The florist pulled into our driveway at 2:00 and I raced out to greet him.

“What’s the address on the card?” I asked.

“706.” Abby’s apartment. Bummer.

So a couple of hours later, Abby called me on her way home from work.

“Abby, you got roses delivered!”

“I did?”

“Yeah, there’s white and red and yellow and pink and orange and yellow-orange and coral ones. They’re beautiful!”

“Who sent me flowers?” she mused.

“I don’t know. It just started to rain so I’ll bring ’em inside. Want me to read the card?” I’m such a humanitarian.

“Yeah.”

So I walked to her porch with my cordless phone and pulled out the card.

“Oh my God, Abby — they’re for me!”

It was true. “Lynn Benson” on the card, plain as day.

My enthusiasm tempered her disappointment. I gave her lip-shaped sugar cookies (iced with pink frosting, of course) to lessen the blow.

We gathered at Portola Valley Presbyterian Church at 10:00 on Saturday, January 16, 1999 for our youth group advisors retreat.

I’ll start by saying that I don’t like retreats. Never have. I’m the sort of person who has no trouble laying out her personal thoughts to her Web page, but I’m not interested in sharing with a group.

So anyway, my number-one condition for attending the retreat was that there be coffee. I walked into our meeting room, oversized CIO coffee mug in hand. Kimberly looked at my mug and then at Andy, our oxymoronically named Youth Elder.

“Andy, did you bring the coffeepot and the filters?”

“Uh, was that my job?” Andy asked.

We rummaged through the church kitchen for Mr. Coffee and his filters. Jim L. got the coffee going, and I was anticipating my first swig of the day when the coffee maker erupted. Coffee grounds and hot water spewed out the top of the filter basket. I turned the coffeemaker off and started to wipe up the mess, when it erupted again all over my left hand. I said some not-so-very-Christian vocabulary words and then ran it under cold water and wondered why I was there.

Andy cleaned up the mess and I supervised his coffee making.

Once the second pot was actually done, I settled down on the couch with my laptop to keep notes of my personal commentary throughout the day. We began by sharing who we are and what we do and a story from when each of us was in junior or senior high school. I told the group about when I ran for student body president when I was in eighth grade. Michelle Laidlaw was supposed to run, and she was the odds-on favorite to win, but I became her opponent regardless. Then, much to the surprise of everyone at Pine Hollow Intermediate, it was determined that Michelle would be disqualified from the race because she’d received a D grade on her report card the previous year. By that time, the application deadline had passed, so I ran unopposed and won the election.

Leila strapped on her guitar and we sang a couple of songs. My hand throbbed under the ice pack Jim had fetched for me.

After singing, we went into the first meaty part of the program: Lectio Divina. That’s Latin for “Divine Reading.” It’s a way of praying with Scripture. The whole group participated. Kimberly, our youth director, read Psalm 62 to us twice. The first time, we concentrated upon opening our minds to what God wanted us to hear. The second time, we listened for a word or a phrase to grab us. We were given a bit of quiet time to write down the word and reflect upon it.

The words I selected were “assail” and “deliverance.” They made me think of Christina Williams, whose 13-year-old decomposing body was found three miles from her house on January 13. I’ve struggled with that ever since hearing that the remains were indeed hers. Leila read the Psalm to us a third time. Her reading was fluid and emotional. This time, the phrase “and set no vain hopes on robbery” hit me with a wallop. I hadn’t even heard that line the first time. It started me thinking of my buddy Ken (ed note: see 1997’s entry “the worst pick-up line of all time), who is currently serving time in San Quentin for armed robbery.

I reread the Psalm and picked up my Bible to read its interpretation. It never ceases to amaze me how well God knows us, how intimately he understands our humanness. Even as I write this, sitting on a stone hearth with a fire’s heat licking my back, it chills me to realize that God knows all of our faults and, even so, allows us to act upon our own selfish whims and desires. I used to be really hung up on money, until I parted ways with IBIS and watched my income slide as a result. Ken, who used to attend church twice weekly, is now suffering God-only-knows what sort of abuse behind the bars of a maximum-security prison. And why? Because he felt he needed to hold up a bank. What type of Entity, what sort of parent who loves us, allows us to screw up repeatedly, even though the consequences of our actions may cause us nothing but pain and suffering for many, many years? I guess a parent who knows His advice is worthwhile, and trusts his child to follow it. It makes sense to me. But sometimes it’s a real pisser. And despite all of that, I praise God with my actions and my voice. I sing the Doxology many times a week, and always wholeheartedly.

Then it was time for lunch. Kimberly and Andy went to get the sandwiches. Megan brought in a long stick she’d found during our 20 minutes of quiet reflection and we played baseball indoors with the stick and a Styrofoam cup. We ate lunch when the sandwiches arrived, and talked about spelunking. I told the group about tunneling though the storm tunnels of San Carlos with my roommate. The story was met with much admiration.

After lunch, we played team-building games. I was the only person who refused to be blindfolded. I took off my glasses and shut my eyes instead.

No, I didn’t peek.

We were all led to a piece of rope and were challenged to create a perfect square. Jim H. became our leader, and had us count off. We determined who was a corner and who was a side. The corners put their hands in the center of the circle to ensure congruency. Then we all stepped back five steps, adjusted our positions, and then the sides took a couple of steps back as well. After final adjustment, they took off their blindfolds and I opened my eyes. Our square was nearly perfect!

