We Met Online

When people find out that Scott and I met online in 1998, I notice a variety of responses that fall into three general categories: 1) There are the people who've experimented with online dating themselves; 2) those that know other couples who've met online; and 3) those people whose astonished faces reveal that they fully understand they're in the presence of vintage loser geeks, also known as WTF?

Ten years later, I've decided it might be fun (and possibly therapeutic) to write about how it really worked in our case.

The process began by filling out a bunch of radio buttons and answering a bunch of essay questions. Then, based on the radio buttons, they matched you up and sent you a list of potential matches, in the order of the most percentage of radio buttons answered identically, to least. Then you were free to read the answers to the essay questions of the people on that list to further prequalify or disqualify them before ever getting in touch...doesn't it sound romantic? Not quite the same as a furtive glance across a crowded room.

Our profiles, with the essay questions answered (seven pages each, but interesting history), are available by clicking the screen shots above. Scott and I matched 48%. The site said that a match of 28% and above had a good chance of being a successful experience, whether just a fun date or possibly more. It was such an interesting and peculiar process (and may still work the same, I don't know), I'd like to someday take what I know now and update our answers to reflect the real world and ten years of history. People might find that humorously enlightening or just plain painful.

For example, in Scott's profile he describes having "mild bouts of depression." My interpretation of "mild bouts of depression" would include a spoon and a carton of ice cream, or more honestly (since I don't have a sweet tooth), a bag of chips and generous amounts of guacamole. For most people it would NOT include the image of a person being curled up on the floor in the fetal position naked, crying their eyes out in pain, terror, agony and wishing they were dead. That would have been a more honest answer in Scott's case, but wouldn't have sounded as charming and innocuous to a potential mate as "mild bouts of depression." ("Artists can have that...", I thought wistfully.)

It was August of 1998. I signed up for the free trial (less than 30 days, I think) on Matchmaker.com (currently Match.com), and figured when it expired, so what? Scott paid for a 6 month subscription. He was on a mission. I signed up because my sister wanted me to log in and read her profile and see who was "matching" her...You had to have an "account" to do that. I had no intention of meeting anyone, but I like to write, so...I wrote, answering all the essay questions honestly, including the description of the man I would be looking for, if I was looking...which I wasn't.

This was in the days of the modem and phone lines for Internet access. So you'd click on a small photo and wait, as line by line the screen would paint up the picture of your "perfect match." When it finally filled the screen, it was fair game for speculation. In those early days of Internet dating, especially in my age group it seemed that most men somehow thought that a photo of them wearing a tuxedo (their natural habitat) cropped in such a way that the tiniest portion of the hand/face/arm/hair (or arm hair) of their last girlfriend/wife visible somewhere (possibly to prove they had a history with women) was the best way to entice a new relationship. I decided early on that anyone in a tuxedo was probably not a good match.

The morning after I posted my "profile", I woke up to 121 emails in my inbox, which was a heady and thrilling prospect. Since my ex-husband had been such an exhausting ordeal at the end of our marriage, I'd completely forgotten why men were a good idea. I'd spent almost three very peaceful, however celibate (if you don't count accommodating dreams or the shower massage), years without a partner. Suddenly all these seemingly nice people were responding to my heartfelt comments in such a positive way. Slowly, I started to think men might actually be a good idea again!

I searched the profiles of men who lived 50 miles or more away from my house, because I didn't want to meet anyone, live conveniently too close to anyone, or even stumble on a picture of anyone that was from my immediate area. I found out later that Scott had a different approach. He was initially responding to women who lived within one to five miles of his house (which is a lousy idea as far as avoiding stalkers goes, a woman would never do that). I figure his fantasy was that a steady stream of conveniently located new girlfriends could just walk over and offer him sexual favors. Men are so simple to figure out really (present company excepted and/or accepted...who am I to judge?).

Anyway, the emails...Scott's was in that first batch. His profile matched mine with the highest percentage of all and appeared at the top of the list. Now that I know what a gifted programmer he is, it would not surprise me if he somehow hacked into the code and made sure he had an advantage. I can't believe I'm just thinking of that only this second after all these years! As I type these words, I'm almost certain that it's true! (...give me a moment to ponder the implications....) Anyway, he emailed a brief note and a poem called Blessed with Stress, but no photos were included in his profile as yet.

