A little help here

So - I have made it through the labyrinth of self-publishing, writing, editing, reediting, reediting, design, waiting, pricing, ISBN codes, identifying demographics and target audiences - all of it. I have the book in hand. I have followed instruction and the rules. I have contacted hundreds of
editors, reviewers, producer, executives of radio & TV sent Press Releases, About the Author docs, invited them to call me - then - crickets - tumbleweeds blowing across the plains - and now, humbly I must admit two things (1) I have no clout whatsoever and (2) I need help with promoting and distribution. Sure I thought I could do it all ... alas... maybe not and now... I am seeking the help of a professional.

Sure - I know I need to be patient - and I am - just seeking a little help
Agents, publishers, promoters - where are you?
Contact me
R

enjoy chapters

Paula Takes a Risk is finally available - read about it and the author.
Hey - order a copy

Also -Enjoy chapters form The Grumblings of a Chronically Single Woman

Yup! It Happened

Paula Takes A Risk is now available through Friesen Press

http://www.friesenpress.com/bookstore/title/119734000004536283/Randi-M.-Sherman-Paula-Takes-a-Risk

Log on, read about it - and get a copy - I know you want to.

(Paula Takes a Risk will be available Amazon, and your other favorite distributors in 3-5 more weeks)

The Doctor’s Appointment - from The Grumblings of a Chronically Single Woman, by Randi Sherman, the author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

The Doctor’s Appointment 

If you’re like me, the day that you are feeling sick and tired is the day when you want to see a doctor, not four weeks from then.  Why does it seem as if the doctor’s office staff is doing us a personal favor by fitting us into the appointment schedule?

It doesn’t matter what your symptoms are.  Leave the diagnosis to the professionals.  During the initial telephone call, it is Lorraine, the receptionist at your doctor’s office, who will determine the appropriate course of treatment, level of severity, and urgency of the complaint based on the answer to the most important question in medical science. “What type of insurance to do have?”

The last time I had flu symptoms, I thumbed through the book of doctors’ names and telephone numbers that had been provided to me by my insurance plan.  I selected one and called for an appointment.  After twenty minutes of pleading, I was granted an appointment time, and given a homework assignment.  “Bring your insurance card and insurance form, and your co-payment.  Arrive fifteen minutes before your appointment time.” 

I was hallucinating from a fever, but the first thing I was instructed to do entailed a scavenger hunt through my files to find an up-to-date insurance card and form. The faded, rumpled card in my wallet was the “temporary card” and I knew that it just wouldn’t do. I was pretty sure that I had the new, laminated card in an unopened envelope somewhere and the sample insurance form that came with the new employee packet in my filing cabinet.

When I arrived in the doctor’s waiting room, I tapped on the glass that separated the sick people from the office staff.  No response.  What is this about?  I heard voices and could make out figures on the other side.  I spotted the little bell that was just sitting on the ledge, begging to be rung.  Although the hand written index card that was taped to the glass had explicit instructions not to ring the bell, I rang it anyway. Lorraine slid open the miniature shower door and looked up from her subterranean receptionist area.  The expression on her face yelled “WHAT!?”

Apologetically, I reported my name and appointment time. She pretended to look for my chart and pushed a few keys on the computer keyboard.  With a heavy exhale, Lorraine growled, “Just a minute” and slid to glass shut again. 

Should I just stand here?  Go sit down?  I knew that I wasn’t guilty of anything, yet I was nervous.  I’ve had the same feeling while waiting to go through international customs at the airport.

The glass patrician opened again.  “Did you bring your insurance card?”  Lorraine held her hand out.

Nervously, I shuffled through my papers and then handed it to her. 

“I’ll make a copy for your chart.”  Without taking a breath she continued, “Your co-payment is fifteen dollars.  I’ll collect it when you leave.”  She pointed to the waiting area.   “Have a seat.”