We played some more improv games after that. A pen was passed around and we used it as a prop. I pretended it was an arrow shot into my heart. My silent death scene garnered applause. Then we pretended that a folded piece of fabric was pain, and had to act out what we do with that. I wiped my eyes with it and then wadded it up and threw it at Joel.

Why does there always have to be negative imagery involved at retreats? At the IBIS administrative staff retreat, Brenda (then the president of IBIS) led us in our group exercise, which was to pretend we’d all been fired from IBIS and had formed our own consultancy to do for IBIS the jobs we’d done while on staff. And I said, “why would we *want* to work for IBIS after you’ve fired all of us?”

Ahhhhh, retreats…

Then we played a translation game. I volunteered, essentially so I could say I’d volunteered for something during the day’s events. Andy was from the island of Samsua and had to talk about the public transportation system there. His performance and my translation were truly inspired.

Then, at 2:30, an hour behind schedule, we got down to the heart of the matter: The Youth Advisor Application Packet. When I started advising for the junior-high group five semesters ago, the only prerequisite was that you have interest in being an advisor. Now, the Youth Ministry Team has created an 11-page packet that includes a four-page application, which is to be completed by all Quest (junior high) and Sonlight (senior high) advisors and potential advisors.

I flipped through the application quickly, expecting to be personally bothered by at least part of it. Satisfied once I was, I flipped back to the beginning to follow along as Andy spoke. We discussed the covenant/mission statement of the Youth Ministry team, and then the different youth ministry groups we could work with. Then came the job description: Growing closer to Christ through regular Sunday worship attendance and personal Bible study, having fun without getting too excited, appropriate physical contact (not too violent during the games, not too close during a hug), being a good Christian role model, and having good listening skills to help kids focus on the speaker.

I know that the kids are the reason why we’re doing this new application process. But it’s difficult to impose structure in a group that has been remarkably structureless since you became involved with it more than two years ago. Especially when the youth programs have already kicked off for the winter/spring semester of 1999.

So we’re going through it and the Youth Elder is joking his way through the packet, to the point where I finally stood up for either doing this seriously or not doing it at all. Andy agreed that he was just kidding. But why would you kid your way through this packet when the whole reason we were there was to be serious about it?

Have I mentioned that I hate retreats?

So then we took a break until I asked that we resume the program (because I really wanted to get to the driving range). Among other things, we discussed my inappropriate grabbing of Justin last week — he’d attempted to throw me over his shoulder and I reached for any part of him that would keep him from dropping me on my head. Unfortunately, my arms weren’t long enough to reach his legs, so, unknowingly and unintentionally, I took hold of his butt. I again apologized for it, but he *was* trying to throw me over his shoulder at the time, so I don’t think I’m wholly to blame…

I asked if we were to complete every question in the application, which was met with an affirmative answer. Sigh. Then Joel talked about how to facilitate fun for the kids, while also facilitating fun for yourself. Fact of the matter is, we’re not in this for ourselves. We’re in it for the kids. If we have fun, that’s great, but we ought not to have our fun at the expense of our charges. We are Advisors, which doesn’t mean we’re always Participators.

So now it’s 4:05 and I think we’re starting to wind down. Based upon this application, I’m seriously doubting what my involvement in Quest will be this year. I have to admit that I’m not happy that this is being introduced in the middle of the year. Now that we’ve already had the first meeting, I’ll look like a quitter. But I am nowhere near eager to fill out this application. I am not comfortable with sharing the three significant events in my life that have impacted me spiritually. I am not comfortable with sharing my dating history. I am not comfortable committing my personal and lifestyle information to paper, especially when the confidentiality clause states that each completed application may be read by as many as eight people.

I really love advising for Quest. But I’m really not going to complete this application.

At 4:12, Kimberly thanked all of us for the time and dedication we’ve exhibited today and throughout the youth programs. She started to fiddle in her bag for the awards she’d created for each of us.

“You’ll have to bear with me, though, because they’re homemade, and therefore…” Kimberly began.

“Homemade-ish?” Justin asked.

“Exactly.”

Then, while attempting to clean up, Steve dumped a cup of water on his crotch.

“Guess he’s really excited about the awards,” someone said. Or maybe I just thought that.

My prize was “Most Rambunctious.” Kimberly praised my energy level, but also my upbeat personality and my optimism. She mentioned the meeting I led about disappointment and how to use it to your advantage. She thanked me for the creativity I’ve shown in planning meetings (making hats for the homeless, top 10 things Jesus did, etc.). She also thanked me for sticking with Quest even during difficult times in my life.

What, me feel guilty? Naah…

At 4:33 we broached the idea of closing in prayer. Kimberly asked us to pray about things on our hearts, and to share them with the group. I requested inspiration and guidance. We prayed a circle prayer. Justin had to pray for me because we prayed for the person at the right of us. Justin began his prayer for me: “God, be with Lynn, because she rocks.” I busted out laughing.

So at eight minutes to five, we were released.

I put my laptop and application packet in my truck and went back to visit the sanctuary. It is beautiful. The sanctuary (where church services are held) is an A-frame structure, and when you sit in the pews the wall you face is all windows, windows that allow you to look out into the trees. It’s very Godlike. I sang the Doxology and went back to my truck.

