“What if you have to choose between true love and your cat?”

“It’s not true love.”

“But what if it is?”

Jen’s eyes were wide with concern. I couldn’t help but laugh at her; she just seemed so serious.

“What if it is true love and you have to choose between him and Hal?”

“Well, I choose Hal. Because it’s not true love. It’s just drinks.”

On Thursday, I’m having drinks with this guy. Remember him? Well, I hadn’t given him much thought either, until a few weeks ago when he IMed me out of the blue. The short version: He was an out-of-town friend of a friend. We drank, we danced, we… well, anyway, he turned out to be allergic to my cat. It hardly mattered, though. I was living in Boston and he was at grad school in a far off place called Pennsylvania.

And now?

Well, now, it turns out he’s finished his MBA and is living a mere thirty blocks away (bet you didn’t see that one coming!). Over IMs during the last two weeks, we’ve determined that not too much has changed in two years (other than I’ve apparently become a bit too much of a grown up). We still like the same movies. He still can’t spell.

And he is also still allergic to cats.

My dad likes to tell me that it is just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is a poor man. He means well. Ever the poor man, he just wants save me from the heartache he and my mom went through back in the day. I suppose now he’d join Jen in her concern and tell me it’s just as easy to fall in love with a man who’s… not allergic to may cat. And you know, save me some heartache. Which is exactly why I have no plans to fall in love.

It’s not true love. It’s just drinks.

If I knew the answer to that (or ever got over my fear of marriage) I might actually be a wife! But iVillage asked me to weigh in as part of their Love Council anyway.

Check it out!

My answer is the last one…in the spot usually reserved for Dr. Ruth. Dudes. I think this means I’m qualified by association. Shh, yes it does. Let’s not argue. And please, don’t be shy about calling on me for my wisdom.

The doctor is in.

Snort!

At six AM, the line already wound, several layers deep, around the American Airlines terminal. I was just one of hundreds of folks stranded from the previous evening’s cancelled flights. I took a deep breath, summoning whatever rest I’d gotten in my five short hours at the Comfort Suites, and yanked at my suitcase handle.

“I can do this.”

An hour or so later I would be sprinting through the terminal, my name echoing over the PA system, to board a plane that would never take off. I would be crestfallen. But it would not be the last plane that I’d make a dash for that would never leave the runway.

By noon on Saturday, I’d have been in marooned in Chicago for fifteen hours, having left New York City at 6pm the day before. I’d have broken down into quiet tears twice and into actual sobbing once — just long enough for an agent to take pity on me and book me into someone else’s seat on a Dallas-bound flight.

(Sorry, Someone Else.)

I’d have eaten three meals at unbelievably overpriced chain restaurants (a fine dining experience not covered by this month’s skimpy budget), finished eleven crossword puzzles (not the New York Times, natch), and read most of one Mary Higgins Clark novel (my favorite travel indulgence). I would be miles and hours away from Dallas and under the impression that my mother’s wedding was on Saturday evening.

The wedding would actually be scheduled to take place on Sunday.

That last little bit of information might have eliminated the one sobbing fit. Might. But by tears time, I would be working on four and half hours of sleep, the knowledge that my sisters were eating brownies baked for me and a whole host of other miscellaneous injustices.

I would be weak.

But at six AM, I was still full of hope. Or maybe that was just the coffee.

“There’s room for one more!”

It had started with Barry White, over the computer speakers in the spare room. When I Can’t Get Enough of Your Love came on, the four of us started dancing. Silly, exaggerated disco, hands forming pistols at our hips. Mom came in from the kitchen to join in. When The Hustle came on, we did that, too.

By the time Three Dog Night started, the five of us were bouncing around, doing the pony and singing along.

“Aaaall the boys and girls!â€ù

Just then, Mom’s fiancé appeared in the hallway, back from running errands. I couldn’t see him well from where I was wearing out a spot in the carpet, but I could guess that he looked pretty amused. I was fairly sure he’d had no idea that making a playlist for the wedding would turn the second bedroom into American Bandstand.

I wondered for a second what Bob thought of it all. The sudden chaos. I also wondered if he’d just shake his head at us and then retreat to the quiet of his bedroom. Most men would have. It was Nora who waved him in.

“There’s room for one more!â€ù

My father would have mumbled something about us being crazy, smile the way does when he means to say, “God, I love my girls,â€ù and settle into his chair with a Clive Cussler thriller.

But Bob danced.

The six of us, bellies full from lunch, danced and sang until our tummies won out over our temporary insanity and we went back to making preparations for the wedding. A few hours later, as I sat listening to the minister perform the ceremony, I thought about how skeptical I’d been this man my mother ultimately left my father for. Who wouldn’t be? I mean, theirs wasn’t a particularly graceful start to a relationship. But Bob danced. And for that, I can’t help but like the guy, and be happy that my mom has found someone who really gets her.

There’s nothing like a little last minute packing.

