Substitute coach cabin napkins and a two hour flight and, voila, a marketing plan is born.

Can’t read my scribbles? It’s a secret code only I can decipher.

Really.

Regan has an advantage with such lovely daughters. What A Beautiful, Beautiful Family.

Thanks Regan.

And Keith too.

The players: My glamour-puss friends Super Model Chick and her husband, Mr. Successful, a big-time executive at a local consumer products behemoth. And then there’s yours truly, the wheezing, runny-nosed single one.  I figure if I can’t be one of the beautiful people, I’ll simply be seen with them.

Moi: Between slurps from a gigundus bowl of asian noodle soup: “So Mr. Successful, what’s the news on the digital marketing front?”  I love to talk shop with Mr. Successful as I often use these topics in conversations with my non-web savvy friends. Anything to make me look smarter, you know?

Mr. Successful: “Oh, get a load of what I heard in the hall today.” His chopsticks hit his plate as it appears he needs his hands to tell this story. This should be a good one.

Moi: “Do tell!” God I hope he doesn’t use any big marketing terms I don’t know. Can’t stand playing along when I don’t see the punch line coming.

Mr. Successful: “My colleague was on Facebook today.” Seems full-time employment at the consumer products behemoth comes with stock options a-plenty to purchase a retirement acre on the beach AND a license to screw-around in cyberspace while they’re serving Corporate America. “While she was looking at photos of herself she said, ‘Joe (who I presume is her boyfriend) is de-tagged me from one of the photos in his album.’”

Super Model Chick: “What’s de-tagging?”

Mr. Successful: “The opposite of tagging. When you upload a photo to Facebook you can add people’s names to the photo. If the name is removed, that’s called ‘detagging.’ ”

Moi: “You can scroll over photos and, if people in the photo have been tagged, their name pops-up. Ah, I adore seeing how decrepit my old nemeses from high school have become. Not that I waste any time in that sorry pursuit…”

Mr. Successful: “So then she keeps talking while she’s still looking at Facebook.” Now he’s becoming more animated. Since Mr. Successful doesn’t waste his time on simple gossip that would entertain me for hours, I see that something interesting is imminent. “She says, ‘Joe is detagging me from all of the pictures of us together.’”

Oh. That’s too bad. I’ve always had an eerie sense of things-to-come that borders on the paranormal. Now I’m sure I know where this sorry situation is headed.

Mr. Successful: “Then she says, ‘I’m going to call him and see what’s going on.’”

Oh, please don’t do that quite yet.

While her situation is careening out of control I, in the comfort of the favorite neighborhood hole-in-the-wall Asian/Thai fusion place, can’t slam on the breaks. How I dread knowing what’s going to happen.

Even as I see this relationship joining the T-Rex on the extinct species list, I’m still navigating my chopsticks through my Asian noodles like Picasso with a brush. Yummy.

Out of nowhere, our teen waiter arrives. Between texting his girlfriend and adjusting his earrings that appear to be ¾ carats EACH of a much-beloved clear, shiny stone (they better be cubics and not the real thing or I ain’t patronizing this place again) and asks SMC if she wants a box for what remains of her meal.

His question welcomes yet another embarrassing food moment for moi. SMC is 4 inches taller than me and eats half of her meal. Conversely, I can see my own lovely reflection in my empty bowl. Instantaneously I rationalize that I’m allowed to eat my dinner since, gosh darn it, it’s only soup.

But back to the story.

Super Model Chick: “So how did Joe explain all of his detagging?”

Mr. Successful: “He broke up with her!”

__________________________________________________________

Told you so. Score one for yours truly, the newly crowed clairvoyant.

My advice? Break out the ramen noodles and the  #mce_temp_url# sister. They’ll be your best friends for the next 10 business days.

Such sad occasions now know a whole new level of irresponsibility. Who would have thought detagging would be tip off a break-up-ee before the break-up-er delivers the news? This guy sadly underestimates web savvy women. Even I found him out before I heard the end of the story.

Please don’t tell me they found each other on a dating web site. Because if they met via an e-Harmony email, he needs to take a few lessons in cyber space from a 10-year-old.

Plus, this is cyber abuse! This is public space devoted to web surfing and chat rooms and stalking old boyfriends keeping in touch with loved ones and should not be used to tip off soon-to-be-ex-girlfriends. Stupid head.

