For the first time in months, I'm employed again by a big company. But this time, it's a really big company.

A year ago, if you'd told me I'd be clicking my heels across marble floors to get to my place of employment, or bidding goodnight each evening to a uniformed doorman as I stride back across those same floors home, I'd have laughed. Newspapers may be noble institutions, but they rarely are housed in noteworthy buildings. They are long on function, short on decor, trimmings or - most criminal - any sense of feng shui.

But so it is. And hell, maybe it's not marble - like I would know. But it looks like it to me, and it sounds better - for the sake of this blog entry - to describe it as such. The uniformed doorman is genuine, however. He is gray-haired, distinguished, and smiley - just like a doorman should be. His name is Allan (don't let me forget that).

I've spent the last two days filling out forms, listening to Webcasts and taking online courses required in my "development plan." It's all new and different to me, particularly these course tests. I'm not sure if anyone's checking my grades. I rather hope not, cuz I darn near failed record keeping.

My son would have aced it. I was instructed to decide how to dispose of the items that would fly by on the top of the screen. Along the bottom were three objects: a shredder, a garbage can and a filing cabinet. "Click 'start' when ready," the computer advised. I hesitated. My finger quivered a bit above the enter key - I was nervous.

This method seemed a red herring among all the tests that had proceeded it, and I didn't like that they had mixed it up. What was wrong with the check boxes and true-or-false format they'd used in previous tests? What frustrated games-addict had gotten his way with this one? And as long as he'd gotten the clear to do so, why hadn't he used a frog with a sticky tongue to zap the documents into the containers? Sound effects - maybe a belch from the frog or a slam of a garbage can lid - would have been nice, too. If you're gonna do something different, do it all the way!

Finally, I started. The items rolled from right to left, more quickly than I'd anticipated. I panicked, placed a birthday card from my colleagues in the shredder instead of the garbage can, a draft document into the filing cabinet instead of the shredder. Then I scored: Consumer profiles dropped into the filling cabinet! Official board meeting minutes -- same! Used Kleenex? I slam-dunked the slimy thing into the garbage can! And passed.

This is but one of the harrowing adventures I've undergone in these last 48 hours.

Far worse is the test of matching faces to names. I've met approximately 229 people in the last two days. Or maybe 19, I can't be sure. Here is how an average introduction has gone:

"Jane, this is Brad. He's the CE for the NPs, in charge of TLS."

I stare at Brad, who beams at me expectantly.

"Wow," I say. I want to add, "Whatever that is, I'm sure you're just fabulous at it." Instead, I say, "Nice to meet you."

Because I feel momentarily reluctant to identify my new employer (surely my new boss is blog-trolling), I will tell you only that this is a medical company. Most of the people employed here have medical backgrounds. They know what these abbreviations mean. Me, I'm a journalist. I understand BOCC (board of county commissioners), HOA (c'mon, surely you know), ACE (assistant city editor), and OT (because we were told daily not to get one second of it).

I do not get NP - until someone in HR (I get that one, too), tells me it means Nurse Practitioner.

But I am new. I am a fine, smart addition to the company. I will admit no weaknesses, yet. Instead, I'll nod and hope no one sees my utter lack of comprehension.

For the moment, I understand all I need to. Paycheck. (Bigger than any I have ever received in my life). Expense account. Company American Express card. And cell phone.

I now have a company-issued cell phone. That means I have two -- my personal phone, and my company phone.

I am in a quandary about this. For now, I carry them both. The company Webcasts warn that it can look at your Internet history, read any e-mail sent from the company computer and put a boot on your car wheel if you lie about your mileage. Wait - that was the Gazette, maybe they weren't quite that extreme. At any rate, I'm nervous, and so reluctant to make my company phone my personal one as well.

The combined weight of two tiny phones is too much for the wee, cheap purses I favor. My shoulder already hurts. And I am horrified at the idea that both of them will ring at once someday in a public place. I will fumble through a tangle of shoulder straps - the company laptop and the electronic company notebooks we will be issued next month - to find them. People will turn and sneer, thinking, as I would, "Please, who does she think she is?"

And I will tell them, "I'm a DH MA-PD AE at EVC for UHG." That oughta shut 'em up.

Endings are never easy. It doesn't matter that it's your decision, or that your reasons are solid. Saying goodbye hurts.

