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The Do-Over





Maybe Mara Jane deserves her own mulligan... She'll swap the mom jeans for vintage funk, discover her inner party girl and outer cleavage, and hope she’ll soon be ready to return home and happily warehouse shop for jugs of ketchup again.

She's pretty sure she can explain to her husband the strip club and the pack of wild grandmas, the lesbians at her slumber party, and possibly the all-over sunburn from the clothing optional beach, but the soapy encounters with a bubble bath mogul?… probably not.

As the days sail by, Mara Jane Mulligan discovers she has a decision to make that even Dorothy couldn't avoid…Should she click her heels for home or kick them up for good?

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chapter 1



The chrome faucet shook from the abundance of hot water streaming out. Mara Jane Mulligan held her bathrobe close at the neck and made a wish. She wished that her house had hotel quality water pressure so baths could come instantly, without planning, without waiting, without earning. Even to her it seemed like a small thing to make a wish on, but sometimes a bubble bath was more than a bubble bath. It was the one thing that stood between a working mom and her ability to make it work.

She could hear the travel alarm clock, the second hand ticking along the thirty minutes she'd managed to carve out of an entire week. She needed to hurry, or she'd have no time to relax. She reached for a beige hair tie and made a tidy ponytail, the tie disappearing like camouflage. She reached for the iridescent bottle of Luscious Bubbles, unscrewed the pearly top and, breathing in the lavender sweet musk of it, tipped it over the tumble of water.

Nothing.

She waited, found herself half looking into the bottle as if it were just slow to arrive.

Nothing.

She shook it three times.

Nothing.

She was out? After she'd gotten Logan packed for his stay at Grandma's, cleaned the entire house, stocked the fridge for Dan's days without her, prepped a workshop for thirty-five middle-school teachers, and driven the four hours into Seattle, she was out? Her stomach rumbled. She'd even chosen a bath over dinner. A simple little bubble bath, the one thing she'd claimed for herself, and she was out?

She shook the bottle as hard as she could and watched two drops fall, disappearing in the cascade of water. Empty. And hadn't her whole day gone like that? She'd started it jammed under her side of the bed, reaching for a suitcase that after fifteen years had suddenly migrated to the other side. Wedged beneath the box springs, she'd spread in half a snow angel and reached for something she couldn't get a grip on. How had it gotten so far from where it had always been? And when had one tiny thing for herself become impossible to manage?

She was going to enjoy a damn bubble bath. She smacked her palm twice on the bottom of the bottle. She wasn't going to settle for a tub of plain, hot water. She wanted a restorative bath of scents and silk just like the label promised because she deserved thirty minutes in the middle of a sea of work and responsibilities and the unceasing grind of the normalness of a day. But nothing came out of the Luscious Bubble bottle, and she knew nothing would. Seeing it tipped in unjustified optimism, she felt her neck muscles jerk then tighten like they were too short a tether for her frame, and she stumbled backwards. Her hip rapped on the edge of the sink, and she sat down on the toilet lid, afraid she would lose her balance and hurt herself. Just the thought of hurting herself and not being able to do the million things everyone needed her to do made her breath hitch. That one irregularity was followed by another, until she couldn't get enough air, and her heart followed, tripping up on its usually steady beat. Her eye caught the sweep of the second hand. Twenty-seven minutes. Twenty-seven minutes wasn't going to help her any. She still had a couple of hours of work before she could even think about going to bed, and she was never going to rally with only... Twenty-six minutes. The ticking made her light-headed, and her breaths fluttered in and out, quick and shallow. She had to get out of the bathroom.

She turned the faucet off and rushed out, trying to force herself to take a couple of deep breaths, but moving to another room didn't seem to help. She set the bottle down on the low dresser next to the bed and watched her hand shake. She just needed to get dressed and everything would be fine. She didn't over-react to things. She was steady, reasonable, logical. Isn't that what anyone would say about her? She'd get a hold of herself once she had her sweats on, and who wasn't a little tired after a long drive? She reached into her suitcase and felt her heart keep up its racing pace. She ignored the sheen of sweat in the cup of her palms as she pulled the pants on, her foot struggling through the bunched gray elastic at the bottom. The matching sweatshirt was easier, her head popping out just in time for more air. Breathing. Breathing. Breathing. She could hear the air whoosh out of her lungs, hear the pound of her heartbeat against her ear drums. She wished she knew how many breaths there were supposed to be per minute. An average number to aim for would help her.

She needed... she scanned the room, so small, so bland, it offered nothing. She needed... her eyes rested on the bottle of Luscious and its reflection in the mirror. Both empty. She grabbed the bottle, and held it above the dull metal trash can. A simple bath. She took a shuddery breath and tried to still the speed of her nervous system. She'd sacrificed plenty of them, thousands maybe, definitely hundreds. She'd given up whatever small indulgences she needed to, so she could get to the grocery store, drive Logan to basketball practice, volunteer at the school. Her resources were limitless. Sometimes it hadn't felt like her resources were limitless, but hadn't she always managed to have the hours and the energy she'd needed for work and home and community and whatever else made a request for a piece of her?

The Luscious bottle hung in her hand. What if she couldn't do it anymore? Her heart kicked once then galloped even faster. What if she was tired for real? Worn out, used up, ruined, nearly forty, out of bubble bath, and incapacitated? How could she let that happen? Her family, her house, her job would collapse in ruins. She had to keep on, keep moving, keep working, keep giving. Logan had five more years before he was even eighteen. She had an instant picture of her high school graduation, the purple cap and gown, the diploma in her hand, and only her father beside her. She jerked the bottle to her chest and reached for her purse. She'd find Luscious somewhere and get what she needed to go on.



Janie held the empty bottle in one hand and in the other a jug with a pink soap face with a smile she didn't return. "Mr. Bubbles?"

The teenage boy, eyes droopy with disinterest, shrugged her off. "It's bath stuff."

She studied his unlined, still round face. What did he know about drawing the line in the sand? He was maybe nineteen. How many compromises had he made in his life? The grind of work hadn't even touched him yet. And he was a he. Labor, real labor, breast-feeding, the bulk of errand running, and most social obligations would pass him by even when he did hit thirty-nine. Heck, at that point in his life, he'd probably be reminding his wife they were out of facial tissues and couldn't she just stop by the warehouse store and buy eighty-six boxes of them when she gets back from her conference where she's working even though, like all school administrators, he's mostly off all summer and-

"Lady, there's a whole bunch on aisle twelve or thirteen."

She wiggled the jug. "I got this on twelve A." She moved the empty bottle closer to him. "I need this one. Can you suggest another store?"

"Maybe a mall, lady. But it's, like, after nine."

Janie let out a slow breath to keep herself in check and focused behind the boy's head so she didn't panic again or give in to the absurd and inappropriate impulse to lean over the counter and give him a stinging flick on the forehead. She tried to keep her breathing steady and studied the produce sale prices posted behind his check stand. Good deal on artichokes. They could be pricey even in the summer. Calendar. July. Good month. Warm. July first. Canada Day.

The boy looked closer at the back of the bottle. "Guess you gotta go to Vancouver." He turned her hand so the back of the bottle faced her, and his nail bitten finger pointed. "They make it in Canada."

Janie glanced at the calendar again. July first. Canada Day. Vancouver, British Columbia. "How far?"

He shrugged. "Don't know."

She gave him her mom look, and he straightened. "A couple hours, I guess, but you're not gonna drive to Canada for soap."

"Of course not. That would be crazy." And there was one thing Mara Jane Mulligan knew about herself. She was a responsible wife and mother. She wasn't driving to Canada so she could buy soap. She was driving to Canada so she could breathe.