The poem, Blessed With Stress

I took this overwhelming influx of admiration seriously and answered almost every email I'd received. After all, men poured out their compliments and utter amazement that we were the perfect match, each unaware that there were 120 other emails with a similar message. It was fun to see the various approaches to capturing my (or anyone's) attention. Some had an obvious "cut & paste" approach - everyone got the same sales pitch. I didn't reply to any of those. For those who obviously read my profile and seemed to be moved by it, I responded with some appreciative comment. I explained my Just Looking/Curious button. I wasn't looking for a relationship.

Scott's poem (an odd choice, decidedly not romantic) made me cry. I forwarded it to my mother, I thought it was so insightful and touching. So, in my response to him, I offered him unconditional adoration if he'd written the poem (a safe gesture in my mind, knowing for sure that we would never meet). For him, since he HAD, in fact, written the poem, that was the equivalent of telling him to set the date for our nuptials! That's how it started...then the phenomenon of what I like to call "disembodied intimacy" took over and the rest is history...

After knowing him and rereading his answers years later, they somewhat accurately described the logical man he is and his core values. Lots of important information was missing, however. One problem starts with the artistic license he took when he described the emotionally connected man he'd like to be, rather than describe the intense discomfort he experiences connecting in a one on one relationship.

We discovered only a year or so ago that he likely has Aspergers' Syndrome, due to the keen observation of a friend who forwarded an article in the New Yorker about a man with Aspergers'. After reading that and getting a few more books online from Amazon.com, we really didn't need a formal diagnosis. One book in particular, written for children called "All Cats Have Asperger Syndrome" was so thorough and sensitive about describing what it's like through the use of photographs of fluffy kittens and beautiful sentiments, that by the time Scott got to the last page, he had crocodile tears making their way down his cheeks. I asked, "Do you think you have it?" "Yeah," he said.

One manifestation of Aspergers' in Scott's case is that he has a very low level of tolerance for outside stimulus...sights, smells, tastes, sounds, conversations that discuss pain or injury, surgery, loss of a pet or a loved one, etc. As for the limited palette of foods he'll eat, if I substitute an ingredient or measurement, he knows. I've always said that he can "taste a molecule." I've done blind taste test experiments on him (You're out of vanilla extract? Use French vanilla extract. Only have two eggs, but need three? Use two. Cut the watermelon with the same knife as the cantaloupe? No problem.) and he always catches it! I maintain a deadpan expression as I watch with interest. He takes the first bite, smacks his tongue up and down on his palette and says, "What'd you do different?" "Nothing," I say, trying to keep a straight face. I cave immediately and confess. I have no poker face.

In a relationship, things for Scott get intensely intimate too quickly. Physically, he commented about our first kisses as being "SO erotic," which I initially took as a curious compliment. Curious because there was a hint of confused discomfort in its delivery. I had a sense that he felt too exposed, or vulnerable...too connected. Everything I knew about what makes men (or me, for that matter) feel loved and happy didn't work on Scott.


Intimate conversation dealing with emotion was equally as uncomfortable. When discussing our relationship, he'd explain that he was really trying, but discussing emotions was the equivalent of "pouring battery acid on his brain." That was a pretty graphic description that I could easily comprehend, since it's an excellent visual image. I regrouped and quit treating him like a "normal" man. I started observing his world, with the passion and cautious respect of an archaeologist discovering a new dig, for clues as to what sort of lifeform I'd stumbled on.

Most women would have scampered off in pursuit of that bag of chips, and maybe some new shoes. After all, there were 120 other emails to consider, and more flowing in all the time. It was too late for me. I was already in love with that amazing brain housed in Scott's cranium. That thing fed a steady stream of words down through his fingers to his keyboard and produced amazing emails that arrived in my inbox. Those emails were better than any romance novel I'd ever heard of (though I've never actually read one...think of Jack Nicholson in that scene at the typewriter in the movie "As Good as it Gets"). The words in those emails took control of the bag of chemicals inside me that pumped an unending supply of the "you love this man" drug directly into my brain and then straight to my heart. I've since said that I'd still love him even if he was a brain in a mason jar. My favorite response to that was, "How would that work at holiday gatherings?"

Probably like this. Scott actually bought this for me.
Meet Brian the Brain

Eventually, I told him there was quite a bit of false advertising going on in that profile of his, and we still laugh about it today. Though initially he didn't have a photo posted, when the photo did show up, he'd chosen one where he was cupping the face of a dolphin in his hands, sending a very connected message. The truth is that animals love him, but it has nothing to do with emotional intimacy with a human. I haven't had DNA testing, but I'm pretty sure I fall into that category.

