Chapter 16

Not so much in the mood for this.

“I was invited,” she stated with a defiant tone.

“But I thought you were up north until the third.”

“Changed my mind.”

“Who’s watching Charlie?” he asked.

I was learning so much.

“Sam and Harry,” she answered firmly.

Strawberry looked at me with apologetic eyes and introduced us.

“Pleasure to meet you,” I said.

She responded with a mini-nod.

Her name was Natalie, which somehow I knew meant “born at Christmas.” Well, Feliz Navidad, Natalie. And though I’d never heard her name spoken aloud, I knew it was his ex-wife. One whose acquaintance I was hoping to avoid.

Feeling uncomfortable, I excused myself to the ladies room. No sooner had I refreshed with blush, gloss and a spicy breath mint, than darling Natalie came craftily through the door, still looking beautiful with that sour puss grin.

She crossed into my personal grooming space and whispered, “I’m not done with him yet.”

What did I do? Leave me alone. What is this, a Glenn Close movie?

She appeared fierce and looked a little like the actress, so I refrained from debate. Instead, exposing my intelligence, I did a quick hand-jive and said, “Alrighty then,” and slipped out the door.

Strawberry was waiting for me. “I am so sorry. I had no idea she would be here.”

“I know. Who’s Charlie?”

“Our dog. We raised a golden retriever together. She got custody.”

“Oh.”

His freckled hand took mine and he led me to the dance floor. We knew we were having a moment. Not sure what kind of moment it was, but it was sure was a moment.

We didn’t talk about the situation again that night, nor did I glimpse Natalie prowling about with any rabbits. This was Sir Strawberry’s battle, not mine.  My theory is that I shall not judge one’s relationship vault, lest they look into mine and find some real doozies.

The next day I met up with good friends at our annual New Year's resolutions eat-all-the-pie-you-can party. I was pleased with the previous year and the resolutions I'd kept. But I was even happier to welcome in a new year, because for some auspicious reason I felt it was one not to be missed.

 to be continued…

*Check out the Factoids Page for lucky foods to eat on New Years. 

Mr. Strawberry and Me will be back in January. Happy Holidays!

Chapter 15

Thank God that’s over.

Y’know it was one of those nights better to have never happened. Let’s call it a never-happened night. Poof…never happened. Better to have sat around in loose pants, watching old movies with plenty of chocolate at your fingertips. Possibly practicing darts for future Olympic competition. Anything but this.

The evening started out lovely. It was New Year’s Eve, and I was feeling fancy. Mr. Strawberry arrived for our date rather resembling the crowned Prince of Dashingness. Oh, this man. I don't mind saying that I'd become quite partial to his ginger effect. We were off to his friend’s black-tie cocktail party. The night was young and so were we. Well, relatively.

I opted for New Year’s Eve with Strawberry, not only because it was what I wanted, but because I thought it was best. I turned down Colin, not because I wanted to, but because I thought I better. He still smelled of trouble with a capital T, and that stands for Tail-Twirler. Like it or not, that’s my current reasoning.

The party was operating full-throttle by the time we got there. Busy servers were offering the likes of exotic caviar, tomato tarts and assorted martinis. There was a full orchestra swing band and fountains of champagne. It’s a good thing I was feeling fancy, because these were fancy folks with fancy things to say.

 

Lost in my martini and reveling in all the festivity, I was unprepared for what, or who, was coming next. As I saw her loftily saunter across the crowded room, Strawberry placed a soft kiss on my forehead. Nice. When I realized that this curiously attractive woman was headed directly for us, I smiled a friendly smile. No return smile from her. What an odd approach, I thought, as she tapped Strawberry on the shoulder.

Shock saturated his face when he turned and saw who was tapping.

“What are you doing here?” he asked without humor.

Uh oh. It can’t be.

Oh yes, it can.

to be continued...

Chapter 14

While Strawberry was helping me do the dishes that Thanksgiving night, I finally got the courage to confront him about his lack of jello consumption. Not to seem overly concerned, I asked in a half-teasing kind of way. He smiled at my inquiry. It was a smile that had begun to cause my knees to weaken.