"Don't stop me now." Janie sang along with Freddy Mercury about having a good time. The classic rock station had kept her company for an hour with a Queen retrospective. At the start of the hour, she'd learned the singer's name was Freddy Mercury, the band was Queen, and the choruses were pretty catchy. The songs had been vaguely familiar, maybe heard through a dorm room wall. But the lyrics were new to her and so well done. She'd removed the Enya CD as soon as she'd turned the van toward Canada. A spontaneous drive to another country required something a bit edgier than New Age sighing with strings.

She glanced down at the half-empty bag of nacho cheese chips, glad that she'd gone for the family size. Interstate Five would take her straight to Vancouver, and it looked like the chips would hold out. She had plenty of time. It was two-and-a-half hours from Seattle to Vancouver, and if she estimated an hour to hunt down Luscious and two-and-a-half hours back to Seattle, she'd have time for a bath and maybe even an hour or two of sleep before morning. Everything was fine. She felt fine. Better than fine. There was nothing wrong with her a bath wouldn't cure.

She took a gulp from the seventy-eight ounce cola, not diet, that she held between her thighs. She'd discovered that real sugar tasted like real sugar, and the bladder-buster size didn't fit in the van's drink holders. She'd take it as a good sign, a kind of square peg in a round hole situation. How better to refill her energy than to do something that didn't fit her normal life?

Queen kept rocking, and she turned it up far louder than Enya ever needed to be played. Freddy sang about Lady Godiva, and she took her eyes off the dark freeway just long enough to grab the king-sized Snickers bar on the passenger seat. She'd open the party-sized bag of Hershey's kisses later. She took a queen-sized bite of chocolate and sang along about re-loading a sex machine.



The border crossing had been painless. She'd passed through the Peace Park wondering if it would impart a state of calm to her, but she only felt the zing of caffeine and a desire for even more. At the booth, the border patrol wore his national security face sternly but asked questions easy enough to answer. What is the purpose of your trip? Shopping. That was true, and she certainly hadn't been tempted to tell him she needed a bottle of bubble bath. Neither of them had enough time for that conversation. Weapons? No. She wasn't even sure she could defend herself from herself.

Selling? Giving? She had no intention of either.

Home? Yes. She had one where people needed her in a well-tended development east of Seattle.

Occupation? Middle school teacher trainer.

And then he'd waved her into his country. Why would she ever have trouble crossing a border? No one in the international community would peg her for a person of interest. She didn't peg herself for a person of interest. She wouldn't endanger the citizens of Canada, plus who even worried about woman nearing middle age? They weren't a demographic that filled prisons. They didn't have time to break the law.

She could see the city of Vancouver clustered ahead of her. Canada. It seemed even more of an adventure when she considered that she was actually in another country, socialized medicine and all that. It was a foreign land and Vancouver, an exotic port. Even in the darkness, when exact shapes were impossible to determine, the city had a utilitarian quality, like a place the Jetsons might have found homey. Maybe it was the sense of change she felt looking at it, with so many buildings rising unlit in the midst of construction.

She followed the flow of traffic, considerable for so late at night, and assumed it would eventually lead her to an open store. Along the way it shot past established neighborhoods. At the edge of the sidewalks, large houses hid behind towering hedges. The growth rate with the climate had to be amazing to get ten, twelve feet of green.

She worried for a moment about getting lost. She had no map, no orientation devices in the van or inborn. But she had no real destination either. Just a place that sold bubble bath. And the lights were green, green as far as she could see and flashing. It wasn't enough to signal go. In Vancouver the lights said go, go, go! She'd trust the signs and flow with the Vancouverites. Would they be called that? They all seemed to be heading somewhere. She'd let them lead her and end up somewhere herself.

It didn't take more than a half a mile for residential to turn into commercial, and she pulled into the well-lit lot of an upscale grocery store, betting Mr. Bubbles did not make an appearance in the aisles. She grabbed her wallet and got out, brushing off the layer of chip bits that had accumulated in her lap.

The street sign on the corner said Robson, and the shop fronts said fine things can be found here. Even the shush of the automatic door sounded different, not like her grocery store at home. Inside she spotted three clerks, standing at their registers, waiting for their late night shift to end at dawn. One woman looked as tired as Janie had felt when she'd headed for that failed restorative bath. A woman like that could help her.

"Excuse me. Do you carry this?" Janie showed her the empty Luscious bottle, and the clerk gave a knowing smile, her eyes down to Janie's sweatshirt as she mouthed the word chocolate. Janie tried to brush off the pieces of candy bar and explain her state, but the woman just headed down an aisle as if she completely understood, and Janie followed, trying not to walk too closely to the women's heels in her excitement.

The clerk stopped, and Janie scanned the shelves for the pearly top of Luscious Bubbles. She spotted it and grabbed one with a rush of relief. She could make things work again. Then she noticed the bubble bath was surrounded by bath oils, fizzy bath balls, and an abundance of crystalline salts she'd never dreamed existed. They all wore the same shimmery blue label, the Abundance Bath Company. She looked at the clerk in wonder, and the woman sighed, checked her watch as if counting down her own release from work.

Janie began to fill her arms with the amazing scent of Abundance. "I'll take one of each, just in case."



Lavender and citrus and sweet musk perfumed the van. Janie peeked into the grocery bag of comfort. All she had to do was drive back to Seattle. It was already past midnight. It probably wouldn't hurt to postpone joy a little longer.

She clicked her seatbelt and glanced in the rear view mirror. Hotel. It was a nice hotel sign, and it was green. Wasn't green one of her favorite colors? Canada had a decent exchange rate, or at least it seemed that their money was nearly the same as American money. It had to be pretty close, and she did have to go to the bathroom. The hotel would provide a cup of complimentary coffee for her drive back, and a bath in Canada wouldn't take any longer than a bath in Seattle.

She put the van in reverse, pulled out, and turned toward the vacancy sign.



The bedspread was plaid not the paisley of the Seattle hotel she was also checked into, but the bathtub was just as shiny and the water pressure was an awesome thing to see. She waited for the tub to fill to the brim and stood naked in the bathroom, looking down the length of her body. Her breasts looked perkier. She didn't eat enough chocolate. It seemed to be working for her, although it could have been the two pounds she must have gained from the party-sized bag of chips. She checked to see if that bothered her, but it felt just fine.

She held the bottle of Luscious over the water and let it pour and pour. There was no reason to deny herself. She had an abundance. She watched the bubbles explode, some popping open, others dividing in froth the length of the tub. It was a sweet eddy of comfort just waiting for her. She turned off the water and lowered herself into the perfection of it, her head falling back against the still cool porcelain rim while her body relaxed into the heat. She cleared her mind of everything but the warmth and knew with just a little rest, responsibility would feel right again. She'd be able to go on, get back to the work of her life. But after a time the bath began to cool, and the only thing she wanted was more.

She sat up, drained half the tub out, and turned the hot water back on. Leaning out of the tub, she hooked a finger around the edge of the grocery sack and pulled it closer. She unwrapped the fizzy balls and dumped in the scented salts. The water frothed, and bits of rose petals floated around her knees, beautiful petals, regaining some of their loveliness as they plumped in the water. She leaned back and closed her eyes. She just needed more.



The cold water woke her, and she rubbed wet hands down the goose bumps on her arms. She'd never dozed off in the bath before. She rose out of the tub, wrapped herself with a thick towel, and felt some warmth return. How long did it take for hot water to get that cold?

She walked out of the bathroom, stepped around the heap of her sweats, and reached for her watch on the dresser. Seven a.m. Her body jerked and the towel fell to the floor. Seven in the morning, the next morning, the morning she had to be in a conference room with her power-point presentation in an hour. Hadn't she dreamed that before? Maybe she was still dreaming.

