No More Words

It's no secret that I want to be a writer, although published author would be more accurate. I am not aiming to be another Stephanie Meyer or J.K. Rowling. My dream is to write books that people love to read and someday be able to write full-time without causing financial distress to my very supportive husband.

Along the way towards following my dream, I had the luck to participate in classes taught by Hallie Ephron, an author I've met and shared airspace with at writing-related conferences over the years. I learned a lot from her. What I didn't know until last night was that she was Nora Ephron's sister. 

If you've never heard of Nora Ephron you've probably heard of the movies Sleepless in Seattle, You've Got Mail, Julie and Julia, and When Harry Met Sally (and many others).  Nora wrote the screenplays for each of these and in many cases was the director and producer. Nora was a woman of many talents. More than I even imagined as I read the numerous tributes to her around the web.

I was excited to see You've Got Mail when it came out. It was adapted from one of my all-time favorite Jimmy Stewart movies, The Shop Around the Corner. It didn't disappoint.

And so I was very sad to hear that Nora passed away yesterday. I can only dream of crafting words that are a small fraction of her genius.

I wish her family peace and comfort. And thanks for sharing such a wonderful spirit with the world.

 
        

I Blame the Parents

So husband and I went to the local supermarket Friday night to pick up a bunch of stuff. It was pretty busy for almost 10 p.m. on a Friday night. Maybe there was nothing interesting going on anywhere in town. Of course there were only two cashiers open, each with a long line, so many of the shoppers were heading toward the self-checkouts.

As luck would have it we needed pasta. And the pasta aisle was right across from the self-checkouts. And the line at the self-checkouts was long. Long and bunched up. And taking up the majority of the aisle where shoppers have to pass back and forth. 

Why did we care? Well, trying to exit the pasta aisle was an elderly woman pushing a cart. There was a display of grated cheese at the end of the aisle as well, which made it difficult for us to enter while she was trying to exit. She would have had to finagle her cart sideways. So we waited for her. 

She poked her cart out of the aisle and along came a shopper at full speed. Said shopper did not slow down but kept barreling at us, so the poor woman had to stay where she was. Now, the barreling shopper could not move over because of the bunched up group of people (and by now it was a small crowd) waiting for the self-checkouts. After the barreling shopper sprinted by the poor lady inched out a bit more. Suddenly there was a stream of shoppers heading her way, and again she was stuck.

Now, granted common courtesy is pretty dead these days, but seriously folks? Not one of you eight or ten (I lost count) groups of people that kept coming down the aisle could stop for a minute to let the poor woman out? Really?

The last group of shoppers was a man dressed in a (I think it was) baseball uniform, followed by three kids, although not very closely. Two of the kids were also in (baseball?) uniforms and appeared to be between 9 and 11 years old. (I base my age estimate on their height and the height of my nephew.) The younger non-uniformed child was pushing the cart. After they passed by, I turned to my husband and said, "That was kind of rude." He said "Yup." (He's been watching a lot of Storage Wars lately.)

We waited for the lady to finally exit the aisle and moseyed down to check out the pasta that was on sale. A few minutes later someone yelled out, "Excuse me!" I turned and saw a bunch of kids I didn't know and turned back to the pasta. The "Excuse me!" was repeated louder and with an attitude, and when I turned again I realized it was the three boys I had seen earlier. Before I could say anything the tallest of the three asked me what I had said to his friend. 

I replied that I didn't say anything to his friend, I didn't even know them. The tall boy repeated himself in a nasty tone, "You said something to my friend!"

Me: "Um, no, I didn't, I think you're mistaken."

Him: "Yes you did."

Second tallest boy: "You did, I heard you."

Him: "You said something really mean to him, and rude too."

Second tallest boy: "Yeah, I heard you."

Me: "I'm sorry, but you are mistaken."

Cacophony of voices loud and not-so-borderline nasty: "You did, we heard you."

I just turned away and went back to the pasta. My husband was standing with his mouth open.