Then taking the dishtowel from my sopping hands, he rested his forearms on my shoulders and said, “You are a wonderful cook, and I loved everything you made. But I distrust jello.”

I needed to delve deeper.

He proceeded to explain that his well-intentioned mother, a nurse, was convinced that jello, particularly lime, was a cure-all. Whenever he was sick, she forced him to eat it. But eating it never made him feel better. It made him feel sicker. So now, he consciously avoids even the sight of the rubbery substance, or he becomes less than lucid.

I wonder if he’d feel differently if he knew that a bowl of wiggly lime jello, when hooked up to an EEG machine, shows brain waves identical to those of adult men and women. Just a thought.

To be fair, I must admit that when he nearly drooled describing the cranberry sauce his mother makes, I politely kept my mouth shut. However, I did turn my head and release a mute gag. Thank goodness he arrived with wine, and not the cranberry thing. Yuck! I’m a non-cranberry sauce eater, and it would have slyly found its way into my napkin.

In the end, jello was not a deal-breaker. I was slowly reincorporating a man into my life, and this situation had given me further insight into my sweet Mr. Strawberry. It also reminded me not to rush to judgment, nor to assume a prejudice against a side salad until I’d heard all the facts.

Speaking of judgment, or the absence of it, Colin was still bobbing his tail-twirling self in my vicinity. After managing to dodge dinner for several weeks, I finally stopped resisting. I decided that brunch the Sunday after Thanksgiving would be harmless. But it wasn’t and I reluctantly had a good time. Truth is, Strawberry weakens my knees, but Colin makes them knock. I wish they didn’t, but they do. And that seems so wrong.

I am flattered to have two gentlemen callers, but it gets so complicated. And the big holiday dilemma is that they’ve both expressed interest in my whereabouts for New Year’s Eve. Oh Holy Night! Naughty or nice?

                                                       

        to be continued...                    

Chapter 13

Strawberry and me. Has a nice ring to it. Sounds…sweet. And that’s exactly what the last few months, our getting-to-know-you period, has been. Sweet.

Our biggest quarrel was on Thanksgiving over a seven-layer jello mold*. Most people are absolute about jello on Thanksgiving Day. There are the jello eaters on one side of the table and the definitely non-jello eaters on the other. There’s no jello in-between. 

Once a year I break down and make a traditional jello recipe handed down from my great aunt. Let me be perfectly clear. This is the only time I ever eat jello. It is minus any floating fruit, devoid of stringy carrots, and deliciously picture perfect for the palate. Except, Strawberry’s palate, that is.

What bothered me most was his disdain for the product. As he handsomely headed down the buffet, I noticed a slight nostril expansion when he spotted and detoured away from the attractive jello. I considered, foolishly, that maybe he’d have it for dessert. Then again, that nose action was telling me otherwise. 

You know, when you cook with reckless abandon, even if it is just jello, you like people to eat and enjoy it. And I was sensing an arrogance from Mr. Strawberry. Like he was above jello. I thought, “No one is above jello.” They may not like it, but they’re not superior to it.

Even my sister-in-law whispered, “He didn’t eat the jello.”

“I know.” Don’t remind me.

“Colin ate the jello.”

“I know.” Don’t remind me.

“But he was also a big fat cheater, right?”

“That’s right…don’t remind me.”

to be continued...

*Check out the jello recipe on the Recipes Page, just in case you get the urge.

Chapter 12

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, as we uncomfortably entered my place. “I was anxious to see you.”

He was so close behind me that I felt a little claustrophobic. His big feet took this extra step and removed the heel of my right shoe in the process. This, for whatever reason, made me itch. And sneeze. Then I remembered I was allergic to his soap.

“Oh. Sorry, babe,” he apologized.

I reached down to recover the loss of my sneaker and tried to breathe. “Could you give me a moment, please?” I demanded, hobbling off to my bathroom.

“Okay, but you look great,” I heard from a distance.