But if you leave with your head held high, your sense of self strong, it hurts far less.

That's how I walked away from the African.

It's the first time in my life I acted on early warnings about a man, the first time I didn't push them aside and believe they would resolve themselves, that I could change him, and that he would eventually love me for it. In the past, I'd have hung on, become deeply, emotionally entangled and ended up heartbroken - my faith in men shattered yet again, my confidence in shreds, fear of risking another relationship binding me for months, perhaps years.

Aside from my ex-husband, it was the only time that I mattered more than him.

There was just one red flag with Roger. He was a Summit County guy. He could have been a Vail or an Aspen guy, almost any single man living in a resort community. They are a breed apart, with a strikingly similar mindset.

Each of them, even if not physically beautiful, is born with a magnetic personality. He is dedicated to a life of minimal responsibility, a trait that is enviable and admirable. In the same way the class troublemaker's recklessness and daring inspire an astounded tip of the hat, so does his seemingly untroubled decision to break with tradition. He lives for the moment, for the thrill of catching air on a black diamond run, the adrenalin rush of blasting down uncharted mountain terrain on a bike, for alcohol-induced highs and the touch of a woman. His happy, free spirit and dedication to all things pleasurable make him a powerfully seductive force. He is a heartbreak waiting to happen.

I saw all this from day one. I searched in his stories for evidence of a single serious relationship. With the exception of his daughter, I found none. But that was exceptional in itself. I saw the photos of a smiling, red-headed 5-year-old on his refrigerator. I heard the pride in his voice when he spoke of her. I heard him commit to never leaving her and Colorado.

That devotion gave me hope that he was different. Indeed, he was.

Never was there an unhappy moment with the African. His eyes sparkled each time he saw me. His voice on the phone was without fail enthusiastic, lifting at the sound of mine. I never so much as saw a frown cross his beautiful face.

I wonder, even as I write, why on earth I threw all that away.

Perhaps that initial, drunken kiss on the steps of the bar set the stage. That impulsive, reckless and delightful exchange spawned a relationship just as bold and unreflective. I firmly believe we should all get wild once in a while. But it's the rareness of it that makes it so fabulous and freeing an experience. In a disappointingly short period of time, it loses its shine.

Months later, my emotions had caught up with me. Roger was no longer just a handsome stranger. He was a man for whom I cared.

But time always was a fleeting element for Roger. He was heading out of town for the weekend, he had to be at work. He had, always, to be elsewhere, and soon, and I was never invited to accompany him. He asked to see me in those pockets of time between, and I allowed it.

He made it clear: I was not a priority.

Roger dressed it all in cheery tones, and genuine sincerity. He never lied or led me on. He thought things between us were perfect – just as they were. He had no plans to change his life, to introduce me to his friends or to meet mine, or even to take me to dinner.

I wanted to believe it could be that easy, to subscribe to a relationship that would always be light and spontaneous. What did the trimmings matter?

But it wasn't enough. Roger's fierce hugs and bright smiles were temporary things. He took up no more space in my life than two or three hours here and there. I realized, in the last few days, that the emptiness I felt when he left was not worth the brief pleasure of his company. My respect for both of us was waning. Worst of all, I'd become vulnerable.

Roger was a well-time blessing in my life. I needed him to cool my feelings for the other significant man in my life, for the huge boost in self confidence it gave me that such a charming, gorgeous man found me so desirable, for serving as a repeated bright spot in my often lonely first summer in this new city, and for the different kind of confidence it gave me to leave all that behind. I am grateful to him for it all.

I nipped the rest - damaged self esteem, frustration, anger and the pain peeking over the horizon - in the bud.

To the last, we never exchanged a harsh word.

He was baffled when I said I wouldn't be seeing him anymore.

“You’re thinking about this way too much,” he said. "What's wrong with this?"

I wanted to tell him he was not thinking about it enough, to ask him if he could find it in himself to give me more, how he could like me so much but keep me so hidden, why at 35 he was still living like a teenager. But I said nothing at all.

He smiled, kissed me and pulled me to his chest. "You're going to miss me. In a month, you're going to call.

"Stay the night," he said, and I told him I might.

I waited until I heard his breathing ease into sleep. I thought ahead to the morning and the goodbye that would come with it.

I moved silently away from him, walked to the door and opened it. Cold, high-mountain night air embraced me as I crossed the threshold. I did not look back.