When the glass window slid open again, everyone in the waiting room anxiously looked up, hoping that he or she would be the next one called.  When I heard my name called, I proudly perked up.  But, it was a false alarm.  Damn.  I wasn’t allowed to see the doctor yet.  Lorraine gave me another assignment, a pop quiz.

“Here.” She handed me a clipboard with questionnaire on it. “Have a seat and complete both sides of the form, sign it and bring it back to me when you’re done.”   A pen was attached to the clipboard with a string that was so short that it made it impossible to hold the pen upright, not to mention, reach the bottom of the questionnaire.

When I had finished, I handed the clipboard and questionnaire to Lorraine. She reviewed it for mistakes as if she was checking the answers on the written driver’s license test.  She motioned to the chairs behind me and told me to have a seat again. 

Forty minutes later, when Lorraine opened the door to the Promised Land of examination rooms and called my name, my heart leapt.  I nervously replaced the June 1971 edition of Hi-lights Magazine on the table, picked up my purse, and obediently followed her into the back office.  She opened a door, ushered me into a sterile looking room and told me the doctor would be with me shortly.

In order to speed the process along, I got undressed and hung my clothes on the hook on the back of the door.  When the doctor walked into the room and looked at me, his mouth dropped open.  He looked at me in disbelief.  I began to worry.  I must look very sick.

When I asked him why he looked so shocked, he asked me, “Do you know why you’re here?”

Oh my God!  Imagine my embarrassment when I realized that in my feverish hallucinatory state, I had mistakenly made an emergency appointment with a dentist.

 

Lunch with a Demon - from The Grumblings of a chronically Single Woman by Randi M Sherman, the author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Lunch with a Demon

A simple lunch with a friend can turn into the emotional roller coaster to hell for the victim of PMS demon.  The demon has a mind of its own and will do everything possible to have itself heard.  The victim is forced to keep the demon at bay while sorting through her erratic premenstrual thoughts and selecting the appropriate, socially acceptable responses.  She must also fight the desire to unbutton her skirt or kick off her shoes because of the pain due to premenstrual swelling.  All, while staving off an impromptu crying jag and trying to appear sane.

I looked at my watch.  Jonathan was fifteen minutes late. If he is not here in five minute, I’m leaving.  The hell with him!  My PMS mind was racing.  He hates me.  He’s doing this on purpose.  He does not have respect for my time.  He obviously doesn’t think that I am important enough for him to show up on time.  When he gets here, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.

Just as my blood pressure had hit an all time high, Jonathan walked in.  “Hi.  I’m sorry that I’m late. I stopped to buy these flowers for you.”  He handed the bouquet to me and kissed me on the cheek.

My rage disappeared.  “Oh, are you late?” I melted. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He motioned to the hostess and indicated that there were two for lunch.  She grabbed some menus and asked us to follow her.  When we reached our table she smiled at Jonathan and said, “Here we go.  Is this okay?”

I thought, What the hell are you looking at!  But I said, “This is fine.”

When we sat down, Jonathan took my hand and gazed at me.  “You look pretty.  I’ve missed you.”

You’re smothering me!  “I’ve missed you, too.” I put my hand over his.

He smiled and asked, “How is your day going?  Have you been doing anything interesting?”

What the hell do you mean by that?  Don’t placate me!  You’re not the only person who has something interesting to say.  I’m very interesting.  “Oh, my day?” I said, “It’s fine.  Same ole’, same ole’.  Nothing’s new.  How about with you?”

Jonathan told me about a recent episode he had with his ex-wife and the expenses of maintaining the two households. 

I was hardly listening.  The PMS demons were annoyed by the conversation.  Me, me, me.  You’re so self-absorbed. No wonder she divorced you.  I forced a smile, “I’m sure that things will get better for you. You just have to remain positive.”

He looked at the menu, “Are you going to getting the Salad Nicoise?”

What in the hell do you mean by that?  Is this your subtle way of telling me I’m fat? 

He continued, “I hear it’s great here and I know how much you like it.  I think that I will have it as well.”

