Meet Cute.

Warning: Falling in love may result in babies.

Have you heard of "Meet Cute?" It's the cute story of how you met your significant other. It sounds like "Meat Cube" to me.

I'd like to thank Erin at Musings of a Madwoman for letting me know about this new Internet slang. I like to be in the know of all things linguistic.

Do you know the story of how I meat cubed my husband?

I found him on Match.com. I love online dating. It's just like catalog shopping. For example, you could go to J.Crew and select a cashmere sweater in Eolian Harp blue, then go on Match.com and select an attorney in Tall, Dark and Handsome!

As my son would say, "Easy. Peasey. Lemon squeezey."

All kidding aside, when I found my Cute Meet on Match.com I had been on the service for five or six months with no action. I hadn't met anyone. I wasn't interested. Nothing was going anywhere. My heart wasn't in it, to be honest.

But then I decided I needed to get over it. I needed to get out. So I made a solemn vow to my girlfriends that I would find someone cute and meet him live and in person within the next week. As God as my witness. And then I raised my staff towards the heavens, lightening and thunderbolts surged forth from the sky and connected with my mighty staff.

I went on Match that night and clicked through pages and pages of faces all wanting to be my next boyfriend. Just kidding. As an unwed mother of a one-year-old child, I didn't think my chances were too good. Yet one cute face did stop me in my tracks and so I read his profile. He was smart. He could construct sentences. He didn't make any grammatical errors. And he was hot so I did the unthinkable.

I "winked" at him.

I know. So embarrassing.

If you've never online dated, a "wink" is a digital wink. You press a little smiley face button and it sends a message to that person that "So-and-So has winked at you!" Basically it's a spineless way of trying to strike up a conversation.

I never initiate dating with men. I don't call. I don't text. I don't make eye contact in a bar. I am the tall girl standing by the wall staring at my feet, probably turning red if I think you're cute. It's a wonder I've ever dated at all.

So the wink is significant. It shows you how serious I was about going on a date within the next seven days. I had to take desperate measures because I was on Match.com without a profile picture. This is certain death in the dating world. If you don't have a picture, chances are you're going to have to either email someone or wink at them.

Though I had no profile picture, what I did have was an incredibly witty and charming profile page. I figure if I couldn't entice the denizens of Match.com men into my lady lair with an enticing photo, I could at least woo them with my words. I wrote something off the wall and batty. As crazy as a loon. I wrote the anti-profile whereupon I listed what I was looking for in a man in the most outrageous and ridiculous fashion.

One of the things I mentioned I was looking for in a perspective mate was someone who was "Mean to old ladies." I emphasized the importance of this quality and how it was basically a deal-breaker for me. It's sort of amazing I didn't attract serial killers, to be honest.

My future-husband emailed back right away.

"You are a smart ass. I like that."

When I read those words, my heart beat a little faster. This is how you romance me. He then proceeded to tell me in great detail about his unbridled hatred for old ladies.

"Why just today I splayed an old-blue hair and her cane across the sidewalk."

It was like corresponding with Don Juan with this one. How could I not fall in love?

The emails sailed back and forth and I don't think either one of us got much done over the next few days of trying to outdo one another. We told all our most outrageous stories. We riffed off each other's verbal tags. I laughed so hard I cried while reading his words. We spoke on the phone and I laughed under the covers in my bed while my son slept in a port-a-crib nearby.

My future-husband asked me out sight unseen.

He never saw a picture of me but had to meet me. I think we both felt like we'd met our best friend. And to this day I really believe he liked me for me. For the essence of who I was on paper. After he asked me out, I did finally send him a picture. Mainly so he would recognize me when we met. Also so he could back out if he wanted.

What I didn't know was that he printed that photo out and kept it in his wallet. Which reminds me of when my mother found a photo of herself in my step-father's wallet after he died. She'd never known that he carried a picture of her with him everywhere he went.