Plus plus, he’s a weenie. Guys, if you’re going to pull the plug, Man-up! Here’s how: Take her out for a nice dinner. Don’t you know the first rule of  the breakup occasion is to deliver the message in a public place to minimize the chance of the recipient dissolving into unruly behavior? Or silverware becoming projectiles? Guys, these are the basics!

Be sure to make an early reservation so she has enough time to:

1. Hear your sorry “it’s not you, it’s me” break-up story. Guys, save your breath. We know it’s you. Don’t wait around for us to tell you exactly how it’s you and not us.

2. Excuse herself to protect her dignity and leave you with a big, fat bill and a socially responsible tip. Avoid the embarrassment created by a sub-20% gratuity. This is definitely not the time to create enemies with the wait staff if you want to return to this restaurant. If you want to bring your next girlfriend here, you’ll need all the help you can get. Especially if they’ve read this scintillating expose.

3. Call her Mom and EACH AND EVERY ONE of her friends on her way home. She’ll need their support and the time to devise new curse words to hurl at you on many, many websites in the coming days. I’ll personally award extra credit to her friends who corner him the next day at the office and ask, ever so gently, ‘So, Mr. Wussie-Butt, just who do you think you’re going to date now? No one. That’s who.

Because everyone read this blog post and knows you’re the Facebook detagging breakup weenie.”

Sarah sports her cheek bones.

I’ll never understand the above quasi-politician (but full-on reality celebrity’s) popularity. The valuable cyber-real estate of whammyjuice.com shall not be used to bore you with my political views, of which I have about three.

Rest assured, I’m just perplexed by the atmosphere around her. And just in case Sarah stumbles upon this post, I believe all of Levi’s statement in his Vanity Fair article.

All of them.

But I really would kill for her cheekbones and hair volume.

P.S. You can bet I’ll read as much of  her “Going All Rogue-ie” book while I stand in line at Borders. It’s my form of theft.

When Old School and I first met, I knew he could be “the one” because he, too, liked to call it a day, early.  Loved that about him!  We naturally followed the same schedule.  Now that we’ve been married for close to eight years it seems all of our family and friends know they shouldn’t call us past 8 or 9 o’clock at night, we’ll be passed out by then.

You can only imagine that, on occasion, Old School and I both take a little bit of ribbing about the hours we keep.  And we’re both fine with that.  We are who we are.  People who need 8 hours of sleep and who like to get up early.

These hours have been known to get in the way of our social life.  If it’s a late-starting party or event, we aren’t even invited anymore — everyone just assumes we won’t show up.

Well — last night Old School and I stayed out until 1am!!!  Woot!!! Every once in a while we’re crazy like that!!

Here’s how it happened:  Months ago Old School decided we should go to dinner with his three partners and their wives to celebrate the wonderful year we’ve all had.  Being the event planner in this couple, I called our favorite restaurant, The Precinct, to make reservations two months in advance.  We wanted their private room and it was only available at 8:15pm on the night we had chosen.  And I said yes!  Let the craziness begin!!

When was the last time I had dinner at 8:15pm?  Can’t remember.

Anyway, we all met for drinks at 7:45 and were seated in the beautiful private room by 8:10pm.  It didn’t take long for one of Old School’s partners to ask why the reservations were so late when we all knew that this was his bedtime (they did not include me in the making-fun-of-funfest, guess they were all being gentlemen).  Laughing ensued.  And continued several more times throughout the evening.  Especially when Old School and I left the restaurant only to head to a friend’s party!  Check this out — we got there at 11:30pm!!  I should have been Tweeting and Facebooking the entire evening to let the world know how we were SHAKIN’ IT UP last night, but that was way too much effort.

We stayed at the party long enough for Old School to have a cigar and for us to realize we were the only sober ones there.  Here comes the crazy part — we arrived home at 12:56am!!! Even though the sidewalks are officially rolled-up in our neighborhood around 7:30pm, we were allowed back into the neighborhood after we were warned not to make this late-night carousing a regular occurence.

And, honestly, today I’ve taken two naps and plan to be asleep by 7:30.

Earlier this week I was overcome with my own excitement. I know the email I sent was marked “Really Ultra-High Importance,” but the status was more indicative of mild mania that had overtaken my brain rather than the entertainment value to pour out of it. In it I promised I’d post a side-splitting few paragraphs on my new favorite TV host, Nancy Grace, she of The Nancy Grace Show.