While driving home, my odometer turned to 60,000 miles. Upon returning home, I was totally wiped out from the intensity of the day. Abby came by and I talked to her about it. We decided to hook up with our friends Jim and Charles. I went with her to feed her parents’ cats (her folks were out of town for the weekend). While we were there, she called Jim, who said that a buddy of his had just given him two tickets for tonight’s Sharks game, and would she like to go with him? She agreed.

“Does Charles want to talk to Lynn now?” We planned to all meet back at my house. When Jim and Charles arrived I read some of the questions from the application packet to them. Everyone agreed that they’d never answer the questions posed. Heck, I don’t even think some of them are legal.

After Abby and Jim left, I went into my room to put on a sweatshirt when BOOM! What I needed to say about the application came pounding into my brain. I grabbed the application packet and quickly scrawled what was in my head. I’m convinced it was an inspiration from God.

I walked out of my room, the weight of the application lifted off my shoulders. “You look like you feel better,” Charles commented.

I read to him what I wrote, and we left to rent a movie.

I completed the first page of the application (“General Information”) during “Lethal Weapon 4.” At the “Marital Status” question I ignored the “Single” and “Married” boxes and checked an “Unmarried” box of my own creation. I thought about who should act as my references and chose my colleague John, my past Photojournalism advisor Jim, and my Mom. It said that the references shouldn’t be related to you, but I talk to my Mom more than I talk with any other human being so I figured they might as well give her a call.

I was much relieved when I finished the page.

On Sunday morning I made a copy of my application and sought out Kimberly. We spoke quietly in a corner of the Narthex. I handed her my file folder. “This is my application. If it isn’t OK, I need to know before this Thursday, because I don’t want to keep going to Quest and get the kids accustomed to me if I’m going to be disqualified based upon my answers.”

“Oh, Lynn, I’m sure it will be fine.” Kimberly said. “It’s just something we need to do across the board. We can always talk about it.”

“No, I don’t think so. If it isn’t acceptable, please call me before Thursday. If it is OK, well, no news is good news,” I told her.

I don’t know if she’s read it yet, but this is what I wrote on the back of my one-page application: I know that, without God, I am but an empty vessel. The life I lead is that which He has granted me. Therefore, I discuss intimate, personal secrets with Him alone. I hope this does not disqualify me after more than four semesters of “upbeat and positive” (Kimberly, 01/16/1999) service to Quest. –(signed) M. E. Benson

On my way out of church after the service, I picked up an informational brochure about the choirs. We’ll see if I’ll need it.

I went to Katherine’s place at 5:15 on Christmas Eve’s eve evening to swap gifts and drink wine. Together we killed a bottle of Chenin Blanc and talked about subversive Christian literature.

Left her place at 6:35 to meet the 6:54 train that was conveying Erich, the fellow I was seeing for dinner that night. While waiting, I talked to a guy with a mountain bike at the train station. There was black ice on the asphalt. He told me it had been frozen for three days. He enjoyed skidding his bike across it to my laughter.

Bikeman got on the train and Erich got off the train. I met him at Chris’s Christmas party when he asked me to dance. We’ve been e-mailing and talking on the phone for a little more than a week. Yeah, it was kind of a first date sort of thing, but I don’t think I’ll see him again. Or rather, I might see him again, but kissing will not be involved.

He liked my brown fuzzy hat.

Anyway, we put our name in at Max’s (he’d not made reservations as he said he would…) and went to Barnes and Noble across the way. I believe you’re familiar with it. The restaurant was his recommendation. I had a Cobb salad. And a glass of wine.

He opted not to drink with me. Strike two. (I’d adjust that penalty if I knew he was an alcoholic or never let liquor touch his lips, but he mentioned having a beer at the Christmas party, so penalty was granted.)

Dinner was fun, though. He told me a new Monica joke that his dad had invented. Time passed very quickly and we laughed a lot. I was surprised when he handed me a Christmas present (something I’d admired at a bookstore while Christmas shopping, but he didn’t know that). Erich prefaced the gift-giving with, “I know we haven’t known each other that long, so how about we pretend I’ve known you for a year and a half and I missed your 27th birthday party and was feeling guilty about it.”

I was surprised when I looked at my watch and it was 9:30. He had to catch his train so he paid for dinner and we hot-footed it over to the station. I hugged him goodbye.

I’d told Katherine and my neighbor Abby that I’d be at the Loading Zone (a bar on Broadway in downtown Redwood City) around 9-9:30, and that they’d know how the date went by whether I brought him along. I showed up at 9:50 and Abby, Katherine and neighbor Dino were all at the bar. A reggae band I heard at the great party I was at on Saturday night was playing. They’re called “The Dread Truth”. Good stuff.

Katherine was wearing the hat I’d just given her for Christmas. Abby looked at me. “Date went really well, eh?” Dino asked to try on my hat. He ended up wearing it most of the night. “Hey, I heard you were on a date tonight. Don’t you have a boyfriend?” I told him of my split with Kevin. I think his eyebrows rose a bit at the news.

After all the wine, I knew I didn’t want beer, so I ordered Jack Daniel’s on the rocks with a splash of water. A graybeard asked me to dance, and I said only if Katherine could dance with us.