I've realized over time that logic can mask as emotional intimacy, and sometimes it actually does an excellent job of it. If you think things through carefully, you can easily figure out that the way to a mother's heart is to show care and concern for her children. Scott was amazing at applying logic and having empathy for what it must be like to be a single parent and all that it entails. Besides assuring me that we were meant for each other (delivered with the intensity of a world-class debate team), he showed great respect for me as a mother and great concern for Jillian as my child. He carefully crafted a scenario that would offer my daughter and me a safe and stable situation whether we worked out as a couple or not, and off we went to explore our potential as mates.

View From the Stairs

Moments like this are meant to be shared...

(I love my iPhone)

John is Home From Iraq!

My favorite day so far this year! Away for 13 months, my son-in-law is back from his second tour in Iraq.

Military duffle bags and assorted whatnots arrived first. I loved the promise that was held in the rows of bags waiting for their respective Marines!

After a surprisingly short wait at Camp Pendleton, three buses drove up and opened their doors. Hoards of elated Marines spilled out to greet friends and family.

Reunited! Look how happy they are! I love my kids...

Barbie Got a Ticket

Living in the "flats" of Avalon can require some occasional vehicle finagling. You must move your vehicle to the approved side of the street on certain days before 9 a.m to accommodate the street sweeper. Of course, you can also plan ahead and park on the acceptable side the night before, if there's a spot available. So, by 9 a.m. one side of the street is often empty of vehicles while the other side is full.

I'm quite absent-minded and usually preoccupied with other busy thoughts. My neighbor Brian has saved me hundreds of dollars in $38 tickets by giving me advance warning to move my vehicle. Once he figures out there's little chance I'm going to remember on my own, he reminds me. He's an amazing neighbor. I feel touched and grateful for his courtesy. I'm sure he doesn't understand why I can't keep track of such a regularly occurring event, but he would never mention it, he's so nice.

Returning from our morning walk, on the side of the street that should be empty, parked in the red zone, we saw this:



A Barbie Cadillac Escalade! All alone at the curb.

I like living in a community where a Barbie luxury vehicle is as welcome at the curb as any other vehicle, without fear of theft or any other indignities. Space is at a premium and there are typically so few good spots to park your golf cart (or any of the other uniquely "island vehicles"). Barbie would certainly be exempt from complying with the usual DMV rules anyway.

A pink toy car at the curb reminds me what a special place this island is, so I decided to go back and take some photos. It was just so cute, and so "Catalina. "

As I approached the front of the toy I saw this:

Uh oh! What the? That can't be true! It's got to be a joke. The code enforcement officer is a lovely, caring person. I think she's great, despite the many tickets she's issued to us while we learned the rules of the streets of Avalon (Brian can only do so much). She's got a job to do and she does it well. She'd lift the Barbie-mobile and move it to the sidewalk if it was a problem.

Upon further investigation and a closer look at the ticket:

Real ticket, wrong everything else. Someone celebrated in the New Year by getting their first parking fine for 2009. The proud five-year-old who owns this vehicle has not run afoul of the law just yet.

Islanders never miss an opportunity for a laugh, and most are jokesters and joke tellers. Someone made good use of their parking ticket from a few days before. It was good for a laugh, and I laughed. Not only that, it's still a cute image...maybe even cuter.

It's definitely an image unique to Catalina Island and one more reason to say, "Only in Avalon."

O is for Olive

I've had big dogs for almost 30 years now. Not just any big dogs...always a Giant Schnauzer. They're so smart and can learn almost anything (besides teaching you a thing or two). They have a keen sense of humor, know when something is funny and how to make you laugh. I had more time to spend training Olive, since my daughter was an adult when Olive showed up. That initial training has paid off in ways you can't imagine. I recommend the book Don't Shoot the Dog, which explains "shaping behavior." It's how they teach chickens to dance, and dolphins to perform precision choreography. It also works on humans (its theories have definitely helped me with my Asperger husband)...but it's very counterintuitive. Just let go and lean in...it's worth it.

Once I read an article that said that the love for dogs stimulates an area in your brain that is very different from the area reserved for loving people. That makes so much sense to me. I like to keep both those areas lit up as much as possible, it feels so good. Everyone should encourage the enjoyable company of dogs to keep those synapses firing. Don't let that area of your brain dim out if you can help it.

Our island friend Katherine featured Olive (and my grand-dog Pepper) in her blog, and shows off her handiwork on Olive's behalf. She created a "faux paw" for Olive after she'd had the fur shaved off of her leg for some exploratory poking and prodding at the vet's. There's a photo of Olive's skinny, shaved version at the link.