Time and again, the Internet proves itself a poor way for me to meet men. Yet, every few months or so, I give it another chance, encouraged by friends who meet nice, long-term boyfriends online. But after last night, I'm done. And please don't ever let me forget it.

I signed up for this free site several months ago, met a man who became my first stalker, and abandoned the whole idea Then, inexplicably, the African stopped calling. Que sera sera, I told myself, he didn’t mean all that much to me anyway.

A week later, I crossed paths in a city park with a dark-haired, handsome man with three children in tow. He spoke to them, giving me a passing glance as he did so, and I heard a musical accent – Australian, African, British, German, or something. To my horror, I shot him a killer glare.

I realized on that day a distraction was in order.

So I popped back onto the free site, unhid my profile and waited. I received a dozen or so e-mails. Most of them were men in their 50s. One was 29 – too young, even, for me. But one was 39, a mortgage broker, cute smile, semi-witty profile. He shot me a nice, respectful compliment about my smile. I was charmed.

We agreed to meet. My first red flag came quickly when he responded to my, ‘Sure, let’s have a drink’ e-mail with 5 e-mails of his own. The last, sent an hour after mine, said, “Did I scare you off? I didn’t mean to. Please write.”

At this point, however, I could not think of a polite way to back out.

We met at an English pub near his office. His name was Gary, and he looked exactly like his picture. He opened the door. The smell of cologne wafted from him as he walked into the pub. He was nervous.

I found it all endearing.

Perhaps I had been wrong, I thought.

The bar was dimly lit and artfully decorated. He led me to a pair of love seats near a fireplace in the very back section of it, and we sat opposite each other, with a heavy coffee table between us – a seating arrangement with which I was completely comfortable. We ordered two dark ales.

The conversation flowed smoothly, with neither of us taking more than our share of air time. He told me about his job, his recent victory over smoking, the family that lived in Denver and with whom he spent much of his time. He complimented my smile again.

We talked about beer. He was relieved, he said, to hear I was not a teetotaler. Not, he added hastily, that there was anything wrong with that.

I was, to my surprise, enjoying myself.

“Ya know,” he said, “I think I’ve seen your byline. I used to work in the Springs and I’d page through the Gazette from time to time. Just skimming it, ya know. Now, if it’d had pictures of naked women in it, I’d have read it from cover to cover.”

Gary laughed jovially.

I smiled, and swallowed. Hard.

“Am I wrong here, or do we have a vibe going?” he asked.

Startled, I didn’t answer for a moment.

“We may,” I said, pleased with my careful response.

“Well listen, if that’s the case, I gotta tell you something,” he said, and stood to move closer to me. Clearly, he expected me to scoot over and make room for him on the love seat. I sat statute still. He perched awkwardly on the leather arm and leaned down to talk softly.

“I like to let the girls know this up front, just in case they have a problem with it,” he said. “I take the little blue pill, ya know? I’ve had a problem since I was in junior high. The main blood vessel just never formed correctly. The doctor said there’s no way for it to get enough blood. The drive is there. Believe me. But the blood can’t get to it to make it happen.

“So I take the pill and everything is fine. Really, really fine.”

He moved back over to his love seat, sat down and smiled at me. “I just think it’s better to be honest about these things,” he said.

I smiled. “Well, isn’t it amazing all the great medications they have out there these days for – everything.

“I mean, think about all the antidepressants there are now. Things like that.”

He snorted. “Well, at least I’m alright mentally,” he said, and, pointing an index finger at his temple, twirled it in a circle.

Without asking me, he ordered two more beers. I asked for a water.

He smiled at me and shook his head. “Wow, you are just about perfect,” he said. “Not that you were being tested!

“You’re attractive. You’re funny. You drink beer. You understand my shortcomings. Not that there’s anything short about it – trust me, that is not an issue.”

Then, he made a pumping motion with his arms. His hips slid back and forth on the love seat. He was thrusting.

At that very moment, my cell phone rang, loud and insistent.

“It’s OK. You can answer it,” he said.

“No, no,” I shook my head, reaching for my purse. “I’ll just see who it is.”

I stared at the number. Area code: Summit County. Prefix: cell phone. 3031: Roger.

I set it down, let it go to voicemail.