Alas, that post won’t make it to cyberspace tonight.

You see, I write my blog posts in my head days before they ever find their way onto these pages. One never knows when the hands of the Literary Goddess will reach down and caress my brain. But believe me when I say it ain’t often. So when it does, or I’ve confused it with the mild mania again, you are its first target. My apologies.

As I stared at my blank screen trying to make good on my promise and pry the laughs out of my brain, it occurred to me I’m making this writing thing far too difficult. I read the hilarity of Jen Lancaster and David Sedaris and imagine them at their laptops for a few short hours, cupcakes and Veuve Clicquot at hand, while the words just flow from their fingers. No biggie for them.

But a biggie for me.

So I beg your patience while I take another 24 or so hours to procrastinate* and try to yank the post out of my brain. And push this cat off of my keyboard.

So, now do I have your permission to pop the cork? I thought so.

Most Sincere-estly,

Leslie

* Procrastination activities to include:

• Eating ice cream directly from the carton while …
• Staring at, but not working out to, my “Secret of Flat Abs” video
• Stalking my high school nemesis on the web. And they know who they are. (Carolyn and Joan, both of you are sworn to secrecy.)

In the last part of the last century, I took multiple photography classes. When arranging work on one’s portfolio, professors always advised placing one’s best work first. This one might not be my best, but it’s my favorite.

Can’t say what I was thinking here.

This one looked better in the camera, but still made the cut.

Here’s the postcard-back-to-the-family candidate of the lot.

Oh, I’m getting all artsy here.

This one is supposed to be dramatic.

Almost didn’t make the cut but I needed one more.

Couldn’t pass this one up. I like to ride up the hill in the background.

The obligatory girl-on-her-horse-on-a-path shot.

“The Blessing of the Animals, 1 pm, Sunday October 25.”

I made a mental note to be at the stables to have my horse, Dane, blessed. Because God knows, after being launched into inner space as detailed here, we both need it.

Happy horse owners who regularly skirt penury and eminent stays at debtor’s prison drove from far and wide to the stables to have their ponies Blessed.

Among them was my Dutch friend, Caroline, who is often confused with Dutch super models. Here Caroline guides 3 year old Chamonix into the arena-turned-sanctuary.

Between tall and slim Lisa and tall and slim Caroline, I appear abundantly average and have stopped standing between or next to either of them.

The bulletin board invitation indicated all animals in need of Blessing are welcome to the ceremony. Observe these soon-to-be-blessed cute dogs exhibiting good manners. I’m a sucker for Shelties.

Dane, my trusty steed, stands quietly eyeing …

this scene.

Barn Family Values. From the looks of it those who are Blessed together stay together.

Our stable is configured into three seperate barns: A and B and thus the predicatably named Barn C. These are the horses and riders from Barn C across the parking lot who are commonly referred to as ”Those Eventer People.” They spend copious amounts of time jumping over fences at high rates of speed. I believe their endeavor leaves them in the greatest need of being Blessed.

From the lack of interaction between those in Barn C and me and my colleagues in Barn A, one might conclude the parking lot is the size and depth of the Atlantic. Note to self: wander across lot, introduce yourself and talk to these nice girls.

Noticeably absent from this scene are the Dads who presumably foot the bills for this cash thirsty sport. Lots of bills. And then another bill.

I suspect The Dads are:

a: working overtime

b: watching “the game”

c. sitting in their cars bored out of their minds

d. content in knowing their daughters’ whereabouts and satisfied these young ladies are involved in a sport that demands concentration, promotes self-esteem and a focus on something besides themselves.

Talking about lovely young ladies, here are Chris and her daughter Caroline who I’ve dubbed Caroline junior. Caroline Jr. holds her horse, Shelby. Recent advancements in carbon dating techniques indicate that Shelby is 1.6 million years old and thus the perfect little girl’s horse. (Please excuse the blurry image. Horses don’t stand still for Kodak moments.)

Horses and dutiful owners line up for the Big Moment. As the Deacon began the ceremony, all 22 horses and several dogs were unusually serene. They know so much more than us.

Caroline, laughing at a joke that no one else heard, stands next to her husband Douwe. Douwe is the King of Pringles. Please buy some, eat them and repeat that process. Regularly.

The Deacon enters in all his finery and other Blessing-related stuff. As a card-carrying Wasp, I have little idea of the accessories involved in official Blessings, but I like his colorful sash. He’s the only one brave enough to wear white to a barn.

