefore clueless about dating games and without the unpleasant, jaded aftertaste that so many of us professional daters cannot shake. After a witty exchange of e-mails, I reluctantly agreed to meet Luke for a drink. 'Reluctantly', because I was not attracted to his picture and because I've dated the newly-single and heartbroken before -- and it's never fun to be the Rebound Chick. But I still met him.

As on many blind dates before, I was surprised when I met him in person. But for once, it was a pleasant surprise. He was better looking than the crappy picture he had posted for the background scenery. The conversation was easy and we found we had much in common. Yet, he had lived in many countries, spoke several languages and had life experiences that intrigued me. He admitted to being nervous, and acted it, asking at the end of the long date if it was appropriate to say he would like to see me again. It was, we did, and things progressed quickly.

It was obvious that he was emotionally and financially unsettled in light of his divorce. It also became apparent that he wasn't comfortable being seen in public until his child custody agreement was final, which I understood. Last, it was crystal clear that he would likely be moving for work within the next few months. It didn't take a genius to realize that this had no future.

In the past I would have run, not walked, to the nearest emergency exit. But something about Luke kept me engaged and I went with my gut (and my libido). Things got physical very quickly. As he promised with his intoxicating European accent, this would be a way to get to know each other better. And, I must admit, he was right.

We've been seeing each other twice a week for about 3 weeks and speak or text almost every day. The sex is incredible, he makes me laugh, and he cares about what I feel and say. We talk openly about everything, including the fact that this will likely end soon. We joke that we're living the French movie --- and perhaps because we both know that movies only last for about 2 hours and a bag of popcorn, we're able to enjoy this stolen time together without thinking about life outside the bubble.

Condomnation

I like to think of myself as a contemporary, mature woman of the 21st century who isn't afraid to walk into a drugstore and buy herself a box of condoms. Even during the daytime. Even if the drugstore is right across the street from my office. And so, the other day at lunch time, I did so.

And then I got to the check out. The checkout clerk was an 17-year old Hispanic male. Hey, I'm still okay with this, right? Yes, of course. I'm not going to bail. I'm just going to pretend that I'm the average condom buyer and that this is no big deal.

"Good Afternoon", he said, with a big smile on his face.
"Hi"
"Oh, wow! Look at this - you've got a coupon."
"Great, thanks."
"No, this isn't just any coupon, this is $5 off your next box of Trojan's"

I subtly glance over my shoulder. No, that is not the security guard from my building. And who cares if it is? I am woman, hear me roar!

"Seriously, I see a lot of coupons come through here, and they usually aren't for $5. This is a really, really good coupon. You've got to hold onto this."

"Fantastic, thank you."

Why are RiteAid bags see-through?

Is That a Canapé in Your Pocket?

I was invited to a holiday cocktail party at the private home of a colleague and friend who lives right on the water. From previous experience, I knew this would involved high-end catered food, beautiful decorations, and a room full of interesting adults. Considering that the last 10 parties I've attended have involved cupcakes, juice boxes and ankle-biters, you can imagine I was anxious to attend.

The party was from 5-7pm on a Sunday evening --- not ideal from a Mommy perspective because Lucy is still awake. But considering that we spend every minute of the entire weekend together and are about to embark on a family vacation together, I figured she could survive without me for 2 hours.

My babysitter showed up at 4:45pm to find me on the couch in sweatpants, fuzzy socks, and dead old slippers reading Story #107 to Lucy. I had exactly 15 minutes to transform from the Mom-before-the-makeover to Sexy-professional-woman-on-the-prowl. Not an easy task.

I pushed past the cobwebs in my closet to reach back into my cocktail attire section. I pulled out a skinny, long black lace skirt, the type of low-cut, sleeveless maroon holiday top that is completely irrational to wear on a 20 degree December evening, and a pair of sexy heels that I last donned while shamelessly grinding with the lead singer at a wedding to, "Apple bottom jeans, boots with the fur" before Lucy was born. Could I really pull this look off when just days ago my #1 job was picking whole pieces of baby vomit out of the lint tray in my washing machine? Questionable.

I threw on the ensemble, perfume, and a healthy dose of make-up, said a Hail Mary, and dashed out the door.

The party, as expected, was beyond elegant. Asian dumplings were served in individual porcelain spoons. Tiny Vietanamese-inspired meatballs were skewered with a single snap pea. Shaved tenderloin sat precariously atop tiny pieces of toast aside carmelized onions. I tried not to inhale my 42 appetizers, which tasted considerably better than the instant oatmeal I'd been eating for the past 3 days.

