I'm part of an informal writer's group that meets every three months or so. The three of us went to college together, and we meet partly for creative inspiration and partly just as an excuse to get together. Lloyd is working on a book that borrows the writer’s group idea from our threesome. He assured us that the characters themselves aren’t modeled after us, but I couldn’t help scrutinizing my counterpart for similarities when I read his manuscript over the weekend. It turns out that Maggie, the lone female in his fictitious group, is a lively redhead who designs jewelry and turns heads whenever she enters a room. I had to squelch a bit of jealousy as I read. But if the outfit in her opening scene is any indication, I dress way better than her.

So there.

I find bumper stickers intriguing - the fact that some feel a need to display their life’s passions on the back of a car, and the interests they find worthy to “make the cut.”
Friends don’t let friends eat meat.
I’d rather be quilting.
The seventh day is the Sabbath, because God never changed it.
Those make some degree of sense to me (although I happen to be a non-needle-working carnivore who worships on the first day of the week). But a sticker I saw last week left me wondering if the message was worth the energy that had been expended to fasten it to the back bumper:
Proud user - Dunn Edwards Paints.

That poor guy needs to find himself a cause in life.

A co-worker begged me for a song - any song - that would get “Dancing Queen” out of his mind. I offered “Copa Cabana” (well, he did say any song) and got a shudder, “Rhinestone Cowbow” and got a shrug, but somehow hit the jackpot with “Walking on Broken Glass.” But now “Dancing Queen” is stuck in my head.

I’m gonna get him for this.

Some people assume that "single" automatically means "pathetically lonely." Every once in a while I encounter someone who apparently assumes I spend every evening slouched on my sofa, aimlessly switching television channels with my remote. In reality, my TV doesn't even have a remote -- I actually have to get up to switch channels. So, as you can see, there is plenty of activity in my life.

A few years ago, I met a couple through a Bible study I attended for a short time. When they learned I lived near them, they began inviting me over for dinner. It was pleasant enough at first, but we didn't have much in common, and conversation felt forced. I assumed their invitations would become less frequent, since most people mutually recognize when a relationship isn't clicking. But they kept calling, every few weeks, and would give me a good-natured scolding that they didn't see more of me. Once they even invited another single woman to join us, hoping the two of us would strike up a friendship. I found it amusing that they seemed to think I was desperate for social opportunities, when in fact I had many friends and an active life.

It was clear we were never going to form any sort of real bond. I wondered, How do you break up with a couple? But I continued to accept their invitations because I knew no way of declining without being dishonest or hurting their feelings. I was relieved when I finally moved to another side of town, and getting together became obviously impractical.

They probably think I’m sitting over here on long nights, reading dusty old novels and sighing a lot.

Good Earth Tea comes with a quotation attached to each tea bag: usually something profound from a historical figure or classic literature. The one I tacked to my bulletin board isn't quite as intellectual as most, but is nonetheless my favorite so far:
Are we there yet?
Are we there yet?
Are we there yet?
-- Kids

I went to Bed, Bath & Beyond last night, and was surprised to see what looked like a linen store bouncer planted at the front entrance. He didn't interact with customers, but just stood with arms folded, unsmiling. I tend to do "aerobic shopping" - crossing back and forth multiple times between departments, instead of making a logical single loop through a store. Tough Guy never moved while I zig-zagged across the aisles, passing him a couple of times.

The Bouncer was obviously there to watch shoppers, so I felt a little self-conscious as I made my way back toward the entrance without having made a purchase. I was carrying a bag from another store -- the perfect hiding place for a candle holder or tablecloth neatly lifted from the store shelves. Would he think I was a shoplifter, making a clean get-away? I found myself trying to look nonchalant as I headed toward the door. Suddenly I began analyzing every move I made. Was I walking too fast? Did I look like I was avoiding eye contact? But if I did make eye contact, would I become intimidated, wind up looking at the floor, and really look guilty? I decided to slow my walk and force a casual look at a front display. I could only feign interest for a few seconds, so I ambled toward the door, swinging my bag at my side in an attempt to look innocent.

When I got to my car, I almost felt like I'd just gotten away with something.

My fingernails-on-the-blackboard trendy word du jour: webinar (meaning an interactive on-line seminar).

Eeeeeeew.

My friend Patty gave me "The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook" for Christmas. A handy resource, since one never knows when one will have to wrestle an alligator, dodge flying bullets, or suddenly land an airplane. I know I tend to be a worrier, a realization that was reinforced as I thumbed through the book and realized I'd already formed at least a preliminary plan for escaping several of the possible disasters.

Laugh if you will, but when the killer bees arrive, I'll be ready for them.

I'm not cool enough to have a website.

Real bloggers reference movies like Krzysztof Kieslowski's "Three Colors" trilogy films. Political views are well articulated. CD's are listed under a "Currently Spinning" headline, and the music is usually somewhat obscure.

Me? I just finished a somewhat snowy version of "An American President," which my parents taped when it aired on television. I'm still trying to figure out if Ford should have pardoned Nixon. And for some reason I haven't felt like listening to any music at all lately.

I'm a web dweeb.

One of these days, I'm going to take a pick-ax to my computer.

I suppose that would invalidate my warranty, though.

I moved every three years, on the average, during my childhood. With every change of address came the unrealistic optimism that everything would be different in the new place. I'd be at the top of the class, our house would be bigger, I'd finally be part of the popular crowd.... But though the scenery changed quite a bit between California, Virginia, New Mexico, Colorado and Nevada, life was much the same.

You'd think I would have learned the lesson by now. But still I catch myself thinking that the answer to all of life's boredom and disappointment might be solved by relocating. I dream of owning a house with a front porch and giant shade trees in the yard. The Midwest, maybe? Or a place where I don't feel so out of place as an over-30 single. What about Manhattan? I fear that I have just enough sense of adventure to move to a new city, but not enough to stay positive about it when the inevitable difficulties set in. I don't want to be one of those people who doesn't realize how good they have it until it's gone.