As complicated as I thought my life was in my teens and early twenties, there really couldn’t have been anything simpler about dating at those ages.  I mean, you’re surrounded by people who share the same basic experiences, have more or less the same emotional maturity and amount (read: lack) of baggage, and with whom you automatically have some sort of commonality upon which to begin a relationship because, chances are, you’re in the same life stage.  High school, college, grad school – you’re all there for similar reasons; you have the same worries and stresses; and you have unlimited things to talk about with which the other person can identify.  School is the perfect dating pool.  Dating after divorce in the 21st century?  Mmm…not so easy. 

We live in an age of electronic and online wonders.  You can now shop virtually from anywhere at any time and buy pretty much anything.  The internet affords us instant gratification.  In a matter of seconds we can find a skirt, learn the meaning of the word “hatorade”, apply for a loan, and network with friends and colleagues.  I suppose it’s only natural that out of our increasingly global, online culture, online dating was the next natural step.

You can now use your computer, Crackberry, or any other internet-capable device to find your life partner and shop for the perfect pair of jeans all at the same time.  Talk about efficient multitasking!  No longer do you have to actually go out and try to magically bump into Mr. or Ms. Right.  He or she can come to you in your very own home.  In some aspects, it’s like the lazy man’s dream – all the searching without the typical effort.  After all, you can sit on your couch in your leopard print Snuggie with an acne mask on your face and shop for the love of your life.

I never thought I’d be one who would even entertain the idea of trying to meet someone through online means, let alone actually do it.  However, after the dust settles on a less-than-amicable divorce, you remember you’re not a sexless drone but a woman, and you are constantly reminded of your aloneness by a seemingly couple-tailored society, online dating starts to look less bizarre and more logical.  After all, you’re not in school anymore but are out in the “real” world surrounded by people in different stages of life, varying levels of emotional maturity and amounts of baggage, and with whom you may or may not have any commonality whatsoever.

After being divorced for two years and on my own for four, this past January, I suddenly felt ready to throw myself back into the world of dating…if by throw, you mean gingerly tiptoe.  The office in which I work isn’t exactly a smorgasbord of dates from which to choose.  After all, most of the men I work with are either married or so newly out of school and in the world that they might as well squeak when they walk.  I don’t even think the latter can grow facial hair yet, let alone handle an adult relationship.  Taking a look at my life and my day-to-day opportunities to meet “the guy”, I decided to suck up my not inconsiderable embarrassment and venture into the world of online dating.

I signed up for a month of eHarmony, which supposedly matches you based on a personality profile consisting of a seemingly endless number of questions about you and how you deal with various situations.  I completed the questionnaire and waited for the magic to happen.  Matches trickled in on a daily basis, approximately seven at a time (significance?  I don’t know), and the reading of profiles began.  To prove my enthusiasm and willingness to put myself out there, I also signed up for Match.com, PlentyofFish, and Singlesnet. 

Online dating is a very strange thing.  You aren’t meeting someone in a normal, everyday capacity and gaining first impressions through the usual manner like appearance, body language, conversation, interaction, and such.  You’re reading a list or looking at pictures and trying to gain a sense of someone.  I found myself judging people through an entirely different set of criteria than maybe I would otherwise when meeting them in person.  For instance, I have an extremely hard time getting over bad spelling and poor grammar to be able to see beneath it and give someone a chance, whereas if I’d met him first and been attracted in some way, the bad spelling and grammar might have been more easily overlooked because some sort of relationship had already been established.  My instinct, however, is to reject the person out of hand and cry, in the immortal words of Lynn Truss in her fantastic book Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation, “The Panda says NO!!”

Plus, after a while, it seems as though you’re reading the same profile over and over and over ad infinitum.  “I am an easygoing, laid back guy who is tired of the bar scene.”  YAWN.  I’ve never considered myself to be a particularly superficial person, but after reading hundreds of profiles I swear were mass-produced (and poorly-written!) on the internet and then seemingly plagiarized by dateless men everywhere,  I find myself relying on or reacting to the superficial.  Does he look like a redneck?  Pass.  Does he look stupid?  Pass.  Is he cute?  Check! Look at those abs. Check, CHECK!! Wait, if he’s really cute, what’s he doing on here? Hmmm…must be something wrong with this guy.

 Incidentally, where is the line between self-confidence and outright arrogance?  The answer probably depends somewhat on the number of nearly-naked pictures the man has posted of himself. Yes, thanks, I appreciate your pecs…and obviously you do, too!  Clicking the back button now…well, maybe after a second (or third) look…

Granted, it’s really difficult to sum yourself up on a web page in 400 words or less without sounding 1) crazy, 2) desperate, or 3) utterly narcissistic.  You attempt to be witty and urbane, and you may instead come out sounding like the least socially sophisticated person on the planet…with no sense of humor whatsoever.  It’s incredibly hard to write about yourself.  If you’re attempting to find a life mate, however, shouldn’t you give it a bit more of the old college try?

For instance, if you want to show a woman that you’re serious about finding a partner and that you would treat her with respect, would you really choose a screen name like “IWantToBeOnYou”?  While the sentiment may be true (this guy has apparently been through a REALLY long dry spell), is that truly how you want to market yourself? Equally unattractive are ReallyBadMonkey69 and the current winner of the gross factor, Bulging_Whitey.  Words fail…which is good because I just threw up a little in my mouth.  I suppose that there is a certain kind of woman out there who would appreciate that brand of humor or whatever you want to call it.  I just don’t happen to be one of them.  For me, the Panda proclaims an emphatic, “HELL, no!!” 

