Dating pet peeve: Guys who invite you out to dinner, then expect you to come up with the restaurant. Maybe it's an attempt at thoughtfulness, but it sends the message that "You're not important enough for me to spend any time planning the evening." Usually I have no clue what the man has in mind, which leaves me in an awkward position. I don't want to look like a prima donna by choosing a place that's too expensive, but at the same time don't want to select a spot that's too inexpensive as if to say, "I'm sure this is all someone like you can afford."

Don't they cover this stuff in Guy School?

I may be trying the patience of the friend who helps with my myriad computer problems. When he showed up yesterday for Round 2 with an uncooperative laser printer, he greeted me with, "Karen. Mein Kampf."

A woman from my church mentioned that some people from the congregation were wondering how they could “minister” to single women in the church. Part of me bristled at that. Does my lack of a spouse make me part of a special needs group?

I don’t feel a need to be on the receiving end of a “ministry.” Really, I just want to be included (recognizing there’s a difference between truly being accepted into a group and simply being allowed to attend). What’s odd about being an over-30 single is knowing that I’m often evaluated not in terms of what I have (individual interests or personality traits) but for what I don’t have (a spouse and children). Here’s an exchange I had with a woman during a visit to another church: (Notice my series of snappy comebacks.)
Her: “So are you married?”
Me: “No.”
Her: “Do you have any children?”
Me: “No.”
Her: “Have you ever been married?”
Me: “No.”
Her: “Oh. Then I guess you wouldn’t have children.”
Me: “No.”

The church I’m attending now is much better at integrating people of various ages and marital status than most I’ve been a part of. But even here, some people struggle. During a visit to one Sunday school class, a woman I’d met the week before called me “Diane.” As it turns out, Diane was another visitor who also happened to be single but looked nothing like me. My marital status was apparently the only thing that stood out to the woman.

I visited another class a few weeks later, and felt much more “normal” there. People had ordinary conversations with me. One woman groaned as she told me about how her four boys had misbehaved during the church service just before our class. A couple talked about their son who had wandered from his faith. Another woman invited me to lunch, because she thought I seemed interesting.

Guess which class I decided to become a part of?

Arizonans like to joke about how they drive with two fingers in the summertime. (I actually use my fingernails whenever possible.) Yesterday I neglected to put the sunshade in my windshield when I got back from lunch - which I deeply regretted when I returned to my oven - er, car - to run to a late-afternoon appointment. Driving straight was easy enough, but I realized that turning the steering wheel was going to result in a trip to the local burn unit. Then I remembered the sweater that was tied around my shoulders. I discovered if I leaned forward far enough, I could wrap the sleeves around the steering wheel, and thus avoid searing my flesh. (Genius that I am, eventually I realized I could untie the sleeves and drive with normal posture.) It's all part of desert survival.

I lost my taste for pop music years ago. I wish I could say the same for the co-worker in the office next to mine. A few minutes ago I was subjected to an angst-ridden selection by a female vocalist that sounded more like wailing than singing. Now I’m hearing strains of Kenny G, which I consider to be the musical equivalent of food prepared completely without spices.

I started housesitting for a family friend this past weekend. It’s not something I normally like to do, but this happens to be a townhouse in a gated community, with a balcony overlooking the city. How could I refuse a chance for free resort living?

As storm clouds were gathering yesterday evening, I went out on the balcony for a better view. I’d only been outside for a minute when a bat appeared overhead, swooping erratically (as bats do), bringing to mind all the horrifying bat stories I’d ever heard. The rabid one that found its way into a home and bit a toddler in her sleep. The one that got caught in a girl’s hair, according to Kristy, my best friend in the third grade (who was probably just spreading a neighborhood urban legend). The stories (and the bat itself) were creepy enough to send me scurrying inside, shutting the sliding-glass door quickly behind me. I then locked the door just as quickly, which struck me as funny when I thought about it later. Did I really think this little winged creature was capable of breaking and entering?

I'm rather pleased with myself for recognizing a typo when I ran across the word Otorhinolarynoglogy in a physician newsletter today. I'm thinking of renaming my site brainiac.com. Or maybe I'll just enroll in med school instead.

I was supposed to have lunch today with a woman I worked with several years ago. I wasn't really looking forward to getting together with her, since her conversations are usually permeated with career talk, making my lunch hour feel like a business meeting. But it's always nice to get out of the office at noon, so I forced a good attitude about the whole thing. I beat her to the restaurant, put in my name, and waited ... and waited ... and waited. I finally gave up and went back to my office, in kind of a foul mood at that point. Few things make you feel like a loser faster than being stood up at a restaurant.

My heater broke today. Now this may not sound like an emergency to those who know I live in the land of 115-degree summer, but my new office happens to be freezing. Survival depends on the operation of a space heater at my feet. I considered huddling over the magnolia-scented candle on my bookshelf, but decided to borrow a heater from a vacationing co-worker's office instead. I'm beginning to thaw again.


I know I'm more cold-natured than the average Phoenician, but I also know I'm not alone in my shivering. When we first moved into our new suite a week and a half ago, a group of us walked outside together on the way to lunch. As soon as the Sahara-like blast of air hit us, we erupted in a chorus of relief, exclaiming, "It feels so good out here!" Anyone within earshot probably thought we were just delirious from the heat.

I don't like country music, but I don't mean to denigrate those who do. And for the people who like country music, denigrate means "put down."
--Bob Newhart