He finally spoke. "Seriously?"

I guess the next time I want to comment on the rudeness of people toward an elderly woman in a very brief sentence to my husband I need to make sure no snot-nosed little brats are within earshot. Yup, I said snot-nosed little brats. Because that is what they are. And I am sure when they grow up they'll be snot-nosed bigger brats. Truth be told I didn't blame the kids for being rude as far as the poor woman was concerned, they were raised that way. And I had no such thoughts in my head prior to their 'confrontation' with me. 

First, I have no issue with them standing up for themselves, even if there was no reason to in this case. But they were not polite about it in any way, they were rude and confrontational. I spoke five words to my husband, and in the world of free speech I am within my rights to comment to my husband if I so desire. I was not even looking in their direction when I spoke to my husband because he was on my left and they passed on my right. And in what universe do the five words "That was kind of rude." sound "really mean" even if overheard? Unless they had a problem with my husband saying "Yup." (Could be they're not Storage Wars fans.)

Sometimes I feel sad for the new generation of children growing up. They are learning how to communicate electronically and not with other human beings. Every day you hear stories of bullying, and not all of them children on children. I had tears in my eyes when I read about Karen Klein and what she was subjected to by the "children" on her school bus. Granted, my encounter did not bring tears to my eyes and was by no means cruel, just rude and disrespectful. But what does that say about the future of we as a society if this is representative of the next generation?

I wanted to ask these boys what it was I supposedly said but the middle of a crowded supermarket is not the time or place for arguing with a trio of disrespectful brats. Yup, I am insisting on calling them brats because that is what they are.

So here are my conclusions:
- these young men need to have their hearing checked
- these young men are not learning sportsmen-like behavior playing sports
- these young men are probably bullies
- these young men need to be taught respect for their elders
- these young men will probably grow up to be obnoxious adults

Harsh? Eh, no, I doubt it. And you can only make a first impression once, and in the two minutes of interaction I had with them that's the takeaway their behavior left me with.

I hope my conclusions are wrong.

But I don't think so.

I hope their parents are proud.

Gordon Ramsay Steak

Even if you're not a foodie, you've probably heard of Chef Gordon Ramsay. He is everywhere on television, helping restaurateurs save their failing restaurants (and not always succeeding), setting hopeful chefs on fire, making the dreams of home chefs come true, and soon he'll be helping failing small hotels. These are just the American shows, he has shows on British television as well.

Having a chef for a brother-in-law, along with my own restaurant experience, has piqued my interest in food-related shows. One might argue that Gordon Ramsay's shows are more reality-t.v. than food shows, but if you have experience in the business you can look past the "show" and enjoy the actual cooking part. Of course we don't tune out the reality side completely, that is part of the fun. And we like to make fun of the Cupcake Wars contestants who bake with their long hair flying all over the place. As careful as I am cooking at home, hair pulled back and bobby-pinned in place, once in awhile my poor husband (for some reason it's always him) finds a hair in something. So I gotta ask, how many times do the poor judges find some of that flying hair in their cupcakes? 

Back to Gordon Ramsay.

We live about 3.5 hours from his NYC restaurants but we had to travel to Las Vegas to sample some of the multiple Michelin-starred chef's offerings. Not because we never go to NYC, it's just never on the schedule to make a side trip when we're there. To be honest, we didn't know that Gordon Ramsay even had a restaurant in Vegas. We'd been there last November but there had been no inkling that one was coming, and we'd even stayed at the Paris where the restaurant is located. 

 
Gordon Ramsay Steak opened about a month ago, and the Paris Vegas Arch is still adorned with the proclamation. 

We didn't know at the time of discovery how long the restaurant had been open. We only knew that we wanted to eat there. On day two of our eight day trip we stopped by the hostess desk to see if we could get a reservation for that night. We were dressed for a hot day of hiking the Vegas streets, but we'd planned on getting gussied up for dinner. The average temp while we were there was about 101 degrees, so shorts and tanks were the typical attire during the day. We had some plans and wanted a late reservation so we had time to shower and change.