For a close up of the "cure," click on the image above and see what a great illusion Katherine's creation is! You might wonder what prompted the inspiration of creating such a thing.

Olive is used to the island "PupPerazzi," which is what we call visitors to the island who miss the family dogs they've left behind. Understandably as we're spotted going on one of our daily walks with her by these animal lovers, they are dying to lavish their doggie affection on Olive. After all this time, though she's not what could be described as enthusiastic, she's calm, accommodating, and will tolerate a fair amount of attention without complaint. She'll offer a "high five," and have her photo taken with strangers holding her leash...she's the equivalent of a celebrity willing to take time for her fans, even in the middle of a favorite activity. However, because of her status as surrogate dog, Olive is used to hearing a very specific set of words from those who approach her, usually in this order:

Q: What kind of dog is it?

A: SHE's a Giant Schnauzer.

Q: What is her name?

A: Olive - Big Black Olive - All Love.

Q: How old is she?

A: Eight.

General exclamation (at any time in the process): WHAT A BEAUTIFUL _______ (Baby, Dog, Puppy)!!!

Comeback: Thanks, she thinks you're great too!

That's about it, and she hears that series of words over and over. She immediately knows she's in for some manhandling and that our walk is going to be interrupted whenever someone starts to fawn over her.

Enter the shaved leg/paw, and a new, very different set of words rush in, with a very different voice intonation. No longer is she beautiful...a Giant Schnauzer, eight, or Olive.

Exclamation: OHHHH....what happened to her paw/leg/foot?

Olive's response: She tucks her foot in, hangs her head....

Slip on the fuzzy noodle that is Katherine's carefully crafted "Faux Paw" and she's transformed:

Beautiful Olive, eight-year-old Giant Schnauzer!

(here with her friend Riley)

Gaylin - It's a Wrap...

Our dear Gaylin is gone.
June 19, 1926 - July 1, 2008

Allaboutjazz.com posted a great article about Gaylin's notable career in the movie business, which has sadly reached its final scene. You can see his IMDB biography here.

Those close to Gaylin Schultz watched as he fought the good fight while dealing with his cancer. As if the loss of his wife and best friend Marlene in 2005 wasn't challenging enough, there was also the constant battle with his health. With careful attention, he proactively took his treatments and visited his doctor when any new or unusual symptoms cropped up. He followed doctor's orders. Though he missed Marlene terribly, he managed to survive and transcend her loss, honoring her memory and their lives together.

I thanked him once for taking care of himself, knowing that wives were usually the force behind keeping their men healthy. Gaylin didn't see it as a choice. It was his duty if he wanted to stay around. He worked hard at beating cancer and staying healthy, and prolonged his life because of it.

We'd known him for about a year or so when I told him how much I enjoyed and valued him, and how I wished we'd met sooner. My comment must have been delivered with a sadness that revealed my concern for his health and mortality. He completely discounted my silly statement, telling me that he'd be around for a long time yet. He said we met while there's still plenty of time left for me to enjoy him. I wanted that to be true.

The last time we saw Gaylin was June 19th, his 82nd birthday. Scott and I could tell if he was on the island by checking for his bicycle (which I named Big Thunder). If it was parked outside of his house, it was the same as if a flag was flying, announcing his presence. Gaylin was an early riser, and we often met him at Joe's for breakfast by 6 a.m. He'd ride Big Thunder from his home on Eucalyptus to the little Vons, park it, and walk to Joe's. The three of us would have coffee together, and dine on one short stack of pancakes (which was two pancakes - see above: I'm eating the other half of Gaylin's and Scott gets his own pancake), sharing the "pure maple syrup" that Scott keeps at the restaurant.

He'd often tell us about his adventures on movie sets and travels (with Marlene along, of course) as a grip, which included stories about famous actors, directors and well known films. That day, Scott mentioned that the pancakes were exceptionally good and Gaylin said it was probably because it was his birthday. That's how we found out he was 82. I felt happy to know that he was celebrating the day on the island. After breakfast, we walked with him as he rode home on Big Thunder, knowing we'd see him again during the day.

Later that morning, my daughter and her husband visited the island. We were celebrating the fact that my son-in-law (a Marine serving his second tour of Iraq) had just arrived and was beginning his two-week leave. As we walked here and there, we saw Gaylin around town several times throughout the day, wishing him Happy Birthday each time. A few months before at breakfast I'd called him "Mr." Gaylin for some reason. Startled, he looked at me with perplexed surprise, explaining that his father always called him "Mr." Gaylin, even when he was a little boy. When we saw him again that day, I told him I had a special message from his dad which was, "Happy Birthday, Mr. Gaylin!" He nodded and waved as he watered his garden.

