I like change. Big, dramatic, sweeping change. Those stress tests that advise you not to move, change jobs, divorce, completely change your schedule, end/start a relationship and/or try a new brand of kitty litter within a short period of time? To those I say pshaw!

Life is short. There are worlds to explore, most of which I'll never see. I want to visit as many of them as possible, without discomfiting those that I love. The latter keeps my feet grazing the ground instead of floating high above it.

This love of things new will come in handy, because my life is about to change big time. The last three days have spiraled into a whirlwind of unexpected, happy developments. I got a new job in a different city, signed a lease on an apartment and am giving my notice at this wretched place of employment Tuesday.

And it appears I've met someone, though that I won't yet blog about because I think it could be bad luck at this tender, fledgling stage.

What a difference a week makes.

The new job requires that I move about an hour north, from Colorado Springs to Denver. From a beautiful city I loved all my life that I've found has a conservative bent so severe my affection for it's withered. To what appears to be an up-and-comer heady with its own whirlwind-paced change.

Of course, I'm believing what best fits my picture of the future.

And I'm also trying to add sugar to the bittersweet, to ease the pain of leaving a city awash in treasured friends.

I stood with my dog on an overlook at the highest point of our neighborhood Friday night, looking over the western side of Colorado Springs. It's a windy, vacant residential lot, its edge steep and rocky, hidden from neighboring homes by an untamed tangle of bushes. Three or four trees hold tenaciously to its edge, their roots wound with clawlike determination around their rocky anchors, trunks twisted and contorted like spines with scoliosis by years of unrelenting wind.

I call it Wuthering Heights, and along with a lot of other people use it as a thinking place.

I will miss this little piece of solitude with its stunning nighttime view of Garden of the Gods, the light at the top of Pikes Peak, and densely scattered yardlamps glowing from hundreds of northwest city homes.

I thought about all that I'd hoped Colorado Springs would be, all she had not and all the memories – sad and happy – created here during the last three years.

Among my circle of Springs' friends, two marriages had failed, an affair sparked and died, several jobs were left or lost and new ones found, relationships bloomed - some dying, some thriving - and two of those closest to me have or will move out of state.

Most tragically of all, a friend plunged her car off a mountain road one gorgeous night last fall. The stranger with her died. Only later did we see that our 17-year friendship, and the friendships of several others, died in that canyon, too.

Through it all, three of us have stuck tightly together. My blonde night partners: gorgeous April and saucy Joani. These two deserve blog entries of their own, but Joani now is following the others who've moved far away. And April, damnit, refuses to go with me to Denver. Something about kids, family and jobs.

But I have to set those musings, and the tears that surely will come, on the back burner for now.

Challenges lie ahead in this next month.

Our new home is further from my son's father, who is a control freak and surely will explode at this news.

I took the job and signed the lease within an hour of one another so that I could not think too long and perhaps back out on the idea, and so that I can tell my ex, 'It's done. Now how are we going to deal with it?'

My son is not as fond of change as I; he's seen much of it in his 10 years. I fear the impact this may have on him, and my always tenuous relationship with his father. Those things have held me back from pursuing this move for a year.

But my son has had trouble making friends here, in part because he attends school far from his weekend home with me, and because I unwittingly chose a townhouse complex in which there are almost no other children. He's expressed his loneliness, which breaks my heart. In this new 700-unit apartment complex, children abound.

I believe my excitement about our new life will infect him, too. Maybe he'll even come to like change as much as I do.

There are friends waiting there for both of us to meet. I wonder – when I pause from writing the growing to-do moving list - who these people may be. I even try to envision them as they are now - drinking a cup of coffee, lounging by the clubhouse pool there, cuddling a child, hanging up on an obnoxious ex, enduring a bad date that has to go wrong so I can enter stage left.

More importantly, I wonder what they will bring to our lives, how deeply our bonds will grow, and what memories - both happy and sad - we'll make together.

Bikini Bottom II

So this spring found me frantically searching for a replacement bikini.
I'm ashamed to say how long this process took, and how much I found I was willing to pay to get a bikini bottom with adequate coverage.

I began searching Target in late winter. These were not special trips, just perusals made while I was shopping for other Target-exclusive items (deodorant, contact solution, socks, etc).

