Mashed Potato Head

It's official; now that my son is going back to school tomorrow, I'm left with two -- and only two -- fine men in my life. At least locally. Manny, obese puggle and criminal mastermind, and Leo, the lab with the kind disposition and tiny brain who has unwittingly become Manny's loyal henchman (Leo doesn't know the meaning of the word "no," nor does he know how to "just say no"). But devious and dimwitted as they may be, unconditional love is nothing to sneeze at.

Sure, some might find the shedding objectionable and the inexplicable barking intolerable, but nobody's perfect. Trust me, I've been swimming in the cess pool of available men, and it stinks. I decided I had finally hit bottom when the most likable of the bunch turned out to be five foot seven only if standing on a stool and ordered an "Amsdale Lite" when we went to dinner. WTF?

Another winner who had been thinly disguised as a normal and sweet man for a good two months called the other day after having ceased all communication for a week. "Is everything okay?" I asked, feigning concern. "I've had some personal issues to deal with, nothing to do with you. Just needed some alone time." Well, I politely wished him luck and generously offered him all the alone time he wanted, and burst out laughing when he wondered why I seemed done, and when he suggested we never know what the future holds. I admit I have no crystal ball, but I felt pretty darn certain my future wasn't going to include him. He seemed baffled.

My most recent favorite was the guy who professed deep love for me, but couldn't believe I expected him to "drop everything" -- i.e. his spot at a bar surrounded by adoring bimbos -- to be with me when I was having a bad evening. And then there was the guy (another one who feigned adoration on more than one occasion) who, at three o'clock on a Sunday afternoon, told me he couldn't see me until Monday afternoon because his sister had invited him over for meatloaf at seven that evening. I'm obviously not getting male math.

There are too many stories, too many indignities to mention. But the beautiful thing about men is their firm belief that they can (and must) do whatever they want to do at any particular moment and can always apologize later (and add a few crocodile tears for good measure). All better, they think. I hate to admit it, but it's worked on old Mrs. Potato Head more than a few times. Could I be that insecure about my extra layer of carb flab? I might have to talk about this with my therapist.

Every night, when I head up to bed and find my two furry protectors posted strategically on my bed, leaving just the right amount of space for me to pet one with my hand and tickle the other with my toes, I know what a lucky woman I am.