All of the guests were at least 15-20 years my senior, and some considerably more. The two male servers were closest to me in age --- one in his early thirties (Server #1) and one in his mid-forties (Server #2). I noted that they were both well-spoken and very well-mannered, and suspected that this was a side gig for them both. They were polite and pleasant, but also busy, and our conversation was limited to, "Yes, I certainly would like another roasted tomato and brie tart".

At 6:45pm I glanced at my watch and realized I needed to leave to make it home for bedtime stories. Server #1 and the host pointed me down a hall to a back bedroom to retrieve my jacket.

I was diligently digging through a pile of coats and wondering if anyone would notice if I traded up to a mink stole when I heard someone behind me.

It was Waiter #1.
"Let me help you find your jacket".
"Great, thank you", I said, surprised to see him while the party was still going strong in the main room.
"It was dark with a fur collar, correct? It was very attractive."
"Wow, great memory", I said, as he helped me on with my coat.
"By the way, my name is Jonathan", he said, as he extended his hand.
"Oh, I'm Liv"
"Perhaps we'll see each other again"
"Yes, perhaps we will".

I walked out into the cold wondering, "Did that server just hit on me, or am I just high from the 3 raspberry brie tarts I just mainlined in the back corner?".

Maybe you can transform mom jeans into a MILF in 15 minutes?

The Coat

Two weeks ago I had plans to go out on Saturday night with a girlfriend. The babysitter was lined up and I was ready to rumble. The friend cancelled at the last minute due to health problems.

Last minute, Saturday night, babysitter already lined up = what's a girl to do? I decided (and those of you who know me well know how unusual this is) to hit the mall. Yes, I was going to force myself to go shopping.

I was armed with an agenda: new work skirts, shirts and sweaters. Perhaps a weekend sexy MILF blouse. A good fall-to-winter transition wrap if I could find one. Maybe one pair of sexy, yet non-blistering, kitten heels.

I started off strong, going into every store and pulling things off the rack. My resolve started to fail by store #3 when I hadn't even found anything worthy of a try-on. By store #5, I was thinking that I can get 5 more years out of my already ratty 15-year old cashmere sweater.

An then, in the middle of Saks, I saw it. The perfect coat. Black, fur (fake, of course) collar, beautifully tailored and a cut that is good on me. Tahari. Marked down from $450 to under $200. It was perfect.

I quickly shook it off. I already have several coats. And a small coat closet. This trip was intended to buy work clothes and one MILF blouse --- no coat on the agenda. And with that I walked quickly out the door without even trying it on.

Good for me. I don't need a coat. How often do I go out to a cocktail party these days? Would it even look good with a bulky sweater? Hasta la vista, chaqueta.

I made it all of the way to the parking lot. And then I had the brilliant thought, "I'll just try it on. I'm sure it has a fatal flaw and that will make me feel better." And with that I booked it back to Saks.

The coat fit perfectly, but I was still holding strong with my small coat closet reasoning. And then the harried saleslady walked in and said, "Oh my gosh, that coat was made for you." And I could tell she meant it.

So I now I own a perfect coat. This doesn't happen many times in life, but sometimes you just see the perfect coat, the perfect cocktail dress, or meet the perfect friend and you just have to go for it. Even if it means you'll have a cramped coat closet.

Modern Love

A few weeks ago there was a Modern Love piece in the Sunday NYTimes entitled, "Sometimes, It's Not You". It was the honest account of a 39-year old woman who hadn't been in a relationship in 8 years. She desperately searched for 'the answer' to her 'problem': Perhaps she needed to grow her hair out. Grow up. Quit whining. Adopt a positive attitude. Stop being critical. Take more bubble baths.

The list is familiar to me. And the quest to 'figure it out' is one that has become so familiar over the past decade that my therapist now simply presses 'start' on her 1982 cassette player and regurgitates the conversation we've had 1000 times since Clinton was in the White House. I've always felt that my failure to find the 'right guy' and 'settle down' is a puzzle to be figured out. There must be an answer --- and if I can find that answer, then I can finally finish the Rubik's cube.

And then comes the twist. The writer eventually found the guy she then married. She claims that the puzzle wasn't solved because she worked through her issues, grew sexy hair or channeled Jennifer Aniston 24/7 --- she just finally found the right guy. Could it really be just that simple? And if so, I want a refund on my hair extensions.

2-Year Old Psychic?

Lucy and I were going to a relative's home for Rosh Hashanah, so I left work early and ran a few errands on the way home. Mid-errand I stumbled across a comforter I liked, bought it, ran home and threw it on my bed to see if it matched. I wasn't convinced, so I yelled for my Nanny to come take a peek.

The Nanny ran upstairs with Lucy in her arms and said she liked it, "What do you think, Lucy". Without skipping a beat, Lucy pointed to the side of the bed that is currently un-occupado (I've been single again for 2 months) and said, "Man!".