Then, the temperature began to rise. Brave daffodils bloomed, soon followed by pansies and other flowers of a softer constitution. Grass turned bright, then deeper green. My neighbors started making the annual noises about why the managers waited until Memorial Day to open the pool.

Panic set in. I searched Dillard's, Foley's, Penney's, Sears, Goodwill and the fashion-unconscious Wal-Mart.

I'm a size 4, with a normal – maybe even smaller than normal - woman's ass. This shouldn't have been a problem. But I'm slightly pear-shaped, and I guess more conservative about my body than I care to admit. A small top is perfect, a large bottom doesn't seem like enough. Just how is it that one pieces cover the posterior, while two pieces don't?

A friend suggested this was the purpose of a bikini; if you are confident enough to expose that much of your body, you shouldn't think twice about being a little cheeky.

It didn't wash with me.

Sunday, on what turned into a two-hour hunt, another female suit shopper - blonde, small and perfectly built - sympathized. She glanced at the pile of swimsuit parts I carried into the dressing room, and turned to her husband.

“See?” she said. “She knows how horrible this is.”

He snorted. “You women are crazy.

“For one,” he said to his wife, “you're perfect. For two, I only wish my butt hung out of my trunks. Then I could scratch it real easy.”

Amusing moment aside, that day's quest was a bust.

Weary to the bone, I went back to Target for a bikini I'd tried on months before. Yes, my rear spilled out from under the large-sized bottoms, but it was reasonably priced and a good color (raisin) with cutesy little shell buttons jazzing up the top. I reasoned that I could lounge mostly on my back, and keep my cover-up wrap skirt close at hand for restroom trips, beer retrievals and other bottom-exposing pool errands.

The mid-town Target had plenty of raisin tops in every size - and no large bottoms.
Feeling defeated, I went home and logged onto Target.com. To my amazement, I found the suit - on clearance - with a large bottom. But the order failed to take. Mildly concerned, I called customer service.

“The large pant shows on your order,” said the cheery man at the other end. “But there is some sort of problem. Let me fix this for you; we'll just delete it and reorder.”

There followed a very long silence.

Finally, he spoke, but his formerly overjoyed-to-help-you tone was now clearly apologetic.

“Ma'am, is there any other suit you like?”

“No,” I said, feeling rising alarm.

“Well, there's a problem,” he said. “In the time I removed the pant and re-ordered it, someone else bought it.”

I reassured him this was OK, not because it was, but because he sounded so genuinely kind and concerned.

“I don't know if this helps, but I'll send you the top for free,” he offered. “How would that be?”

The word “free” delighted me, although I realized I could no more wear the raisin top with an unmatched bottom than I could the black-with-white-piping bikini widow already languishing in my dresser.

Monday morning, now thoroughly disgusted that the bikini clearly had become a obsession, I made a last-ditch effort. I drove far east across the city to the Super Target. I'd be decidedly late for work, and somehow, I suspected my male editor would not understand what a genuine crisis this was, but there was no thinking twice about making the journey.

There, in a part of the city that must be full of petite asses, I found it. Not just one large bottom, but several.

I grabbed one and tried it on, and miracle of miracles, it was not just large but larger than the original. Little bits of cheek still escaped it, but these I could tolerate.

I felt I'd won the lottery. For just $13 (two sunny afternoons of shopping, miles of driving and an unknown amount of time fretting) I had a new bikini!

Now, the trauma behind and pool season ahead, I can't wait to wear the silly thing. I plan this eve to dispose of my lonely top and fervently hope creepy thoughts of Eric go with it.

The pool opens Saturday, and I will be there with beer in hand. Bottoms up!

Bikini Bottom I

It matters not how small you are, shopping for swimsuits is a nightmare. Particularly shopping for a bikini.

It's especially difficult when you've already found the perfect bikini, and lost half of it after just one season in the sun. Thus it was with me last year. I found an understated, yet sexy, black bikini at your favorite and mine - Target - early last summer. It was black, with white piping, a halter top and nicely designed bottom that covered most of the derriere while managing to flatter the stomach.

It garnered compliments at our complex's swimming pool that only served to confirm what I saw when I bought it - this was one of those once-in-a-lifetime finds that every woman dreams about.