When we finally went on a date, I met my future husband at a wine bar in a local downtown area. I walked through the door and kind of hung there uncertainly, as I am wont to do. I scanned the bar trying to find the face I winked at online. Then he turned around. He was in his suit and tie. The white collars of his shirt were stark against his dark skin. He stood up and I watched him as he walked towards me. We shook hands and it was evident we were both nervous and overly polite.

But I felt butterflies.

Crowdsourcing Bathroom Etiquette

Imagine you enter a public restroom. There are three stalls. The one furthest to the left is a handicapped stall. The center and right stalls are regular stalls. However the far right stall is occupied.

Which stall do you choose?

Some of you will say, "Choose the furthest stall to the left because sitting right next to someone in another stall when there is another stall open is freaky and weird."

Others of you will be quick to point out: "Taking a handicapped stall when there is an open stall is rude!"

Hence we are left with two undesirable outcomes. You are either freakish or rude. You're either creepin' in on someone's personal space or you hate handicapped people.

Don't even try to tell me the answer is simple. It is not. Oh trust, me I have done the research. I have inquired into it many times, over many seasons of my life, and the answer is ever changing, ever divisive — a veritable moving target of manners. There is no one right answer. It's chicken-or-the-egg in its elusiveness.

But I'm asking you now. Just between us. Which one would you choose? Do not answer lightly. You will be judged. You will be summed up and categorized. Your fellow commenters will narrow their eyes and look at you differently after this. That's not even including the silent hundreds who will look on without comment ... oh but you can rest assured they will look on with judgment. Hot, angry judgement. If they could strike at you with Heaven's thunderbolts, they would, dear stall-chooser, they would indeed.

I can't believe you chose that stall.

So which one is it? I need to know.

Happy Birthday to the Most

Nine years ago I got the surprise of a lifetime. I became a mom. It wasn't something I'd planned on and quite frankly, it wasn't really ideal timing. I wasn't married. I'd only just started my first writing gig at an ad agency. I wasn't sure I was ready for this.

Yet my decision to keep him was immediate and visceral. If you had asked me what I would decide to do if I got pregnant, I would not have been certain. It's a scary thing to contemplate being a single parent. But as soon as I knew he was there, inside me, he was mine. It just clicked and I was instantly protective.

That's not to say I didn't have my doubts. I was worried about my ability to support him. I was worried about my ability to be a good mother. I was worried about what other people would think. All of those thoughts and many more swirled through my head.

I kept thinking that this just might be the kind of thing that would require hindsight. I realized that I did not have perfect wisdom at 32 years old. I figured this pregnancy could very well be something I would look back on realize was the greatest thing that ever happened to me.

I remember thinking that and wondering if this was what faith was like. Though not a religious faith, in my case. I had faith in my unborn child. I had faith in my decision to keep him. I had faith in myself to be a good mother. After so many years of therapy, it seemed I was finally realizing the ability to believe in me.

Nine years later and I can tell you that my faith was true. I cannot exactly express the mixture of joy, surprise and pride that I have in discovering this inner strength. What I've realized by being a mother is that it is an incredibly healing experience. All of the love you give to your child, you get in return. When you soothe your child in the dark of night, that dark part of you is also healed. At least that's how it worked out for me. And for my beautiful Max. His name is Maximus which means "The Most." And he is the most to me.

Happy birthday, to my sweet precious boy.

Smiling at Strangers.

I read some time ago that people feel more optimistic about life when strangers make eye contact with them. Scientists have found that people who live in large cities where there is little to no eye contact tend to feel more isolated. A small gesture, such as making eye contact or smiling quickly, can make a huge impact.

It reminded me of a story I read years ago in The Art of Happiness. Dr. Howard Cutler was exploring the mind of the Dalai Lama in order to find how the rest of us could be happier. As Cutler describes him, the Dalai Lama is always smiling, laughing or talking to people. Cutler noticed that when people were around the Dalai Lama, they too ended up smiling and laughing.

One incident in particular has stayed with me. Cutler describes the Dalai Lama waiting for an elevator in his hotel. The Dalai Lama turned to a housekeeper who was standing there and started talking to her. At first she appeared someone startled, but then as he asked her where she was from and spoke with her about her life, she clearly brightened up.