Reluctantly, I looked in the mirror and let out a silent scream. Not just at the reflection, but at my current predicament. No time for processing. Only solution was muscle up and confront. So, I pulled my hair into a ponytail, brushed my teeth and feasted my face with cover-up.

When I returned, Colin was standing in the same spot. However, he was now holding two bouquets of calla lilies. “There was a knock at your door. Delivery guy. Got something goin’ babe?”

“Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.” I said, amusing myself, thinking of Strawberry.

He laughed. So did I. And a thaw began. Colin probed no further about the possible other admirer, but I could tell he was wildly curious. And I was okay with that.

Taking both bouquets from Colin, I put them in separate, but equal, vases. He watched me. Then he began to talk. And talk. And talk. It was a heartfelt, verbal vomit of extraordinary proportions. Perhaps he’d sought advice from Clementia, Roman Goddess of forgiveness and mercy. Whoever he chatted with, there were more tender apologies than a girl could ever dream of. 

Finally, he dribbled out a courageous last plea for absolution and softly said, “That’s a wrap, babe.”

Long pause. He was waiting.

“I don’t know what to say. It’s so unexpected. I need to absorb this.”

“I understand,” he said respectfully. He came over, took my hand and whispered, “Maybe you’d have dinner with me? Casual.”

Oh, Colin. “All right, but just because I’ll dine with you, doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”

“Yeah, but you’re thinking about it.” He did that tilt and lift thing again, and away he went.

Time heals all things, or so they say. All things except maybe trust. I knew I could forgive this repentant tail-twirler I was once in love with. But truthfully, I didn’t know how to trust him again. Trust. It’s a very good thing and a hard thing to come by, let alone regain.

TRUST
      
     to be continued...

Chapter 11

Antsy universe. Hello? In a hurry much? Could you not have given me some time to respond before throwing this cadlike creature on my doorstep?

I couldn’t believe it. I just stared at him incredulously. Never mind what the universe was thinking. It deserves an obedient curtsy, I suppose. But what was he thinking? The ultimate cojones of it all. 

Smiling, he tilted his head to the right, lifting one eyebrow. Hmmm. The tilt and lift action was his way of investigating his approval rating. Not so fast, hot stuff. You got some work to do. Settle in. This is gonna be a bumpy ride.

There’d been a five-year absence since I’d last heard from this big fat cheater. And I wasn’t about to make it easy on him.

Irksome as he was, he still charmed me. Dang it. But, I wasn’t going to let him know that. At least not right away.

Colin, whose jet-black hair had turned shades of grey, started walking toward the car, holding long-stem calla lilies as a truce tool.

“Hi babe,” he said. No answer from me.

“Is it okay if I still call you babe?” Still no answer.

“You look great.” Oh brother.

“Babe??” He offered the flowers.

“I do not look great, Colin.” I wanted to call him Tail-Twirler, but refrained. “My hair’s underwashed, my dark circles are overexposed, and I have revealing chocolate at the corners of my mouth.”

“No, you look great. You look….you look like you.” I could only sigh.

“Well now that you’re here…would you like to come in?” I asked without encouragement.

“Love to,” he joyfully replied, still holding out my favorite flowers that I refused to accept. 

to be continued...

Chapter 10

The next day I went over to Claire’s for consultation. I needed perspective. She listened as I recapped the previous evening. Since I played back Colin’s message 14 times, I was able to repeat it verbatim. We were both truly awed at Colin’s timing, and frankly, his everlasting balls.

“You know, when it rains, it pours. And it usually pours in three’s. So beware of one more,” Claire warned smiling.

I was already soaked and did not need a third.

Many questions still remained. Do I call him back? Do I let it go? Do I send him a ribbon for his tail? I mean, what does he really want anyway? 

Then my friend calmly asked, “Well, do you want to call him back?”

Life can be so simple. Naturally, I wanted to call him back. I am curious. And maybe it’s the universe giving me the opportunity for completion. But this time it would be at my pace, and in my moment.

I decided three things by the time I left Claire’s. I would call Tail-Twirler back. He would have to wait a week. (Don’t want to rush that completion.) And I would follow my current bliss and see Mr. Strawberry before the week concluded.