Yes, I know, shades of the IPEX, but female readers know how important, and how different, these issues are. A bra is a private thing. A swimsuit is public. Bra shopping can be annoying. Bikini shopping induces heart palpitations, shortness of breath and a re-examination of the pros and cons of liposuction. Even if you think the suit looks good, you dare not step outside the dressing room to consider it in a three-way mirror. And you wonder why on earth, if you're so scared to open the door of your dressing room, would you walk around in such a thing at a public pool??!

As you can guess, I recently underwent this most horrible of shopping experiences after I was torn from my perfect bikini.

On a late September evening, my son and I ventured over to the hot tub. We sat under the stars, talking quietly, often not at all, listening to the nocturnal insects and watching our feet change shape as we moved them underneath the water. It was a pleasant end to a long and beautiful summer day.

I ducked into the weight room to change out of my wet suit into sweats and a T-shirt. We walked back home, weary and relaxed, looking forward to crawling into our beds. But when we got inside, I discovered the bottom of my bikini was gone. My heart jolted, for I knew this was serious. Finding a nice top was one thing. Finding a bottom that covered and flattered at the same time was quite another. It was the end of the season; Target had long since stopped carrying them. If I couldn't find my bottoms, I was out at least until next season, maybe for good.

I retraced my steps immediately. Once. Then again. I searched the workout room, walked all around the hot tub and pool, scoured the ground with a flashlight. Nothing. It made no sense then, and makes no sense today. They had simply vanished. I thought of putting up signs: "Lost Bikini Bottoms! Rare and beautiful cut! Please call!" Our complex is mostly single women; they would have understood. But I resisted.

To this day, I suspect my neighbor, Eric, who only weeks later came to tell me about his extreme sexual passion. I passed by his back door on the way to and from the pool. He often called out a hello as my son and I sat in the hot tub or poolside. Could he have snatched them up after we walked by that night? It seemed a not-so-far-fetched thought, considering the out-of-line statement he'd made to me. And if he had picked them up, why? I always stop here, because I don't want to dwell on those particulars.

Instead, I opted to wait until springs, and fervently hope Target carried them again.

They did not. (Insert a series of discordant organ tones here, along with a second or three of Vincent Price's laughter).

Bedtime; Part II cometh.

OK, folks, I'm behind on my monthly stunts, the whole premise behind this blog. And none of you have called me on it, which makes it far easier for me to skate. So I ask of you, indeed beg you: Nag, nag, nag.

Technically, I'm right on course, but two of the things I could include as never-before-dones are weak.

Let's review:

January - Bought something in a porn shop.
February - Publicly confessed something (bipolarism), a blog that later was published in this city's Depression/Bipolar Support Alliance newsletter, which made it even more public.
March - Tried being blonde
April - Saw a psychic
May - Joined Toastmasters

I'll call foul on myself for April and May.

Yes, I saw a psychic. But she was so bad I never blogged about it. Frankly, I was ashamed I parted with cash for the whole experience, and pissed off enough about being duped that it didn't seem funny.

She was not only flat wrong on several things, but dirty blonde, middle-aged and dressed in the kinds of clothes the "What Not To Wear" folks would not just fling into the trash, but set aflame. There was nothing mysterious or gypsylike about her, much less the florescent bulb-lit, plain-Jane office in which she worked. (Since my name is Jane, I can say Plain Jane. The rest of you all cannot; it will hurt my feelings). The absence of a crystal ball, at the very least some dry ice, disappointed me.

Plus, within about 5 minutes, it became clear to me she was basing her every statement on the tone of my voice. Her eyes stayed closed throughout the hour, and her head cocked to one side whenever I spoke. I used this against her. Since my tone dropped when I said my married name, she concluded I was deeply saddened about the loss of my ex-husband. When it lilted a bit as I mentioned my co-worker DeeDee, she confidentally predicted we would soon be friends again. I soon tired of my own game, however, and wished the rest of our session away.

Was it any coincidence that she, not only a psychic but a nutritionist, ended it by saying I clearly needed some supplements?

And yes, I have joined Toastmasters. This truly is a feat because I am deathly afraid of public speaking.

The problem is, all I've done is join the club. I have yet to give a speech. I've written a check, signed some paper, sat back, and cheerfully watched other club members tell all sorts of fascinating stories, admiring their hand gestures and facial expressions. I've particularly watched Alex, an aesthetically-pleasing single dad who called me "Miss" the second time I attended a meeting. I asked for the paperwork that day.