The next day the housekeeper was there waiting for him with another housekeeper. He greeted both of them warmly and spoke with them. The next day after that there were more housekeepers, and more and more each day until the end of the week there was a long line of housekeepers waiting to greet the Dalai Lama with smiles on their faces.

I found that absolutely profound. The Dalai Lama does not ignore the person standing next to him, even if it's a stranger. Now I know you and I are not the Dalai Lama and perhaps we won't get the same reception that he would get. But for many people, the Dalai Lama may be an odd-looking figure. What with his flowing robes and his foreign accent, some people might be put off by him. I'm not going to accept that as an excuse for me not to behave as he does.

You see, I think we all want to be seen. We want to be recognized as a fellow human being. We crave understanding. I know all of that may not be contained in the briefest of smiles or a quick flash of eye contact. But perhaps the essence of it is? Maybe that's what scientists discovered in the people who lived in places where not even the least hint of humanity is recognized and shared as a matter of course.

I know it might seem dramatic, but I do believe the little things count. Hell, I even believe I can make a difference in the world. Ridiculous, I know. But I've been making eye contact with people for the past six months. I even give them a quick smile. I mean, I don't flash my teeth or anything. I don't want them to think I'm a freak and let's not forget I'm an introvert by nature. This is a real stretch for me. But I find it makes me feel better about the world.

Even the act of smiling, however brief, seems to lighten my psychic load. I'm not much of a smiler. I'm more of an accidental scowler if you must know. But when I make eye contact with people and I force myself to give them a quick smile, it changes my mood. Just a touch. And sometimes, I'd say about 50 percent of the time here in Metro Detroit, people smile back.

And when that happens? I'll be damned. I do feel an extra spring in my step.

Who knew? Sometimes it's good to push yourself out of your comfort zone and try something new. Now let's hope I don't get mugged.

Just kidding!

Opening the Case.

I had a little heart to heart with my husband about the book I'm writing.

I'm finding it harder than hell to write at night. I work a full day — I write all day — and then I haul ass to pick up the kids on time, bring them home, feed them, play with them, do homework with them, bathe them, read to them, sing songs to them, stroke their hair until their eyes slowly start to droop, sneak out of their bedrooms and then softly close the door.

After that, I'm supposed to go downstairs and sit in front of a computer screen and pour my soul out onto the page and write the most brilliant prose you have ever laid eyes on. Suffice it to say, I'm finding this difficult to do. What I really want to do after all of that, is to sit slack-jawed and glazey-eyed at the pretty moving picture box in my living room until it is time to go to bed.

I've considered getting up an hour early to write but that hasn't worked out so well either. Getting up early is my imaginary time to work out. So the imaginary writing I might do conflicts with the imaginary spinning class I might take at some time in the near future around 6:30 a.m. Or the imaginary Cross Fit class I'll join at 6:15.

I could write during lunch at work. I know an hour a day doesn't really sound like much, but if you think about it, an hour a day is 30 hours a month, which is 360 hours a year. So if you consider the fact that I wrote for two hours Sunday night and produced ten pages, that  would mean I could write an 1,800-page book in one year. You know, my very own War and Peace.

My point is, by writing an hour a day, I could certainly accomplish finishing my little book in a year. I'm already 100+ pages in so it's not like it's out of reach. So why the hell am I not writing an hour a day? What's my deal?

My therapist and husband have both wondered if I fear failure too much to complete a book. I mean, what if I finished the damn thing and I couldn't even get it published? Could I deal with that disappointment? I think I could. But I have a history of being a bit of a self-punishing perfectionist, so they may have a point. Or maybe I fear success? Maybe it would mess with the carefully crafted low self esteem I've been working on all these years.

Whatever the case, I'm not doing it and I need help. I keep cramming and jamming all my writing in on the weekends and it's ruining all my fun activities like doing laundry, taking the kids to the gym and watching Breaking Bad on Netflix.

