In the privacy of my studio apartment in San Jose, I stared at men’s photos, read what they had to say about themselves, and ruthlessly weeded them out. “Fresh meat” like me was matched with scores of men in the first month of online dating and my subscription to eharmony.com.

Maybe even more than for some other newcomers, given how non-discriminatory I declared myself to be. Any race or nationality is fine by me, I had said. Height is unimportant, too, as are location, education level, and age.

That didn’t last long. I “closed” the match with a 5′7″ man of Arab descent the same day I received it. Ditto the 77 year old who reminded me of my Grandpa Ed and the retired salesman with no college. Facing one’s prejudices is humbling, especially for us mouthy political liberals. But not humbling enough to make me consider meeting these guys for a cup of coffee.

It cut both ways. Men my age often closed matches, too, before we’d even begun to communicate. I figured they were holding out for someone younger, per the opinion of my friend, Katie, a sixty-something veteran of online dating.

“Men can find partners who are ten, twenty years younger. We don’t get as much as a wink from a lot of guys our own age,” she said.

Not that any of us is honest about why we’re not interested in the matches appearing in our inbox each morning. From the list of possible rejections provided by eharmony, we pick innocuous ones like “I’m pursuing another relationship” or “I think the distance between us is too great.” Even from a total stranger, it stings to  receive “I’d rather not say” or “Other” as the reason for lack of pursuit.

The first man to follow up on a match was Larry, a 69-year old psychologist. Experienced on eharmony, he considered the next steps in the process  to be a waste of time (a series of questions  to both, e.g. “Your idea of a romantic get-away would be a week (a) in Paris, (b) in a cottage by the sea, (c) white water rafting, or (d) in the mountains.”). I agreed with him. So we went directly to open communication. And man, did he communicate. Weeks of torrential longing, heavy on what he wanted to do if he ever got his hands on me, and psychobabble so intense that it made me scoff before finally scaring me off.

Just as my book scared off the next man after a month of emails(I wrote about him in a 7/24/2009 post). My house in Mexico gave another man pause, after we’d written back and forth for several weeks and met for dinner in San Francisco.

“I’m too embarrassed to invite you to my house after checking out the photos of yours,” he said. Turns out he lived in semi-finished rooms, was about to declare bankruptcy for the second time in his career as an architect, and had suffered a stroke not long before. “Nurse with a purse” flashed through my mind, and I put an end to us. With brutal speed, via email. I’m ashamed of myself for that cowardice.

I learned a valuable lesson from these first encounters: Don’t spend a lot of time with email banter, and do as my friend Priscilla advised.

“Show and tell sooner rather than later,” she said. “Show your  house in Mexico(www.quintaelena.com) and talk about your book. Let these men know who you are. See how they react. If they can’t deal with a house and a happy marriage, they shouldn’t be dealing with you.”

In November, after a handful of coffee and dinner dates, my subscription expired. I was undaunted, however. Trying my wings had been fun. But eharmony was too restrictive, I thought.

“You can shop for yourself on match.com,” said friend Katie. “Plus there are twice as many subscribers.”

Another one hundred fifty dollars and I was ready for round two.

Online dating II

“Match.com is for dating; eharmony.com is for marriage.” So said my senior pop culture advisor, daughter Jennifer. It was June 2009, and I was ready. Not ready for marriage—why would I ever give up my all-but-free military health insurance and two widow’s pensions (thanks again, Marsh). But definitely ready for a long-term relationship.  I chose eharmony, paid $150 for a six-month subscription, and went to work on my profile.

Stock questions came first: age, height, body type (e.g. slender, regular, stocky, heavy set) eye and hair color, education level, number of children, marital status, income, ethnicity, smoking/drinking habits.  I answered honestly. Why not? Everyone posts under assumed names.

I was naïve and therefore astounded to learn later that men routinely lie about their height and income, women lie about their age and body type, and, according to my nurse practitioner stepdaughter, all of us lie about our smoking and drinking.

“Whatever number of cigarettes and drinks you tell us you have every day, we multiply by three,” she said.

The heart of the profile is a series of incomplete statements. Eharmony offers help to the verbally challenged in the form of checklists to use when filling in some of the blanks. For example, “Ellen’s friends describe her as___________” can be completed with suggestions like creative, perceptive, genuine, thoughtful, intelligent, funny, romantic, and so on. Limit: four. Fair enough; more than that might strain credulity.