I also continue to find, the older I get, that the adage “you get what you pay for” is so true.  The websites that require you to make some sort of monetary commitment at least weed out (one would hope) the extreme weirdos.  After all, if you can’t commit to a membership fee, are you really serious about finding someone?  I have found the scariest of sites that I have signed up for to be the ones where membership is free – such as PlentyofFish and Singlesnet.  Anything and everything is on there, and you kind of get the impression after a while that some of the people who may be clicking on your profile repeatedly and sending you “winks” and emails are, in fact, incarcerated somewhere serving 10-20 and are not likely to get out early for good behavior.  *shudder* 

Now that’s not to say that all the guys on these websites are complete nutters with psychotic tendencies (it just seems that way!).  My friend Hilary, her sister met a truly nice guy on JDate, and they were married recently.  I myself have actually ended up emailing/talking to a couple of decent men on eHarmony and Match.com.  The first was a guy who lives in NH with his daughter, and we emailed back and forth for a couple of weeks before he pushed to meet.  He seemed really nice, but I found myself not wanting to meet him and felt like I just wasn’t ready for all of this dating stuff.  After a few months off, I rejoined and ended up talking to and eventually meeting a relatively nice guy, albeit one with a few issues.

I don’t think I’ve ever been that nervous in my life. The First Date…Post-Divorce.  Getting ready, it suddenly occurred to me that I would be going on my first first date in EIGHT YEARS. Hello.  Talk about being out of the dating pool for a while, not to mention that my judgment had been quite poor the last time out of the gate.  My wonderful friend, Mary, rode with me to the snooty mall where (let’s call him) Bob and I were to meet.  Thank God for Mary.  She kept up a constant stream of chatter while I drove through the pouring down rain.  Luckily her talking distracted me from my more desperate thoughts of running myself off the road so as to avoid going through with the date.  She shopped while I went to one of the restaurants to meet up with Bob.

Bob was a cute 29-year-old whose profile was the first to really catch my eye due to its seeming honesty, originality, and humor.  He seemed extremely nice and extremely nervous as we sat down to appetizers and adult beverages.  I had originally thought that I wouldn’t partake of any alcohol, but when our server asked us if we wanted something off the cocktail menu, I barely refrained from yelling a grateful, “God, yes!”  Luckily I had the presence of mind to not say that out loud and also to partake of enough to relax me but not make me stupid.  Bob kept up a steady stream of conversation, and though he seemed interested in hearing me talk occasionally, as soon as I would say something, he’d respond repeatedly with rapid fire “mm-hmm, mm-hmm”, obviously waiting for the precise second he could jump back into talking.  After a while, I determined it wasn’t a matter of wanting to hear himself talk so much as he was probably naturally chatty and made more so by nerves.  The date ended up more or less on a good note, with an eager but tentative hug from Bob, who expressed an interest in seeing me again.   

I don’t remember much of that date, other than being happy I’d survived it.  That, to me, was a great achievement.  We emailed and talked on the phone, and Bob seemed eager to make plans every few days.  The more eager he became, however, the more I dug my heels in to slow it all down.  At first I thought I was just being super cautious after being scorched during my marriage and divorce, but the more I paid attention to the little alarms going off in my head, the less I wanted to continue to see and talk to Bob.  There was nothing I could really put my finger on as a huge reason to stop seeing him, but a lot of little things added up to a big red flag for me.

For instance, Bob seemed extremely indecisive.  He’d even admitted it.  This is all well and good and nothing serious on its own, but he’d told me on our first date that he was roommates with a 60+year-old woman and had been meaning to look for an apartment closer to the city but hadn’t gotten around to it.  Two seconds after our first date, he’d put a deposit down on an apartment and was talking about lighting candles and having me over.  Hmm.  (And, yes, we’re just going to blithely skate over the bit about why he was living with a 60-year-old woman in the first place).  He also wanted to get together every couple of days.  While that was flattering on some level, I’d also kind of gotten used to having “me” time and was somewhat (read: extremely) reluctant to give it up to this person so soon.  In addition, his self-deprecating humor thinly masked a need for seemingly constant reassurance.  Now, we all have our issues, but I’ve already married and divorced someone who was an emotional leach, so I’m not about to get myself mixed up in that again.  Finally, though he was younger by only two years, it might as well have been decades, leaving me feeling more like his mother than a potential life partner.  He wasn’t immature, just really…young.

I tried to explain all of this to my friend, Johnna, who had been super excited about me putting myself on the dating market and had been enthusiastic about Bob in particular.  I think the clincher for her was when I told her that at the end of our second date together, Bob had hugged me and possibly sort of kissed my neck (whether accidentally or on purpose I couldn’t say) but that the hug was so tentative and noncommittal as to be like a limp-wristed handshake where the person who is shaking your hand forces you into a weird little old lady claw grip and his hand is cold and dead fish-like.  Whereas Johnna had been somewhat humoring me up to this point in my list of why I should not continue to see this guy, she immediately snapped to attention, grabbed my forearm, and proclaimed in all deadly seriousness, “Katie.  Life is too short for bad sex!”  I suppose she’s right.  Bob’s hugs did not bode well for good kissing ability, let alone … Johnna’s succinct sentiment echoed what I have certainly learned the hard way over the last few years: Life is simply too short to make certain compromises.