I have to leave for work in forty minutes and I’ve just now dragged my suitcase out of the hall closet. The apartment looks like a department store during a clearance sale. Or a bordello… at basically any time. The shower rod is draped with every single black dress I own and everywhere else – dangling from hooks on backs of doors and bed posts, looped over doorknobs and spilling out of drawers in the hall closet – bras of every kind and color. And not a damn one of them works under the dress I’m meant to wear to the wedding.

Is it inappropriate to go braless to your mother’s wedding?

Of course it is. Propriety even had me digging through drawers of unmentionables for my slip. A slip! Half the time I was searching, I was occupied with wishing I still owned under things made of lycra and wondering how long it’s actually been since anyone but me, or the girls at the gym, have seen me in black lace.

Deep and meaningful thoughts on a Friday morning.

Thirty-six minutes until I have to walk out the door. The closest I’ve come to breakfast is coffee; the closest to packing is tossing the suitcase on the ottoman. It remains there, zipped shut. I’m still in my bathrobe, making mental notes to remember things like, my toothbrush, and my sister’s Christmas gift that somehow, never made it to the post office.

Twenty-nine minutes. All packed. Sort of. I know once I get to Dallas, I will find that I have no… no something that I need. And then we will have to go to Target. This is my favorite punishment for forgetfulness.

Incidentally, my suitcase still smells of its last outing. Of sunscreen and warm air. When I opened it, there was sand still hiding in some of its crevices (thankfully, mine are all clear). I haven’t the heart to tell it that we’re going somewhere much, much less exotic. It just seems cruel.

Twenty-one minutes.

We’d already gone over three different menus to find the perfect Valentine’s Day dinner. Coconut rice, massaman curry and pad thai. My two funny valentines and I knew exactly what we wanted and damn, it, I would press redial over and over until the restaurant answered.

Our minds were made up. It was the day of love and we were having Thai. Along with everyone else on the Upper East Side, apparently.

“She says it’s an hour wait.â€ù

“What? That’s insane!â€ù

“Forget that. We’ll order pizza.â€ù

Okay, so it was the day of love and we were having pizza.

I’d had big expectations about our Valentine’s Day celebration. I know it’s fashionable to snub Valentine’s Day. I don’t care who created it and for what reason, I like it. A lot. And really, what better reason is there to turn what would have been a regular Tuesday night into a tribute to love, excessive caloric intake and Christian Slater?

And so, even with the Thai food let-down, we were still well on our way to proving that even the un-coupled can really love the love day. By seven thirty, candles were flickering around my apartment, Diet Coke was chilling in the fridge. By eight thirty, pizza was on its way. And by ten thirty, the living room was nice and hazy, we’d gotten very giggly and had eaten a helluva lot of chocolate chip cookies.

All in the name of love.

If you’re wondering how Christian Slater fits into the evening, our movie of choice last night was Heathers. What? Not romantic? Suuure it is. You know, in that, My-boyfriend-is-a-psycho-and-still-so-hot kinda way. It was perfect.

And my Valentines Day? It was so very.

As whiny as I can be about things like cold, and wet, and wind and just about anything that is not comfortable and lovely, I was absolutely delighted by Saturday night’s snowstorm.

I was delighted to avoid any contact with it. Hunkered down under my comforter on the couch with some cocoa, Netflix and my stinky-breathed foot warmer, Hal, there was no damn way I was going out. And then my friend Matt called.

“Have you been outside yet?â€ù

“No way. I don’t need to make contact with two feet of snow.â€ù

I forget the words he used to express how wrong I was, but I was unfazed. I was warm and squinting at subtitles. What did I need winter wonderland fun for?

“Come on. Let’s get dinner in your neighborhood.â€ù

“I can’t. I’m broke.â€ù

“I’m not!â€ù

And… I was out of excuses. He even let me pick the restaurant. So with change of clothes and some warm socks, I was off to see the blizzard.

I don’t know what I was expecting. But the moment I was out of the front gate and my feet hit the sidewalk, I felt like my face split wide open and a bunch of goofy-ass happiness rays came pouring out. I couldn’t stop smiling. Even in the 7:00 darkness, everything was bright. Eighty-sixth street had become suddenly charming under 26 inches of snow — all white and clean and dare I say, almost enchanting.

It was like Disneyland! Only, you know, colder. And with way fewer dwarfs and princesses.

I don’t have to tell you that today was far less enchanting, what with the lakes of slush at every corner. But last night, I was sort of in denial about what all that pretty snow would mean once sunlight hit and I walked to the restaurant, grinning like an idiot. The Second Avenue drunks were out, throwing themselves into snow banks. And I grinned some more. Aw, look at the publicly intoxicated! Aren’t they charming!

It is a winter wonderland of fun!

You know, this is really all just a testament to how easily amused I am. Maybe it also says a bit about what I’ll do to get a free dinner. But let’s not get into that.

My last thought before I fell asleep used to be the Roman Meal soldier.

For as long as I can remember, I have been falling asleep exactly the same way: one leg out of the covers and one arm crooked over my ear. Ventilation and soundproofing — both absolutely necessary to the construction of sleep.

When I was little, I remember thinking that the rhythm of my pulse sounded like soldiers marching. Left. Left. Left, right, left. There’s not even a good onomatopoeia to describe that sound. I just tried out swoosh and whoosh and neither sounds anything like what I mean.