“Three of Ellen’s best life skills are ____________,” also includes prompts: “finding pleasure and contentment in simple things; making art and culture an ongoing part of her life; creating romance in a relationship; looking for adventures and unique experiences; achieving personal goals.” This is good news for the computer looking for matches, but bad news for bored profile readers wading through all the self-described culture-seeking,romantic, adventurous high achievers.

For other statements, I was on my own and therefore forced to be more inventive:

-       “The one thing Ellen is most passionate about is _____________”

-       “The three things Ellen is most thankful for are ______________”

-       ‘Other than her parents, the most influential person in Ellen’s life has been                       _____________”

-       “The most important thing Ellen is looking for in a person is _______________”

-       “Ellen typically spends her leisure time _____________”

-       “The things Ellen can’t live without are _____________”

-       “Other than appearance, the first thing you’ll probably notice about Ellen when you meet her is ___________”

-       “The last book Ellen read and enjoyed was _________”

I gave my answers careful thought. Best to choose earnest over clever, I figured; it’s so easy for humor to come up lame. My pop culture advisor agreed.

“Plus truly funny women are a threat,” she added. This from someone who once considered standup comedy as a career. “Men want women to be their audience, not their competition on stage.” She spoke from experience.

After the profile came the highly recommended photos. I put on my best jeans and we headed for the backyard. “Bring Lola,” said Jennifer. “Who can resist an old golden Lab?”

We picked a couple of photos of Lola and me to go with my book jacket “glam shot,” I clicked send, and my package was posted. Ready for perusal by someone I hoped would turn out to be The One. I felt excited, optimistic, and sure of myself. Back in the game, I thought. This will be great.

My first year of online dating ends next week. What do I have to show for it? you might ask.

For starters, not the long-term relationship I seek. The longest relationship I managed so far lasted three months. It crashed and burned when, over the course of 72 hours, my DoD contractor friend moved from talk of his assets and what his kids should inherit to complaints that we “never laugh until we can’t stop.” This from an angst-ridden engineer with a long history of failed relationships and a face no less dour for the $20,000-worth of plastic surgery he had done. But, hey, I’m not bitter.

Another lasted two months; this time I pulled the plug. My financial analyst friend was the strong, silent type all right, but a non-reader as well. I did the heavy lifting conversationally and it wore me out. “The loneliness of monologues,” I’ve heard it described, and I now know how it feels.

Overall, however, I think I have fared quite well. Of the dozen or so men I dated more than once, all came across as considerate good guys. Which made it all the more poignant whenever I closed the door on them.  Mostly for reasons of attitude, I think. They seemed settled in their routines, not open to change or risk, their taste for adventure  much blander than mine. Silicon Valley/Santa Cruz guys for whom an evening in San Francisco was a big deal and best avoided altogether.

A few men quickly checked me off soon after meeting, too. My book scared at least one of them willing to admit it. “I don’t want and am not capable of that level of commitment,” he said. Two others, not as keen on me as I was on them, just disappeared. Both happened to be lawyers, for whatever that’s worth. Sample humor from one of them:

“As a registered Republican, New York Jew, living in San Francisco, I’m probably eligible for a federal protection program,” he said. Ergo the disappearance?

It’s easy to keep hope alive, however. Prospects continue to pop up almost daily. Recent dinners with articulate, thoughtful men have gone well.  Hikes and sails, even with a sworn bachelor obsessing about his sex life, have really been fun. Bottom line: I’ll renew my subscription and stay the course.

A few weeks ago, a  Canadian friend of mine stood outside her house in Bucerias, a Mexican beach town half an hour away from my town of San Pancho. She was talking to her neighbor, Miguel. She likes Miguel. He’s a gregarious, good-looking guy in his late twenties who works hard in his uncle’s restaurant in Bucerias. Now Miguel is about to open his own place, and he’s excited.

“I’m starting small,” he tells her. “Five, maybe six tables at the most, so I can guarantee good service.” He’s confident that nobody’s chiles rellenos can rival his, and they’re going to be his signature dish.

“I know how much gringos love rellenos. The tourists will come in droves.” Both of them laugh.

“You have the perfect personality for a restauranteur,” my friend tells him. And his fluent English is a huge plus, she adds.

He owes his fluency to a high school English teacher he had ten years ago, he says.

“Man, she was tough. Every week she forced us to partner up and write a minimum ten-sentence dialog, which we handed in and she corrected and gave back to us. Then we had to memorize it and perform it in front of the class.”