Having made those decisions, I felt like celebrating. So on my way home I munched on some secret chocolate stash that I carry in my glove compartment for special occasions. Then I checked for messages. There were two. One work related, and one from Strawberry. The sound of his voice made me blush. He told me he had a great time last night and hoped I liked the flowers.

Flowers? Really? Sweet.

I love flowers. Unless, of course, they’re delivered inverted…in which case, as in Victorian times, means you’ve just been dumped. I was hoping mine would be upright.

As I drove into my parking space, I noticed a tall man standing outside my door. Though his back was to me, I could see he was holding a bouquet of calla lilies. Delivery guy, I thought. But when the man heard me pull in, he turned and looked right at me. And I freaked! May I have my moment please!?!

 to be continued...

Chapter 9

He knocked at my door, or rather tapped. Tap-tap-tap. And I tiptoed, tip-tip-tip, down the looming dark hallway to let him in. Carrying a flaming cinnamon scented candle, I could feel my blood speed up as I got closer.

Once at the door, I abruptly halted. My heart was ready to lunge, but my head needed a preliminary peek before I opened. So raising the candle, Winkie style, I laid a single eye over the peephole. “OHMYGOD,” I screamed indiscreetly. 

The landscape of his face was schmushed and in terrible error. He’d shrunk. And he’d grown a tail, which he was twirling profusely.

I woke up gagging. Sweat dripping everywhere. I should never eat before I go to bed…especially a whole pint of strawberries.

Drifting into the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of water. Oh yeah, now I remember. Colin called. That cad. That cockalorum. That cause of my nasty nightmare. It’s just like him to know precisely when I might be interested in somebody else. And come lurking about, twirling his tail. 

Actually, he wasn’t a cad. I shouldn’t say that. He had many lovely qualities.

In fact with Colin, everything seemed perfect. Except for one small issue. He was clinically uncommitted. His motto was “live in the moment.” And my response to his motto… “whose moment are we living in, yours or mine?”

Of course, the relationship was complicated. All are. I know it takes two to tango. I’m aware of the dance. And I honestly thought we could work it out. But the deal breaker came, the final memo reached my blocked brain, and I ended it. Kerplunk.

Though labor intensive, my heart healed and I moved on. Now, out of the blue, five years later, Mr. Tail-Twirler resurfaces. And on the very same evening I have a romantic dinner with the sweetest man I’ve met since. C’mon.

I felt sick. I had a bauble in my stomach, besides that entire pint of strawberries. And now I had to decide if I would call him back. Geez. 

to be continued...

Chapter 8

Billy, the inspired host, had sat us in a darkish corner of the restaurant, one seemingly reserved for a tryst of sorts. The evening was so far, very good. Three weeks had passed since our Starbucks rendezvous. Our busy schedules had prohibited an earlier follow-up. We’d texted, talked a few times, but nary a word regarding ex-wife issues.

Frankly, I was okay with that.

Several years ago, an ex-girlfriend of a guy I was dating called threatening to barbeque her bird if he didn’t come over immediately. Naturally I was not eager to be responsible for the passing of her pet parakeet, so I shoved him out the door to prevent this casualty. Since then, I decided early boundaries are the way to go. 

And that’s what I told Strawberry when halfway through my arugula and goat cheese salad he cautiously broached the forbidden subject. I quickly advised him against any specifics, and he agreed. Not that I wasn’t curious. That dang wind had seen to that. Maybe later.

Still, I liked him. And he seemed to like me. Therefore, it was no surprise as we walked toward my car at evening’s end that my heart pulsated. The time had arrived. Will he or won’t he? There was excessive walking traffic and I wasn’t sure how he felt about our privacy becoming public. Apparently it wasn’t a problem. 

Strawberry chose his moment while I searched for my keys. As he swung my body around, I was relieved to have forsaken my flippers for a more stylish, superior sandal, one that guaranteed solid footing. My pivot was as smooth as that martini. And the kiss was even better, ranking a very high score in kiss craft.