Go ahead. Try it. Raise your arm up against your ear, close your eyes and listen. When you start to hear the sound of marching instead of your own heartbeat, try to picture the soldier from the label of a bag of Roman Meal bread.

You are getting very sleepyâ€_ right?

Sometimes, when I’m trying to settle down into sleep, and my head is filled with thoughts like, “What’s on my Outlook calendar for tomorrow?â€ù “I hope I locked the front door.â€ù and “Whatever happened to Jonathan Taylor Thomas?â€ù I actually make myself think about some picture I saw once on a bag of sliced bread. It’s a bit silly, I know, but I’m amazed at how well it actually works.

Left. Left. Left, right, left.

*Yawn*

But, no really. Whatever did happen to Jonathan Taylor Thomas?

My father is an expert story-teller. He can spin a yarn so masterfully that you begin to wonder if you’ve actually read it somewhere before. In tenth grade history, maybe?

But beyond that, and where his skill is really priceless, is the bedtime story.

When we were kids, mom would send us off to sleep with a lullaby or two. But my father would settle himself on the end the bed and tell you a tale. The house favorites were about a friendly giant, tall as mountain, who lived in the forest and did wise, kindly, practical deeds with the help of his best friend – a snake named Hognose.

I’d share a Horace story with you now, if I could do it any justice. But, I doubt I could. And frankly, you’re not really the Horace Story target audience: ages three to eight and strategically avoiding sleep.*

Over the years, Horace was joined by an array of characters from our own imaginations. Buffalo Pat, his sidekick Mr. Hat and a few others I have a hard time remembering. One constant, though, was Horace’s nemesis, the evil, horrible Mad Jack.

Mad Jack was everything despicable. He was selfish, deceitful and along with his sidekick, Snake Eyed Pete, broke every rule in the Sunday School handbook. It seemed he existed only to make life more complicated for peace-loving, wood-chopping, day-saving Horace.

We all knew that Horace was actually my father. And that’s why we loved him.

Years later, when we were teenagers, my sisters, brother and I compared notes on Horace. Despite never being given a description of the giant’s face, he had looked the same to each of us. Right down to the auburn beard. Horace also wore my father’s Pendleton plaid shirts, sleeves rolled up at the elbows.

Also, years later, my father told me a story of a very different kind. A story about my mom’s jerk of an ex-fiancé. This wasn’t so much a bedtime story, but it had many of the same themes. Good and evil, honesty and deceit. My mom’s ex had been a cocky bastard who’d wrecked my dad’s beloved VW bug, and my father hated him with a thirty-year-old passion.

The ex’s name was Jack.

*If you are between the ages of three and eight, you are very precocious and should not believe everything you read. So, listen to your parents, do what the Baby Jesus tells you and remember: drugs are bad.

My first thought when the email appeared in my inbox late last week was, “No. She did not.” My second thought was, “Of course she did.”

Who but my mother – the same mother who meticulously planned out each fifteen- minute interval of our family vacations (in ink!) in her Franklin Planner for years – would send out a Wedding FAQ? I should not have been the least bit surprised. But, as familiar as I was with my mom’s ability to…over organize something, I was a little curious as to who was doing all this frequent asking. My sisters? There were only five of us invited to the shindig. How many questions could there be?

Shaking my head, I double-clicked the attachment. What I found when it opened was not a list of appointments and pick-up times, dress codes and who’s who, but MSWord proof that smart-assedness is, at least to some degree, genetic.

From My mother’s list of Wedding FAQ:

1. Do we get new dresses? Only if they’re peach. Just kidding; no, I’m not having bridesmaids and I am not buying new dresses all around. YOU may, of course, buy yourself a new dress whenever you like. Just not peach.

2. What time is the wedding? Oh, 7 pm sounds good.

3. Is it formal or casual? Yes. That is to say, you can wear what you want, but mostly I would describe it as “dressy” but not formal, no, not formal.

4. Do we get new dresses? No.

5. What kind of ceremony is this going to be? Pagan. As Unitarians, we HAD considered marrying under a canopy, then jumping a broom with a Navajo blanket around us, but decided it would be too hard to include every wedding tradition we’ve seen. So we’re going pagan.

6. Does that mean we get new dresses? No.

7. Are you going to take Bob’s name? No, I think he needs to keep it. If I were going to change my name, I would want to change my first name to Rachel. Seriously though, I want to keep the name that links me to my children. Plus, do you KNOW how many places you have to contact once you’ve changed your name???! Just changing my address was a pain in the neck.

8. What do we call Bob after the wedding? Bob.

There are more. There is also a revised edition. Oh yes, there is. And wouldn’t you know it? One of my sisters actually got a new dress out of the deal! After all that! Either it’s all this wedding lunacy or my mom’s just gotten soft in her old age.

Personally, I’m just sorry there’s not going to be any peach at the wedding. Or blush and bashful. I mean, what’s a wedding without really bad bridesmaid dresses?

Answer me that, Ma!