(On a side note, the winner of the current season of Hell's Kitchen will become the head chef at Gordon Ramsay Steak. He or she will be working under the current executive chef Kevin Hee.)

Two young ladies were stationed at the desk, dressed in the typical Vegas-restaurant-hostess attire (short/skimpy/see-through). One of them asked if she could help us, and we inquired about a reservation for later that evening. She looked us up and down and said that they were fully booked, but she would go and check for us. She turned and walked down the long chunnel-like entry way. We waited but she never returned. 

In the meantime the other hostess was answering a phone call. The caller had theatre tickets that night and wanted to ensure they would make the show on time. The hostess cheerily reassured them that they would but the caller did not seem to be reassured as she responded equally cheerily that she could move their reservation up to 5 p.m. for them. That seemed to satisfy the caller as she said "See you soon!" in the same cheery voice and hung up.

Then she noticed us, still standing there, waiting for the other hostess to return. I swear she had a sniff of English butler distaste in her voice as she asked if she could help us. We replied that we were waiting for the other girl to come back to let us know if they had room for us that night. She immediately stated that they were fully booked that night and the next. Full stop. Attention went back to the desk in front of her.

We stood there awkwardly for a minute, feeling as if we had dared to beg for scraps from the Queen's table, then my bolder side piped up. "We're here until next week, do you have anything at the beginning of next week?"

She didn't roll her eyes but she didn't have to. Her body language said it all. She finally announced that she could fit us in next Tuesday at 6 p.m. We said thanks, gave our name, and walked away, feeling a little bit looked down upon by the I'm-think-I'm-better-than-you-because-I-am-a-hostess-for-Gordon-Ramsay-and-you-don't-look-like-you-can-afford-to-eat-his-food barely out of high school hostess. The rest of my bolder side came back. I made a beeline for the concierge desk, husband in tow.

The concierge cheerfully made us a reservation for 10:15 p.m. that night, right about the time we wanted. And she didn't give us one single judging look.

Being a good citizen I returned to the hostess desk to cancel our Tuesday reservation. The snobby girls had been replaced by a gentleman and an older hostess who was very nice and cancelled for us. I did tell her that we'd be coming in tonight instead. As we walked away we wondered if we'd made a bad decision and the initial treatment was a precursor of a bad evening. We decided to take our chances. Chef Ramsay may be known for his four-letter words and tasty food, but we hoped the young hostesses were not typical of the dining experience at one of his restaurants.

We were gussied up early and decided to take a chance on getting seated early. If we had to wait we had spare cash for one of the numerous slot machines guarding the entrance to the restaurant. As it turned out we arrived almost half an hour early, and wonder of wonders, they had a table for us. We walked through the chunnel entrance past the bar and looked out into an expansive room with two levels of seating. As luck would have it our table was on the second level against the rail which allowed us to look out over the entire restaurant.

The high ceiling was adorned with a large British Union Jack flag and a neat orange neon sculpture that was designed by Andrey Berezowsky, a  of SWON Design. The space was full of happy chatting diners and all kinds of wait staff, some of which were wearing a modern train-conductor type uniform. They appeared to be the 'main' waiters. And the uniform was pretty cool, complete with watch chain. (See here for more about the uniforms. And yes, the two uppity young ladies aspiring to be hostesses are in the very first photo. The professional and polite hostess we encountered on our second visit to the podium is the only one I'll point out. She is second from right.) We were impressed when our waiter greeted us by name. No, he wasn't psychic, we gave our names when we made our reservation.

So far so good. We had one awkward moment to get through, not because it was a Gordon Ramsay restaurant but because we don't drink. We have this awkward moment at every higher-end place we visit. (We have yet to figure out how to handle this in higher-end places without feeling awkward but some day we will.) In spite of being teetotalers we found the wine list very interesting. It was presented on an iPad with SmartCellar technology. Being geeks ourselves we thought this was way cool. You could do a menu search, there was a 'my selections' tab, and you could sort by name, price, grape, vintage or region.