No excuses; do it or receive a failing grade for the week. The students hated it. Speaking in public was hard enough, but in English? Their accents embarrassed them. Classmates sometimes laughed at their mistakes. They had no choice, however. Week after week, for two years, they performed.

“And learned to speak with confidence,” Miguel said. “Now, looking back, I think I owe my new restaurant, at least in part, to that teacher. Her name was Mrs. Greene.”

I love stuffed peppers—sweet bell peppers or spicy poblanos—and here are two new variations I’ve added to my meal rotation: 1. Trader Joe’s bell peppers stuffed with ground turkey and rice, and 2. a Mexican food favorite chile relleno, this time low-cal and baked instead of the traditional deep-fried.

The Trader Joe’s pepper is in the refrigerated section. It’s coated with a tasty tomato and herb blend. If you want some more carbs with that, add a side of TJ’s frozen brown rice, nuke it all for a few minutes, and pat yourself on the back for being so nutritionally virtuous.

The same goes for  my new favorite  chile relleno. With this new recipe, you can cut the calorie count by more than half and take in three major food groups with one simple dish. First roast, peel, and seed the poblano as usual. Stuff it with a mix of low-fat cheddar and cream cheeses, then roll it in whole wheat flour, followed by beaten egg white and panko bread crumbs. Finally, spray the chile with canola oil, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and bake  for 20 min. at 450 degrees. Top  with a favorite salsa, and it’s delicious enough for company.

Enough with the virtuous. Over on the dark side are two new junk foods I can’t seem to resist. Evil geniuses at the Peter Paul/Hershey Company have come up with Almond Joy Pieces, m&m-shaped candies that taste like the chocolate, coconut, and almond flavored candy bar I love.  And, as a potato chip gourmand, I am so taken with a new chip I just discovered that someone had to pry a bag of Hawaiian Sweet Maui Onion Chips from my hands in order to make me share. Slathered with French onion dip, they were worth the fight.

Here are ten things I learned this February, at my home in San Pancho, in no order of importance:

1.  Beto Palomera is a prince. He gives honest quotes on masonry jobs, completes work as scheduled with no cost overruns, and has an artist’s eye. My new wall and walkways look fabulous, thanks to his design ideas.

2.  Fish tacos can be improved. Thanks to Baja Takueria, the newest and, in my opinion, best taqueria in town, many of the other street stands have ramped up in order to compete.

3.  Downpours during high season might be bad for tourism and cause locals to complain, but they green up the jungle and do wonders for my garden.

4.  I really don’t mind taking cold-water Navy showers.

5.  My favorite dinner partner in Mexico is son Michael. His banter with waiters makes them and me chuckle. Plus, God bless him, he always picks up the tab.

6.  The hour-and-a-half, early morning hill walk with my buddies never gets old. The exercise is good, the conversation even better.

7.  I sweat the small stuff, no matter how many times I remind myself not to.  I spend too much time worrying about upkeep of my property and too little time savoring its many charms.

8.  It pays to traverse neighboring towns and browse in their small shops. This trip I scored funky, colorful sandals, made from oilcloth, ten bucks a pair.

9.  Cooking dinner for friends does not have to be an all day, labor-intensive extravaganza.  If I make the main course and they bring the side dishes, everyone is happy.

10. I am not ready to walk away from Quinta Elena. The pride of place I feel after having designed and built it is too strong, the memories held within its walls too poignant.

On-line dating as a 60-something widow is not for the insecure. It is incredibly hard on the ego to be judged by how you look at a time in your life when earlier generations were allowed to be “done with all that,” as my mother used to say. The new normal is not looking your age.

“Don’t’ be surprised if it drives me to a face lift, or at least an eyelid job,” I tell my daughter. She’s heard this before and waves me off.

It unnerves me as well that I don’t remember how to kiss. My well-intentioned friends get all misty-eyed and say, “It’s like riding a bike; it’ll come back to you.” Not so far—I lurch forward and knock noses, pull back too soon as if to signal “time’s up,” startle when I feel a strange tongue in my mouth and think,  I used to like this, right?

And I’ve been out of the game for so long, I clutch at the thought of me naked in bed with some poor unsuspecting guy. What’ll I do then, other than cry? Which I can almost guarantee.

My instincts are shot, and I can keep myself up at night agonizing over what I said or he did. It’s kind of cute, I suppose—a 63-year old, unsure of herself, waiting with a knot in her stomach for a “boyfriend” to call. Note to self: File these feelings for future reference. They might make me  hip and helpful in a few years when my granddaughters start to date. I can liven up the sleepovers by comparing notes with them as we pop corn, bake cookies, and bitch about boys.