Even though we’d only been on two dates, I had to seriously pump myself up to give him the it’s-not-you-it’s-me (but really it’s you) speech.  Thankfully, since we had only been on two dates, I felt like I could take the expedient (read: cowardly) way out and tell him this happy news over the phone and not in person.  I know.  I still feel terrible, but I thought agreeing to another date would only have encouraged him more.  When he called me to make yet further date plans, I suffered mostly silently except for a few timely “mm-hmms” throughout his long chatter fest before I could finally tell him I didn’t think it was going to work out between us I wish him all the best can this conversation please be over, please God.  Ugh.  He was stunned.  Not stunned enough to quickly get off the phone with me, however.  No, that would have been so much less awkward.  Instead, he jabbered on nervously for another ten or fifteen minutes before I finally wrapped it all up and promptly collapsed on the kitchen floor. 

I checked my email the next day and found a very nice note from him saying that he’d appreciated getting to know me a bit, thought I was a great person, and that he wished me all the best.  So, at this point I was feeling like Katie the Professional Puppy Kicker.  Yeah, that’s me.  I thought it was gracious of him, at any rate, and vowed to move on to other possible matches.

Now, Match.com will show you a list of people who have viewed your profile.  It won’t indicate how many times a person clicks onto your profile, but it will put them in order of who has viewed you most recently.  I noticed in the weeks following The Talk that Bob kept appearing near the top of my “Who has viewed me” list.  I found this odd.  I mean, we’d been on two dates.  We hadn’t had a relationship, thereby indicating some reasonable amount of cyber stalking.  (Not that I would ever check up on old boyfriends or anything.  Don’t judge me!)  This went on for a few weeks, and then there was a period of about six or so weeks where he didn’t pop up on my list.  All of the sudden, Bob was back again.  As much as I would like to think it’s because I am irresistible and a heartbreaker, frankly it’s just kind of creepy and also validating that I made a good judgment call in the first place to cut it off when I did.

It has been kind of slow going since then with respect to interesting matches and meet ups.  I have to say, it’s difficult to remain positive.  In fact, it’s somewhat hard to be positive about online dating as a whole.  As much as I refer to myself half-jokingly as a cynical, bitter divorcée, at my core lives the tiniest romantic who still indulges in a good sappy movie or novel.  Do I believe that real life ends in happily ever after?  No, not entirely.  Do I want to be wined and dined and romanced a bit?  Heck, yeah.

I’d like to believe, then, that perhaps there’s a middle ground between romance-devoid, one-stop online mate shopping and unrealistic Disney fairy tales…So in the meantime, I suppose I’ll continue to weed through the multitudes of undesirables and the occasional creep until maybe…just maybe… I find my own geeky grammar Nazi equivalent to which the Panda can enthusiastically say, “Yes!”

I’m weird about journals.  It takes me forever to decide on one to buy, and then it can take an equally long time for me to put pen to pristine page.  I’m a notoriously slow mover.  I’ve had this journal in its virgin state since my birthday in May of 2006.  Part of the reason it has been untouched so long is that I wasn’t sure how I wanted to use it.  The other reason is that my sister passed away suddenly the spring following that birthday, and I found it painful to look at the silly little journal that seemed to sum up my sister so well. 

Like this little journal, Valerie was casual with more than a hint of silliness.  She was unassuming and equally in-your-face.  Her smile, like the flowers on this volume, lit up the room like the brightest bulb.  She didn’t think this was the most beautiful journal in the world but bought it for me because it appealed to her sense of fun and playfulness. 

I realized today that I’ve been holding on to it, mentally putting it in a dust jacket to preserve it and her memory, but that’s not what she would have wanted.  As the cover admonishes, I must enjoy it and life.  I can’t let it sit and yellow on a shelf because of the (mistaken or legitimate) thought that if I use it, that’s another little part of my sister I have to let go.  Instead, I’ve decided to finally put pen to paper and use it in a way I think she would have appreciated.

I thought it fitting to use this little journal to write down my attempts, successes, plans gone awry, dreams, and recollections about gardening.  I think Valerie would have approved.  She and her husband moved quite a bit in the nearly ten years they were married before she died, but no matter where they were – house or apartment – Valerie always made the place a home with a garden.  It might have been a true garden with vegetables and flowers or a collection of containers on a tiny apartment patio.  Regardless, she relished every moment of the process, from planning and picking out plants to digging her hands in the dirt to enjoying the fruits of her labor.

I like to think we come from a line of gardeners.  My grandfather loved to plant flowers with complete abandon.  His yard was a thing of beauty in the spring and summer.  With the first hint of the season change, it became an ever-changing canvas of colorful flowers.  They weren’t planted with any rhyme or reason, but somehow looked spectacular in their haphazardness.  As children, Valerie and I would come home from school to find large bouquets of daffodils, tulips, and hyacinths awaiting us on the carport steps leading up to the kitchen door.  I looked forward to those surprises every year.  When my grandfather died this past summer, he was still working in his yard every day, one of his greatest pleasures.

My mom definitely got her love of plants and green thumb from her dad.  For as long as I can remember, she has always had a beautiful array of plants.  The ferns hanging on the large semi-wraparound porch grow to gigantic proportions during the summer, providing, if not literal cool air in the heat, a visual that speaks of coolness and shade.  Her porch is covered with little container gardens, some flanking the front door of the house, others in artful arrangements around the porch furniture and swing.  They surround the fountain my father fashioned for her out of terra cotta pots and saucers.  While my grandfather sowed in us the seeds of a love of all things growing and blooming, my mother cultivated them, developing our knowledge a bit at a time and teaching us the painful lesson of pruning for better growth – a lesson that is equally useful in life as well as in the garden.