Nice try, Jonathan.  No one is going to tell me what to do or what I should eat.  Then I opened the menu.  There was too much to choose from.  I was in no condition to make a decision.  “I’ll have the same.”

He noticed that I was uncharacteristically quiet and asked me, “Are you all right?  Is there anything wrong?’

My hormones were raging and my eyes welled up with tears.  It’s about time you noticed. “Nothing.  I’m fine.” I sucked in my breath and tried to hold back but I couldn’t help myself.  I started to cry.  The more I tried to compose myself, the worse it got.  I got the hiccups.  After several glasses of water and five minutes of a relaxation breathing exercise, they subsided, and I apologized. “I’m sorry.  I’m just a little premenstrual.”

He smiled sweetly and patted my hand.  “Oh, I understand, honey.”

Honey?  Don’t honey me!  You don’t understand a damned thing!  “Thanks for understanding.”

At the next table a woman was trying to calm her child who was pounding his spoon on the table.  Jonathan turned to look at the commotion.  When he turned back to me he had a big smile on his face.  “Children are so wonderful.”  He motioned to the toddler, “Isn’t he cute?”

The kid is a brat and the mother should be flogged for bringing him into a restauant.  “He’s adorable.” I smiled.

Jonathan leaned in. “How do you feel about children?”

I was panicked. Aah! Get me out of here!  I calmed myself. “They’re wonderful.”  I changed to subject.  “Is that a new tie?” 

It seemed to be a safe subject.  That is, unless his ex-wife bought it for him.

My Body Revolted from Grumblings....by Randi Sherman, author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

My Body Revolted

The other morning while taking a shower I felt something very strange on the back of my legs.  I had never noticed it before.  It wasn’t the cellulite.  I had grown used to that.  It was something different.  I quickly got out of the shower to look in the mirror and investigate. In order to get a good look, I stood on my toes with my back to the mirror and twisted my upper body to see the reflection. What could it be? I wondered.  At first I didn’t see anything unusual.  I reached down to determine exactly where the strange growth was.  When I had identified the area, I looked again. I was horrified when I realized that the large growth was my butt.  How did this happen?

Without warning, the combination of fatty foods, sugar and gravity has taken its toll on my body.  My body was rebelling.  It was revolting.  My rear end had silently crept downward and taken up residence on the back of my thighs.  I was a victim of ass-creep.

Sure, I had noticed that my clothing had become a little snug.  The excess weight around my hips and stomach filled my pants to cause the uncomfortable short-crotch syndrome and the binding waistband fold-over.  But I attributed it all to the bloating that is related to PMS.  Over time, I had managed to convince myself that I was pre-menstrual for twenty-three days each month.

I sat down at the kitchen table and while eating a blueberry muffin with butter and jam, I decided that I had to do something about this new development on the back of my thighs.  I finally had to admit that I was out of shape and had gained weight. I figured, I’ll just start on an exercise program and watch what I’m eating.  Easier said than done.

The first plan of action was to remove all junk food from my house.  As I was removing all of the cookies and pretzels from the pantry and the ice cream, fudge sauce, and frozen pizzas from the freezer, I thought about how wasteful I was being.  In my mind, I could hear my mother’s voice, “What about all of the children who are starving all over the world?”  I felt guilty.  So I decided to do my part.  I sat down and made a feast of it all.  It was reminiscent of the Last Supper.  A religious experience.  No waste.  I felt better.

Next, I had to locate my gym membership card, buy new exercise togs and figure out the best time to go to and work out.   I had been a member of the gym for two years and had managed to get there only twice.  The first time was the day that I had signed the membership contract.  The second time was the day after that.  The monthly membership dues were automatically withdrawn from my checking account.  By my calculations, each of my visits to the gym cost approximately three hundred dollars.  The one time I called to cancel my membership, I was completely intimidated by the gym manager who ended up convincing me to keep my membership and take advantage of the state-of-the-art equipment.  Although I assured him that I would get into an exercise régime, I thought seriously about closing my checking account and changing banks in lieu of justifying my laziness.  But I was too lazy to go to the bank.