Two days ago on my birthday, the Widow Greene did the unthinkable and spent the afternoon at a swanky spa, thanks to a generous gift certificate from my son. In 63 years, I’d never had a pedicure or a facial, and I can count on one hand the number of massages I’ve treated myself to. Now, for four hours, a bevy of young Third World  ”aestheticians” would poke at my feet, face, hands, and torso, slathering me with their various potions and lotions.

Arriving at the spa, I looked around at the crowd of other clients, most of them less than half my age, and thought, What the hell are they doing here, with their line-less faces and freckle-free hands? Looking at me, they probably thought,  Note to self: Don’t forget the sunscreen.

First up for me that afternoon, the Anti-Aging Rejuvenation Facial. It was divine, especially the neck and scalp massage that came first. Then on to a green papaya slough to strip away dead skin cells and soften the face.

“You know, I mash papaya and coat tough cuts of beef with it,” I said. “It’s a terrific meat tenderizer.”

“Same,” said the aesthetician, pointing to the goo she rubbed on my face. “You feel cheeks now. They tender like baby bottom.”

Properly softened, my face was ready for her energetic removal of impurities. As she pinched her way across my “T-zone” of forehead, nose, and chin, she described in detail the contents of the pores she unclogged.  I vowed to cleanse more vigorously.

The best was saved for last: eyebrow tinting. I’d given mine up for gone. But no, there they were, just waiting to be resurrected with some vegetable dye. It was a shock to see them again after so many years. I held up a hand mirror and stared at them.

“Do I look like Grouch Marx, though?” I asked.

“No,” she said, then added, “Who  is Groucho Marx?”

My spa experience ended with a simultaneous manicure and pedicure. Regulars might take this drill for granted but for me it was tactile heaven: hands and feet left to soak in warm cucumber water until gently lifted out, one at a time, for brown sugar scrubs, massage, velvety creams. I was so taken with the feel of my new smooth girly feet and hands, I barely cared which color  polish was slapped on their nails.

The pampering felt fabulous but still, I doubt I’ll do it again any time soon. I can’t rationalize spending that much money on myself. An eyebrow tint every other month, however, is definitely in the cards.

In April, daughter Jennifer had broken the sad news to my granddaughters Lily, 10, and Anna, 8, that there was no Santa, just as they suspected. The kids, their mother, and their grandmother cried  themselves to sleep that night, lamenting the loss of the childhood icon and the end of an era. Christmas just wouldn’t be as charmed from now on, we all thought.

But we were wrong. A new idea transformed our holiday into something bigger this year and, I think, something better than a mere mound of gifts left under our tree.  The girls’ Uncle Michael gets the credit for introducing gratitude.

The day after he arrived from Mexico to spend Christmas with us in California, Michael handed each of his nieces a crisp hundred dollar bill.

“Have you ever touched a ‘Benjamin’ before?” he kidded. Wide-eyed, they shook their heads.

“Well, here’s what I’d like you to do with the money,” he said. “A lot of people are hurting financially this year. I’d like you to think of ways to spend your one hundred dollars on someone else. To spread the love around and make someone’s Christmas a little more merry. What do you say?”

They liked the idea and started to brainstorm. On TV they’d heard  about a food bank trying to fill holiday baskets. Another place took care of families and said they always needed baby diapers. At the mall they’d seen a Christmas tree blanketed with tags from kids asking for simple gifts like tee shirts and soccer balls. Or they could give some money to the local children’s hospital. Or stuff some in the Salvation Army bucket outside of Target. They were excited about all the options they had.

The following day we headed for Costco, where Lily  selected cans, jars, and cartons of foodstuffs for a local food bank, her cart loaded to overflowing. At the register, she grinned from ear to ear when the clerk told her, “Your total comes to $100.78.”

Anna’s turn came next. At the mall, she chose a handful of gift requests from the tag-covered tree, then rode the escalator up to her favorite stores to pick presents for little girls who asked for a hoodie, a Dora doll, a backpack, and a toy microscope. Back at the tree, a man took the packages from her outstretched arms and thanked her for her generosity.

“That made me feel really good,” said Anna later, from the backseat of our car. “We should do this every year.”

So Lily and Anna didn’t lose Santa after all; they  replaced him, playing Santa themselves with their own acts of generosity. Acts that befitted the true spirit of the season and, I hope, will become a new family tradition. Well played, Uncle Michael.