Once we came up for air, I said, “I’d better go.” Lest I lose the grip I’d gained.

“Okay. I’ll call you.” And I knew he, too, kept his promises.

Evidently Strawberry was not the only one with issues. There was one waiting for me on my home phone.

“Hi sweetie, it’s Colin. Remember me?” he uncomfortably giggled. “I know. I know. It’s been awhile, but I was thinking about you and thought I’d call…”

Is five years awhile?

Colin had unbelievable timing.

I spread my hands across my face and said a very unladylike word. Several times. Driven to the fridge, I opened it with defiance. Then, spotting my weapon, I reached in and slid my teeth into a nice plump strawberry, letting the juice drizzle down my chin. 

to be continued...

Chapter 7

The soft balmy breeze whispered across my face, as if it wanted to expose a secret about Mr. Strawberry. “Oh, do tell,” I said to the wind.  And the wind slyly replied, “Well, it wouldn’t be a secret then, would it?” Oh that fickle wind. You never know which way it’s gonna blow.

Refusing any further conversation with the baiting breeze, I stepped into the crowded restaurant on Ocean Avenue, where Strawberry suggested we meet. My eyes darted down the bar and across the waiting area, but there was no tall, red-haired man within radar. The host hadn’t seen him either.

Where was he? Checked my phone…nothing. Was he late? Hope not. Never a good sign. Please don’t let him be one of those tardy guys. It’s just one of those lasting odors where you always want to stand a few feet back, y'know.

Suddenly an expansive hand snuggled my shoulder. I slowly turned. The sight of Strawberry made me silently gasp. His physical fare had become no less appealing.

Get a grip, girl.

“I was at the far end of the bar. Tried to get your attention, but your scanning missed me.”

Had Strawberry spoken? I was still trying to get a grip.

He led me over to the bar where I ordered an extra-dry vodka martini, straight up with a twist. Yum. I didn’t know if that was a wise choice, given my current grip situation, but I promised myself I could have a wee one. (Or maybe two) And I always keep my promises.

(Excellent tip from a New York bartender…“Martinis are like women’s breasts, one is not enough and three are too many.”)

The martini became an easy topic of discussion. As he sipped on his peppery Pinot, I told him my cocktail of choice first appeared on the scene in the late 1800’s. A San Francisco bartender invented it and decided to coin it ‘Martinez’, after his hometown of Martinez, California. Many thanks to that beloved bartender.

By dinner our alliance felt more secure. We were voyaging out, Strawberry and I, exploring the other’s world. Granted, this was due, in part, to a magnificent martini and a fine red wine. But there was a true connection…

 

to be continued...

   

Chapter 6

I arrived at the entrance a moment after him. He smiled when he finally saw me. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I said shyly. Geez.

“Nice to see you again.”

“Nice to see you.” Really nice.

Opening the door, he asked what I wanted to drink. “You sit down, and I’ll bring it over to you.”

He then proceeded to walk me to the table and pull out the chair. This time I almost did fall. Who does that anymore? “Thanks,” I said, stunned.

(Very sweet, Mr. Strawberry.)

When he returned with my requested green tea, his capa-frappa-whatever and luscious lemon cake*, I knew it was showtime. But I was seriously faklempt. “This June gloom…sure is gloomy, right…” I observed. Ugh, that was pathetic. Like my tongue was wrapped around a tree. Not quite the opening line I’d hoped for. But he laughed. He thought I was being funny. Yeah, hilarious.

We sipped and commented on cake. Somewhere around the third bite, our chatting began to flow. Perhaps it was the politics. I mentioned how I wanted even more women on the Supreme Court. He agreed. Another point for Strawberry.

“Did you know,” he said with concern, “that of 193 countries with National Parliaments, the U.S. ranks 76th in the percentage of women in office?” I just shook my head.

This was all going pretty well, when he abruptly excused himself. I saw him huddling over by the straws, on his cell. Odd. When he returned, he apologized and told me he had to leave right away. No explanation.

Great.

I walked out two minutes later, disappointed. I didn’t even finish the cake. 