Finally, I knew that I wasn’t going to get in shape overnight, so I had to have an interim plan. I’d have to go shopping.  I’d have to buy some shirts that were long enough to cover my rear end.

The New Minority from Grumblings....by Randi Sherman, author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

The New Minority

Sixty years ago, if a woman in her late thirties and forties was unmarried, she was labeled a spinster, a maiden aunt or an old maid.  Stereotypically, she was perpetually high-strung and cranky.  She was doughty, sad looking and prematurely gray.  Her white patent leather handbag was always tightly clutched, with both hands, against her chest.  She wore sensible shoes on her feet and her hair in a bun or a hairnet.  She owned ten cats that she referred to as her children. She spent her Saturday afternoons rolling ace bandages at the Red Cross or had tea with the widows in the neighborhood.  If she did in fact have a job, she was a schoolteacher or librarian. She was an old age companion to her aging parents and the reliable babysitter for her nieces and nephews. Besides, what else could she possibly have to do with her weekends? 

Twenty years ago an unmarried woman was labeled as selfish, buried in her career or on the fast track.  She wore dark, severe, androgynous looking business suits with pressed cotton blouses and creatively tied scarves.  She attended power lunches.  Saturdays and Sundays were spent doing the work she had brought home from the office.  Weekend evenings were spent with either a dull, equally ambitious man or at the discotheque where she would meet up with various one-night stands, who she would cast aside because any personal involvement would hinder her career path and goals.  The popular belief was that she was just confused. Her priorities were screwed up.  But there was hope for her.  She would eventually “snap out of it” and settle down into marriage as soon as the right man appeared in her life.  

For the first time in history, there is a considerable population of unmarried women who have, in one way or another, managed to remain single throughout their twenties and thirties and beyond.  Consciously or subconsciously, they have broken “the pattern.” 

“The pattern” is the official, unwritten, and outdated, rule of female progression in society.  The elements of this pattern include attending school, perhaps starting a career, landing a husband, bearing children and moving into a ranch style house that is located within twenty miles of her parents.

Similar to many other minorities, the people outside of it, do not understand the rituals or life style. Face it, the unknown makes people feel uncomfortable. The minority is considered questionable and often criticized.  So, based of what the pattern-ers have come to believe, along with their lack of personal experience, members of the minority are labeled unconventional and irreverent and thus: unhappy or social failures. 

            With our shoulders squared, we, the minority, attempt to defend our choices and lifestyles.  The pattern-ers may appear to be listening and trying to understand us, but our efforts are dismissed.  They have already labeled us in an effort to justify to themselves, the minorities situation.

“She has buried herself in her career.  Her priorities are screwed-up”

“She must be a difficult person.  She’s hard to get along with.”

“She’s selfish.  All she thinks about is having fun.”

“She’s too picky.  Who does she think she is?  She needs to lower her standards.”

“She bitter from past relationships.”

“She must be gay.”

We, the members of the minority, are not different from anyone else.  We work and support ourselves, pay our bills and attend social events.  We require air, water, respect and love. We dread holiday season family get-togethers where, without subtlety, we are interrogated about why we don’t just settle down and get married like normal people.

“Why do you choose to live this way?” 

“What is wrong with you?”

“What am I supposed to tell people?”

I am in my late thirties, unmarried and yes, a functional member of society.  I am a proud member of this new minority.  There is not any great mystery about why I’m single. No federal or anti-social crimes have been committed.  Call it timing.  Call it circumstance. I simply have not met anyone who I want to marry or who wants to marry me.  I just haven’t run across anyone who deserves the punishment. Besides, I’ve been busy.

Years from now, the members of this minority will no longer be unique.  Those of us who endured the sarcastic comments, prejudices, and criticisms will be considered trailblazers.  During future holiday celebrations, sitting by the fire, we will gather our nieces, nephews and our own late-in-life children who will sit mesmerized as we tell our stories of single life in the late twentieth century and recount our early struggles as the pioneers of the new minority.