The regular menu was on paper. My husband's menu had oily fingerprints all over the cover, a bit unexpected in such a posh place. The other negative was the music. It was so loud we could barely hear our waiter. The ambiance was still good though, it reminded us of our favorite New Orleans restaurant Domenica. (If you ever get a chance to eat there leave room for dessert. The Gianduja Budino - chocolate & hazelnut pudding with candied hazelnuts - is amazing!)

As we studied the menu a selection of breads was delivered to our table. They were very good, and my husband especially enjoyed the ones that looked like cinnamon buns but were swirled with a mushroom filling and a pancetta filling.  

While we were waiting to order our appetizers we watched a display of raw beef (cuts of meat served by RGS) go by. Hmm, we thought, interesting. When it was our turn we were impressed with the display and the waiter's knowledge and description of each cut, although to be brutally honest I was a bit turned off by it. Mainly because the meat was beginning to smell a little and it was inches from my face. We figured it was because it was the end of the evening and it had been sitting out for awhile. I have a pretty good sense of smell so maybe other people didn't notice. And if you are a meat lover you probably wouldn't care.

We each chose an appetizer, but first I had a question for our waiter. I love onion soup. I have it everywhere I see it on the menu. Some are awesome (like at Mon Ami Gabi, also in the Paris), some taste like dish water. This version was made with Boddington’s Pub Ale, caramelized onion broth, and Welsh rarebit. As I do not eat meat I asked the waiter what Welsh rarebit was just in case it was meat (hey, rarebit could have been some fancy type of rabbit for all I knew) but he didn't know for sure. My husband looked it up on his phone. I was good to go. And although I don't drink, I have no issue with alcohol used in cooking To his credit the waiter apologized when he returned. He said that there was a lot to learn about the menu and he sometimes forgot things. I can sympathize so it was no issue. My husband ordered the American Kobe beef sliders.

The appetizers arrived fairly quickly. We were anxious to have our first taste of Chef's Ramsay's culinary skills. We were a teensy bit disappointed. While the consistency and cheese and bread croutons were excellent, the soup had a harsh taste that did not appeal to me. I expect that it was because of the ale, something I've never tasted. I won't give it bad marks on that basis because other people might not have a problem with that. The sliders were good, especially the pickled topping, although a little undercooked for my husband's taste.

While we waited for our dinners we were entertained by the conversation of the table across from us. It was two older couples and a young couple. The male half of the young couple was discussing his future. He stated that he was not going to go to grad school because he was pretty sure he could get ahead through nepotism. Okay.

We were saved from additional words of career wisdom by the arrival of our entrees. Well, not exactly entrees on both sides. As the restaurant is a steakhouse my options were limited so I chose sides as my meal. The Loaded Baked Potato with smoked gouda béchamel, sour cream, bacon, and chives was humungous. And totally awesome. I ate every bite. I also ordered the Colcannon, potato-cabbage croquettes served over red wine braised cabbage. This was something I probably never would have ordered, but for some reason it just came out of my mouth when I spoke. It must have been a spirit guide directing me to the perfect dish. It was out of this world. I begged my husband to go back every day until we left for home so I could have it again but he gently reminded me that we had a full slate of restaurants to visit. 

We took some pictures with my husband's phone, not the best quality but hopefully you'll get the idea.

My husband ordered the Beef Short Rib, a red wine braised short rib served with potato puree and wild mushrooms. His eyes were crossing with delight as he ate. Enough said.

Having dined in fairly expensive restaurants numerous times we expected to still be hungry when we finished. Not so. We were stuffed and happy. No room for dessert. Guess we'll have to go back next trip.