It was close to midnight by the time Jennifer, Lily, Anna, and I arrived at Quinta Elena on Nov. 23. It was good to be home and to have a houseful of company arriving the next day, Tuesday. Thursday would be one of our best Thanksgivings ever, I just knew.

Up early the next morning, I went into the kitchen to make coffee and saw a note on the refrigerator. “It pains me to tell you, Senora Elena,” wrote my housekeeper, Ana, “but the refrigerator, oven, and telephone aren’t working. I called the repair people but no one has come.”

After twelve years of owning a home in a small beach town in Mexico, I’ve learned not to panic as a first reaction to these re-entry snafus. My heart did sink, however, when I  slid the coffee carafe under the tap, opened the faucet, and heard the familiar gurgle of an empty line. The house was out of water. Again.

A chagrined Ana arrived half an hour later, and we sprang into action. Ana badgered and begged the appliance repair shop to send someone asap. I called a contact at the phone company who had helped me out many times before and pleaded for internet access. No way could my guests, NYC media types, do without. Manuel, my gardener/handyman, moved water from one storage tank to another while I ordered a truckload to be delivered to Quinta Elena, an address the tanker driver knew well.

And it all happened (well, almost all. An oven part  had to come from Guadalajara.). Broadband restored, water running, frig fixed, the last truck headed down my driveway as my guests’ rental cars headed up.

Over and over I am offered the same choice here. I can sit on the porch of my beautiful house (www.quintaelena.com), savoring the exquisite sights inside and out while counting my lucky stars. Or I can allow myself  to see only what needs to be fixed or buffed up, creating self-imposed stress as I turn each visit into an urgent to-do list.

Stuff needs maintenance, to be sure. But, I have to remind myself, not to the exclusion of admiring what’s lovely about the place. How the garden had flourished during the past rainy season, for instance. “Reina exora” blossoms, in multi-hued pastels and big as my fist, ran up the driveway now, on bushes that towered over our car.  Lavender “leticia” cups and golden “copas de oro” hid barbed wire, climbed fence posts, and coated slopes that were bare back in August when I was last in San Pancho.

As for our Thanksgiving, it was grand. Guests loved our little town and the beach at neighboring Sayulita, where Lily and Anna got up on surfboards for the first time.Eateries Baja Takueria, Cafe del Mar, and Ola Rica were huge hits. Everyone joined in the spirit of water conservation, taking “Navy showers” and closing faucets while washing dishes.

And for the record, here’s how you turn out a fine Thanksgiving dinner for twenty without an oven: You bake pumpkin, pecan, apple, and key lime pies, plus a coconut flan for good measure, at someone else’s house; you dry-brine the turkey and slow-grill it on a Weber; and you declare all side dishes as meant to be served at room temperature.

A houseful of family and friends will join me this Thanksgiving in San Pancho: daughter Jennifer, son Michael, granddaughters Lily and Anna, brother Jim and sister-in-law Teri, friends Cheryl and Jeff, Judi and John. Their presence means more to me this year than ever. Mostly because of my dust-up with cancer and my need to express my gratitude to them out loud.

As usual, I had downplayed its importance to everyone who tried to rally around in my time of need. What need? There’s no need, I said. I told them how small the tumors were, how easy the treatment was compared to the past, how good I felt both physically and mentally. No, I assured them, I feel little or no pain; no fear or misgivings either.

It’s a tactic I use often, this minimizing of my experience, this pushing away the people who love and want to comfort me. As if I’m so tough. As if they have nothing to offer me. It’s so obviously dishonest. Had they not called to express concern, not sent cards and candy, my feelings would have been hurt and I would have held it against them.

Which is what I intend to confess to those gathered at the Thanksgiving dinner table. Then I’ll thank them for ignoring my shows of false bravado and for being there again for me this year. These people who are so dear to me will hear me express how grateful I feel that they are in my life. I’ll close by lightening up and going for a laugh: Nevertheless, I’ll say, it might always be true that my tombstone should read, ”Here lies a fine example of what repression can accomplish.”

My Dia de Los Muertos altar , prepared with help from granddaughters Lily, 10, and Anna, 8, is a labor of love. On a small table in the living room, we assemble a foot-high pyramid of boxes and cover it with a hand-painted cloth. We stick to Mexican tradition and adorn the altar with tissue paper cutouts in reds, yellows, and purples, then add bouquets of marigolds and scores of candles, their fragrance and light meant to point the way home to the spirits of our departed.