Virtual Cocktail Party from Grumblings....by Randi Sherman, author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Virtual Cocktail Party

 

I enjoy getting together with my friends, have cocktails and dinner, and spending time catching up on the latest gossip. But quite often by the end of a workweek, I’m just not up to the effort it takes to get myself to the restaurant to meet with them.

What am I going to wear? Where are we going to meet?  How much is it going to cost? What if I drink too much?  How would I get home? What about the friends who live in another city or across the country?  I’d like to get together with them.  But it’s not practical to jump on an airplane and fly out of town to have dinner.  Out of necessity and the desire to maintain friendships, I have come up with an alternative method of socializing. It’s called the Virtual Cocktail Party. 

A Virtual Cocktail Party is an alternative to a face to face meeting with those friends that you would love to chat with.  It’s far less expensive and much more relaxing.

Plan your Virtual Cocktail Party.  During the week, inquire about a friend’s weekend plans.  Ask if she would like to have dinner or cocktails on Friday.  Instead of determining which restaurant to meet at, plan to meet on the phone.  Arrange a time. Determine who will be initiating the call.  Make a reservation.  If by chance you are unable to make it to the Virtual Cocktail Party, no one will be left sitting alone in the bar, cursing you for standing her up.

Although, at most restaurants and bars it is frowned upon when a customer dares to show up in a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, it’s perfectly acceptable at the Virtual Cocktail Party.  No effort has to be made determining what to wear, which clothes are clean and pressed, or which outfit is the most slenderizing. Wear any old thing you happen to have hanging over the back of a chair. You could fish something out of the hamper or off of the floor.  Feel free to mix seasons.  Wear a silk blouse with sweat pants. No make-up is required. You could even wear a facial mud- pack and a hair net.  Naked is acceptable too.  The idea is to be comfortable.  Rest assured that no one is going to see you.

No waiting.  Seat yourself.  You don’t need to hover around the bar or to be friendly to the hostess in the hope of being seated before breakfast.  No effort is wasted flagging down a waiter.

If part of the restaurant experience for you and your friends includes people watching and providing color commentary about the patrons and fashions around you, there isn’t any reason why you can’t participate in this activity at the Virtual Cocktail Party.  Just turn on the television (same channel).  The home shopping network or an infomercial will provide the perfect background activity and plenty of material on which to “dish.” To accomplish the audio-effect of the restaurant-buzz, keep the volume low.  Feel free to point and talk as loudly as you wish.  There is no worry about being overheard or receiving nasty looks from the people at the next table.

Eat whatever you would like.  Eat as much as you want.  No one is there to judge you or give you a you’re-such-a-pig look if you eat an entire pizza.  Consume a frozen Sara Lee cake. Don’t bother using a fork or removing it from the tin.  Manners are optional at the Virtual Cocktail Party.  Put your feet on the furniture.  Drop food on the floor.  Talk with your mouth full.  Go ahead, lick your fingers, and drink from the carton or the bottle.  If you don’t have a napkin handy, use your sleeve or a dishrag.

The call waiting feature on your telephone or an unexpected doorbell could be treated as if someone has stepped up to your table and interrupted your conversation.  If you have to use the bathroom, simply excuse yourself, put your friend on hold or go together.

You will never have to drive home from a Virtual Cocktail Party.  No time is spent searching your car in the parking lot.  Think of the money you’ll save on parking lot fees and bridge tolls.  Think of the aggravation that is avoided.  No jail time, no attorney’s fees, no DUIs. Have a cocktail or two, or three.  Drink as much as you’d like.  You don’t have to drive home.  You’re already there.  When your cocktail party is over, hang up the phone, turn out the lights and go to bed.