She shook her head for clarity, but the only thing clear was that she was awake, naked, and two-and-a-half hours from Seattle. How could she get there in time? If she drove... If she flew... She couldn't. She could not do it. She needed to call, to explain... she needed a phone book, but would a Canadian phone book even list a Seattle hotel where thirty-five middle-school teachers waited for a speaker who could not arrive in time? She reached for her cell phone but didn't know if information would even work in another country. She had dreamed it all before... late for something important, unable to phone, naked. If a dozen high school cheerleaders showed up to mock her, she'd know she was still asleep.

The hotel phone looked useful with all kinds of numbers printed neatly on its face. She picked it up and dialed the desk.

"How may I help you?"

Every phone should have a reassuring male voice to talk a woman off the roof. Janie felt the edge of something hysterical and tearful building and took a deep breath. "I need the phone number of the Hendrickson Hotel in Seattle." The tears began to form and took her breath away. "I just came to Vancouver last night for some bubble bath, and now I'm not in Seattle to present Strategic Reading to thirty-five middle-school teachers." There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone, and she used the pause to reach for a tissue and hold it over her eyes.

"I'll have that number for you in just a minute." The male voice was old enough to have a calming Dad effect and there was a sincerity to Canadian speech patterns that let her open her eyes again. "Here it is. (206)555-7542. Would you like me to connect you?"

"Yes!" Janie took another deep breath. Her yes had sounded too desperate. She needed to calm down if she was going to sound at all professional when she made her excuse. Excuse? She didn't know how to make an excuse. She never needed to because she was a damned responsible person. She heard the ringing, pictured the front desk at the Hendrickson. She'd simply explain that she'd driven through the night to another country for bubble bath and fallen asleep in the tub. Her eyes filled with tears again. She couldn't say that, but she wouldn't lie either. That would be —

"Hendrickson Hotel. How may I help you?"

"I..." I what? The pause was too long. The man at the Seattle hotel didn't have Canadian sincerity. He'd think she was crazy or drunk or... She couldn't imagine more ors. "I have had a, uh, situation come up, and I need someone to post a notice on a conference room." Post a notice sounded very professional. "The eight a.m. Strategic Reader presentation is cancelled. Thank you." She hung up and watched the phone as if it might ring and someone American and disapproving would be on the other end to berate her. When it didn't, she realized she was hungry. She was hungry and maybe a little relieved, but mostly she felt there was something more she needed. What it was, she couldn't name, but she'd get dressed, check-out, and it would surely come to her on the drive back.



There was a moment of discomfort with the desk clerk when she wondered if she should be embarrassed about her near-breakdown on the phone just asking for a number, but he was a gentleman, and all felt well. She watched him in the next room as he waited for the printer to chug out the bill. Good thing they didn't charge for hot water usage. She thought of the all night Luscious bath that should have been enough. While she waited, the sounds of the city bled through the lobby walls. It had a white-noise quality like a thousand fans droning on, only punctuated by the occasional horn or shout or the deep shifting of a large bus. She turned to the windows to watch the flow of human traffic and felt herself being watched. Across the street, a high-rise held all empty windows but one. She squinted and could make out a cat. It seemed to paw the window as if on the hunt. What would a pent up cat hunt? A near dead fly? A dried-up lady bug? What adventure did that hold for the poor cat?

The clerk appeared, set the bill on the counter, and smiled in the nice way only a silver-haired man could get away with, and she handed over her credit card. He compared the name with her paperwork from the night before. "Mulligan."

"Yes." She signed the credit slip.

"That's a do-over."

She looked at her signature. M. Jane Mulligan. "You want me to sign again?"

"No. Your name."

She pointed to the raised M on her card. "I go by Janie but Mara's my first name."

The nice Canadian smiled. "You're not a golfer."

Was there a professional golfer out there with her name? An M. Jane Mulligan who got her picture on the sports page swinging with style? It was kind of exciting to think someone with her name was out there living. That M. Jane Mulligan probably didn't have to drive to another country for a bath either. She probably lived in a bathtub, when she wasn't winning trophies.

"A mulligan's a do-over. In golf if you get another shot at it, it's called a mulligan."

She tucked her card back in her wallet. A do-over. Maybe she could be that other M. Jane Mulligan, the regularly bathing one. She didn't know how to golf, but she did possess something miraculous. She had a whole day with nothing required of her. There wasn't any reason to rush back to Seattle. Maybe she'd... "Could you look up one more thing for me?"

"Certainly."

"Could you find the address for The Abundance Bath Company?"

He reached for a phone book then flirted in a way only a silver-haired man could get away with. "Mara's a lovely name..."



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The 5-Star Reviews for The Do-Over are in!

***** Booty- Shakin' good!!

By Amanda Shaffer

This was a book that made me long for friends like the shipping crew ladies, a hot bath (and I don't even like taking baths!) and a pair of butterfly flip-flops. There were so many moments that lingered long after I finished this novel - and I believe THAT is a sign of a truly great story. Dunnehoff creates real, genuine characters that make you cheer at times and cringe at others while on their journey of self-discovery. She wrote with an endearing appeal, writing about life and all that it can reveal to a person, once they stop to smell the bubble bath! There were moments that had me laughing out loud - (now I know how dangerous facial tissue boxes can be!) and moments that had me wishing and willing the main character to chose the right path. Throughout the whole story, there was an underlying feeling that begs the question ' What would YOU do if you had 30 days of opportunities?' I think this is a perfect story to be shared with girlfriends over wine and chocolate - and if the spirit moved you to dance, I hope you all get up and shake your booties!



***** The sisterhood of women

By Judy

I can't say enough good things about this novel.The laugh-out-loud humor, the characters I came to love, the message and gentle delivery. Ms. Dunnehoff has found a voice that all women dipping a toe into the muddy waters of mid-life crisis can understand and learn from. She holds up a mirror but also enfolds us in a big, warm hug. For every woman who is questioning how she got locked into a life that isn't living up to it's billing, for every woman debating change, for anyone who wants to meet wonderful characters and enjoy a lovely read, this book is a gift. Thank you Kathy Dunnehoff! Every woman needs a mulligan.



***** The Do-Over will be on my Read-Over again list!

By Angela D

The Do Over was a fun, fast-paced read that kept my interest from the very beginning. Dunnehoff has a wicked sense of humor that kept the pages turning & the book hard to put down. Her vivid descriptions made it very easy for me to visualize the great scenery & also feel the raw emotions as Mara/Janie struggles to figure out what she really wants out of life. I could so relate to her desire to want to be who she felt like on the inside & how hard it can be to fight against those who feared her changing. While the Do-Over may be labeled as "chick-lit", it was definitely not your typical romance story. The greatest surprises to this book were the twists & turns the story took along the way--definitely worth your time & one I will definitely read again and again!

*****

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Plan On It





A Zola Award Winning Romantic Comedy





Six men in six months. It's a logical plan to Professor Hattie McLean. Date 6 men in 6 months and one will be the clear choice to father her child. But biology involves the heart as well... even if she didn't plan on it!

____________________





Chapter One: Aphids Never Need a Man



She felt naked. There was a reason the word was synonymous with being vulnerable. She felt bare, exposed, unprotected. And it didn't matter that she'd been given a paper robe to put on, a short kimono that seemed to be made of starched facial tissues and made a crinkling sound when she'd put her feet in the stirrups. And it didn't matter that the doctor with the headlamp who was doing the spelunking in her nether regions was a woman. Hattie felt naked.

"So, you're going to feel a little pressure."

Pressure? She wondered why ovaries didn't stay squished from pelvic exams. Of course, as a biologist she'd seen them permanently flattened, shriveled under the microscope like they'd been harvested from two-hundred-year-old women.