We add some ritual whimsical touches, too, a la Mexicano—a papier-mache skeleton playing a violin; brightly painted clay skulls the girls made in art class; a bar of soap, a small bowl of water, a towel, and a comb for “tidying up” after the long trip back to the world.

Next we personalize our altar. On it we place reminders from their pasts so our departed family members feel welcome. Photographs: of my grandmother as a child in her high-button shoes; of my aunt and uncles as teenagers in a somber group portrait; of my parents on their wedding day; of Marsh, barefoot on his sailboat with coffee cup in hand. The gold locket my grandmother bought with her first paycheck. The diamond ring my mother wore for 55 years as a wife and widow. The brass sextant Marsh used to practice the ancient art of celestial navigation.

I’ll spend November 1 in the kitchen, fussing over favorite food and drinks our dearly departed used to enjoy with us. After sunset, our family will gather before our altar, light the candles, and share what I prepared. We’ll start with a batch of Marsh’s stuffed mussels, his signature dish, and my oatmeal cookies that he called “health food.” We’ll share a plate of the cheeses my mother brought from Wisconsin every Christmas and a bowl of the popcorn my dad made from scratch most Sunday nights.  We’ll sip the Miller beer, Spanish rioja, and Mexican tequila they loved and tell the old familiar stories again. We’ll acknowledge the continued importance in our lives of those who have left us and feel comforted by this remembrance of them.

Glib but true, I went to see a doctor about a shingles shot and came away with breast cancer. Here’s what happened. My new U.S. primary care doc, a striking Chinese-American woman  half my age, all but refused to give me the prescription for the shot until I agreed to tests I hadn’t had in years, including a mammogram. Several  weeks and a biopsy later, my stage one breast cancer was diagnosed.

“If you have to go and catch cancer, this is probably the one you want to catch.” So says step-daughter, Lisa, a nurse-practitioner in Austin’s biggest oncology clinic. The cure rate is so high and a new treatment so fast and easy (more on that  in a minute), I felt almost anxiety-free throughout last month’s many consultations with a slew of specialists. I say “almost” because it did get my attention when each office and institution asked for a copy of my advanced directive. Plus we wouldn’t know for sure how simple and small this cancer was until a lymph node check was done. And, to be honest, I did have a couple of secret cries, feeling sorry for the Widow Greene who had no husband to lean on when it was her turn for cancer.

Long story short. On Wednesday, another striking Chinese-American woman, this time my surgeon, performed a lumpectomy. On Thursday, a lab reported the good news of no lymph nodes affected. On Friday, the surgeon inserted a catheter balloon in my left breast and I hustled, well, sort of hustled, over to an Indian-American radiology oncologist for the beginning of a treatment called brachytherapy.

Pay attention now, because this treatment is cool. Intuitively it makes so much sense. Instead of the usual treatment of blasting the whole breast with radiation from the outside, seeds of radiation are delivered via  a catheter to the area where the tumor(s) have been removed. This seed-planting is done twice a day for five days, as opposed to six weeks for whole breast external beam radiation. Granted I don’t look too pretty right now with a tube hanging out of my bruised chest. But come Friday the tube will be gone, leaving the likely souvenir of a smallish scar nicely hidden by the inevitable droop of an aging breast.

Then it’s on to a discussion about medication for the next few years to prevent cancer’s recurrence. Whatever I decide, at least I have no worries about paying for the decision. Thanks to a grateful nation, my “military” medical coverage is good and cheap ($230/year; yes, year); $3 co-pay on meds. I think of my plan as a public option, given that it covers military members present and past, alive or dead, along with their beneficiaries  like me.  Would that other Americans were as lucky as I to have such coverage and such peace of mind.

So there you have it—my active observance of breast cancer awareness month. Plus a plug for the public health care option and a nod to  immigration rights.

As a classroom English teacher, I used to really crack the whip. Kids in my classes cranked out top notch work and lots of it. My “evil eye” or tapping of a pencil quieted down even the most rowdy. So it surprised me, at the family shelter where I work as a homework tutor, when the kids ran circles around me. They used time-honored lines: “I don’t have any homework.” “I can’t do this.” “I have to go to the bathroom.” “I’m too tired.” They somehow sensed I wouldn’t press, accurate little barometers that kids can be.

Until last week. Last week was the first week of the new school year, and this year would be different. It was time for me to “man up,” as friend Nick likes to say.