Gary looked at my face. “It’s a guy, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “It’s someone I was seeing until about a month ago.”

“Well,” he said. “I guess he missed out.”

It was not a question. It was a statement.

Hastily, I excused myself to go to the bathroom.

The door had not yet closed by the time I hit “New Message.” The African’s voice, his tone happy and excited, floated out to me. A shot of adrenalin zipped through my legs, straight to my toes.

He said he had dropped his phone in water a few weeks ago and had spent all his time since regathering lost numbers. “I had to wait until I got my statement today to look through it and find yours, but I’ve found you! How are you? Call me sometime, OK?”

I heard the unmistakable tremor of nerves in his last few words. He was uncertain that I would call.

And that, I thought, was just as it should be. The tables were turned now. I would make him wait, sweat and wonder - just as I had.

Two hours seemed punishment enough.

That gave me time to flee from Gary. When I came back from the table, he looked at me, suspiciously. “You’re getting ready to tell me you have to go somewhere, aren’t you?”

Really, I did admire his powers of perception. He had a strong instinct, it seemed, for women who were about to blow him off.

“Yes,” I said. I explained to him I'd already arranged to meet a girlfriend who needed to talk about some difficult issues in her life. This was true, but I had met with her the night before and we'd made no arrangements to meet again so soon. It was, however, an explanation with which I knew he wouldn't argue.

“Oh,” he said. “I understand. You barely touched your second beer?”

“Well, I’m guessing you won’t let it go to waste,” I said. “You seem like a smart man.”

He grinned. “You are right about that. I’ll walk you to your car, then I’ll come back and make sure that gets a good home.”

Gary followed me out, and I hastily unlocked my door. He moved closer.

“I’m wondering now if I should try to kiss her,” he said. “I want to, but …”

I smiled and stepped forward. “How about a hug?”

“OK,” he said, and hugged me tight. “I’ll e-mail you tomorrow.”

He stood back and winked at me. “Don’t meet any other guys.”

I laughed, waved and stepped into the sweet security of my car.

Gary had sent me two e-mails by the time I got up this morning. I e-mailed him back to tell him I had talked to the guy who called during our date, and we were back on. He responded almost immediately.

"Geez, I find the perfect girl and poof! She's gone. This has happened to me before and I'm trying not to be bitter, but I just don't get it."

Sadly, I believe he never will.

I'm cheating tonight. This was an essay I wrote about two years ago. I stumbled upon it today and felt it was worth resurrecting here. I hope you agree.



My son doesn’t remember his father and I together. We separated when he was 14 months old, days after he took his first wobbling steps. Days, too, after a trip home to Wisconsin that was supposed to be about writing a book and ended up being the realization my marriage was over.

I left quickly, hoping Robby would not remember. Hoping, too, to leave while both my ex and I had enough youth and faith in love to find someone else.

Two years ago, when Robby was 7, my ex married again. She was childless, in her mid-40s and had had a hysterectomy. She had, I’m sure, resigned herself to the fact she would never have the children she’d always wanted.

Then, along came my ex, and with him the cuddly blond boy who is our son. My son.

My ex told me how much she loved Robby. He encouraged him, he said, to call her “Mom.” “He has two mothers now,” he said.

It seemed beyond anyone’s definition of grace for me to accept the idea.

My ex, I think, saw it as the surest way to enfold her into his life, put Robby at ease and complete his new family circle. I saw it as a clear and deep betrayal.

For Robby, however, it was not about biology but love - the more, the better. How lucky he was, I tried to tell myself, to have three parents now.

That Mother’s Day, I waited for the annual school project gift, the lovingly made, often homely offering created with the teacher’s guidance. It did not come.

When next I went by my ex’s house, I saw on an end table a homemade necklace – a plaster-of-Paris mold strung on a bright green ribbon. The mold was a rough depiction of a woman’s face framed by brown hair. Like me. Like his stepmother.

My ex told me Robby had given it to his wife. He said no more, but I heard the words hanging between us: “Instead of you.”

I called my mother, and cried to her from across the miles. Her voice cracked as she searched for words of comfort.

I wish I could say I let it go, sucked it up, simply felt bone-deep certainty that Robby knew well who his real mother was and that nothing and no one could alter our bond. But I did not. The pain seemed too great.

Instead, I talked to him. I asked him why he had given his Mother’s Day gift to her. She was his stepmom, I reminded him. Presents like that, I said, should go to your real mom.