The doctor sat back, sliding out the speculum then snapping off her gloves to wash up.

Hattie sat up, pulled the robe down as far as it would go, mid-thigh. Women under five-ten probably got to cover up their knees.

"I'm not seeing any problems, Hattie, but since you're experiencing some peri-menopausal symptoms--"

"I'm not."

The doctor didn't look convinced. "The lack of regular menstruation? Your last period was..." She looked at the chart.

"Last month." She had completely had one in November. It had been short, but she'd had one.

"Yes, but the one before that?"

Hattie hesitated. "Um, a couple of months before that." It had been the start of fall semester. She'd had to dig for a tampon in her desk minutes before a three hour lab with twenty-five college freshmen. "End of August."

"And today your hormone levels are on the low end of normal. They can fluctuate depending on the blood draw, but I'd bet they're below normal fertility levels for much of your cycle."

"What… What does that mean, you know, for me?"

"For you as a healthy person? Nothing. It's perfectly natural that the reproductive system gets rolling at puberty and slows down until it eventually stops." The doctor smiled. "You're a doctor. You know all about it."

Hattie didn't want to but smiled back at her anyway. They both knew Ph.D.'s liked to claim the title of doctor and refer to medical doctors as physicians. Just one of the pretensions Hattie knew some of her colleagues indulged in.

"For the average woman, menopause is official at 51."

"I'm only 34!" And she didn't even look 34. At least she didn't think she did. There were plenty of times she was mistaken for a student at Excelsior and not a professor. She pulled her French braid over her shoulder. She'd worn her hair the same since she was a teenager, and it still worked for her, didn't it?

The doctor tapped the chart, and she jumped. "You're only six months from 35, but, Hattie, age isn't really the issue. Fifty-two is average, plus peri-menopause can last up to ten years."

"But I'm healthy and--"

"You are. There really is no problem at all."

She heard it in the woman's voice, the shadow that no problem could cast. "Except?"

"There's no problem, except if you want to have a child."



Driving down Pill Hill with grayish glimpses of Puget Sound in the distance, she rationalized she wasn't that far from James Street, and James Street wasn't that far from Harborview Medical Center. Angela would be there, and she hadn't had coffee with her in two days. She ignored her unsettled stomach, the slight shake of her hand as she entered the hospital. Sure, she just needed coffee. She wasn't shaken by erratic periods and plunging hormone levels. Nothing had changed. She'd merely received some information, and information was power, right?

At the front desk, the woman with the headset looked like she could run a small country or a hospital, whichever task she was asked to do first, and she directed Hattie to the ER. She made her way down the busy hallways, slowing her pace deliberately. She didn't have an emergency or the more current hospital labeling of trauma, which sounded about ten times worse.

She spotted the staff-only lounge and peeked in the window of the door. Angela, her dark hair spiky, her face perfectly made up, and her suit sporting a name Hattie knew she wouldn't recognize, appeared to be hosting a brunch. She had her game face on, and what looked like a box of drug samples, and gift baskets. Hattie felt guilty, bothering her at work for some stupid…

Angela spotted her, gave a quick nod, and turned a killer smile on the room of physicians who would probably buy everything she was selling. A minute later, she strode out of the lounge with two cups of coffee in her hands, and they sat on a padded bench while Hattie tried not to think padded cell.

Angela raised one thin eyebrow. "So, what's up?"

Hattie sipped her coffee, tried to enjoy it, and strike the right tone of casualness. "Just stopped by to say hi."

Angela waited. Hattie knew the woman could wait forever. From the moment they'd met in a college dorm, Angela had been able to read her and wait her out. She really hated that about her. "I'm peri-menopausal."

"I gotta drug for that."

"You've got a drug for everything."

"They call this Pill Hill for a reason."

"This can't be medicated, Angela."

"Hell, Hat, everything can be medicated."

"I might have a hard time getting pregnant."

She appreciated that Angela took a moment to consider that, and while Angela may be Pollyanna's polar opposite, like, Hattie supposed, she was Angela's polar opposite, her friend would try in her own way to help. "Haven't we been avoiding live sperm for decades? The Pill, the patch, condoms, killer foam… I mean, do you really want your ovaries to meet sperm now?"

Did she? It was, and it wasn't, an easy question to answer. "I don't know. I mean, I want to be able to when I want to, you know?"

"Uh, I guess."

Live sperm. It wasn't like she didn't have a man in her life. A responsible partner would discuss this with the person they were involved with, wouldn't they? "I need to call Bryant."

"Bryant in Minnesota?"

Hattie felt herself straighten. It was amazing how many people didn't understand long-distance relationships. "My doctor says I've got about a 6 month window and then I've got to actively have a baby or..." She felt panic rise and swallowed it down with caffeine because that was going to help.

"Or what?"

"Or maybe not, you know, be able to…" The coffee only fueled her panic, and she couldn't help blurting out. "Ever!" She took a deep breath.

"I get it, Hat. I knew this day was coming."

"You knew I'd be infertile, and you didn't tell me?"

Angela let out a world-weary sigh. "I knew you'd be one of those women, you know?"

Hattie waited, her own impatience showing.

"The kind who wakes up one morning and says, hell, I forgot to have kids."

"Not funny."

She felt Angela's hand on her arm. "I know. I mean that you're someone who should have kids, who would have kids. I've always known that. Why is this news to you, and why in god's name would you call Professor Bug-Up-His-Ass?"

"Entomology is a well-respected area of research--"

Angela held up her hand. "I do respect entomology."

"He should be the first person I talk to about this." In fact, that's exactly what she'd do. She might even talk to him while she drove to campus for her afternoon class. She didn't normally allow herself to use her cell phone when she drove, but this was--

"Second."

She turned her attention back to Angela. "What?"

"Nothin'." Angela stood, tipped her head back to the lounge. "Let me know what Worm Boy says."

"That would be heminthology. That's not his area of expertise."

"Sure it's not."



Hattie sat back in her creaky office chair. The old wooden swiveler was probably original with the building, both born in the forties. She couldn't love it more, and the book-filled space she'd worked in during the 7 years she'd been at Excelsior. But the peace she normally felt on campus escaped her. There was no more putting it off, so she dialed.

"Hello?"

"Bryant, it's Hattie."

"Oh, hi. What's happening at Excelsior?"

"Oh, everything's fine here. I --"

"Heard the competition's really stiff for the Thomas Fellowship this year."

"Uh, I suppose. I haven't really paid much attention to the… Bryant, I didn't call about work. I called about us."

"Okay."

Had he just drawn out the word okay? It sounded like it to her, but she was probably just nervous about worrying him with her fertility issues. "I know we haven't talked about things for a while, but since your research project is almost done, and you'll be coming back to Seattle…"

"Actually, there's the Brazil thing, remember?"

"You're coming back here."

"I didn't tell you? I totally thought I did. Brazil's the insect capital of the world."

"But, we've been--"

"Been what?"

"I just. Bryant, we've been dating for 3 years. How could you not tell me you were leaving the country?"

The silence seemed really drawn out. The okay might not have been, although it was, who was she kidding? But the silence just sat there like all the miles in between them.

He broke it first. "Well, this is awkward. Hattie, I just thought we were both on the same page."

"What page? The I really miss you, Hattie, wish I could be in Seattle page? How about the you should check out Minnesota, the bugs are huge here page? I took that as an invitation to continue the relationship, Bryant. I flew out there, and we did not spend the weekend checking out big bugs."

"Hattie, that was a year ago, and, you know, we're friends. I really respect your work."