Then Oliver, the older black man who had been leaving as I entered and then turned back around to come in, joined us. After one song, I left the dance floor but Katherine and Oliver stayed out there. Graybeard asked me to dance again and I did, but with drink in hand. Finally a woman sitting alongside the dance floor took my drink from my hand so I wouldn’t slip on the torrent of droplets that had splashed to the floor.

As the night went on, most of the neighborhood showed up — my roommate (Alex), his buddy Brian, Abby, Dino, Katherine, plus people from Saturday’s party. Abby tried to wimp out and go home, but I hollered at her, drill-sergeant style, and she ordered another drink, but not before I asked for more Jack Daniel’s.

The bartender looked me in the eye and said, “I’m going to make it special for you.” Beware of any bartender who says that while referring to you. So Brian and I watched James the Bartender pour four different types of unnamed liquor into a cocktail shaker. I think that two of them were JD and tequila. He blended it and poured it into a wine glass. “What do you call this?” Brian asked. “It’s a ‘James Daniel’s’.”

I don’t like to drink strong hard cocktails, but this one was so smooth I could drink it all day. Well, all day until I hit the floor flat on my back. It did have orange juice in it, so I figured it at least had to be somewhat nutritious. Fortunately, by the time I’d let the neighborhood taste my drink, it was halfway empty.

So as the night went on, we’re drinking our drinks and *smoking*, because it’s not a smoke-free bar, woo hoo!, and playing pinball and pool, and Dino was loudly extolling the virtues of my brown fuzzy hat (while still wearing it and finding excuses to put one of his hands on any available semi-innocuous place on my body), and Abby’s drinking continued and Katherine was hanging loose and life simply could not be any better.

We finally let Abby, Katherine and Dino take off. Alex and I stuck around to watch Brian play a game of pool. Near the end of the game, I was putting on my coat when I saw the cutest guy in the bar looking at me.

“Hi.” I said.

He approached me shyly. “Hi. Who was that blonde girl you were with?”

Typical. “Oh, that’s my neighbor.”

“Who was that guy she was with? Was that her boyfriend? I wanted to talk to her but didn’t want to hone in if that was her boyfriend.”

I explained that no, he was a neighbor too.

“So they’re not together?”

“No.”

“Well, my name is Charles.”

“I’ll tell her, Charles. Her name is Abby. We’ll probably be back some Wednesday night.”

I walked back to where Alex and Brian were standing.

“Oooh, Lynn, did he get your number?”

“No. He wanted to know about Abby.” We laughed. Alex drove my truck back to the house around 12:10 this morning where we proceeded to party at Abby’s. She cooked dinner for herself and the guys. Her address stamper was on her kitchen table so I grabbed Alex’s hand and stamped it.

“Great, thanks, Lynn, my girlfriend is *really* going to love this.” Alex griped.

Dino asked, “What did she do?”

I clarified the situation by stamping Dino’s hand, too. He was charmed. While Abby was cooking, I told her about Charles. She laughed. After dinner, Abby gave me and Alex our Christmas presents. She gave me a big, clear glass coffee mug chock full of candy. Alex got a small tin of mints with a ship on it. Dino settled himself in on the floor by Abby’s stereo. He had a blanket over himself. I stuck my head off the foot of Abby’s bed and teased him for his woeful condition. We decided that we wanted to go to Harold’s Club (a bar so divey that even *I* haven’t been inside) to play pool, and got Dino psyched up to go with us.

“OK, I’ll run upstairs and get some quarters. I’ll meet you back down here.”

Fifteen minutes later, he still wasn’t back. So Alex, Abby and I sang Journey songs at the tops of our lungs to wake his ass up:
SOMEDAY,
LOVE WILL FIND YOU!
BREAK THOSE
CHAINS THAT BIND YOU!
ONE NIGHT
WILL REMIND YOU!!!!!!!!!!!

Abby called Dino on the phone and then announced we would not be seeing him for the rest of the night. So Abby and I drank what was left of her red wine, and I opened a good bottle of 1995 BV cabernet that I got for my birthday, and we three nearly killed that while playing drunken Jenga. Abby lost, big time.

So then she dropped out of the game and Alex and I played drunken power Jenga, where you start removing blocks from the very bottom of the tower. It was great until I lost.

Abby was ready to pass out by that point so I left. Alex stayed behind for a minute. I went down to my office to “talk” online with my buddy Chris, who was in the middle of a double shift that started at 4:00 p.m. on December 23 and was scheduled to finish at 7:00 a.m. on December 24. He said that he was paying rapt attention to me, but instead I think he was just laughing at me. Oh well.

The mother of a guy I went to SJSU with died on November 21, 1998, the night of my birthday party. Hers was nice a funeral as I’ve ever attended.

Johnny P. and I were our own little funeral procession. We each drove our respective vehicles to the church, St. Andrew’s Episcopal on Saratoga Avenue.”Butt-f*ck nowhere,” was his way of putting it. He’s a very spiritual man.

We got to the church at 6:35 for the 7:00 service. John and I parked facing each other, and a minivan pulled in to the left of me. Two kids and their mom and dad got out.

“I don’t know about wearing jeans to a funeral,” he said, referring to one of the junior-high kids exiting the minivan. John was wearing an Armani jacket. “I’m gonna be dressed up, so don’t laugh,” he warned me the night before.

“John, I would never…”

“Oh, right,” he said. “I would.”

