Desperate Times ...

Do not always call for desperate measures. Though if you were to ask the receptionist where I work, she would tell you that my single status does indeed call for an emergency counsel with all hands on deck.

Innocently standing in the fax room yesterday, young Maggie approached me out of the blue with an offer to set me up with her landlord. Now I don't know about all of you out there, but for those of us who think in pictures (thanks Bren for being the reason I say that now) the word landlord automatically makes me conjure up a grubby old man in a greasy white wife beater, slow burning cigar hanging out of his mouth, a face covered in grizzly whiskers, and a set of rainbow suspenders in danger of loosing their hold on his trousers. Not exactly my Mr. Right if you know what I mean.

So I told her no - nicely and politely as if I were thankful for the offer, when what I really wanted to do was rip every last hair follicle out of her head. The annoying little twit. And trust me when I tell you, you wouldn't have been any more impressed than I to have some little 21 year old child tell you what things you should be doing to improve your love life.

So I took it with a grain of salt. That is until I walked back into my office and had almost the very same conversation with Toni, who immediately set out about telling me about her newly divorced friend that she's sure I would love ...