He respected her work? Was that what he was calling the sex they'd had every time he was in town? Well, almost every time. Maybe not the last couple of visits... Oh, dear god. She wasn't in a relationship at all, and she hadn't even known it. It was like the time she'd lost the pastry cutter her mom had bought for her kitchen, and two years later she'd only discovered it was missing when her mother had asked about it.

And if she hadn't been in a relationship, she'd been what? She thought of Angela suggesting he was worm boy. Angela would understand things like that about a million times quicker than she did. She had to think like Angela would. She wasn't in a relationship with Bryant. She was his… what term would Angela use? Booty call?

"Hattie, I'm sorry if you thought there was more..."

Well, she didn't need a relationship, clearly, and she wasn't going to let a hack entomologist make her cry. "Of course I didn't." She ought to let him know she'd functioned just fine without a pastry cutter for two whole years. She'd do just fine without him. But would her eggs? Maybe if she didn't need a guy, she didn't need a baby either. She'd at least liked boys since she was a teenager. But had she ever really, deeply wanted a baby? Maybe not. Problem solved. Both problems solved. No men. No babies. No problems.



She'd reminded herself all week that she had no problems, no problems at all. As she headed across campus to the college radio station, she decided she was even getting pretty good at exuding gratitude. She'd had a plan for her life, and she'd nailed it. She'd completed the Ph.D. and secured tenure at a respectable university. Her life was fulfilling and interesting, and she made a sizeable contribution to others and to the community at large and…

"Momma."

She heard it first and thought for the briefest of moments that the sound was in her head. Then she saw him, a little brown-haired boy toddling down the sidewalk right toward her. His arms swung as if half-opened to embrace her, but his gait, not fully developed by practice, reminded her of film she'd once seen of bumblebees slowed down for the study of flight.

"Momma." His voice was higher with more excitement as he reached her, and it was all she could do to not drop to her knees and open her arms to match his embrace. She felt his small body brush by her leg on his way by, and for a moment let herself imagine picking him up just as the mother behind her did. She'd murmur his name too, and kiss him on the top of his sweet head with the ease only a mother could know and would know for a lifetime.

The woman, carrying the boy, walked past her, and she closed her eyes, tried to breathe and orient herself again. She was somewhere outside the biology building and inside her life, and she just needed to regain her scientist's calm even though every inch of her tensed with something she didn't want to identify as longing. She looked down at her clenched hand, opened her palm to free her office key, and saw that the wavy indentations had changed her lifeline.



She wasn't sure how she'd gotten to the radio station, but she'd managed to walk across campus and take a seat in front of a mic. Rose, the afternoon d.j., was smiling at her and finishing the introduction, just like every month Hattie had done a spot for the department.

"And now for a Biological Moment, sponsored by Iguana World, located on Seattle's west side. Be sure to stop in for something green. Biological Moments, an educational service of the Excelsior Biology department, with Professor Hattie McLean."

Rose pointed at her, and Hattie realized her notes were missing. Twelve times a year from three-thirty to three-thirty-five her notes sat neatly typed just below the mic, and she read, as best she could, what she had so carefully researched. She couldn't even remember what the month's topic had been.

"Uh." Uh was not it. "Well." Not better. That boy had done her in. He'd called to her basic animal instincts and temporarily knocked out her capacity to think. She’d probably left her notes on the sidewalk, right where he'd kick-started her urge to reproduce.

"Reproduction." That was a start, although Rose was raising an eyebrow at her as if questioning the subject. Hattie recalled talking about the large intestine once. No one could tell her she wasn’t capable of edgy programming.

"We think of sexual reproduction..." maybe she'd planned to talk about fungus. It was starting to come back to her, the oxygen needs of fungus.

Rose looked more amused than concerned about a Biological Moment Meltdown. "Sexual reproduction?"

Not her original topic, but she’d taught dozens of biology courses. She’d just keep it academic. "We think of sexual reproduction as needing both a female and a male. Many people don't realize even flowers and trees also have female and male designations."

Rose shook her head as if it was definitely news to her.

Hattie wondered if there was actually an audience out there for this kind of information. "But it's possible, evolutionarily speaking, for the male to be completely obsolete." And didn't that sound like the best news ever? She stopped. God, had she said that out loud?

Rose motioned for her to continue. "Uh, and many sexually reproducing organisms have asexual episodes and are quite successful." She was right in the middle of an asexual episode herself, apparently for the past three years, although she hadn’t been able to reproduce during her drought. She tried to think of an example of a luckier creature. An octopus? Slipper Limpits... "Aphids." She said it so loudly, the force of her breath blew like a gust of wind across the mic. She cringed, but Rose waved her on. And aphids were such a fine model of how the world could be.

"Aphids are nearly all female during the summer then most of them die off. But those females strong enough to make it through the winter, you know, the ones who’ve known adversity and sure they may wear a few signs of aging on them, but they still have a great deal to offer…" she stopped. Where had she been going with that? Little boys saying Momma, old aphids…

She had it. "Older female aphids…" she paused for what she hoped was effect, "can reproduce all by themselves. No male required." She felt nearly dizzy at the prospect. "And there are strong females in many other species."

Rose coughed, and Hattie took it as encouragement. "A human female can have a great job and control her own destiny and just because she doesn't, right now, possess the capacity to self-fertilize, and sure, time is running out for her, doesn't mean she needs a man, does it?" A child running toward a momma on a sidewalk. There was no man in that picture.

"We could embrace it." She grabbed the mic and drew it closer as if someone was about to take it away. "We may be on the threshold of an evolutionary leap for human females, and like aphids we could find a really efficient way to reproduce, a Plan B so to speak." She thought of her own Plan A, the Ph.D., the tenure, the home ownership. She'd focused on the profession of biology and maybe ignored her own biology. "Biology and babies."

Rose cleared her throat, pointed to the clock, and Hattie scrambled to complete her usual close. "Uh, this has been Professor Hattie McLean with a Biological Moment. Remember, the biological perspective is an outstanding way to make sense of our world."

Make sense? That was a good one given she'd rambled on about sexual reproduction for her five minutes and completely neglected the oxygen requirements of fungi.

She glanced up at Rose who was raising the volume on the next program, a pre-recorded retrospective of big band music beginning with Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree with Anyone Else but Me. She'd certainly put a damper on the monogamous forties with her dirty aphid talk, but maybe no one was listening.

Rose pointed to the studio window, and standing in the hallway, Hattie saw the entire female staff from the building. It was mercifully silent with the soundproof glass between them, but she could feel the vibrations as a couple of them high-fived.



She’d planned to go home. She’d wanted to, but the women who'd mobbed her in the hallway really slowed her down. The university was well-populated with single thirty-somethings who now thought she was some kind of reproductive pioneer. Rose had rescued her and invited her for coffee, so instead of heading home to Queen Anne at the end of a day that had been as irregular as her periods, she wound her way through the U district. It was slow driving past the storefronts of futons and pizzas in the burst of winter rain.

The lights on University Way didn't help either with their timers set to allow the greatest number of students and bikes to cross. She eyed the next block and spotted a miraculous parking space in front of the café. Except for the key incident with the little boy and the aphid business, it was her lucky day.

She tried to glide her Subaru wagon into the space but jerked too close to the curb. She heard the familiar grind of the right front hubcap against cement, grateful again that older model car parts, like female aphids, were hearty. She inched forward, cranked the wheel, and reversed in bits until the sound of metal eased. She would have coffee, settle down, and everything would be fine again.



She closed her umbrella and walked through the scarred wooden door, the coffee smell solid as she moved down the black tiled walkway past the oily cases of beans to the steam of the espresso machine. She knew only tourists carried umbrellas in Seattle and that her raincoat made her look frumpy, but she was dry, and just because no one in Seattle ever seemed to notice rain, it didn’t mean it didn't come down sometimes in buckets.