As I reached my car, I saw Strawberry running toward me. The guy ran funny. His pants jingled. But it didn’t matter. I was standing in my flippers thinking we all have to overlook some things. And I may have to overlook his running style.

“I’m really sorry,” he said, breathless. “My phone vibrated. It was my ex-wife. There’s still some issues. Would you have dinner with me next week, even with…issues?”

Issues. Know them well. I figured he was cute enough and nice enough to find out what they are. So, it was a yes for dinner…

to be continued... 

*Check out luscious lemon cake recipes on Recipes page

Chapter 5

I was shuffling through my Ipod, attempting to find a matching melody for meeting Mr. Strawberry. Sweet, but not too mushy. Not that my eyes weren’t concentrated on the road, but my car sort of drove itself the two miles to Starbucks. By the time I settled on “Tightrope,” my car was in the parking lot.

Look, I was nervous. I just hadn’t felt this kind of chemistry in awhile. And I hate first dates. Really, I plain hate dating. Not that this was a date. I dared not call it that for fear of slipping into another psyche spin-cycle. And, honestly, I’m rather used to being single. I’ve grown accustomed to my face and accepted its flaws.

Alrighty then. Deep breath. No big deal. Don’t have to marry him. You’re only having a caffeine stimulant. Maybe a little cake.

Now, get out of the car. Do I absolutely have to? GET out of the car please. OUTTA THE CAR!

Bolting out of my vehicle and refusing another neurotic thought, I held my head high and focused on my destination. Flip, flip, flip went the sound of my sandals. Only I heard their rhythmic flipping. I became so one with the flipping, that I didn’t see the crack in the sidewalk.

“Oops. Careful,” advised the homeless person sitting on the curb.

I’d tripped, but I didn’t fall. However, I did look around to see what might have caused the crack, and if Strawberry had also witnessed my lack of coordination.

He hadn’t.

Because “there he was just a-walkin’ down the street.” Oh my.

to be continued...

Chapter 4

What will we talk about? Will Strawberry be as adorable in Starbucks as he was on that 737? Or will it be icky, awkward and have the stench of silence? Uh, oh. I’d better prepare an excuse for an early getaway. He’s probably plotting the same damn thing.

    

I only knew a few things about him. Or maybe I only remembered a few. He was easy on the eyes. I already mentioned that. He’s a therapist slash life-coach. That could be weird. But means a high listening IQ, a trait I admire. He was taller than me, another trait I admire.

And if receiving a large arrangement of stargazer lilies the day after soothing his sweet strawberry soul is any indication of thoughtfulness and a little romance, well, there’s one more trait I admire.

Oh, my neurotic mind. It’s awfully busy.

What if he only likes action movies, and not only hates chick flicks, but actually calls them that? What if he wears tight bikini briefs and shaves his back? And worships golf? Do I dare date a redhead? Suddenly I remembered in Greek mythology that redheads became vampires after they died.

Oh, stop. Would you just stop?!! Just go meet the guy for coffee and talk about the weather. Have a cocktail afterwards, if you have to.

I laughed out loud at the blather of it all. Truth was, my gut told me I was going to like him. And it had been a while since my gut had spoken such sentiment. Honestly, it scared me. But, with a command to my brain to stop the pistachio processing, I hurriedly slipped on my jeans and my favorite crimson top.

One last check in the mirror, another deodorant roll for confidence, double Altoid toss, and I was out the door to meet Mr. Strawberry….

     to be continued…

Chapter 3

“Mr. Strawberry, hi!” “Do you mind if I call you Mr. Strawberry?” “Or would you prefer just Strawberry?”

OK.  Maybe just “hi” would be good. Perhaps with a little elevation in my voice to let him know I’m happy to see him. After all, I am. Aren’t I?

I sighed deeply. The question perplexed me. I wasn’t sure. I was standing in front of the mirror tweezing. With each pluck I practiced another version of how I might greet this man I’d met recently on a plane. 

He’d coveted the middle seat, and I the aisle. That in itself bonded us. But it was his fear of flying that had been our true nexus. And lucky me, having a lack of it, found a way to delve into my heart and comfort this poor, panicked, adorable ginger.