My husband pointed out that he felt the same way about practicing the trombone. He was a gifted player and practiced a bazillion hours as a child and in college where he majored in music at Northwestern University. I mean, this is no slacker counseling me, if you get my drift.

I was shocked to hear he struggled with practicing. I mean, he could practice for hours. Even now, he just recently took up the guitar and he can play for hours. He's always picking it up and playing it in the kitchen. He plays it in the bathroom while our daughter takes a bath. He plays it in bed. This guy has no motivation problem, so far as I can see.

It's me who's the slacker. But he assured me that it was a struggle for him too.

"I just have to open the case," he said. "Once you open the case, you're in. You get lost in the music and hours go by."

I knew he was right. That very same thing happened with me once I opened the laptop.

"All you have to do is open the case."

I just have to open the laptop and write the first sentence. And then I'm there. Two hours later and ten pages down and all it took was just opening the damn case.

I'm going to remind myself of that each day this week. What case is waiting for you?

Happiness: Do Something New.

I watched a documentary about happiness over my winter break. One of the things that really stood out was the fact that human brains get bored with the same routine each and every day of our lives. It's not good for us to do the same things, the same ways, day after day. Which is exactly how my life is.

The brain needs new things. The brain craves change even if we sometimes resist it. I was surprised to find out that even small changes can help stimulate the brain. Drive to work a different way. Eat at a new restaurant. Do something you've never done before. Make something new for dinner. Stop by someone's desk you normally don't chat with. You get the picture.

It's so easy to get stuck in the same routines. Sure it seems comfortable and easy, but it turns out, it's not good for your mental health. I recently tried a new workout with my friend Jill and I absolutely loved it. It involves a lot more cardio, and a lot of lifting, and a group setting. I loved it. I left the exercise class soaking wet with sweat. I've been going to the class for a few weeks now, and I notice that even when I work out on my own now, I'm running faster and lifting more than I ever had before. I've actually exceeded what I thought were my limits. I'm reinvigorated and energized. I changed my routine. And my pants are looser. Crazy.

My husband and I go out every Saturday night. It's date night. It's a chance to reconnect and to have a sustained conversation with each other without getting interrupted 20 times by little people with short attention spans. Date night is great but what I hadn't realized is that date night has become a routine.

We go to the same restaurants. Do the same things. Stay in the same town. It's nice to chat with each other but we do the same thing, week after week. I think we need to start going to different restaurants. Start trying new things. I'd read somewhere that a friend's husband had gotten her a year of new experiences for her birthday. Once a month, he takes her somewhere they've never been before, or takes her to do something they've never done before. What a great idea and it fed right into what I'd learned in the Happy documentary.

I'm thinking my husband and I could apply this to date night. There's lots to do in this city of ours. Things neither of us have ever done. We could go see a Roller Derby. Try out a new blues bar. See a new show. Go throw some bocce balls or go feather bowling. See the symphony or an opera. Sure some of those things we've done before, but not as a matter of course. Time to shakes things up. Volunteer together. Plant trees together. Sit on a board together. Go to temple together. Okay, we've done all of those last few things, but it's been a while. The baby has sort of taken over our lives these past few years.

In the past when we've mixed things up, it's benefited us both. Now that I think about it, it would probably benefit our kids too. Their lives are pretty routine. I need to get them out of their comfort zones too.

What would you do, if you did something new? Why haven't you done it before? According to studies, varying your routine will increase your happiness. It seems like it's worth a try. What do you think?

Come Mr. Talisman, Talisman Banana.

Magical healing spray.

I have been self-diagnosed with OCD-lite for many years now, but only recently diagnosed with real, doctor-approved OCD. Which cracks me up because I've made of joke of having fake OCD for so long now and here it turns out I've had actual, real-live OCD all along. Maybe it's a form of denial? As if to say, "I will joke about this because if I were serious about it I would be scared. Haha."