Sooner or later, they're going to do more than encourage me to get up there. They'll start shoving, and that's when it will get ugly. That's when I'll have a monthly feat to report: Either I'll deck a Toastmaster or give the damn speech.

Meanwhile, I need some nagging. I'm thinking it's time to feed a homeless guy, but also that I need to pursue something more fun. Hot air ballooning, topless sunbathing in a semi-public place, standing on a street corner and asking people to sign a petition in support of my personal pay increase, something along those lines.

Suggest. Cast a vote. Or just nag.

It's spring, and my townhouse complex is coming alive. The people of this 100-unit, middle-class neighborhood are emerging like creatures from hibernation, revealing winter-whitened skin to the sun and familiar faces to one another. Instead of dashing from condos to cars, offering a hurried wave and a quick hello, people now linger at the community mailbox to talk to one another. We sit on our front patios, reading books, drinking wine, finishing home projects, ready and willing to drop all for the neighbor who pauses to offer a friendly greeting.

The longer days warm personalities and bodies both.

But it's not all sunshine and flowers. Neighborly conflicts and soap-opera variety dramas frozen by fall take fresh root in the spring.

There's Sharon and Diane, who both live directly across from me and who aren't speaking to one another. Both confide in me about the other, even as I consider both of them friends. I feel inextricably guilty when one sees me talking to the other.

There's Kris, who lives six inches and one wall removed from me but with whom I've only ever exchanged weather-related pleasantries. I know she likes country music, and vaccuums every Saturday morning. I've heard her having sex more times than I can count. I wish I could tell her how grateful I am she moved her bed, but I can't think of a tactful way to bring it up. All that, but I don't know what she does for a living. I'm not even sure Kris is her name; another neighbor told me it was.

Kris' car parks to the right of mine, Jeff's to the left.

Like Kris, Jeff and I only talk over the tops of our cars, and only as we're leaving or returning from somewhere else. He's boyish and radiates kindness and optimism. He's psychology teacher at a military base who dates often but inconsistently. Jeff's the kind of guy to whom I'm not romantically attracted, but who I'd nevertheless like to know better. There's a potentially great friendship here that given our odd schedules and busy lives likely will never develop. It seems a shame.

There's the guy who lives behind me with the aging Brittney spaniel. I've dubbed him Wilson because I know him only from the waist down. Each morning and evening, he escorts his dog outside, and stands, plastic bag in hand, waiting for it to do its duty. Sometimes he mutters something unintelligible. He cleans up after his dog, and disappears back into his home. I can tell by the way he moves, and the completely unfashionable pants he wears that he's older. But if I've ever seen him in the parking lot or on the sidewalk, I don't know it's him.

There's my friend Tom, who's tried to set me up with a couple of his friends, and who briefly dated my friend Abby. Although we all know the two dated - I heard them kissing outside my bedroom window one warm, summer night last year - he's never spoken to me about it once. And because he's silent, I've never had the guts to ask.

Across the street from me is Eric, a late 50s, perhaps early 60s, highly intelligent, single man. Eric is friendly, laid back and lonely. I like him, and enjoy his company, despite the fact that during a strange, mid-winter conversation, he told me - with a hand on my knee - he was the "kindest, gentlest, most sexually passionate man" I'd ever meet. I kindly asked him to leave, expecting an apology and embarrassment from him when next we met. It never came, and we resumed our neighborly relationship as though nothing ever happened.

A few doors down is DeeDee, a co-worker of mine who stopped speaking to me last fall when I handled a difficult personal situation of my own in a way of which she did not approve. We sit three seats apart, live 10 townhouses away from one another, and once seemed like close friends. If she must look at me at all, she gives me a cold, hard stare. When I drive by as she's walking her cat on a leash (perhaps control issues, me thinks), she turns her back. She hasn't spoken a monosyllable to me in more than seven months. This is fairly typical of the people in my office. Which gives you just enough of an idea to understand why I want out so badly.

Then there are the pool ladies. A half dozen of late 40s to mid 50s single women who spend seemingly every summer weekend lounging by the pool. I see them only during pool season, though the friendship they share carries through the four seasons. They are tanned beyond any healthful measure, boisterous and ribald. They tease one another mercilessly, often with inside jokes. They sit four to five in a row, cocktails in hand, laughing, drinking, only very occasionally dipping their polished toenails into the pool.