Though he seemed a little weaker than usual, he was as busy and industrious as ever, riding around town on Big Thunder, and relaxing in the harbor on his boat, Marlena. He was always busy inventing a way to improve something, even if he'd already invented it once and improved it twice before.

On Friday, I received a call letting me know that Gaylin suffered a setback with his last cancer treatment, and I called him immediately. At the beginning of the call he sounded very weak, but by the end, he sounded like Gaylin. I think he must have rallied just enough to convince me that he was going through a rough patch, but would be fine. He explained that his last treatment was Monday the 23rd, the beginning of a new series of cancer treatments. He said that after the treatment he had extra energy and did lots of chores on Monday and Tuesday. On Wednesday though, he was hit hard by the aftermath of the treatment. He fell down multiple times and was too weak to get up. He stayed in bed for 30 hours, trying to regain his strength.

He told me he knew he would need some help recuperating, and called a friend, who had stayed with him before under similar circumstances. She would arrive on Sunday. He said he had a doctor's appointment on Monday. He kept assuring me he'd be okay. I told him I thought Monday sounded a long way off for someone who felt as poorly as he did. "I'm feeling better," he assured me. "Do you want me to drive over right now? I will hop in the car this minute!", I said. "I'll even stay at the curb if you want. You can just wave at me through the window if you don't want me to come in, but you'll know I'm out there." "No," he said. "I'll take a rain check, but thanks for the offer, and for calling."

I spoke to Gaylin the next morning. Again, he assured me he was feeling better. I didn't anticipate that three days later when Monday came, it would be his last day. I set a "Gaylin" alarm on my phone that rang everyday at 8 a.m., reminding me to call him. I missed calling him Monday. When it rang Tuesday (church bells), I felt like it was Gaylin ringing my doorbell for a visit. He was the greatest. I'll miss him so much. I kept the alarm active for the rest of the month, taking that time each morning to remember the times we spent together and to think about him.

He'd told us many times that his nightly ritual was influenced by the years he'd spent on movie sets. His day ended promptly at 7:30 p.m., when he proclaimed out loud, "It's a wrap!", then it was off to bed. We imagined that his day's shoot was "in the can" and he would start shooting fresh in the morning.

Sadly, there's not another script, another set, or new creative challenges for the seasoned professional to conquer. Gaylin's story was one of the satisfaction of an interesting life doing exactly what he loved. It included the deep and lasting love of his wife, world travel, and a cast of characters who's affection, respect and friendship added depth and rich layers to the story of a remarkable man.

Gaylin changed me. Because of him, I know these things:

• That you can meet a person who instantly feels like family, yet they've lived their entire life without you in it.
  
  
• That the characteristics that define how valuable you've been in your professional life, also define how valuable you remain until the end of your days.
  
  
• That it's a comfort to have the "Gaylin" Mii in our Nintendo Wii game. He's still on our team in the virtual world and playing games with us. I'm happy that we played Wii bowling together and that his Mii looks just like him.
  
  
• That a stack of "rain checks" for dinners and visits to our mainland home doesn't guarantee they'll ever get used....but it's fun to imagine that they might have.
  


• That a custom-built-by-Gaylin outdoor table to keep our dog's food and water bowls in the shade is not ridiculous, but a pleasurable project, and can be impeccably completed by a man in his eighties only weeks before his death.

I miss you, dear frien...

Zone Cruise to Bermuda

For my mother's birthday (39th) I took her on a "Zone Cruise" to Bermuda with Dr. Barry Sears and his group. Is it really a vacation if you travel under the guise of a healthy week of the Zone Diet and seminars? Yes! We were joined by Scott's parents and sisters and had a great time.

Along with Barry Sears, Dr. Julien Bailes, noted neurosurgeon, was also a speaker at the seminars. He worked with the sole survivor of the Sago mine disaster, Randy McCloy, to restore his health and brain function using a therapy that included high dose fish oil.

Though Hurricane Bertha was looming, the weather was beautiful and the seas were fairly mild. The subject of the event was "Build a Better Brain." We'll all be giving their theories a try and let you know how it goes!

Bob & Elliette

The crew managed to capture these, and of course Bev found them!
(Kim & Lisa must've escaped the photo op.)

"39-year-old" Bev and Me (39 too, why not?)