The Nanny laughed, Lucy kept pointing, and I felt a deep red flush roll up my body. It suddenly became a bit too hot in my bedroom for a down comforter.

"I have absolutely no idea why she would say that," I protested, perhaps a bit too vehemently, "I'm not even seeing anyone".

"Well, Lucy predicts you will be soon!"

I felt my imaginary Mother-of-the-Year halo melt down my head and neck to create a tramp-stamp on my lower back. And on a holy day! Chr*st.

And then there was the incident at library hour a few weeks ago. In a room full of mothers, babysitters and grandmothers, Lucy ran up to one of the only men in the room and yelled, "MAN!" while pointing at him and doing a little dance. The 'Man' was definitely her favorite person in the room, and she neatly ignored Miss Mary the Storyteller, all of the children, and the craft project in her quest to win the affection of 'The Man'(which she did). My Nanny noted, "She obviously sees something in that guy --- maybe you should start taking your cues from her."

Lucy 2, Nanny 2, Liv 0.

Bringing Sexy Back

I've been dating the guy from, "Old Dog, New Trick?" (let's call him Jack) now for several months. He lives about 2 hours away from me, we work opposite schedules and see each other only one weekend a month. So, you can imagine, I try to make the most of that one weekend.

Jack came to visit this past weekend. I planned a homemade dinner for Sunday night with all of his favorites: filet, a rich mushroom sauce, fresh zucchini and corn on the cob. What could be nicer for a single guy that a home-cooked meal? He played with Lucy while I did the food prep. Finally, the meal was ready and we all sat down together.

Lucy loves corn, which I cut off the cob for her. She was chewing her first mouthful of corn when she decided it might be fun to stick a kernel up her nose. "Lucy," I warned, "we do not put corn up our nose!". Being almost 2 years old, that was all it took for her to not only stick the corn up her nose, but to follow it with a firm finger shove. And by then, my friends, it was too late.

The kernel of corn was wedged firmly up Lucy's right nostril and she began to cry. I'm not sure if she was crying because her airway was obstructed, or because her mother was holding her chin tightly while peering upside down into her nostril and yelling, "BLOW!". Either way, we rapidly entered into crisis mode. Lucy began crying so hard she couldn't breathe. I realized that this corn kernel was not coming down on its own and was about to enter her sinus. That meant one thing: Emergency Room visit. I took a 5-second visit down memory lane to our previous 2 ER visits over the past year. Four hour waits, exhausted baby, scared baby, crying baby, hysterical baby. Fantasies of raiding nearby cabinets for a fist full of valium. It was then I realized I could NOT endure another ER visit. Enter super hero mode.

I pick Lucy up out of her high chair and carry her to the couch. She is screaming, crying and is now hyperventilating. I pin her on the couch and suck the corn out of her nose with the only suction device available --- yes folks, that would be my mouth. Thirty seconds later the corn is out of her nose and into my mouth (yes, its gross, but I was so relieved I didn't care), the crying has quieted down to a roar, and I'm carting Lucy off to bed.

My date, Jack, has seen it all. This kind of sexy deserves a dedicated screenplay. I just hope Halle Berry plays me in the movie and not Roseanne Barr.

Deja Vu, All Over Again

A few weeks ago my father was in town visiting and we took my daughter Lucy, 21 months, out to brunch at a casual, local eatery. Lucy was delicately placing bits of her scrambled egg with cheese in her hair when I noticed another party being seated at the table next to us.

The woman was in her mid-forties and very pregnant. I immediately wondered which drop-down option from the fertility menu had worked its charm: clomid? artificial insemination? IVF? donor egg? I also noted that she was one of these women who looked the way I always thought I'd look someday: tall, thin besides the bump, fashionably, yet simply, dressed for a photo shoot instead of Sunday brunch at a hole in the wall. She was with a daughter, who looked to be my daughter's age, her mother and her husband. I was so busy checking her out and trying to unravel her fertility and fashion secrets that I barely noticed her husband. But when I did, I did a double- and then a triple-take. He was Greg from Jdate.

I corresponded with good old Greg from JDate about 7 years ago. I remember the pictures he'd posted of himself on various adventures around the globe and his love for farmer's markets and ethnic restaurants. At the time, he was about 39 and I was 35, but I was already past the sell-by-date on his Jdate advertisement. He, of course, wanted to date a woman 26-32 - doesn't everyone? But for some masochistic reason I e-mailed him anyway and we had a nice correspondence. Then we spoke by phone. He mentioned in passing that he used to be married, and I was confused because he'd listed himself as 'single'. I asked if he was now divorced (fearing that he was still married) and he said that he prefers not to use that word when describing himself. I asked why, and the conversation went downhill from there.