“Just part of your charm.”

I wrote a sentiment in the card purchased for the occasion, licked the envelope, put on my brown fuzzy hat and got out of my truck. “OK, I’m ready.”

The church grounds were huge, and there appeared to be an elementary school on the premises. St. Andrew’s has lovely stained glass windows. The entryway is cavernous.

Dave saw us after we entered and approached. He looked pretty good, considering his mom died five days before Thanksgiving. He shook John’s hand, and then offered his hand to me. I hugged him instead.

“How are you doing, Dave?” I asked.

“If I can get through the next two hours, I’ll be OK.”

I pulled the card out of my purse and gave it to him for later. His dad came over and Dave introduced us. I commented on the loveliness of the windows, and asked “is this where your family worships?”

“No, uh, we never got into the church thing.”

“Oh.”

“I really like Rev. Maggie. She’s great.” Dave piped up.

“That’s wonderful,” I assured him.

Dave’s dad said that the Reverend needed to talk with them, so Dave walked away and John and I signed the guest book. It had a three column page and our signatures are square in the middle of the first page. We stood around in the vestibule for a while, until I got a little concerned that one of Dave’s creepy friends who had an unrequited crush on me the entire time we were in the photojournalism program might show up, so we entered the sanctuary. Flags hung lengthwise across the cruciform worship house. The organ and choir loft were actually on a loft in the back of the room. The pews were dark and uncomfortable-looking, but we were spared from them because someone had arranged padded chairs in an alcove to the left of the altar.

I was about to comment that we wouldn’t have to kneel when I looked down and saw the kneelers hinged to each chair. A grand piano stood behind us, and a pianist played songs that ran the gamut from “Mona Lisa” to “Try to Remember” to “Annie’s Song”.

At 7:05 the family filed in. Then Reverend Maggie led us in an opening prayer and addressed us. She hadn’t known Dave’s mom, but the family had spent a lot of time talking with her. The audience members who had known Dave’s mom smiled at Rev. Maggie’s comments. We read Psalm 25. Dave read us a poem he wrote that was really lovely. We prayed again. Dave talked about his mom, and what she had meant to the children she taught and the neighbors she cared for.

A neighbor who had been her neighbor for more than 26 years described the collecting and genealogy projects the two women had undertaken. Dave’s mom entered more than 1,800 names of relatives into her PC before she died.

“When Nadine and I started going to the genealogy library twice a week, she wouldn’t go near the computer. Not at all. But a lot of data is on the computer, so she finally took some tentative steps and began to use it. After a while, she learned that the same genealogy software is available for home PCs, but her family only had Macs in the house. So she said, ‘I want my own PC.’ And the family laughed, but soon Nadine had her computer. She learned Microsoft Office and went to town with the genealogy software.”

I thought that was really neat. What a lovely way to be remembered. I never knew Dave’s mom, but by the time the neighbor was done with her remarks I felt pleased to be among the crowd honoring her ascent into afterlife.

Rev. Maggie led us in another prayer, and then the Lord’s Prayer. I hesitated when we reached the “forgive us our…” part, not knowing whether Episcopalians seek forgiveness for debts or trespasses. They say trespasses. Are Presbyterians the only ones who say “forgive us our debts” and don’t kneel?

Her benediction addressed Nadine’s entry into the Kingdom of God, and although we are sad for the loss we should celebrate that she is back with her Creator.

AMEN! Imagine a life of pure bliss. And no rent payments. And no creepy people to watch out for. And no ascribed kneeling. That’s Heaven.

This afternoon I went mountain bike riding with John and JV. I am pleasantly surprised that it came together. John called my house around 12:30 looking for my roommate, who was snowboarding. John wrenched his ankle dirt-bike racing, but was hoping to get some exercise in.

I was working but when he called me back at 2:30 I was at a stopping point. I got to their place around 3:00 and we loaded up the bikes, hit the gas station for fuel, food and tire air, and then drove over 92 to Half Moon Bay.

“Thanks for letting me tag along, guys!” I told them. “Tag along, nothing!” John replied, “you’re part of the crew.”

That made me feel almost as good as when Alex told me I was tough as shit. Guys are so neat. A nice word from a man who’s a peer means more to me than a similar comment from a woman in my peer group. Maybe because I think men are so cute. Maybe.

The day was gray and windy. I’ve never been off-road biking, and had racing slick tires on my bike from my triathlon forays. My bald tires were not appropriate for the soupy mud. We’d hoped to see the 30 foot waves at Maverick’s, but they were nowhere near that. I stayed as far away from the cliff edge as possible.

I only fell twice. The first time I dismounted backwards into a shrub. The second time I was trying to get up from the first fall. But the guys both fell before I did, so that was OK. I didn’t feel like a loser girl.

Halfway through the ride the guys hooked up on a soupy mud path. I knew there was no way I could make it through, so I turned off onto a clearing by the reservoir where five windsurfers were skipping across the surface of the water.

The wind was incredible. Winter is blowing in hard, and God seemed so everywhere, so powerful.

The guys rode on for a while, then turned around and returned to me. We rode back to JV’s vehicle, where they left me alone to change out of my muddy pants in the cab of the truck.