The pool ladies appear to be a clique, but they are not. They are the complex's summer social core, calling out your name as though you're a long-lost friend when you show up poolside, offering a cocktail, throwing out personal questions that somehow don't seem invasive in the least. They gossip about the other residents and when you leave, you can be sure they're talking about you, too. Somehow, it doesn't matter. Their gossip has the feel not of maliciousness, but happy curiosity, as though these tidbits give their days delicious flavor.

The pool opens in two weeks, and summer will take off, at a too-fast gallop that will leave me still longing for more at its end.

Maybe this year, Diane and Sharon will mend fences, Kris and Jeff both will stop by for a summer evening drink, and Tom will have a few too many drinks and spill the beans about Abby. Perhaps Eric will get a girlfriend. If the summer is really golden, DeeDee will get the job she wants in a nearby city and move the hell away. And the office will burn to the ground.

Likely all fantastical thinking. The one thing I can count on is that the pool ladies, who've become symbols of summer to me, will be back. I really can't wait to see them again.

I did not write this, but I sure wish I had. I actually heard it on "West Wing" tonight, and thought it was a touching definition of friendship. Thought you all might also find it so. -- Jane

A guy falls down a deep hole and can't get out.

A doctor walks by and the guy yells up, "Hey, I'm stuck down here. Can
ya help me out?"

The doctor writes him a prescription and throws it down the hole.

A priest walks by, and the guy yells up, "Father, I'm stuck down here.
Can ya help me get out?"

The priest writes down a prayer and throws it down the hole.

A friend walks by and the guy yells, "Joe, I'm stuck down here. Can ya
help me out?"

The friend jumps down in the hole, and the guy says, "What? Are you
crazy? Now we're both stuck down here."

The friend says, "Yeah, but I've been down here before, and I know the way out."

Karen Carpenter is stuck in my head.

This is not a good thing.

For one thing, she's dead. Technically, by her own hand. Which lends a negative connotation to her music.

For another, most of the Carpenters' singles are not particularly cheery to begin with. Case in point: “Rainy Days and Mondays,” the song that's snaking around in my head. For the moment, it fits me as snugly as spandex, right down to the “talking to myself and feeling old” part.

There are several reasons for this temporary case of the blues.

The contract that would have released from this hell hole in which I work has fallen through. I know there's a light at the end of this career tunnel, but it's temporarily hidden around a corner or two, on a detour I have yet to find.

Another particularly good friend has decided to take a job out of state. A great opportunity for her both personally and professionally. But her step forward shrinks my social circle – from which friends recently have fallen like dominos – ever smaller.

Mostly, however, I think it's loss of another sort. Loss of what turned out to be an elaborately spun pipe dream.

It's hard to let someone out of your mind who took residence there for two years. His absence - or the sudden cold reality that the relationship never was - leaves a void. We all want someone special to think about. Mine is gone.

It's reawakened my long-muted hunger for a relationship, setting my emotional stomach to growling. Loudly. There's an empty space here, it says. Do something.

A fudgesickle muffles it. A drink or two muzzles it. A sleeping pill silences it. Pieces of duct tape on a failing dam.

The drive to pair off is instinctual, and Mother Nature won't be denied. She is persistent and relentless, which likely is why so many of us get into relationship trouble. We're answering the call. Sometimes too quickly, sometimes blindly, sometimes only because the thought of being alone is more than we can bear.

I like myself too much to settle, a textbook-perfect assertion that makes me sound incredibly strong. In large part, that's true. But there's more to it than that. Anyone can see that I'm scared.

The past three serious relationships have ended badly; one in divorce, one as a break-up that eventually sequed into friendship, the third - and toughest to swallow - suddenly and with no explanation. It's an apparent pattern no one wants to see. And no matter how much analysis you give it, it shakes your confidence. It makes you question your own lovability.

So I'm scared, but not so much that I won't try again. We gain nothing unless we step into the fire and open ourselves - warts and all - to someone we believe will love us anyway.

Sometimes, we're wrong. A mistake that's stunningly painful.

The real shame is if we let that miscalculation burn so deeply that we retreat to the shadows, and, safely distanced, do no more than watch.

That's where I am right now. But it won't last. I trust my instincts, and they say to give it another go.

They say he's out there. Maybe in someone I already know. Maybe in someone whose hand I won't shake for years to come. Meanwhile, fudgesickles are on sale at Albertson's. I'm stocking up.