But now the time of reckoning had come. Reality.

I had fantasized about this meeting for nearly a month and God knows I love my fantasies. But in exactly 45 minutes I would be standing face to face with dear Mr. Strawberry. I was excited and totally freaked at the same time. Men were on my ‘to do’ list but ‘to do’ later. I was like a duck that wants to wade in the water but knows there’s safety and Apple TV on the shore. Maybe I should cancel.

 to be continued…

Chapter 2

My time had come. From a few rows ahead, a fully-flocked red-haired man, handsome in that ginger way, turned around and eyed me. I nervously smiled back. He pointed his finger at the middle seat next to me and mouthed, “Can I sit there?” I mouthed back, “You bet your life you can sit there. Settle in, Strawberry.” No, I’m kidding. I didn’t say that. I just nodded and successfully drooled all the way down to my leather boots. Suddenly I was smitten and didn’t care what size his bladder was.

As he moved in and his bent knees nearly reached his chest, Mr. Strawberry explained that he was afraid to fly and being surrounded on both sides by crying children was not going to ease his dread. I assured him, while we dined on stale nuts and flat soda, that I didn’t have a fear of flying, nor would I cry. And I’d be happy to help with his oxygen mask should there be a problem.

“Good,” he said with a flirty grin, “because on my last flight, coming home from the far-east, the plane was hit by lightning, the engine dropped, and we had to land in North Korea.”

Whoa.

After that showstopper, I decided not to console him any further by suggesting that statistics compiled by the Department of Transportation concluded that airline travel is 29 times safer than driving. It probably wouldn’t have made any difference. Though I may bring it up later. Because Mr. Strawberry and I are going to meet for coffee...

to be continued...

(or check out Frank's version http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NSJxiS9wQ20)

Chapter 1

Groups “B” & “C” stormed into the Southwest aircraft. It was survival of the pushiest.     I, on the other hand, was breathing easy having landed that choice aisle seat with ample bin space directly above. I wasn’t smug, but I admit that it felt rather sexy being in the “A” group. It was well worth the extra twenty bucks to get the “Early-Bird Check-In” they offer. I was on my way home from a great reunion weekend and I didn’t want it ruined by having to occupy the supreme galactic punishment…a middle seat.

One by one the “B” & “C” faces scoped out the seat situation and overhead opportunities. A few still hopeful. Others glum. Most simply resigned to being squishified for the next two hours.

At the time I placed my happy derriere down in seat 7D, the middle seat was vacant. Of course, it was vacant. Middle seats are losers. The last ones picked. As people passed by my row, you could sense their disdain at the empty center seat. I began to feel compassion, not only for the passengers, but also for the wallflower saddle beside me.

Competition for the most comfortable location swelled the cabin. I overheard a twenty-something whisper to her friend, “See that aisle seat up there. Push through and go spit on it.” Her friend turned back and gave her a dirty look. “Hey dude, I was only kidding.” I don’t think she was.

A row in front of me, opposite side, was a middle-seat marauder. You know the type. Nabbing an aisle seat, she was now at work hoarding the center one next to her. She plopped her XL purse on top of it and got real busy exuding territorial body language. Her plan to populate both seats was in vain, of course, because the flight was full. Soon the jig would be up, and she’d be space-challenged like the rest of us.

Actually, who could blame her? If you’re over five-foot-two and weigh more than a hundred pounds, you’re doomed for discomfort. Unless you’re flying first-class. But, on Southwest, everyone is first-class, aren't they?

The rear window and aisle seats quickly began to fill and I knew I was getting close to having a neighbor. Who would the fates place next to me? I hoped for George Clooney but he doesn’t usually fly Southwest. However, I’d be duly contented with someone who practices good personal hygiene and has a decent-sized bladder.

to be continued...

(BTW…according to a recent survey a majority of people would rather get stuck in traffic (56%), go on a blind date (56%) or go to the dentist (54%) and have a hole drilled in their head than sit in the middle seat of a full flight. Just sayin’…)