Our waiter was very good. The only glitch was the Welsh rarebit. He even shared with us the trepidation among the staff that the winner of Hell's Kitchen would be taking over from Chef Kevin Hee because they all liked him very much. He said that they were relieved when they were told the winner was not. He also shared with us that Chef Ramsay was expected any day for a visit. As we are big fans with a Chef relative we were excited to hear the news. On our way out we had checked out the selection of GR cookbooks as a potential present for the Chef relative and we decided to see if we could get one autographed for him.

So the next day we went back to GRS and the same nice (and professional) hostess was working. No sign of the uppity youngsters. We explained our mission and she graciously invited us to go in and take our chances. We smiled at each other, knowing that it meant Chef Ramsay was definitely on site. We sat at the bar and scoped out the restaurant, ordering sodas and explaining our mission to the bartender. He helped us pick out a cookbook and we waited at the bar for our opportunity.

And then he appeared, walking through the open kitchen, head and shoulders above most of the kitchen staff. He really was tall! We were excited, temporarily happy with just being in the same room as Chef Ramsay. But the mission was only temporarily derailed. We watched as he made his way towards us, and the bartender gently nudged me. I took the hint, cookbook clutched in trembling hands, and humbly approached Chef Ramsay. On the way I passed a familiar face. It was Chef Andi from Hell's Kitchen! I blurted out, "I know you!" and she smiled and nodded. Okay, not my best moment but she really rocks and it was cool to see her in person. I regained my composure and approached Chef Ramsay. I might have been shaking in my sandals a bit. I do watch Hell's Kitchen, remember.

Even though I interrupted (very politely) his conversation, he was totally nice. I mean, totally. Sweet, gracious, wow, what a nice guy. He was interested to hear about our Chef relative, and happily autographed the cookbook for our Chef relative. He was also very happy that we enjoyed our meal the night before. And when he learned that we were from a town close to where one of the new hotel-rescue show episodes was filmed, he passed along some thoughts about it that I will not share as the show has not aired yet. Don't laugh, but we had toyed with the idea of inviting him to our wedding because we were such big admirers but in the end we didn't because, well, you know why. Of course I blurted that out and he said, "Oh you should have, I love weddings." Maybe next time then. I introduced him to my husband and he posed for a picture with him. (I hate having my picture taken unless forced by family. The only exception so far has been Elton John. Twice.)

As we sat at the bar finishing our sodas we could not stop grinning. We'd met Chef Ramsay. And he is really really nice. As we sat Chef Andi walked past again and grinned at me. (Of course I grinned back.) Hopefully it was out of friendliness and not hey look at the star struck idiots.

Most of the pictures I took did not come out very well, so I will direct you to the Pulse of Las Vegas blog. They have some awesome shots of the place.

On our way out we passed Chef Ramsay and said thanks. He gave me a kiss on the cheek and told my husband to stay romantic. 

I'll make sure he listens to Chef Ramsay's words of advice.

And P.S. to the judgmental young hostesses. Don't judge a book by its cover. I love to read so I should know.

Happy Father's Day

(Two) Seats on a Plane

Most people have heard about the controversy surrounding the policy of certain airlines that requires people of a certain size to purchase two seats. Not being of the Twiggy variety myself I felt an immediate aversion to this policy and of course sympathy for folks who would certainly be humiliated if they were put in that position.

Even though I am not a Twiggy I can still fit into an airplane seat without forcing my neighbor(s) to come in close personal contact with the sides of my thighs. Same goes for my husband. There have been numerous occasions when the same could not be said of the person sitting next to me, not always because they could not fit in the seat. There are other types of passengers who sit with their legs far apart or sideways that result in the same unwelcome thigh-rubbing experience. 

Maybe it is just me. I am not a fan of close personal contact with strangers for extended periods of time. That being said, my gut reaction to the two seat policy underwent a change on a recent four hour plus flight. 