The Deacon begins the ceremony while Dane gives me the evil eye.

The Deacon recited comforting words about these magnificent creatures although I can’t remember much since I was taking these equally magnificent photos.

After the recitation the Deacon blessed each horse. Here’s my friend Kathy with her beautiful boy, Dru.

I harbor a not-so-secret yet unrequieted love for Dru. Riding him is akin to sitting on a Barkolounger at a sports bar. Everything is fine when I’m riding Dru. Kathy has been duly warned that if she finds Dru among the missing she can rest assured that he will have been confiscated by me and added to my payroll.

Now that you’re finished reading this post I must disclose that it has taken three hours to:

• write the Pulitzer Prize winning commentary
• select the images
• edit the photographs and,
• dodge this guy who won’t stay off of the keyboard.

Move a cat? Please.

Wish I had a really good excuse for not writing anything on this blog for a couple of weeks. Except I was busy.  Really busy.  I was!  (Did you hear my voice go up two octaves there? Did I sound like a 13 year-old?)

In order to catch everyone up quickly I’ve decided to create a list of the things I should have been blogging about had I actually taken the time to open my laptop and write.  Here goes. And in no particular order:

• I regrouted my shower (all by myself, and in some spots it shows)
• I caulked my shower (that part looks great cuz I bought the little plastic thingy that makes just the right amount of caulk go into the right places)
• Two words — True Blood (thank you HBO for giving me a vampire fix while we wait a ridiculously long time for the next Twilight movie to open)
• United Cerebral Palsy SNOWball, Friday, December 4th at the Westin downtown – I’ve been asked to co-chair the silent/live auction.  And I said yes! (more on that topic later)
• For that auction I have been able to acquire 4 tickets to the American Idol concert tour next summer with backstage passes to meet the Idols.  Let the bidding war begin!!
• Went to a party last weekend called a “Bitchin’ Bonfire” — all women.  We sat around a bonfire and….well, you get the idea.
• Took my dog Sasha for a walk and twisted my ankle on the edge of the sidewalk.  Totally fell. Like a sack of potatoes.  Skinned knee, lots of bruises.  Handsome neighbor tried to help, Sasha tried to bite him.

That’s been my life for the last two weeks.

One other important thing happened, too.  I got a job!

Finally found the perfect part-time job — at United Cerebral Palsy of Greater Cincinnati.  The same place where I’m co-chairing the silent/live auction.  Betsy, who is now their Development Director, used to work at Speaking of Women’s Health, so it’s all very familiar. Just a different non-profit.  I’m the Special Events Coordinator and I’m loving it.

So there’s the update.

See. I told you I’ve been busy.

Happy eBar barista: Hello. What can I whip up for you today?

Moi: Tall latte please.

Happy eBar barista: And what kind of milk would you prefer? Skim? 2 percent?

Moi: Ha! Skim or 2 percent in a latte is for wussies. Big wussies. Give me the real thing baby. Full fat with high test. Make it extra fat. Stat.

Happy eBar barista who is now visibly energized by my order: You’re our kind of woman.

Moi: I’m a purist, baby. All these people walking around demanding custom shots of flavor and skinny milk are polluting their coffee. It’s pollution I say! Be a woman about it and drink coffee, not custom made wussie coffee.

Happy eBar barista: Our kind of girl. ROCK STAR!

Rock Star? Moi? I’m stunned. Yes! Finally someone has realized my star potential besides me. And Mom, but since that’s kind of her job, it doesn’t count. Have I found my people? Yes. I should have known I’d find my first fans at a coffee shop.

All 3 Happy eBar baristas behind the counter bowing in unison: We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!

I’m jumping up and down with arms in the air, I acknowledge my first surge of appreciation from strangers.

And I have the coffee cup to prove it.

(Notice how the cup is gently held by crease-free hands. I don’t watch America’s Next Top Model for fun. Tyra has the answers.)

The burst of endorphins lasted for three days. Had I ever dreamt of rock star-ness? Of course, just like any red blooded American girl in the mid-west who grew up on a steady diet of Zepplin, Rush and Heart. I heard Heartless in junior high and immediately placed Nancy Wilson at the top of Maslow’s Hierarchy. Can anyone come close to that?

The answer is a resounding ‘No.’

And don’t think it’s over. I could drive a tour bus. Now where are the talented niece and nephew with the guitar and mini amp…?