After we all changed clothes, JV drove us around Moss Beach and Montera (I want to stay at the lighthouse hostel there — it’s beautiful and right on the ocean). Then we drove back over the hill to the car wash by their house, hosed down our bikes, and went back to their condo, where John and I baked lemon-blueberry-poppyseed muffins and JV cooked pasta with red sauce and chicken. Their friend Jeff showed up while the guys were cooking and I was online talking with a friend.

We cleared off the table and popped a bottle of ’83 chardonnay. John even busted out the placemats and candles. It was lovely. I need to put my knobby tires on my bike. Then look out coastline, here I come!

I have survived yet another birthday.

I do a big party every other year on the odd-numbered birthdays. As this year pegged my age at an odd number (but not a big nor momentous odd number — except for the 3-year old who showed up, I think I was the youngest person in attendance), I threw a big party.

At first, the party was in jeopardy. I awoke the Monday before feeling as though my roommate had snuck into my room and beaten me with lead pipes as I slept. I was seeing my doctor two hours later. I had a flu and a tonsil infection. Ugh. I got some antibiotics and went to bed for three days. I was back among the living by Thursday and feeling mostly human by Friday.

Saturday I started to run out of steam by 4:00, but pre-party adrenaline kept me awake until… well, I’ll tell you in order of events.

There were nearly 40 of us in my house. All of my neighbors showed up, as did a ton of friends I know through my roommate. Also in attendance were people from every job I’ve held since college.

I roasted a 23.5 pound turkey and made stuffing. When Blaine tasted the turkey, he got down on one knee and made to give me his ring. So the turkey was good. I carved it and put it out with rolls and turkey sandwich fixins and we all had pre-Thanksgiving turkey sandwiches. It was really cool.

The IBIS contingency gave me the framed picture from when I was in the San Francisco Chronicle/Examiner — they even took it off the Wall of Fame for me. 🙂 They also gave me a mirrored disco ball Christmas tree ornament and some red chenille gloves. Nik and Thida gave me a Bazooka lunchbox, chock full o’gum. Sean, my friend since third grade, played an anonymous e-mail game with me during the week and as such, gave me the tire pressure gage and chrome, high-performance valve stem caps I’d requested from him.

I also got 10 bottles of wine and two of champagne. Oh, and Abby gave me a certificate for a pedicure, and Dave and Sabrina gave me a fabulous halogen desk lamp. But best of all, I got to cook for all my dear friends and show them a really good time.

I have a small artist’s sketchbook that I’ve used as my birthday book since my 20th birthday. I have all the guests at my b’day parties write or draw in it. We nearly finished it off on the night of my party. Next year we’ll finish it for sure!

The last four of us were me, Chris, Sean and Kimberly. I got a few birthday kisses from Sean before he left. Kimberly left around 1:00 since she had to be up for work (which is also church) at 6:00 that morning. So that left me and Chris hanging out in my darkened, finally quiet living room, listening to the CDs I’d been given.

Chris never throws e-mail away. So when it came time to shop for me he dug into his e-archives and found a message I sent him a couple of years ago, asking him for a dub of a Fifth Dimension CD. He bought me the definitive collection two-CD set, plus a Global Communication trancey/ambient CD. Both are fantastic.

Also from Chris was a collection of “Red Meat” cartoons. Those are the cartoons where the art stays the same but the speech bubbles change. Before those cartoons really bugged me, but now I am a convert to the Church of Milkman Dan. It was a total Chris gift. It was great to spend some quiet time with Chris. We used to spend long hours together commuting to and from the Tri Valley Internet User Group. It is mostly my fault that he got hired at Aimnet (though I tease him by saying my involvement should ensure his perpetual indebtedness).

He calls himself a cynic. That seems to put people off.

“Chris, it’s not that you’re cynical,” I explained. “It’s just that you’re right.”

He proved my hypothesis for me. When I first announced my birthday game, Chris said: > hmmm, maybe if EVERYONE is too lazy to play the birthday game, I > should send you ONE link and I’ll win! > Devious, ain’t I. So he sent me two links. If I am ever in Sverige and want to buy “Celebrity Skin”, I’m set. Consequently, this column is officially dedicated to Christopher Robin Zimmerman. Thanks, Chris, for being such a good sport!

So we listened to CDs, my head on his shoulder, until we both dozed off at 5:00 a.m. I awoke at 6:30 and changed into proper pajamas (I’d fallen asleep in my party clothes).

Chris woke up. “You need to go to your bed!”

I agreed.

“I need to go to my bed!” he continued. I agreed. He left.

And, despite my wholehearted promises, I didn’t make it to church that morning. At least I didn’t sleep alone. 🙂

I have a couple of loose ends I need to tie up:

First: With regard to my ex-boyfriend: I am sorry I accused you of programming a bot to poll my site for new material. Thank you so much for explaining what was really going on. I never would have guessed about that OmniWeb feature for bookmarked Web pages. When Dragon first brought that hit report to my attention, I couldn’t believe that you’d do something as creepy as creating processes to electronically spy on me. It made me seriously doubt my judgment of you and about men in general. Thank you for summoning up the courage to send me an e-mail. Bark!

Second: Thanks, Chris, for plugging me in your Raw column. I got some great e-mail from your charming and literate fans! If you aren’t Chris Zimmerman, you should read his Raw and Nitro columns about professional wrestling. I never watch wrestling, but have found myself stopping on Monday Night Nitro for a moment or two. Before reading his work, I’d never consider such an action! If you are a fan of the sport, Chris’s commentary will reinforce your feelings. If you aren’t a fan of the sport, Chris’s commentary will reinforce your feelings.