I showed up crabby and tired, after a day in doctors’ offices. I felt like the eight-year old who sat next to me looked. Head on her arm, Espy stared at her sheet of arithmetic problems and mumbled that she didn’t know how to add or subtract. I appealed to her pride. “I bet you do, a smart girl like you. So tell me, how much is four plus three?” She didn’t know. I held up  four fingers on one hand and three on the other. “Count them,” I said. She shook her head. I went to a shelf and brought back a bead board. “Look,Espy,” I all but growled, “we’re going to do these problems, every last one of them. We’ll sit right here until we finish, even if it means you can’t go out to play with the others.”

I was so mean. Espy eyed me for a few seconds, then picked up her pencil. Slowly we worked our way down the work sheet. It was painful and laborious, pushing colored beads and counting, problem after problem, row after row. But we finished. “You did it,” I said without smiling. “I knew you could. You’re no quitter.”

We stood to walk out to the playground. Espy didn’t smile either when she put her arms around my waist and hugged me before running off to join the others.

Stuffed mussels were Marsh’s signature dish, and he made them often. He dazzled me with a batch on our first serious date. He’d made them ahead, then reheated them in the galley of his sailboat. I’d never set foot on a sailboat before, much less been served fresh seafood prepared especially for me.

Over the years, Marsh and I harvested mussels from rocks up and down the  New England coast. We picked up a mooring ball or dropped anchor, jumped in the dinghy with a couple of big buckets, and headed for  harbor openings, where the pickings were often exceptionally good. We clamored over the slippery rocks and  filled both buckets in a matter of minutes, hands numbed by the cold water, pleased with helping ourselves to the bounty.

But for the dicing, stuffed mussels are easy to throw together. “It’s really all about the butter,” Marsh claimed. And they’re always a hit, even if you scorch the tops a bit, as I am wont to do.

Marsh’s Stuffed Mussels (makes 3 dozen)

Ingredients:

-1 lb. mussels

-1 cup dry white wine

-3 cloves garlic

-1/2 cup onion, minced

-1/4 lb. butter

-1 teaspoon fresh thyme

-2 cups Pepperidge Farm seasoned stuffing mix

Instructions:

1. Put the mussels and white wine in a large pot, bring to a boil, and steam until the shells open.

2. Drain the mussels, dice the meat, and set it aside, along with the shell halves.

3. In a large fry pan, saute the garlic and onion in the butter until golden.  Add the thyme, stuffing mix, and diced mussels.

4. Stuff the shells. Broil until browned (just a few seconds; they burn easily).

Last night  I swept a snake out of my kitchen in San Pancho. Not a big snake—maybe three feet long, fat as a garden hose, brown with black diamonds. But still, I vibrated with fear as I ran for a broom.

I had to act this time. Last year, when a similar snake appeared in the same spot, I panicked. I bolted into another room to consider my options, upset with Marsh that I, his widow, would have to deal with this crisis alone. After working up my nerve, I returned to peer around the kitchen corner but the damn snake was nowhere to be seen. It caused me a long anxious night, cowering in my bedroom, unable to sleep.

I admit, albeit sheepishly, that I feel proud of myself for pushing a garden snake out the back door. Relieved, too, to have dealt with one more experience I always dreaded. It’s the cliched fear of the unknown, isn’t it? Am I up to the task? How will I do? Now I know.

Like my fear of being stung by a scorpion. The first time it happened, I was relieved to learn how my body reacts, i.e. my throat doesn’t constrict, and I don’t die. The second time, I just popped an antihistamine and waited for the nausea and numbness to pass. (In the interest of science, let me point out that this can take days. A better, faster remedy is an intravenous drip. Two hours and $25 at the San Pancho regional hospital)

I just returned from a long walk and a good cry. You’ll think I’m foolish when I tell you why.

I joined eharmony.com two months ago, i admit  somewhat sheepishly. Does it make me seem needy, I feared, when I know full well that I am. Lonely, too. Anyway, a good-looking man contacted me almost immediately, and we corresponded for a few months. He sounded lovely—a writer, formerly worked with disabled kids, about my age. Both of us looked forward to our first meeting in San Francisco for a walk in Golden Gate Park and a bite to eat. Then he read my book.

Last night he wrote that he no longer wanted a relationship with the widow of a saint. Both of us would be comparing him to Marsh, he said, and the pedestal this saint occupies was just too high for him to deal with.