He looked up at me, his brown eyes shiny with tears.

“But Mom,” he said, “she’s never had a Mother’s Day.”

***

Since then, my ex, his wife and I have settled into a fairly comfortable relationship. We’ve sat three-in-a-row through Christmas programs, parent/teacher conferences and karate lessons, adjusted schedules around 4-H and Cub Scouts, and stopped arguing about who pays for what.

We have all learned to bend. Sometimes beyond, as my yoga instructor insists, the point of flexibility.

Last week, heading back from our weekly pick-up point, Robby gave me another gift.

“I was just thinking,” he said, “how lucky I am to have three parents.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Well, Sherry’s teaching me about drawing. Dad teaches me how to fix things. And you …” He frowned. “I’m trying to think what you teach me. Maybe about computers.”

And maybe, I hoped, a little something about flexibility.

Robby smiled brightly. I laughed.

How lucky indeed.

Do you ever wonder what happens to the drivers of those cars abandoned in snowstorms?

This is sort of a seasonal topic, and I don't know why I'm thinking of it right now. But I am, and I thought there was probably a good chance this thought had crossed your minds, too.

Why do they stop in the first place? After miles of crouching to see the sliver of road visible through their frosty windshield, do they suddenly pull over and say, "Oh fuck it! This is just too hard."

And then what?

Do they just stumble out into the blinding snowstorm and die? And if so, why do we never hear about it in the spring, when their grizzly remains rise up from the departing snow?

Do they call a relative or friend to come get them? Just how inconsiderate is that? "Listen, I can't drive in this stuff. The conditions are the worst I've ever seen them. Cars are spinning out all over the place. It's dangerous as all get out. I've never been so terrified to be behind the wheel of a car in all my life.

"Will you come get me?"

Does the woman's boyfriend - or, so I don't appear sexist, guy's mother - really relish the idea of driving in it anymore than you did? So you've put your own life at risk. Now you want to endanger two of you?

So if they don't do that, maybe they call 911. Maybe the State Patrol spends all its time during snow storms picking up hapless drivers and shuttling them to cozy hotel lobbies. Somehow, I don't think that's true. I think the troopers have other things to attend to during weather disasters.

I don't just wonder nasty, belittling things about these drivers - although I have to admit, if it's an old, rusted-out heap of junk, I immediately believe whatever happened to them was their own fault. I know this is uncharitable, but it's a flaw in my otherwise lily-white character I can't seem to control.

For God's sake, I think, you ran out of gas! If you'd put part of the cash you waste on cigarettes into some good snow tires, you wouldn't be sitting there, would you? How could you possible think a Yugo would make it over a mountain pass in January??

Whereas, if it's a modest car, my heart bleeds for their unknown tragedy.

Oh my God, did you run out of gas? Did you go into labor? Did some low-life in a Yugo abscond with your brand new snow tires?

Four-wheel drive SUV abandonees get less sympathy from me as well. This was the guy - or someone very like him - who nearly drove me off the road when he passed me six miles back. So what if I was in his lane - I couldn't see through the one-inch frost-free zone of my windshield. Now karma has caught up to him. (Of course it's a him; a woman would never drive so aggressively - unless she's PMSing, and then she has every right to take her intensely personal pain out on other drivers.)

Sometimes, you see these cars sitting in the same spot for days. This baffles me even more than the initial abandonment.

Perhaps they were hen-pecked men who'd been considering vanishing from their domestic hell for years. The snowstorm, they realized, was their only opportunity to make a break for it. After all, they'd have at least until spring before their wives even realized they weren't actually dead.

Or did the car just perform so pitifully in the storm that the owner walked away in disgust, throwing his keys into the snow and never looking back.

Again, unless PMSing, a woman who never do either of the above.

Someone should do a story on the whole thing. Maybe I'll put a bug in the ear of my one remaining journalist friend. It'd be easy enough - match the plate to the owner and call them, ask them why on earth they abandoned their car - or ask their families what they believe happened to the loved one who drove off into a snowy night, and never returned. You could do a chart showing how many left spouses, how many called mommy, and how many simply could not find the defroster button.

Iraq and Jon Benet could take a back seat for just a day so this Average Joe question finally could be answered.

You'd read it. Wouldn't you?