Third: There is no third. OK. That’s better!

I swear that this has been one of the best weeks of my life. On Sunday (October 25, 1998), I saw the movie “Pleasantville.” It was charming and delightful. I was accompanied by a friend with whom I’ve recently resumed contact.

After the movie, we walked on the beach and sprinted into a flock of standing pigeons. We watched the sun set over Santa Cruz with his buddy John and Calvin, John’s dog.

After the sunset, my friend and I went out for really good Chinese food, and went back to his place for “The X Files.”

On Monday, I called my potentially first client to set up a time the next day to have our final negotiation.

That afternoon I posted a request to alt.games.tombraider for survey participants. I’ve been asked by www.rightgrrl.com to write a bi-weekly column and knew who I wanted to write about, but not the focus of the article.

On Tuesday, Oct. 27, Motormouth Marketing signed its first client. The contract represents one-quarter of my time. I got what I asked for and couldn’t be happier. Especially considering that the client is the Better Business Bureau of San Mateo County. Woo hoo!!

You don’t know how difficult it was for me to keep my lips clamped shut during the meeting once the president said, “well, when your company is doing work with us…”. I’m certain that anyone who watched me drive home after the meeting while I talked to my mom on my cell phone and waved my arms like a banshee thought I either a freak or a drunk. 🙂

So anyway, Tuesday afternoon I had a celebratory lunch with my newly resumed friend and talked to Kevin, who congratulated me. I called a few people at my client’s office (I love saying that) to set up interviews for the next day.

By Tuesday evening I was still pretty wild from the adrenaline, so I sorted through all my Tomb Raider/Lara Croft surveys. I got nine responses and was thrilled with them, and inspired, I wrote the first draft of my first-ever www.rightgrrl.com column. It’s called “Lara Croft for President” and I’m *very* happy with it.

Wednesday I interviewed a couple of BBB people and handed the president the rough draft of a promotions flyer he asked me to rewrite. That evening, I picked Kevin up in the city (after having a smoke break with two of my favorite former co-workers and reaffirming that my decision to start my own business was indeed correct) and we drove to the Palace of Fine Arts for “The Next 20 Years.” It was billed as “An Industry Insiders’ Sneak Preview of the Future,” but I figured it would just be an excuse to have a cocktail party in the Palace of Fine Arts.

I was right. There were a bunch of companies with tables and stands, and I made a couple of pitches for Motormouth Marketing which were received fairly well. Four bucks for a glass of Mondavi wine wasn’t cheap, but I’d wrangled a free ticket to the event so I figure I still made out ahead.

At 7:00, we were ushered inside to hear from our industry’s experts. Dr. Merkle, a Ph.D. from Xerox PARC, discussed nanocomputing and I found his comments disturbing.

I found fault in The New York Times’ columnist Denise Caruso’s comment that “people don’t want to interact with music.” If that’s so, then why is Karaoke so darned popular?

I shared my opinion with the gentlemen on my left and my right and they laughed. They were making similar wisecracks. It was almost like a really geeky “Mystery Science Theater 3000.” Or is that statement redundant?

After the Q & A session, I approached the stage to talk to Dr. Merkle. “Dr. Merkle, if things start getting smaller and smaller, and cheaper and cheaper (he’d discussed “self-replication and low-cost” as the quest for the future), then where does spirituality fit in?” He said, “That’s a good question. It will be more of an individual movement than a societal one. As people accumulate more and more material wealth, it is likely that they will each come to the point where they say ‘OK, now what?'”

I thanked him for his time. I don’t agree that spirituality will become an individual movement, though. I see people coming to spirituality and God in small clusters that congregate together.

After the event, I drove Kevin to his office so he could get my leather jacket and then dropped him off at his apartment. He said, “Thank you, Sweetie,” gave me a kiss and left my truck. Whatever.

On Thursday, I worked on the BBB’s flyer some more, then drove to Millbrae for another interview. Had what I think was a brilliant idea, presented it to the president and he went for it. I’ll be interested to see what type of response we get.

Thursday night was a rarity because I was actually home! The youth group for which I advise usually meets on Thursdays, so I’m at church from 6:00 till 9:00 on those evenings. But since they were doing an event the next night, we opted not to meet the night before.

I spent the evening making chicken soup from scratch and it turned out liquid gold.

So today is Friday. I went through a final edit on my Lara Croft article with my buddy John, and then sent it to the Rightgrrl founders. Tonight I’m going to Pleasant Hill to see my friend Dean, who I’ve known since we were freshmen in high school and I was taller than him.

Ever since that time he’s talked of wanting to do nothing but fly for the Air Force. He got his wings on October 2, 1998 and my heart just swells for his accomplishment.

It’s just been amazing.This week has gotten to the point where whenever I get in my truck and turn on the radio, one of my favorite songs has just begin playing. It’s crazy.

I think I know where some of this is coming from. The past few weeks I’ve made it a goal to make my faith a daily part of my life. Many of my friends have come to a similar point, and so I’ve had many discussions about it. I’m praying every day before I get up, and all the way to my final BBB negotiation meeting I kept repeating, “I will fear no evil, for THOU ART WITH ME!” The phrase and its spirit simultaneously calmed and exhilarated me.