My mom and I have made it a tradition that she visits at the beginning of the summer and helps me get my annual garden planted.  She hasn’t been able to do that the past couple of years, since she and Dad have been caring for my sister’s twin boys full-time.  This June, however, she’s staying for a record three weeks and is arriving just in time to help me shop and plan for my little container garden on my porch and deck. 

Despite my attempts to wait for Mom’s arrival on the sixth of June to start the plant-buying orgy of 2009, I have been unsuccessful.  The weather has been so gorgeous of late, rather uncharacteristically warm, that it’s all I can do to wait.  As of yesterday, I couldn’t any longer.  I went to Home Depot to look for hanging ferns and found a gorgeous, dark red mandevilla.  After lightening my wallet a wee bit, the plant was nestled in the passenger side floor of my Jetta.  In the continued pursuit of ferns, I went to the local Big Y grocery store.  I had found huge, beautiful (and expensive!) ferns there last year and found myself in luck once again.  I chose three to go along the porch overhang, lightened my wallet a wee bit more, and they were soon safely snuggled in my trunk.

My porch now looks a little less tragic with some green things mixed in amongst the empty clay pots.  In my mind’s eye, I picture begonias and caladiums, cheerful yellow daisies and blue salvia, sweet potato vines and creeping jenny.  In my little outdoor world, I create my own personal oasis every summer, which I live in until it’s too cold to sit outside anymore.  It  is something I can’t imagine living without.

Plants speak to me, not in the literal sense obviously (thankfully, there’s only one voice in my head, and that’s me), but sometimes when I pick one up at the nursery, I feel a sense it belongs to me; and I must take it home to live with me.  The mandevilla, the first plant bought in the season, wasn’t something I was looking for or planning to buy.  I picked it up, and it (metaphorically) grew on me.  It was a wonderful surprise and simply belonged on my porch.

There’s something about digging in the dirt that I love.  It’s the smell of warm earth, the feel of it in my hands, the care of green things that somehow makes me feel grounded and at peace.  I love taking empty pots and making something beautiful and vibrant.  I enjoy watching the burgeoning plants grow and change throughout the summer.  I like to plant old familiar favorites as well as experiment with new ones just to see what happens. 

I think this year will be special.  It will be the first time in a couple of years that my mom and I will be able to share this experience together, and we will plant my little garden in fond memory of my grandfather and sister.  I think my grandfather would agree with the statement on the silly little journal my sister gave me and remind me to enjoy life.  It is, after all, incredibly fleeting and not to be wasted or taken for granted.  Like my grandfather’s garden, it should be lived with a sense of joyful abandon, enjoying each and every moment as though it were the last.

Spring has finally arrived in New England with a bang.  After flirting with us for weeks like a tipsy party girl who ultimately won’t put out, she has finally given in and produced the most gorgeous 80+ degree weather.  Those of my readers who don’t live in a region where winter lasts for six years (okay, four months, but it feels like an ETERNITY!) are undoubtedly well into and mentally over spring and onto summer weather and plans by now.  Thanks for stopping by, and I’m sure you’re already clicking the “back” button to Facebook.  Say “hi” to our mutual friend, Joe.

Spring has always been one of my favorite seasons, but after living in Massachusetts for nearly five years now, I have an even greater reverence and love for it.   I don’t think you can truly appreciate spring and what it represents until you’ve lived through a real winter. It’s only after shoveling countless feet of snow, living with 4:00 PM darkness, wearing wool and fleece until you simply can’t stand the sight of it, and staring at bare trees for five-plus months that the first glimpse of a budding crocus takes on an entirely different meaning and significance.

This time of year brings about a renewal to the Earth around us, but I’ve always felt that it brings about one in me as well.  As a person whose mood and wellbeing is very much influenced by my physical surroundings (case in point, my cubicle at work is tastefully arrayed with photos, plants, and bits of administrative imporance on pieces of brightly colored paper; if I had to stare at bland khaki walls for the majority of my day, I’d be forced to slit my wrists), I tend to feel increasingly sluggish with a general sense of can’t-be-bothered and dash of ennui the longer winter drags on.  The short amount of daylight, coupled with starkly bare trees and snow that has been salted, sanded, plowed, and replowed until it looks like low-budget papier-mache rocks in a kids’ play…well, it can really start to bring a girl’s mood down.  Add to that an overindulgence in warm, cream-based comfort food that gradually tightens the waistband, and we’ve got ourselves a less-than-pretty picture, my friends.

After longing for spring and warm weather for so many months, it comes in stealthily at first, with a daffodil here, a patch of green grass there until one day, you walk outside to find that the cherry and magnolia trees have exploded with blooms, seemingly overnight.  The promise of spring that we have desperately clung to on the bitterest of winter days has finally burst forth in all its magnificent glory.  With the shedding of wool and down layers (and hopefully those pounds from too many bowls of clam chowder), we feel a sense of incredible and long overdue freedom.  The thick socks and boots are traded for thin ballet flats and flip flops.  Those nights spent hunkered down under blankets on the couch near a drafty window are forgotten in one long, lazy afternoon sitting in an Adirondack chair on the back porch.

I remember having a conversation with my sister, Valerie, several years back in which she told me her theory that we as humans can’t be all that different from plants in our response to the changing of seasons and increased sunlight.  I agreed with her.  After all, when spring finally arrives and the sun is shining brilliantly down, who doesn’t feel as though she unfurls herself from the dormant, protective posture of winter to break forth and stretch her face gratefully to the sun?  As though she has awakened refreshed after a long sleep with a greater sense of being more alive?