Back from Bermuda

Here's Bob supervising Elliette as she's adjusting everyone's lifejacket straps at Muster. We were all safer because of her attention to detail! She moved through the crowd with an air of authority that allowed her to approach total strangers and spend a few minutes on their straps, chatting reassuringly the whole time. I loved this guy's face, he was such a great sport.

One of many highlights of the trip for me (as in getting to know Scott's family so much better) was Elliette's description of the difference between my calm demeanor during stressful times, and Scott's. We were on a very pleasant ferry boat ride back to St. George's after visiting Hamilton. When describing me, she related several examples that she had observed. She was sweet and complimentary and very descriptive.

When she got around to describing Scott, her example was succinct, "A bug flies through the window----World War III!"

It was such a heartfelt, simple description delivered with such sincerity, and so accurate that it caught me off guard. I laughed until I cried, which produced the same result from both my mother and Elliette. Remarkable and memorable...

List of Preferred Dining Companions

Small town life is magnified on an island. Certainly concerning relationships. There are no "out of the way" spots with which to conduct your "personal affairs," if you're having them. There is an extremely limited inventory of available mates, and certainly no chance for delusion regarding their "potential", which is freely demonstrated for all to witness, and discussed at length, whether truth or rumored. I know this from making favorable comments about a seemingly single male to a single girlfriend and was filled to the brim with his unfortunate history, which was certainly not evident through casual social interaction with him.

We're all neighbors in close quarters after all, so if you've ever had an unreasonable (possibly drunken) argument with any volume to it, it's part of your history as a mate, and the anecdote travels with you. By the time you "hook up" with someone, it's already "buyer beware" due to your (or your neighbors') intimate knowledge, either of you, your new mate, or both.

New chemistry derails logical thinking (thank heavens), so you do get the illusion of a fresh start, but it's most likely with well-worn goods. It's not that this isn't the case with mainland relationships, it's just that there are fewer available witnesses.

The saying on the island is "You don't lose your woman, you lose your turn." When I was first enlightened to this philosophy, I physically recoiled. I did a double take with eyebrows raised, fully realizing that sayings like that evolve out of truth. They're invented with the intention of normalizing a situation.

So, when we arrived (already having been a couple for six years) we had a "mainland relationship" reality. One luxury of that, is that unless you have children, if and when you break up with your mate, you simply don't run into them again, or if so, it's infrequent.

The island has one small grocery store and an imposter store (a smaller version using the same name) posing as a second option. There's no mail delivery either, so as you breeze in to pick up mail from your PO Box, or drop in for a few essentials at the market, you are guaranteed a daily dose of your ex-mate and/or reports of their current shenanigans. Whether through a personal sighting or a "helpfully communicated" anecdote by concerned parties, you'll definitely know more than you'd like. It's also uncomfortable to witness those heartbroken singles who've lost their love (and you know about it because everyone knows about it) running into them again and again with the "replacement" partner gloating openly.

My husband and I have a relationship based on trust and respect. It's a very atypical marriage, in that we subscribe to the "two-house" method. This arrangement evolved for reasons I will go into someday (the first being his Aspergers', but also that the GM EV1 electric car burned our house down and he got another EV1 right away, but I digress). The point is that I am still very connected to my life on the mainland, so when I'm off the island and my husband is on the island (he seldom leaves), I encourage and expect him to enjoy a meal here and there with friends and acquaintances.

He's a terribly picky eater and a super-slim guy with no fat reserves. He truly needs to eat. He often forgets to eat, or confuses the sensation of hunger with other issues. Is he lonely? Bored? Needing a walk? What?

In this small community, if the wife is off the island and the husband is dining with female(s) who are decidely "not the wife," it stirs up the curiosity and whispers of those who concern themselves with such things. So, we have a network of "preferred" dinner companions...friends who know that he could probably use a meal and know that he'd be happy to treat them to one.

The potential for small town rumors disturbs my husband, so I suggested posting an ad in the local newspaper, letting one and all know that we are in agreement with the arrangement, and include the names and/or photos of the most likely dinner companions. If you're not on the list, but are interested in becoming a PDC (preferred dining companion), you can call or email your qualifications and interest. Of course, if you notice he's dining with someone not on the accepted list, there will be a number to call to report it, in the same way that trucks have that bumper sticker to encourage responsible driving. He'll wear a t-shirt that says, "Where's he dining? Call 1-800-ISawHim."

Scott's Birthday Quote

When offered congratulations on his making it another year:

"Time did all the heavy lifting. I'm just along for the ride."