So with that, I wish you all a satisfying and fulfilling Halloween weekend. May your next week be as good as this week has been for me!

[Ed. note: The grown-up me with the benefit of 20/15 hindsight now disagrees with the statement below, and apologizes for its sanctimony]

President Bill Clinton will be addressing the nation in less than two hours. It will be what NBC News is calling “one of those unscripted moments.”

Nobody has any idea what Clinton will say. But I’m willing to take a guess.

Bill Clinton, in acting reprehensibly in his “private life,” has not only humiliated himself, but also his family. Not only his family, but also our government. Not only our government, but also our nation.

I’m one of those folks who believe that this isn’t been the first time he’s lied to his family and to everyone else. It’s a horrible situation. In letting his desires lead him to a compromising situation, he has dragged every one of us down with him.

From the TV coverage I’ve seen, it appears that he admitted to an “inappropriate relationship” with Monica Lewinsky, refuting what has been one of the several lies he’s told the nation with regard to every other woman who has complained about or filed suit against.

President Bill Clinton needs to summon up the scrap of integrity he has left. The honorable thing would be for him to resign and live out his days on a government pension in Little Rock, Alabama. Otherwise, may the impeachment papers be swiftly filed by Kenneth Starr, and efficiently voted into being by our government in Washington, D.C.

I wonder what Al Gore is thinking right now.

I don’t often use such vocabulary, but sometimes I find it necessary. Please move on to the previous column if such language offends you.

Ick. I hate Bill Clinton. The man is slime. I wouldn’t want him to sell me a used car. How can we believe anything from a man who fucks around on his wife? And then consistently lies about it.

Nice that he took full responsibility for the “inappropriate relationship” between himself and Monica. I’m sure she’ll think of that every time she collects an unemployment check for the rest of her life.

How did we end up with an adulterous president? I talked to my neighbor Danny about it. He raised the point that Kennedy screwed around on his wife. “Yeah, but nobody ever asked him about it,” I responded.

“That’s true. What would he have said if they had asked?” Danny riposted.

“He would have said, ‘Hey, I’m a Kennedy. What are you going to do? Shoot me?’.” Ahem.

Nice that Bill said that he was sorry that he hurt the two people closest to him — his wife and their daughter. I’m sure Chelsea appreciated the mention, considering that he never bothered to thank her when he gave his second inauguration speech.

Mom was pleased that at least Bill Clinton had the decency to look like hell. Guess four hours of testimony about a relationship with a twenty-something mistress takes its toll on a guy.

So, Tipper Gore has probably put away the party hats. Hopefully she’ll have the foresight to put them toward the front of her linen cabinet. I’ll pray that she has the opportunity to use them before they get too dusty.

*****

10/22/1998 If you’re neither 18 years old nor mature enough to handle frank talk about reproductive organs and adult relationships, please stop reading now.

I took my clothes from Kevin’s closet last night. Coupled with that is the fact that I’m in the process of going off the Pill. Between the sorrow of recrimination and the wooziness of blood loss, it was one of my lousier evenings of record.

***

It seems that every single couple I know is breaking up. I talked to a former coworker last night and she’s found the same to be true. I will wager a bet that the number-one reason women break up with their men is because their men no longer pay sweet attention to them. Comments?

***

I’ve reached a point where I’m tired of words. There’s a great song in “My Fair Lady” called “Show Me”:

Don’t talk of Spring,
Don’t talk of Fall,
Don’t talk at all! Show me!
Never do I ever want to hear another word,
There isn’t one I haven’t heard.
Here we are together and it ought to be a dream…
Say one more word and I’ll scream!

***

So, as previously mentioned, I’m going off the Pill. It wasn’t a conscious decision. I just forgot to take it for a week. Since I’m up on the chastity bandwagon again, remembering to take the hormone-studded wonder is a big pain. I’ve decided to simply do without.

I’ve been a bit alarmed at my resulting blood loss. I told John I thought I was hemorrhaging. It got to the point at Kevin’s that I had to slump against one of his stereo speakers (his speakers are much bigger than I am) and let the world spin for a minute.

I stopped at Dragon’s warehouse before driving to Kevin’s last night. As I was leaving, Dragon stood up and sniffed.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Come here.” I suggested. He came closer to me and inhaled the scent from my neck. Michelle told him it was probably the air freshener emanating from the bathroom.

“No, that’s not it.” Dragon said. He looked at me as if puzzled.

I didn’t want to tell him that what he smelled was my blood.

***

OK, so I know that there’s always the chance that I’ll fall off the chaste-in-singlehood wagon again. In that case, you may ask, what will Lynn use to prevent fertilization? Easy: Reality, the female condom. People laugh at me when I tell them that. I just say that means they haven’t tried it yet. True, it’s a bit of a pain to put in, but it is *so* worthwhile. It’s the best “barrier” method I’ve found. And it feels great! The best thing is that I’ve learned is that it prevents nookie-related urinary tract infections.

Another tip for avoiding those is to use products that don’t contain spermicide. They kill the good, germ-fighting bacteria. My doctor told me that the female condom is also more effective in hindering the spread of diseases such as herpes.

Two, uh, thumbs up. Lynn B. says “Check it Out!”