A few years later a woman in my 'Single Mothers By Choice' group described a Jewish man from her meditation group I should meet because he was 'looking for a wife'. I realized we were talking about Greg, and passed the afikomen.

My father, daughter and I finished our brunch and were heading out when my father felt the need to strike up a conversation with Greg and his bride, who - by the way - definitely didn't meet the sell-by-date, but managed to squeeze out 2 kids anyway (good for her!). I stood there, holding Lucy, and wondering if this guy had any clue who I was. All signs pointed to no. From the outsider's view, it looks like he got everything he wanted on his check list. Life is interesting.

20 Years

This weekend is my 20-year college reunion. Twenty freakin' years.

I remember being a senior in college when all of the 5-year alums crashed our fraternity parties. We thought they were ancient. Couldn't understand why in the hell they showed up at our parties and pretended they still fit in. We could spot them from a mile away.

A bunch of my classmates are meeting up at reunion this weekend. This past six months of no secretary, 6 temps, 2 maternity leaves, 1 maternity leave replacement, 2 trips, a pediatric ER visit, many sleepless nights and my computer crashing this week and permanently losing my inbox has really kicked my ass. I couldn't get it together to pack up baby and hoof it 3 hours to rally for reunion this weekend.

So instead I'm sitting at home thinking about those days with those people and what we all thought life would be like. It makes me look forward 20 years and wonder what the next two decades will bring, and if they'll flash by even more quickly.

Old Dog, New Trick?

When I dated my high school boyfriend my biggest long-term question was: am I going to take him to prom? It wasn't until I hit about 30 that I started weighing whether every guy I dated had 'serious potential'. I blame this frankly embarrassing phenomenon on survival of the fittest, evolutionary biology, and my eggs' primal urges and hormonal output.

That was my thirties. Now I'm in my forties, I have a baby, and it's time for a new trick. My latest dog-and-pony show is, 'Can I date someone, enjoy the moment, have fun and not worry about the future.' So far, I have to say, so good.

I've been dating a guy I first met about a year and a half ago. We dated for 2 months, it didn't work out, and we didn't correspond for almost 6 months. He texted me out of the blue this past fall to say he was moving and wanted to take me to coffee before leaving. We got together a few months later for dinner and then started speaking by phone. He has now come to visit twice and is coming again in a few weeks.

Is this the guy I've always dreamed of dating? On paper, absolutely not. Is he really good to me and my daughter? Absolutely. Does he have his life completely together in every possible way. No, work in progress. Is he Mr. Right? No idea. Is he Mr. Right Now? It's really working for me at the moment. Can I truly pull off the 'casual dating' gig? That is the million dollar question. Stay tuned.

Dicks Vs. Dictations

I have two vacancies: Boyfriend and Executive Secretary.

The first position has been vacant for almost a year now. Applications have been scant, interviews unimpressive, and skill sets lacking. The second position has been vacant for about 6 weeks. One applicant chewed gum through her interview, another looked like the 'before' picture in the before/after professional makeover, and I've fired two temps in the past 4 weeks.

Yesterday was a banner day in the search process for both positions. I spent 2 hours interviewing applicants, reviewing 4 new resumes, and checking references. And then I rushed home from work to spend a few hours with Lucy before putting her to bed, slapping on make up and a sexy shirt, and dashing to a speed dating event.

What's that, you say? Am I masochist?

I've never done speed dating before and had no idea what to expect. Half of the men - and half of the women - had ... let's just say, issues. The phrase that comes to mind is 'severe social awkwardness'. The other half were very nice ... just not a match in sight for me. (Favorite question of the night: "Do you mind if I ask why you waited so long to have a baby?" Thank you, 50-year old Revenge of the Nerds look alike).

As I sat at Table 11 interviewing each prospective applicant over and over and over again, I thought, "If I could choose a match today, would I pick a top boyfriend or a top secretary?". Certainly, it would be nice to have both. But at this point in time, I'd pick good dictation over good dick.

The Things People Say

Isn't it funny how relative strangers feel comfortable asking questions that would make your own sister blush? I guess there is comfort in anonymity.

On Sunday a guy I barely know asked me if I'm married.

"No."

And then he asked if Lucy's father is involved.

"No, it's just the two of us."

To which he responded,

"How sad ..."

before the next words rolled off his tongue, I had a million thoughts about what he'd say next. How sad that she doesn't have a Dad. How sad that she won't have a father figure to teach her to play baseball. How said that she won't have a father on Father's Day, how sad that ...

"How sad for him that he is missing out on her. She is incredible!!"

Happy Valentine's Day to me.