I, for one, plan to spend every possible moment outside enjoying and soaking up spring as though I can absorb it through my pores.  Even if I have to strap a box of Puffs Plus with Lotion to my belt, snort cans of saline, and ingest countless allergy pills to battle my chronic sinusitis, I will merely wipe my streaming, itchy eyes and get back to the business of enjoying that unique fragrance of spring  that smells of warm, vital earth, hyacinth blooms, and days of endless possibility ahead.

The commuter rail is consistently unreliable these days, so I’m usually late or on the verge of being late to work in the morning.  I’ve become accustomed to navigating the hords of commuters like an über aggressive motorist.  I could seriously use a horn – the louder, the better.  I weave in and out of the traffic, cutting people off and tailgating obnoxiously.  All the while, there’s a snarky inner dialogue running through my head.

Move it, or lose it, lady!  Dude, could you walk ANY SLOWER?!?!  Move the &#@% out of my way!!!

I sometimes battle with the overwhelming urge to physically pick people up and move them out of my path.  I seem to have a slight (ahem) case of sidewalk rage.

Needless to say, I’m usually focused on getting where I’m going as quickly as possible.  I seem to have only one speed these days, Bionic Toe, as my friend, Johnna has dubbed it.  I see little of what goes on around me, focusing more on the people between me and where I’m going, viewing them as obstacles to speed around and curse at under my breath.

The other day, Johnna and I decided to do some window shopping on our lunch break.  It was a relatively balmy day for March in Boston, and the sun was actually shining.  In my usual haste, I was navigating the foot traffic a few steps in front of Johnna.  She conversed with me, pointing out things she noticed as we were walking.  Nine times out of ten, my response was “Whowhatwhere?!?”  I’d completely missed whatever it was that had captured her attention.

We rounded the corner to the Prudential Center, and I was making a beeline for the door, intent on getting inside.  About fifteen feet from the door, Johnna literally grabbed my arm and stopped me in the middle of the sidewalk.  Face turned up to the sky, eyes closed, and smiling, she took a deep breath and simply basked in the sunshine.  A look of unabashed pleasure blanketed her whole face.  It suddenly occurred to me that, while I had registered on some level that it was a beautiful day, I hadn’t even taken one second to enjoy it.

I’ve been thinking about that afternoon for several days, now very aware of how caught up I get in going to and fro, so much so that it took a good friend hauling my butt to a stop and holding me there to make me appreciate something I shouldn’t need a reminder to appreciate.

This past weekend was gorgeous and unseasonably warm for March.  On Saturday, I packed my backpack with essentials and a camera, and I took the train into Boston.  I gave myself the afternoon to simply enjoy being outside and to revisit my beautiful, adopted city.  I played tourist, meandering through the Boston Gardens with no particular destination in mind, stopping to take pictures of buildings, scenery, and people whenever the mood struck.  I refused to feel cheesy or insecure about acting like a tourist.

I sat in the Gardens next to an older couple who fascinated me for some reason.  They seemed quintessentially Bostonian somehow- she with her chic, geometrical black frames and tasteful clothing and he with his tweed jacket she had likely picked out for him.  When they moved along, I continued to sit and watch people.

There was nothing particularly beautiful about the Gardens.  After all, it has been winter for months, and the ground has been covered by snowfall after snowfall.  Much of the snow from the last storm had melted by Saturday, leaving the ground muddy and covered in dormant, yellow-brown grass.  The pond where the famous swan boats leisurely glide in summer was a pool of half frozen mud.

Nobody seemed to notice, or if they did, they didn’t mind.  They were intent on enjoying this brief oasis in the harshness of winter.  A man sat on the edge of the pond, overlooking it as though its waters were sparkling in the sunshine.

The longer I sat there, the more I appreciated the winter-barren scenery of the Gardens.  Normally I go there in the summer when it is lush with green grass and overflowing with blooming roses and plants of all kinds.  To experience it in a winter thaw was to appreciate it in a new way.  The naked trees were like gnarled sculptures rising out of the landscape, each unique in color and shape, arching and dipping over the paths. 

Though there was no tangible hint of spring in the lackluster terrain, there was still an inexplicable promise of it. 

After lazing in the Gardens, I meandered through The Common, stopping at a vendor’s cart for some honey roasted cashews.  I continued downtown, weaving through the pungent chaos that is Haymarket over into the North End, an historically Italian neighborhood.  While my day as a whole had no real agenda, I did vow to get a pastry (or three) in my favorite bakery on Hanover Street, Modern Pastry. 

Up until a couple of years ago, this bakery made you feel as though you stepped back into the ’60s upon walking over the threshold.  A hole in the wall, neighborhood landmark, it consisted of several large, ancient refrigerated cases leading up to a counter manned by ladies whose families have likely worked there and lived nearby for generations. 

Though it has now been somewhat yuppified, the same people are there taking your orders, boxing them up, and tying them with their signature red and white string.  I joined the line that extended slightly outside the door.  Though there weren’t that many people in front of me, I settled in for a nice, long wait, having experienced the fact that a visit to Modern Pastry is never a quick thing.  I listened to the people chatting around me, creeping ever closer to the front of the line.  With Easter approaching, the whole ceiling inside the bakery was adorned with hanging cellophane-covered chocolate eggs of all sizes.  It was beautiful and somewhat like stepping into an Italian carnival.  The display case gleamed with colorful and tempting delights.