She looked around the café. No Rose. She debated about taking a booth, but she normally got her coffee to go, and if Rose didn't show, she didn't want to stay. She stopped at the counter to order. "Coffee, please."

The waiter blinked and turned toward the stack of mugs near the coffee pot, and she silently encouraged him. It wasn’t as if she’d ordered something complicated, like a double French snickerdoodle skinny iced mochachino. That was a beverage for young aphids.

The waiter rallied and filled a mug for her. "Thank you." She considered adding good job to the thank you, but he’d already wandered off, so she took a tentative sip, testing its heat, and glanced around the dim coffee house that more resembled its 1970's roots than its chrome competition. Along the wall, the booths were lined up like train cars wrapped in paisley, and they were inviting enough she walked over to sit.

From a painting above the table, stared the wildest bird she’d ever seen, painted or otherwise. It looked like it would be right at home perched on a Woodstock-era album cover. Its breast was an electric blue, and the yellows and reds around the bird’s face were like feathers and hair and something alive. She took a step closer and realized with disappointment that it was painted on a plastic window shade. Such an extraordinary creature on such a cheap medium.

Rose slid into the booth. "What do you think?"

What did people say about art? "It’s interesting." She looked at Rose for some indication that interesting had worked, but Rose just folded her legs up in some kind of yoga position, smoothed her skirt, and waited.

Hattie realized she’d have to say more but found herself distracted by Rose’s clothing. Having only seen her once a month seated across a table in the studio, she'd missed how distinctly Rose dressed. Her skirt looked like it might have been a hotel curtain in its former life. It made her wonder, and she looked closer at the painting, noticing the signature. "Did you paint this?"

"Yep." Rose shrugged as if dismissing any connection she had to it.

"What do you call it?" That was a good question. Maybe she could not look like a total biologist for one more minute. She readjusted her bag over her shoulder.

"Beginning Bird."

Beginning Bird. She turned over the possibilities like an academic research question. The bird of creation, first bird, Rose’s first bird. She studied the crimson splash of color and absently sipped her coffee.

"Or," Rose shrugged, "Big Bird on Acid."

Hattie snorted, choked, and coughed out a mouth full of coffee. She dropped her bag and slapped a hand over her chin, reaching for a fist full of napkins. Rose began to laugh, and Hattie felt the surprising lightness of having yet another embarrassing biological moment. She straightened and rubbed her palm across her mouth, smiling in spite of herself.

Rose motioned to the seat across from her. "It’s been one of those days, huh?"

"Maybe one of those lives." She slid into the booth, dug for a tissue in her raincoat pocket, and dried her face. "I’m always afraid of things like that happening."

The waiter appeared with a cup of coffee, placed it directly in front of Rose and walked backwards toward the bar, smiling at her the whole time. Hattie wondered at his newfound efficiency, but Rose didn’t even appear to register the service, just dumped several packets of sugar into the cup and kept talking. "Bad things can be the best."

She tried to figure what that meant, studied Rose, and felt the weight of self-consciousness return like a homing pigeon. She'd never noticed Rose’s height before. Was the girl even five feet tall? Next to Rose’s curvy compactness, Hattie felt like a six-foot Olive Oyl, and Rose had talent that even a biologist could see. "I don’t think I’ve ever known an artist before." She looked towards the bar and considered her small circle of academic acquaintances.

"Really?" Rose’s eyes widened. "You can’t swing a dead cat in this place without hitting half a dozen of them."

Hattie glanced around the café. There did seem to be a high percentage of people who didn’t use hairbrushes regularly. Was that an artist look? Every profession had an appearance, however loose. Was an attorney impossible to spot? A hair stylist? A carpenter? An academic?

"And lots of poets." Rose played with her earrings, a dozen in a bright mass at each earlobe. Hattie was pretty sure at least half of them were shaped like household appliances. There were a couple of irons, a blender, and what looked like a miniature hot mitt. Okay, appliances and kitchen linens.

She touched one of the pearl studs she wore, the ear uniform of women twice her age and not standard for artists or poets. Maybe Rose was both. "Are you a poet also?" Her skin did appear to be almost translucent like a woman who wrote in an attic. Maybe Rose was too well fed to be a poet, but she did look like a woman who might be the object of poetry with her flowing black hair and singular blue eyes. Hattie had always believed her own hazel ones lacked commitment. In a world of blue or brown, her irises were still deciding.

Rose stirred her half-empty coffee cup. "I don’t even paint, really."

Hattie pointed to the window shades displayed above every booth. She’d have to study the rest of the pictures when she got her coffee before tomorrow's classes.

"A year ago," Rose shrugged. "I finished those last year, and now I’m kinda stuck, you know?"

Did she? She'd thought she was fine less than twenty-four hours before. She apparently knew nothing.

"The d.j. job's part-time for some money. I’d like to try something new, pottery or watercolors or a new teacher." Rose laughed and shook her head. "I don’t know."

"Well, you’ll figure it out." Maybe artists just needed encouragement. She could do that. "These..." she admired the vibrant flock of birds, "make me feel something."

"Aphids? What the hell were you thinking?"

Hattie jumped at the familiar voice and turned to Angela, standing armored in full make-up with briefcase in hand. A warrior aphid. But maybe even warrior aphids could be distracted. "Hey, Angela, we were just talking about Rose’s artwork."

Angela dropped her case and waved toward the painting. "Not bad." She flicked maroon fingernails through her short dark hair. "But you should work with some quality." She reached up and snapped the bottom of the plastic shade. "You’re better than this."

Hattie took a deep breath, prepared to soften Angela’s criticism, but was jostled as Angela slammed into the booth and extended her hand to Rose. "Angela."

"Rose." Rose smiled and Hattie considered that Angela’s oddly given praise had reached its target after all.

"Rose works at the university radio station."

"Don’t worry," Angela faced Rose, "I’m not holding you responsible for Biological Mishaps."

Rose pushed her cup aside and leaned her forearms on the table, watching Angela like she was the best show in town. "You’re a friend of Hattie’s?"

"Met in college." Angela waved her arm at the waiter, her silk suit moving like dark water over her shoulder. "Espresso." The waiter flinched behind the bar, and she turned back to Rose. "Pretty damn funny, huh?"

Rose nodded hard enough to shift her coffee cup over half an inch. "Yeah, I mean you both came from work--"

Angela raised her hand, "medical rep. Come sleet and snow and rain and rashes, everybody needs drugs."

"So…" Rose waved her hand between them, and Hattie could see what it would look like from across the booth. Hattie knew she was too tall, too pale, too light brown everywhere including, she looked down, coat, sweater, pants, and life. Angela had always been petite but giant in her flash of dark hair and eyes. Yep, it was pretty damn funny.

"Hey," Rose laughed, "there’s a call-in game I play at the radio station."

"A game." Angela looked like she was trying to remember what that was.

Rose pointed at Angela. "If we were the three stooges who would you be?"

"The youngest one." Angela seemed prepared to deny that she was a decade older than Rose.

Rose held her hands up as if conceding youth to her. "Angela gets to be, um, Shemp? How about you, Hattie?"

"Oh," she sat back, not sure she could recall any stooges. Everyone knew, didn’t they? It would surely be on a test of cultural literacy. She must know at least one of them.

Rose bounced a bit in her seat. "I’d be Larry. I mean great hair, huh?"

She thought she could summon up a picture of orange clown hair, but she wasn’t sure she’d gotten it right. "Who was the one in the glasses?"

"Glasses?" Rose looked confused.

Angela waved at the waiter as he slowly made his way around the bar. "That's Mr. Magoo, Hat."

"Mr. Magoo?" Rose laughed. "Hattie, you're funny. That's on, like, the Cartoon Network."