An Invitation for Dinner from The Grumblings of a chronically single woman by Randi M Sherman Author of Paula Takes A Risk due out March 2012

An Invitation for Dinner

Many people assume that just because I live alone and appear to be healthy and well fed, I must know how to cook for myself.  At best, my talent for cooking is embarrassing, if not dangerous.  Every time I have attempted to prepare a meal or an oven related snack, it has ended up being a disaster.  The smoke alarm is a common sound emanating my home. 

At first, I thought that the smoke detectors in my house were overly sensitive, and reacted from the slightest signs of exhaust from the kitchen.  But after I had moved my residence two or three times and each of the smoke alarms were still set off every time I approached a heating mechanism, I realized that the problem must be my cooking techniques.  For a while I refused to give up my attempts at cooking. I figured that if I cooked really fast, I would not give the smoke alarm enough time to detect that I was in the kitchen.  But that didn’t work.  I began using the smoke alarm as a cooking timer.  I would begin preparing some food, and when the alarm sounded, I knew that it was time to flip it over and continue cooking for an additional five minutes.  Fearing for my life and the buildings adjacent to mine, friends and neighbors began pleading with me to give up my attempts at learning how to cook.  I conceded.

I have learned that there are three things that every unmarried non-cook should have in order to avoid starvation: a microwave oven, a car, and friends who cook.

The microwave oven is the only appliance in my kitchen that doesn’t have to be dusted.  This kitchen-wonder can save a person from starvation in less than eight minutes.  Its response is faster than that of a 911 emergency call.  I have found that the only skills I need, in relation to the using my microwave, are the abilities to peel back a corner or pierce the plastic film with a fork.  Pop the container into the microwave oven, set the timer, press start and then Voila! Dinner is served.

            Occasionally my body revolts against all of the salt and preservatives that are contained in freezer burned, re-heatable, eight-minute entrees.  I’m pretty sure that, by now, I have developed a shelf life of my own.  When the puffiness and bloating from Propyl Gallate and Modified Food Starch start taking a toll on my body, that’s the time when I turn to my car for assistance.

Either, I leaf through the take-out menus on my desk and place a call for food delivery or simply climb into the driver’s seat of my car, start the ignition, point the car in the direction of a fast food restaurant and drive on through.  It’s always important to order a salad for roughage, and for good measure.  Dressing on the side. I realize that this may not be the healthiest way to eat, but at least it’s hot and it does not require clean up.

            Truly, the best gift an unmarried non-cook can receive is not a cookbook but an invitation for dinner.  After months of eating out, driving through, ordering in and microwaving restaurant leftovers, a friend’s invitation for a home cooked meal is a welcome one.

            A well timed telephone call or surprise drop in visit can elicit a sincere dinner invitation where some, if not all, of the basic food groups will be served.  The meal is served on normal dishes with actual silverware.  Not microwaveable, throw-away cookware and plastic eating utensils.  No greasy paper bags and crumpled napkins. Oh, the thrill.  Don’t misunderstand me, this is not a manipulation of my friends’ good nature and hospitality.  They are all aware of my culinary handicap.  Besides, they’re genuinely concerned for my health.

I thank the heavens for friends, their generosity and their cooking skills.  Friends’ who cook usually fall into one of two categories. They are either married and are preparing dinner for their families anyhow and would enjoy some outside stimulation from a dinner guest.  Or, they are single, enjoy cooking, and welcome a dinner companion.

To ensure a second or third invitation, I, as the dinner guest, display proper manners and gratitude. I offer to clear the table and help with the dishes.  I try to monitor the hostess’ level of exhaustion, in an effort to leave before I overstay my welcome. To show my appreciation I keep a supply of wine, (along with decorative gift bags, gift tags, and a felt tip pen) in the trunk of my car to be offered as hostess gifts.  And, I’m nice to their cats.