After a 45-minute wait, it was finally my turn to order.  I asked for two cannoli and one little key lime tart.  I took my box and wandered back out of the neighborhood and across to the park, where I sat on a bench and opened my veritable treasure trove of tasty treats.  I savored the cannoli as slowly as a girl can after salivating in anticpation for 3/4 of an hour.  The breeze kicked up, and I was soon covered in a fine dust of powdered sugar.  After every little bit of ricotta cream had been licked off my fingers, I sat on the bench and enjoyed the waning sunshine.    

I eventually made my way back to the train station, weary but content.  I vowed to carry my little springlike sojourn with me, not only to help me make it through the rest of the winter, but as a reminder that the journey itself is as important – if not more so – than the destination.  The little moments of life matter and shouldn’t be missed or trivialized.  Instead, they should be sweetly savored as though each was a rare, ricotta-filled treat. 

My friend and coworker, Johnna, and I decided to eat lunch at our desks so that we could walk around on our lunch hour to appreciate the warming weather. About two steps into Copley Square, she told me that she could really use some quality time with our old friends, Ben & Jerry. Ah, how we have missed them! Our “constitutional” quickly turned into a beeline charge down Newbury street to the small underground shop.

Opening the door, our noses were seduced by the sweet smell of fresh waffle cones. While I enjoy and embrace ice cream of all flavors (how can you go wrong at Ben & Jerry?), my favorite, hands down, when going into the shop is their Chocolate Peanut Butter Swirl. It is a mouth-watering bit of heaven – rich chocolate ice cream filled with decadent ribbons of creamy peanut butter. Oh, Mommy.

Johnna and I approached the counter, giggling like 12-year-old girls. Reading down the menu of current flavors (as though I didn’t already know what I wanted), I perused new choices to taste before placing the order for my favorite. I read over the menu and…THERE WAS NO CHOCOLATE PEANUT BUTTER SWIRL!!!!! It was like a record of happy, cheesetastic muzak had been playing in my head when suddenly the needle skidded violently across the record into silence. WHAT?!?!

The gentleman behind the counter informed us that, due to the recent peanut butter salmonella scare, all of the peanut butter containing flavors that had been in their stock during the outbreak had been pulled as a precaution, even though they knew their suppliers had not experienced any problems. He pointed out that the flavor had been replaced by others that had peanut butter in them.

I wanted to weep! You do not tell this to a girl on Weight Watchers who has decided to break her vow of healthy food to have a Friday flavor treat! DO YOU HAVE A DEATH WISH, MISTER?!?

I sullenly scanned through the menu of flavors for a consolation cone, determined to be unhappy with any replacement when I saw…Goodbye Yellow Brickle Road. The description was “an outrageous symphony of decadent chocolate ice cream, peanut butter cookie dough, butter brickle, and white chocolate chunks.” Oh. My. Lord. The flavor is an homage to Elton John, who apparently played his first concert in Vermont this past summer.

I ordered the waffle cone special (don’t judge me!) with one scoop of the Goodbye Yellow Brickle Road and topped it off with a scoop of straight Peanut Butter Cookie Dough. The combo should have been called Goodbye Weight Watchers, Hello Muumuu. I took a spoonful of the combination of ice cream flavors, and my eyes rolled back into my head. As an ex-boyfriend of mine used to say, “That would make you jump up and slap your momma.” Watch out, Mom; it was that good.

Best of all, the guy at the counter told us that the proceeds for the sale of the rocker’s limited edition flavor go to benefit the Elton John AIDS Foundation. Do you realize what this means?!?! EATING ICE CREAM IS NOW A SELFLESS, CHARITABLE ACT! There is a God, and He loves us, my friends! Your scoop of ice cream will help fund direct patient care and AIDS prevention education.

This flavor will only be available for a limited time, so I urge you to throw down your Weight Watchers points calculator, and follow the yellow brickle road to your nearest Ben & Jerry or grocery store freezer section. Your waistline may not thank you in the short term, but the good karma you store up will in the long run. After all, what are a few pounds when you can help others and have a bit of heaven in a waffle cone?

Genius.

For someone who isn’t into winter sports (I grew up in Georgia, after all.  What do I know about sliding or gliding on frozen water?), I have an appreciation for winter and snow.  There’s nothing quite like seeing the first fat flakes fall from the sky and watching them form a pristine, white blanket over the city.  Every December when the air starts getting really chilly, I relish pulling out my wool and cashmere blend sweaters and sporting the various knitted scarves I’ve made. 

After three or so months of recycling those scarves and sweaters in my weekly work wardrobe, however, I find it all gets more than a little old. Maybe it’s because I grew up in the South, but around the beginning of March, I start to get a desperate yen for spring and expect to see the first of the flowers breaking through the ground and bopping their colorful heads in time to the soft tune of the spring breeze.  I fantasize about flip flops and tank tops and fabulous pink sandals that showcase a sassy pedicure.  I dream of lazy Sunday afternoons on the Cape or swims in the Rockport quarry on a perfect July day.  It gets difficult to sustain those dreams, though, when your skin is scaly and pasty white and you’re swathed in wool socks and coats that make you look as sexy as the Michelin Man.

So, while I’m a great appreciator of winter, I’m just completely over it at this point.  The end of this past weekend brought a snow storm through much of the East coast.  My parents in Georgia had three inches fall, which is a monumental deal in their area.  My grad school gal pals in North Carolina were praying for and received their precious and much-needed snow day.  We in the Northeast, however, got the brunt of this big storm.  Needless to say, while I appreciated the excuse to work from home today (it’s never a bad thing to be multi-tasking in your velour fat pants all snuggled on your comfy couch while watching bad TV), I could only think about the sweat and sore muscles that would inevitably follow the foot-and-a-half of frozen precipitation that was predicted.