Hattie sighed. Mr. Magoo, she knew that one. He’d been so great, hadn’t he? Awkward, bumbling, but everything had turned out perfectly for him in the end.

"F*ck." Angela yelled and the waiter, finally arrived, backed up a step. She turned to Rose. "Mr. Magoo’s on cable?"

"Well, yeah," Rose’s eyes widened, "where else would he be?"

Angela turned to the waiter, "double espresso," then back to Rose. "What is the f*cking world coming to? Mr. Magoo was a Saturday morning staple. He's only a re-run now?"

"What are kids watching these days?" Hattie hoped her casual question would turn the conversation to something less volatile than Mr. Magoo.

"These days?" Angela searched around the café. "These days? I love ya, Hat, and never say these days again." She leaned across the table toward Rose. "She needs encouragement, you know?"

Rose tipped her head side to side as if reluctant to concede the truth of it. "She’s pretty. Just kinda…" Hattie felt Rose study her braid, her coat, the sweater peeking out. "Kinda beige."

Angela waved her finger at Rose. "That's been my point forever. She's fabulousness, underdeveloped." Angela turned, and Hattie felt the same critical eye she’d received from Rose. She vowed then and there to be more respectful of every creature she trapped under her microscope.

The clink of china brought Angela’s attention back to the table, and Hattie noted that the waiter had been wise enough to deliver the espresso and head straight back behind the bar. She could fit back there. She considered for a moment crawling under the table but the image of getting tripped up in the ties of her raincoat stopped her.

Angela reached for the shot of espresso and slammed the small cup’s worth of caffeine, "I’ve told her to relax." She shoved the empty cup to the middle of the table. "But what magic can one woman do?"

Rose grinned. "Half as much as she can with help."

Angela leaned towards Rose and whispered. "She’s thirty-five."

"Thirty-four-and-a-half." She began to defend herself and then remembered. "So are you."

Angela shrugged. "But I don't care."

Hattie felt sympathy radiating from the Rose's lovely, unlined face and feared the sympathetic hand pat. It was worse when Rose sighed and tried to help. "You’ll meet somebody, you know, fall in love? It’ll happen for you, Hattie. Gosh, I’d think you’d trust in nature."

What could she even say to that? She sipped her coffee, already too cool. There were small windows of opportunity for everything. "Falling in love, Rose, is the very opposite of nature."

"Yeah, right." Rose grabbed another packet of sugar, stopped. "Oh, you’re serious."

"We're not intended, biologically speaking, to live happily ever after."

Angela shook her head. "Dr. Bug's not moving back to Seattle?"

Hattie felt a twinge of pain when she confirmed with a head shake that no, the entomologist she'd had a theoretical relationship with was not literally returning to her. "But we're talking pure biology right now, and it's fighting nature itself to try and stay together. A man's biological goal is to," she cleared her throat, "reproduce with a variety of women."

Angela flicked her long nails as if waving off a fly. "Men are put on this planet to spread their sperm from sea to shining sea. Ward Cleaver, and a couple of those TV dads, were the only notable exceptions."

"But if Ward Cleaver was alive, and he really stayed faithful, he’d still be driven to want to fertilize more than June’s eggs." She tried not to picture the Beaver's dad naked with the moms from the Partridge Family and the Brady Bunch.

Angela put her hand over her heart. "A woman's goal is to protect our precious eggs from the dreaded sperm, to spare our bodies the torture and disfigurement of childbirth, and to save our silk blouses from the sticky paws of toddlers."

She sighed and made a silent wish she could feel that way too. "Like most women, I seem to be driven to reproduce and raise a child to adulthood. We're not unlike a female bird on a nest, designed to both hatch the eggs, feed and defend the babies, and make sure they learn to fly so they can survive."

Rose's eyebrows were drawn in concentration. "But lots of men sit on nests too."

Rose, like so many women seemed unwilling to let go of the myth of true love. "Most struggle with that, Rose. You know how divorce rates increase at seven-year intervals?"

Angela looked toward the bar as if she really needed another shot of caffeine. "Seven year itch. Fourteen year ditch. I can also medicate that."

"The seven year interval is for a reason. Those men who do stick around after conception still can’t deny biology forever. At seven, children are less dependent, and men begin to leave."

"Independent at seven?" Rose shook her head. "I ate paste in first grade and puked everywhere."

"Well," Hattie tried to erase the image, "less dependent is relative, but at fourteen, a child, until very recently in human history, was considered an adult. At that point the man, biologically speaking, is driven to start over with another woman or women. Our coupling as a species was never intended to last past our physical need for a man."

Angela looked around as if to see who else was included in the statement. "You told everyone who can receive signals from the radio station that you’re a self-fertilizing aphid."

Yeah, that might have been a mistake. "I was indiscreet, but normally I am very discreet." She took a delicate sip of coffee. Sure, she’d not had a lot of sex even when she’d been having sex, but didn’t women, in general, have to concede that it was an awkward and sweaty event best left to professionals? Maybe not professionals, but at least those with some natural aptitude like flamenco dancers or double-jointed redheads.

"Discreet?" Angela snorted. "First of all you said on the public airwaves that you’re looking to borrow some sperm, and second of all you can only be discreet if you’re getting laid and just not talking about it. You’re not talking about it because you wasted time on a guy who lived across the country and wasn't that great when he lived here."

Rose stepped in to defend her, and while misguided, Hattie appreciated it. "I’m sure the women in the hallways and the women who kept calling in after the show will get tired and leave her alone." Rose hesitated. "Probably. Eventually. And, you know, lastly, I think that Hattie’s just having a slump."

Angela rolled her eyes as if the sexual definitions of discreet and slump were common knowledge. "You can only have a slump if you were getting laid regularly and then it stopped."

The waiter set a small cup of espresso in front of Angela, another cup of coffee in front of Rose, and inexplicably a pot of honey in the middle of the table. "Slumps suck."

Hattie noted that he had on a Kentucky Fried Chicken uniform top with Derek embroidered over the pocket. Derek had, no doubt, been fired from more than one fine dining establishment.

Angela pointed to the bar, and he darted away.

Derek also showed survival skills, but she needed to stand and defend herself. Heck, she’d had plenty of sex. It had just been a while, a good long while, when she did the math. She pointed at Angela. "September."

"Lord, Hattie, it's December. The statute of limitations has long run out on that lone encounter. And it was a lone encounter when Professor Bug stopped by on his way out of town, am I right?"

She didn't have to answer that question. She took a slow drink of coffee.

"It was rhetorical anyway, and you are not, legally speaking, in a slump. You’re gonna have to start over again and lose your virginity."

Rose grimaced. "Don’t do it in a Honda Civic. They are so small."

Hattie felt the unraveling of the conversation like a class question and answer session gone horribly wrong. "Okay, this isn't about me at all. It’s about women, and the pure science of it is that we no longer need men to find a cave or kill our food. After impregnation, which we unfortunately still need them for, it’s biologically over. I'm just suggesting, theoretically, that we need to work with nature not against it."

"I don’t know." Rose looked confused. "I think maybe it’s still a slump since you did have sex before, and I think someday you’ll just see a guy, fall in love, and know he’s the one."

Love. As if she was just waiting for the juvenile experience of infatuation. Women were so illogical. "I'd know when the right one came along, but it wouldn't have anything to do with love, and I can prove it. What do you think of Denzel Washington?"

Rose made a tiger-like purr.

"No shit." Angela nodded in agreement. "There isn’t a woman on the planet who doesn’t think Denzel’s beautiful."

"Exactly, because if you draw a line down the center of his face..." Hattie traced her finger along the length of her nose.

"Would I get to lick it off?" Angela asked.