I was stunned. Then crushed. More crushed than a couple months of emails with a stranger warranted. Ergo the tears, out on the walking trail. At the moment, back home, what I feel most keenly is disappointment—in this man’s lack of self-confidence; in the realization that other men will think the same.

They will be wrong, however. I didn’t see Marsh as a saint. I saw him as a nice, thoughtful guy, like lots of guys out there. He had his flaws; we had our fights (my children kid me that they will tell all in a sequel to my book).

My purpose, with both the Sweet Things List and the book, was not to ignore the negatives but rather to highlight the positives in Marsh and in our life. To show my appreciation for them. This is a good thing. I hope I get the chance to do it again with another nice guy. Marsh would want that for me, too.

After Marsh died, I agonized for two years over my living arrangement. Should I keep my home and guest house in Mexico, even though I didn’t much like living there alone? Should I sell and look for something smaller and easier to maintain?

Should I spend more time in California and the “Grammy flat” we built behind my daughter’s house in San Jose? How much time, if I expected to find some friends and have a life independent of my daughter and granddaughters?

Thanks to indecision, my natural inclination to act was stifled. I followed conventional wisdom for a new widow and did nothing.

Last year, the answers dawned on me: 1. Subdivide my property and sell the bigger piece. 2. With some of the proceeds, rehab the guest house on the smaller piece to suit my needs. 3. Change my mindset and think of California as home, with frequent trips to my “get-away place in Mexico” the new life plan.

Let’s hear it for conventional wisdom. My staying in place and doing nothing helped these three decisions make themselves, it feels to me now. And there’s a bonus. I get to indulge my passion and design another living space. A not-so-big place this time, with a dedicated writing space so I can indulge this newer passion, too.

Sweet. Now all I need is a buyer.

I’m still thinking about the screenplay idea. The two writers who expressed an interest haven’t gotten back to me, and I think I know why. After two weeks in an online screenwriting course, plus reading some recommended books(Steve, you were right—Robert McKee’s STORY is the Bible.), I have doubts about my book as a movie, too.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not just being negative. I’m trying to be realistic. All books don’t translate well into visual story, and mine might be one of them. Marsh and I passed through some exotic geography, that’s true enough. So maybe our life together might make for a nice travelogue. But as protagonists of our story, did either of us change enough to keep an audience interested and awake for two hours? Were we conflicted enough, our story complex enough, to give a screenwriter material to work with? Or, as I suspect, is this a simple little love story with a sad ending, its message best left within the pages of a book?

I’m not giving up; I’m just saying…

My mother’s only sister, Jane, died ten days ago, and this past weekend, her children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews came back to our hometown for her funeral. Gathered in the vestibule of St. Mary’s Church in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, we stared at the slide show of old photos and pored over newspaper clippings arranged on tables. Jane as a kid, the youngest of four, the last of the “Finnerty kids” to go. Jane and Barney as young marrieds, so good-looking, all smiles and optimism. Later, during the hectic years, as parents raising four of their own and as owners of the town’s only cab company. Jane as prize-winner, for bridge at the Elks, for golf at South Hills.

The “Finnerty kids”—Mary, Tom, Owen, and Jane—grew up in Fond du Lac during the Great Depression of the 1930s. Their dad was a flamboyant saloon-keeper who lived in and out of the house until he keeled over in the middle of Main Street, dead at 43 from cirrhosis of the liver. Mary, my mother and the oldest, saw him for the alcoholic he was and never forgave him for the humiliation he caused her. Her siblings loved to tell colorful stories about the saloon and his charms. but Mary never did. She knew too much—she was confidante to her pretty German mother and also her surrogate. From the age of 10, Mary minded her siblings, cooked their meals, and cleaned their clothes while her mother worked two jobs.

“My sister and brothers thought it was fun to stay up past midnight and sneak down the back stairs of our latest walk-up apartment,” she said. “They giggled and whispered to each other as we lugged our bags, bolting on the overdue rent. Afterward, only I got to stay up and watch my mother cry.”

Interesting then that both sisters named a son after their father, and both took excessive pride in calling themselves “Irish,” with no mention of their 50% German blood. Both of them married German-Americans, too, nice guys, quiet responsible family men. Denied the chance to go to college themselves, the sisters pushed their kids hard: Not going to college was never offered as an option; all seven of us went; all of us became accomplished professionals.

We had it easy, compared to our mothers. Here’s to you, Aunt Jane—to your strength, your drive, and your unfailing support for all of us. We’ll miss you.