Young at Heart - from Grumblings...by Randi M Sherman, author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Young at Heart

One day, while at work, the president of the company summoned me into her office.  I wondered what I had done wrong.  This couldn’t be good news.  She never fraternized with her employees.  If fact, the only reasons she spoke with us was to deliver a speech about tightening belts, or to reprimand or to trick someone into volunteering for an undesirable task.  I walked that last mile toward her office and my mind raced as I tried to recall what I might have done that would not have been considered, “company policy.”

When I arrived, her office door was open and she was involved in heated telephone conversation.  She spotted me, snapped her fingers, waved me in and motioned for me to close the door and sit down.  Minutes passed like hours as I waited for her call to end.  She hung up the phone and stood up. 

“I’ve noticed you,” she said. 

Knowing not to press the issue, I just smiled politely.  Then she came around to the front of the desk and leaned against it.  She crossed her arms, sized me up and made an effort to smile.  It looked as if it hurt. 

In a rather annoying rhetorical manner she got right to the point.  “You don’t have a boyfriend do you?” 

Huh?  I couldn’t imagine what this had to do with my job performance.  Then I realized that this was a social meeting

“I want you to meet a friend of mine,” she insisted.

 A friend of hers?  Did she have friends?  I had never given any thought to the fact that she would have any friends.  This had to be a test.  I wasn’t interested in meeting her friend, but I had to be diplomatic. After all, I did work for her. 

I smiled appreciatively and with a confident upward tilt to my head and a sing-song quality to my voice I said, “Thank you for thinking of me but I really don’t have the time to get date anyone right now.  Between work, classes and my, already active, social life, I hardly have enough time for myself.  Thanks anyway.”  I was sure that the content and delivery of this speech was Academy Award material.  But she didn’t buy it. 

She looked directly at me a said, “You’re lying to me.”  “My husband and I have a friend…” She dived right in.  “He was involved in a long-term relationship which has just ended, badly.”  She assured me that he was not necessarily looking for a romantic relationship.  “He’s a little gun shy right now.  He’s just looking for someone to go places with.  I want you to meet him.  He’ll be calling you later this week.” 

What could I say?  She was scary, I worked for her and she had already given him my telephone number.  Frankly, I was intimidated by her.

She stood up, walked around her desk, sat down in her executive style swivel chair and waved me off.  As I was about to open the door, she said, “Oh by the way, he’s somewhat older that you are but he’s young at heart.” 

I closed the door behind me and tried to evaluate what had just transpired.  What undesirable task was just assigned to me?  The information that she had provided was vague and general. There had to be a good reason for it and I was bound to find out why.

“Young at heart,” sure.  But, old at face and ancient at body.  The fact that this man merely had the will to live, did not make him young.  Breathing without the benefit of medical machinery, eating pudding without his teeth and first hand discussions regarding his recent prostate surgery were talents that were wasted on me.

He had been, recently dumped by a woman who he now referred to as “the bitch .”  According to him, she drained him monetarily and emotionally, then maliciously and without warning, cast him aside.  Over the past few months she had become demented and developed a number of serious emotional problems, none of which he had anything to do with.  “Funny,” I thought. “Why is it that she was perfectly normal when they met, and then, over the course of their relationship, developed psychotic tendencies?  Someone should do the math.”  Though advertised differently, he was on the rebound and desperately seeking a woman, on whom he could use his transference skills. 

The calendar of dating events included several telephone discussions about his misunderstood and abused qualities.  He kept telling me how wonderful, thoughtful and sensitive he was.  He called me too often.  He was possessive.  He was self-obsessed.  Anytime my attention would wane, he would exhale with a whimper. Shortly after he succeeded in thoroughly annoying me with his mosquito-like qualities, he informed me that I was getting too serious.  Then, as a finale, he announced that he needed “his space.”  All this, before I rode in his car.

The report of the “break-up” had reached the office before I did.  The boss called me into her office and this time she cast aside her prize winning interpersonal skills.  Slamming the office door behind her, she demanded to know what had happened.

 “Well,” I explained, “He’s a great guy, but I think he’s looking for a woman who can handle his past and will be satisfied with his somewhat limited future.”