Hattie laughed. After more than a decade of friendship, Angela still could surprise her into laughter. "At any rate, his features are perfectly even. It’s a sign of genetic health. And men find women with an hourglass figure the most attractive. This is true through all cultures and all time. And do you know why?"

Angela nodded. "Because it’s the hardest f*cking shape to keep."

"Because it’s the body shape most associated with reproductive health for females. Women whose waists are bigger than their hips have statistically lower fertility rates. And so men are looking for fertility, and we’re looking for a good sperm donor. Why mess that up with a relationship?"

Rose looked like she might cry. "What are you saying?"

Angela shook her head. "Let Cinderella go, little sister."

Cinderella's drive made perfect sense. It was the prince that was biologically skewed. "An intelligent woman could embrace biology, get exactly what she wanted, and avoid the inevitable disappointment of a relationship with a man. I mean, what I would instruct a woman to do would be to heed the desire to reproduce, if in fact, that was what drove her. She should use her inherent skills to choose the right sperm donor then have the common sense to not get emotionally involved."

Rose blinked. "You're serious about that aphid thing. You’d really pick a guy just to get you pregnant?"

"Most households are run by single moms. I'm just cutting out the middle man, so to speak." She thought of all those beautiful wedding photos and ugly divorce proceedings. "It’s what man has ultimately evolved to do."

"Well," Rose appeared to be digesting a large meal, "women do go to sperm banks."

Hattie put both hands up. "I wouldn’t advocate a sperm bank."

Angela pulled her empty cup back from the edge and licked it. "Not enough exercise."

"A sperm bank only utilizes some of our biological wisdom. It would offer a list of the man’s known traits like height, health, intelligence, but we’re animals. There are aspects of our ability to choose that are beyond logic."

Rose looked pleased with her grasp of the subject. "You’d draw a line down the center of a bunch of guy’s faces and then see who was most even?"

"I'd determine criteria, what was important to me personally, and then study men for those criteria, but also accept the elements that couldn't be understood logically. I'd honor those animal instincts we all possess."

Rose reached for more sugar and held the packets as if for support. "How'd you know if you hit that right?"

Angela smiled. "You’d want him to ruin your virginity, right, Hat?"

"Attraction is the biological marker, but it’s really nothing more than the understanding you're in the presence of an appropriate sperm donor. You want to avoid inbreeding, obviously, but you need to avoid outbreeding too."

Angela rolled her eyes. "Gross, Hat."

But it wasn't gross. It was fascinating and so clear and crisp and logical. "There’s some evidence that women are attracted to the body odor of men who resemble, genetically, the woman’s father because it helps us avoid someone too genetically different, which wouldn’t be an optimal match either."

Rose seemed to really consider that. She just may be coming around. "Kind of love at first smell?"

Well, she was kind of coming around. "Minus the love, Rose. Women don't need to manufacture love anymore because they don't need help raising children to adulthood."

"Hat."

She felt Angela touch the sleeve of her raincoat then drop her hand as if it were too soft a gesture. "You should just adopt."

Hattie saw again the toddler boy brush by her on the sidewalk and ached. "It’s not that easy." And there was, she hated to admit it, a picture she'd secretly carried around in her head. There was the firm swell of pregnancy, a moment of nursing a baby girl that smelled of apricots. Occasionally in her dreams she could feel the baby’s soft curls like whispers on her fingertips.

"Okay," Angela wore her sarcastic expression again, "just shag Denzel Washington and call it a night."

"Yeah," Rose shrugged, "show all those women out there they can be their own aphid."

She felt the electric jolt of it, the whole body zing, the crackle of possibility. Why couldn't she be part of the evolution of women? She could find a man, an appropriate genetic contributor, and have a child of her own while she still could.

Angela rolled her eyes. "I think you’ve got the wrong aphid there, Rose."

Rose bounced up and down in the booth. "So how does it work? I mean she looks at a bunch of men, sniffs them, draws on their faces and picks one? God, how many? How many men does she get to, you know, check out before she picks one?"

"A couple hundred." Angela grabbed an espresso off the tray as Derek approached the table. She raised an eyebrow at him. "Not you, dear."

"Thanks," Derek stayed by the edge of the table as if afraid to leave.

Rose stopped moving. "You'd hunt down a couple hundred men? God, Hattie, you are so lucky."

"Whoa, lady," Derek grinned, "a hundred?"

Angela turned to Derek and tapped her empty cup, smiling with an edge that made him back away from the table. "Thank you."

"I would not," Hattie closed her eyes and breathed deeply, "hunt down a hundred men. That would be absurd."

Angela grinned. "And beat your record by, what, ninety-eight?"

She had six months. Ninety-eight. She wouldn't get through ninety-eight before death let alone before menopause. "Six months. Six men. You can't rush science. I'd need to observe them in some detail."

"And naked," Angela raised her espresso cup.

"My animal wisdom would not require naked." Hattie swallowed. "On my birthday, I would simply choose the best donor for the project."

"And this… he'd have to be naked then, Hat, sorry to break it to you. But this Birthday Suit Man…" Angela’s voice was low and sly, "is just gonna step up for the donation?"

It was so obvious. Angela was merely being contrary. "It’s the ultimate offer. The man can have a chance to fulfill his biological destiny, and he doesn’t have to manufacture an interest in seeing the offspring reach adulthood. I would think any man would jump at the chance."

Rose grimaced at Angela. "She doesn’t get out much, does she?"

Angela waved her hand. "Never has."

This was the problem with women. They clung to emotion even in the face of science. "Why don’t you think a woman could complete this plan, this fulfillment of a human being’s very biological nature?"

Angela shook her head. "Listen, Hat, I want you to be happy, I do, but you’re not up for this. There are women who could, but it’s not you. You’d be in way over your head."

"She was sweating when she did that show on intestines last month." Rose shrugged as if to apologize for telling on her.

Hattie felt her frustration grow. "It was the large intestine, and I think we all know how sensitive that topic is." She put her palms down on the table. "I can do this." Women would never figure it out until one woman had a plan. "The biological perspective is an outstanding way to make sense of our world. You can plan on it."

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The TOP Reviews for Plan On It are in!



***** Humor richer than 'comedy'

By Romantic Realist, Book Reviewer



"Plan On It is romance and it is comedy - but also so much more ! It takes us on a sweet trip into human frailties, misperceptions, and redemption. There is heart ache and frustration and intolerance - all offered with a dose of kindness and humor. There is an assortment of familiar relationships - both enviable and dispensable . Kathy Dunnehoff's writing reveals the human condition through a very unique story line. She can make people feel a little better about themselves, a little lighter, a little braver."





***** Highly recommend this award-winning novel



By "Cricket", Book Reviewer



Like Ms. Dunnehoff's first novel, The Do-Over, this story has everything you want in a romantic comedy. Quirky characters (Rose and Angela), witty dialogue, and a storyline that entertains, tickles the funny bone, and lets you identify with her characters.





**** Dang It!!

By Amanda Shaffer



"I thought that I could get away with maybe sneaking in a chapter before bed and being able to settle with reading the story over the course of the week... DANG IT!!! It was just too stinkin' good to 'casually' read! I ended up zipping right through it and reading in every free moment I had."



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About Kathy Dunnehoff

Kathy Dunnehoff is the award-winning author of the romantic comedies, The Do-Over and Plan On It. Despite her M.F.A. in Creative Writing from the University of Montana, she finds herself warehouse shopping for ketchup way too often, blogging and tweeting about the mixed joys of mid-life, and guarding writing time from family invasion!

She teaches writing and creativity courses at Flathead Valley Community College, her screenplays have placed in numerous competitions, and she was a recipient of a Zola Award for fiction from the Pacific Northwest Writer’s Association.