*Sprays Windex.*

Despite the fact that it's official now, I still view my OCD as "lite." I don't need medication for it (well, aside from Xanax, but that doesn't count, right?) and it doesn't really disrupt my life to such an extent that I don't leave my house or have successful interpersonal relationships. Okay, the latter is debatable. But whatever. It's not like I'm Melvin Udall from As Good As It Gets.

*Avoids stepping on crack.*

I mean, sure, I can't just go to bed when I'm tired. I need to do the rounds. Turn on the dishwasher. Straighten the hand towels. Wipe the counters with Windex®. Straighten the pillows on the couches. Fold the throw blankets. Make sure the dollhouse furniture is placed in the right rooms, according to my own sense of feng shui, and the correct dolls are in their proper beds. Clean my ears with Q-tips every time I pass the hall closet. Line up the Buddhas. The perfume bottles. The shoes. You know, the usual.

*Arranges doll house furniture.*

That baby is not feng shui.

Every time I drink out of a can, I have to tap the top five times before I open it. I always thought this was a child of the 70s thing. My sister taught me to do this when I was a kid and I've never stopped. She said it would prevent the carbonated beverage from exploding. I say "carbonated beverage" because I don't want those of you who aren't from Michigan to make fun of me. We call it "pop." There's pop and diet pop. What do the rest of you call it? Soda pop? Soda pop sounds old-fashioned to me. And kind of backwoods. I suspect ya'll say, "Sody pop" and for that, I am mocking you in my head.

*Taps can five times*

I do a lot of weird stuff in my head. Certain phrases and words can get caught in my brain and I repeat them over and over to myself. Like the Banana Boat Song. I used to think, "Come Mr. Tally Man, tally me banana," as a kid over and over again, whenever I would get nervous. If I hear the song even now, as an adult, I will be thinking it for days afterwards. Recently, I read an article online where the author used the phrase, "The bomb.com." Remember when people used to say that? "Wow, I think that's the bomb dot com!" Well, it cracked me up.

And then I proceeded to say it over and over in my head for a couple of weeks. "The bomb dot com. The bomb dot com. The bomb dot com." It was soothing. I would relax when I thought it. I didn't say it out loud or anything, or mumble it. I'm not crazy, okay? But if I were driving in my car, or sitting at my desk, or trying to survive a boring meeting, I would just think "The bomb dot com" and I was instantly happier. Life was better.

*Thinks "The bomb dot com."*

I guess that's sort of like an ear worm. An ear worm is when you hear a song and you can't get it out of your head. Only my ear worms aren't songs. They are phrases or words that I repeat over and over in my head for days. I like to think it's sort of meditative. It calms me.

I have other little talismans that soothe me throughout the day. If anyone does anything to upset me, or if I get criticism that I don't like, I immediately go to the blog Suri's Burn Book. If I have an unpleasant thought that I can't get out of my head, I click on Suri's Burn Book and just look at a few entries and everything is all better. A fight with someone? Suri's Burn Book. Stress? Suri's Burn Book. Doubt? Suri's Burn Book. I just sort of compulsively click on that bookmarked page and just looking at an entry, even if I've read it before, it instantly calms me.

OMG. Is Suri's Burn Book my The Catcher in the Rye? For those of you who don't know the reference, Mel Gibson's character in Conspiracy Theory was obsessed with J.D. Salinger's book. He would buy a copy of it every time he was upset or something bad happened.

For me, Suri's Burn Book is simple. Straightforward. Nothing but happiness and joy happens on Suri's Burn Book. It's just a picture of a celebrity or a celebrity's child, with Suri Cruise's imaginary snarky fashion criticism.

Suri, I know, baby. She shouldn't be wearing flouncy skirts.

Oh joy. Oh bliss.

*Clicks link*

It's like the Windex® of blogs. Simple. Clean, Efficient. If I'm stressed out at home, I can just spritz Windex® all over the counters and erase any imperfections and dirtiness. I can spritz the floors in Windex® too and everything looks better. Smells better. Shines. The world is just a little bit better. A little calmer. More organized. In control. And everything is Okay.

Basically, it's the bomb dot com.