Now, I enjoy a good snow as much as the next gal.  I would enjoy it immensely more if it would somehow clear itself off of the driveway and sidewalk.  After the first 50 or so inches of snowfall this winter, I started seeing the weather event less as a magical thing of beauty and more like a personal attack…as though the snow had it in for me.  The chipper little weather man on channel 6 predicted this morning that the storm would all be over by 1:00 PM today, but, in an act of defiance, the snow doubled its efforts at 2:30 while I was out shoveling the sidewalk and continued to pile on to the depth already collected on the ground, as though to illustrate the futility of my efforts. 

Later, back in the warmth of my apartment, I watched the snow continue to fall in tiny, iridescent flecks.  It’s as though it laughed at me as it tauntingly floated past my windows on its way to congregate with a foot or more of its buddies in the driveway.  I eventually had to pull down the shades this evening to muffle its cackles…but I know it’s still falling in silent maliciousness out there. 

I know that I will awaken to more fresh snow on the ground tomorrow morning, but in my own brand of defiance, I will bundle up and trudge through it to the train station, stubbornly dreaming of those fabulous pink sandals that I will buy.

With the advent of Windows Vista and the rollout of that operating system at work, I now have the option of adding helpful and entertaining “widgets”, as they are called, to my desktop.  While most people would probably have the clock and a live news feed, I have such important items as a voodoo doll that reacts when pinned by my mouse and a Magic 8 Ball to help me make critical work and life decisions.  The Magic 8, however, has shown me no love whatsoever, always answering me with negativity and generally adding to my depression and ennui.

I decided, therefore, to seek a higher power as guidance in my life.  The Answer Me Jesus! 

Answer Me Jesus is an 11-inch, Pepto Bismol pink velvet deity that adds class and holiness to any decor. 

His cheerfully tinted and fuzzy exterior is as calming for the blood pressure as petting a cat.  Better yet, He doesn’t shed!

 No longer do I have to wonder What Would Jesus Do?  I simply ask Him a question and flip Him over for the answer.

In fact, He has sage and timely advice for any occasion. 

After I unpacked him from his shiny box, I sat down with him and had a little get-to-know-you chat:

Me:  Hey, Jesus.

AnswerMeJesus:  Sinner!

Me:  Dude!  That’s true but kind of harsh, don’t you think?

AnswerMeJesus:  Hypocrite?

Me:  Um, that’s better, I guess.  My  name is actually Katie. 

AnswerMeJesus:  Yes, my child.

Me:  Anyway, I wanted to get your thoughts on something.

AnswerMeJesus:  I would.

Me:  Yeah.  So, there’s this chick at work who totally wants to take over the Cubicle of Power.  She’s all young and shiny and generally extremely annoying.

AnswerMeJesus:  It is not righteous…

Me:  I know, I know, but she makes me want to claw her eyes out!

AnswerMeJesus:  Resist the Devil!

Me:  I will.  I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she’s getting to me anyway.  Still, I think she’s out to crucify me.

AnswerMeJesus:  Repent!

 Me:  So sorry! That was out of line.

AnswerMeJesus:  I still love you.

Me:   Thanks.  So, I was thinking I could put you in my cube at work so that you could keep an eye on things, make sure she’s not poisoning me or measuring my cubicle for redecoration purposes.

AnswerMeJesus:  For Christ’s sake!  I died for this?

Me:  I know it’s not your usual gig, but would you do it?

AnswerMeJesus:  No chance in hell.

Me:  Come on, please?  It would really help me out.

AnswerMeJesus:  Let me ask my Dad.

Me:  Do you think He’ll say yes?

AnswerMeJesus:  Have faith.

Me:  Right.  Anyway, so if she comes into my cubicle…

AnswerMeJesus:  The holy water will sting!

Me:  Wicked!  So, guess what we’ve nicknamed her.

AnswerMeJesus:  Yes, my child?

Me:  Skipper, as in Barbie’s sister, you know? (chuckle)  She’s all I-want-to-be-Barbie and pertly eager…

AnswerMeJesus:  Watch out for the lightning!

Me:  Yikes! Anyway, thanks for the chat and for agreeing to watch my back.

AnswerMeJesus:  Have a nice afterlife!

Me:  Um, thanks.  By the way, I’m going to try to make it to church tomorrow morning.

AnswerMeJesus:  Halelluiah!!

In the name of the Father, the Pepto Bismol fuzzy Son, and the Holy Spirit. AMEN!

Disclaimer: Answer Me Jesus is not intended for use by the closed minded.

WARNING: HOLY SPIRIT NOT INCLUDED.

I’m Giving up Lattes for Lent

I considered giving up cursing for Lent and charging myself a dollar for each violation, the proceeds of which would go to some worthy cause.  Since I lost all the cash in my wallet within five minutes of making that resolution, I decided to try something that would actually save me money instead of help it hemorrhage out of my checking account with greater speed than it already does.  I will give up lattes.  Except on days when I haven’t had enough sleep and need the boost.  And also maybe when I’m having a bad day and want to self-medicate with a legal, addictive stimulant.  Wait…maybe I could give up work for Lent instead.  Do you think the firm would let me do that?  We’re all about diversity and inclusion, which should include religious preferences, right? 