We were seated in the aisle and center seats. The flight was full so we expected someone to fill the window seat and were prepared to get out quickly. It was a bit of a mess because since the flight was full there was not enough room in the overhead bins for all the carry-on luggage. Between taking care of that issue and seating a full flight the airline personnel had their hands full. 

We took note of each person coming down the aisle, wondering which one would stop at row 29. When the last of the passengers came down the aisle we held our breath, wondering if there was one empty seat on the full flight and it was in our row. Not because we minded sharing, but because it was a red-eye flight and we had planned on sleeping. It would have been more comfortable to do so if we were the only two in the row, but we were prepared for the outcome.

Well, we thought we were. One of the last people to come down the aisle was a rather large older woman. She stopped at our aisle and pointed to the seat as she announced loudly, "That's my seat!", giving us a look that implied we should have waited for her to be seated before we sat down. We looked at each other and knew we, or at least I, were toast. Now, I was assigned the aisle seat and my husband the center, but he does not like to be sandwiched in so I volunteered to switch. Lucky me. Or maybe lucky him.

We stood in the aisle while she got settled. The first thing she did was lift up the arm rest between our seats. I figured it would be easier for her to settle in her seat since I've done that myself. Nope. She lifted the arm rest because she could not fit in the seat with it down. In fact, she could not fit in the seat period. She needed about a third of my seat as well. I looked at my husband and I wanted to cry. He whispered not to worry because he would scoot over and besides, we're happily married so we didn't mind the thigh action.

So I sat in the other 2/3rds of my seat and scrunched up to my husband. Even so, I was extremely uncomfortable with her thigh so mushed up next to mine. And for the next four plus hours. Things went downhill very quickly. Before we left the gate she had shifted to lean on her side, so now I was treated to not only her thigh but part of her posterior end. Which took up even more of my seat. She didn't seem aware in any way that she was squishing me out of my seat.

For the next four hours she alternated between positions, and I was treated to a variety of fun times. Close personal contact with her posterior end, her arm on my thigh, her elbow in my side. All interspersed with some sort of loud grunting noises and fits of violent hacking coughs. My favorite position was when she leaned her head against the seat in front of her to sleep and slowly fell my way until I had to nudge her. This particular position in her rotation was the greatest source of amusement to the tall gentleman who was the only saving grace on the flight. He kept me from jumping out of the plane because he would make funny faces at her various antics.

My poor husband was smushed so far into the left side of his seat that he kept getting hit by passers-by. Needless to say, sleep was impossible. To make matters worse, the ceiling air of the seat in front of me was set to full blast and aimed squarely at my face. I was freezing and my eyes were dry. I did have a sweater but I had stuffed it down between my body and hers. It somehow made me feel better. And freezing to death seemed the lessor of two evils.

Not once did she say a word. Not a single I'm sorry or apologetic glance. Two hours in I became brave enough to gently shove her when she was practically hanging over my lap.

Nothing. She just shifted.

So, do I think people of a certain size should have to purchase two seats? After what I think was the worst flight of my life, I would have to say yes. Maybe not for short flights, but definitely long ones. I paid for my seat and I have the right to use it. All of it.

Next time I find myself in that situation I am going to ask that person to reimburse me for the portion of my seat they used. Hey, it's only fair.

Okay, maybe not. But I can think about it ....

 

  

Overheard Department

I get my mail at a post office box which was relocated from its long-time location on a slightly inconvenient side-street to one of the local malls. There are many times when I believe I would prefer the inconvenience of the side-street to the extremely inconvenient local mall. There are six parking spots allotted for the post office, clearly marked. As these spots are the closest to the nearest mall entrance most folks un-learn how to read when they are looking for a parking spot in the always crowded mall lot. Most of the times I pop in to pick up my mail from the spot I found three miles away because the lot is empty, there is no one patronizing the post office. 

I of course do not have the you-know-whats to say anything to the people who are strolling out to their post-office-parking-only parked cars, arms laden with bags not marked "U.S. Post Office" as I stumble by exhausted from my walk to pick up my mail.