I’m Just Going into T.J. Maxx to Look at Purses…I Won’t Actually Buy Anything

Yeah, so I blame this one entirely on my friend, Mary.  She very graciously came into the city yesterday on her day off to have lunch with me and Johnna, but then she was mean and kept texting me from Filene’s Basement talking about all the pretty purses she was finding.  She even cruelly sent a picture of the supple leather bags in soft spring colors.  Naturally when I stopped at CVS today to pick up a prescription, I just had to go next door into the T. J. Maxx to check out what they might have on sale.  My window shopping trip somehow landed me with a lighter checking account and two more bags in which to carry that lack of money…

Sitting in the Whirpool and the Sauna at the Gym Counts as a Workout

I can’t even pretend to justify this one, and it should probably be followed by the equally likely I Can Eat a Vat of Cheetos and Not Be Covered in Neon Orange Dust or Gain 5 Pounds in Water Weight Instantly.  Yeah.

If I Leave the Dishes One More Day, Surely the Cat Will Get Tired of the Mess and Start Pulling Her Weight around Here 

I have lived with The Cat for nearly ten years now, so I think it’s safe to say she’s never going to be a contributing member of this household…unless you consider the excessive amounts of black hair on every surface a valuable contribution.  If you do, she’s just the gift that keeps on giving.  I have found cat hair in the freezer before.  IN. THE. FREEZER.  Now, I’m not the best housekeeper in the world, but I do not live in filth.  The only explanation I can come up with for hair in the freezer is that The Cat is making frozen margaritas for her feline friends while having them over for episode marathons of Desperate Housecats on Demand.  This would also explain the mystery charges on my Verizon TV bill…

I Know If Raoul Bova Met Me, He’d Totally Fall in Love with Me and Carry Me off into the Tuscan Sunset

No, sorry.  I’m going to have to hold on to this one.  It could happen, right?  Right?!?!  A girl needs to dream.

Oh, Mommy.

I promise to not let this turn into some weird account of what I had for breakfast every day or how I’m knitting sweaters for my cat.  Okay, there will be stories about my cat, but only the interesting ones (and she would probably want you to know that she would NEVER wear a sweater because, first of all, no self-respecting cat wears clothes, and if she did, it sure as heck wouldn’t be a sweater, as that would not be flattering to her girlish figure).

Another exciting first for me today was walking into the hallowed place that is Tiffany & Company…and walking out with something beautiful in an elegant blue bag.  I have never been materialistic in the sense that I have to have a particular thing because it has a specific name brand.  Don’t get me wrong, I love beautiful and expensive things.  My friend, Christy, can attest to the fact that, like she, I can go into any store blindfolded and somehow hone in on the most expensive item.  I can sniff out cashmere like a drug-finding dog with a load of crack.  It’s a freakish gift…and a curse because, sadly,  I do not have the paycheck to support my expensive taste.

About six months ago, I received an award from work for my performance in planning a big meeting for one of my partners.  This type of work award can be redeemed for merchandise or gift certificates from a number of stores.  Now, I’m notoriously slow about deciding what to do with money or gift certificates that people give me. I want to explore all options to make the best decision possible as though it’s a matter of momentous importance, like buying a house or car.  So, after a mere half a year, I finally decided to cash in my award for a gift certificate to Tiffany’s.  This was only after I’d poured over the website to see what was in my price range and made a couple of hasty trips into the actual store, hoping they wouldn’t see me as the fraud I felt like and throw me out on the curb. 

I finally decided on a necklace that I had seen in the catalogue and gone last week to see in person.  I loved it even more after the elegant and cultured sales associate slipped it out of the gleaming glass case to place it into my sweaty, shaking hands.  Very simple, it’s a silver chain necklace with a flat round pendant.  On the pendant is engraved a beautifully scripted “Q”.  I was sad to give it back to the saleswoman, but I did with the knowledge that, once I ran back to my desk at work to order a gift certificate, it would be MINE (feels like there should be a wickedly maniacal laugh here, huh?).

After nearly a week of feverishly sorting through grocery store flyers, junk mail, and bills, I was disappointed once again when I looked through the mail last night, seeing no envelope that looked like it contained the gift certificate.  I took a couple of packages to the couch to open, thinking they were the books I’d ordered through Paperback Swap.  I tore open the first, but instead of a used book, the exquisite sight of a Tiffany signature blue box all wrapped up in pearly white satin ribbon greeted my eyes.  Like a kid at Christmas, I reverently held it in both hands while my heart did a Snoopy happy dance in my chest.  I pulled the ribbon, opened up the flat box, and let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.  Nestled in the box was a blue gift card (aka Key to the Kingdom).  Pulling the tiny white ribbon underneath the card, it popped out from its resting place into my hand.  After staring at it for several minutes, I skipped (literally) into the kitchen to get my purse.  I carefully zipped the card into the special pocket in my wallet so that it would stay secure.  I could hardly go to sleep last night for excitement.

This morning was inordinately long sitting through work, waiting to go to Tiffany’s on my lunch break.  The time finally arrived, though, and my good friend, Johnna, went with me.   Walking into that store knowing I was going to actually come out owning something was a heady feeling.  I went straight to the case, told the saleswoman what I wanted, and moments later, I was watching her slip the necklace into a blue suede bag and place it in a box to be wrapped up in a white satin bow. 

All the way back to work, I kept eyeing the little blue bag in my hand, not quite believing it really belonged to me.  I haven’t even put on the necklace yet.  I’m still savoring it all nestled in its pretty blue bag and box.   I will likely put it on later this afternoon before leaving work, but for now, I want this giddy feeling to last. 

I really wish I could have dressed up like Audrey Hepburn, complete with large, round, face-dwarfing sunglasses and highlighted beehive hairdo to get the whole experience.  Instead, I’m wearing my usual sedate work clothes.  Trust me, though…I’m sporting my inner beehive today, and it is high, my friends.