On this occasion I was spared the walk because my darling husband was driving. He gave a brief thought to waiting in the no parking zone for me as I picked up my mail, a less than two minute errand, but a mall security guard was leaning against an outside wall smoking a cigarette. I wanted to tell him not to worry as they never seem to care that non-post-office patrons fill the spots on a regular basis, but he likes to obey laws.

As I approached the post office door I heard the security guard say to a co-worker previously hidden behind a pillar "So, are you worried about the visit from the big boss tomorrow?"

The other man expelled his inhaled smoke and replied, "Naw, I'm higher up than he is."

His co-worker replied, "Really? How so?"

"I've been working here longer."

"Huh." Silence for a second. "I don't think it works that way."

As I entered the post office I wished for one quick second that I'd heard the end of that conversation.

Just curious.

No, really.

Public Service Announcement

The tastefully wondrous Cella Bistro recently celebrated its six anniversary with a pig roast. I gained a few pounds tasting coleslaw, macaroni and cheese, potato salad and other delectable delights. They might sound like ordinary dishes but Chef Michael Cella does some sort of magic to them that turns them into second and third-helping worthy.

They have just announced a series of events they're calling sundays at cella. 

One Sunday a month they'll be hosting a special wine dinner event starting at 5 p.m.

The summer sunday series begins June 24th, where the wines featured will be hidden gems from local shops. Chef Michael will be pairing his menu creations with some of the Capital District's wine shops' best kept secrets.

On July 22nd the wine dinner will be a lobster bake with summer wines.

The final summer event will be held on August 19th, a farm to table pairing dinner created using the harvests of our own local Capital District farms.

The fall sunday series kicks off on September 16th, and features a delicious dinner paired with a line-up of cabernet sauvignon wines.

November 11th is something different, an American craft brewed beer dinner.

December 16th features sparkling wines, a perfect end to a great series of wine (and one beer!) and awesome food brought to you by Chef Michael Cella, his lovely wife Julia, chef-in-diapers, I mean training Anthony, and of course Jim and Cheryl Cella, the Bistro's secret weapons.

For more information see the flyer link under 'Sunday Series' here. 


Enjoy!

Um, Okay Department

I married my high school sweetheart. By the time I married him we were long done with high school and he was no longer a sweetheart. In spite of the fact that he was abusive is most of the ways one could be abusive in a relationship, I still wanted to marry him. I can only plead stupidity. Maybe some day I will provide details hereabouts, but it was not a total waste of time. I have plenty of material for my books in progress. And I won't have to pay him a percentage should any of them become successful.

We finally got divorced, at my instigation, although we'd been apart for a long time because he decided to get one of his "women" (I use the term in quotes because all of his "women" knew he was married but didn't hesitate to get involved with him so ...) pregnant while we were married and actually suggested I help him raise the child. It took me just under ten years to get the message, but once I did I never looked back. And today I am married to the most amazing man, so it all worked out for me. Not so much for him but that karma, she's looking out for those of us who've been done wrong one time or another. We've been divorced since 12/30/1999. Funnily enough I cannot remember when we got married.

He still calls now and then, but I am not quite sure why. It's always something stupid, and my husband and I get a good laugh out of it.

Recently one of my sisters had a birthday. He texted her and wished her a happy birthday, said they needed to get together for cocktails, and then said "I miss you". 

I had to read the text for myself, I did not believe her at first.

After another round of good laughs, this time including my sister (I have multiple sisters, older and younger, none of which approved of him.), I thought to myself, wtf? I mean, really? "I miss you"? And yeah, he always texts me on my birthday but it's just "Happy Birthday". Maybe because he knows better.

But then again, he was shocked that I got married again because he told me that I was such a loser no guy would ever want me, so I might as well just wait for him to get tired of the girl he got pregnant (she dragged him to the altar as soon as the ink was dry on our divorce) because he'd come back eventually.

Um, okay.