Love, Lasagna and Louboutins

                                                                                    Chapter One

214 lbs. 

 Maybe that second cannoli wasn't such a good idea last night.

I hop off the scale and close the front of my gown for the umpteenth time.  Sitting in an exam room in a flimsy gown that barely covers my breasts has never been my strong point.  Never mind sitting in an exam room in a flimsy gown that barely covers my breasts while waiting for Dr Meloni, who happens to be the most gorgeous Ob/Gyn I've ever laid eyes on. I hop back up on the exam table with a tattered copy of Vogue magazine and begin leafing aimlessly through it. Vamp nail polish is in again this fall? How did that happen? Vamp nail polish was the color of the moment back in 1994 when I was a mere twenty-four year old. I remember buying it and having the Chanel salesgirl at Nieman Marcus tell me the wait list was three weeks. I cherished that little square bottle of almost-black laquer like it was liquid gold. Where was Ebay back then? I flip to the front of the magazine and realize Geena Davis is on the cover and the issue date is May of 1994. The magazine is so old it's actually amusing to look through it and see all of the fashions that were so cool back then. I hear a knock on the exam door and Dr. Meloni walks in.

Now, here's the thing I love about him; he's not judgmental. He's not one of those doctors who puts you on the scale and shakes his head in disappointment as he writes down God-knows-what in your chart. Nope. Dr. Meloni is the type who actually sits on his little stool and asks how  my year is going, how my periods are, what's going on in my life. Aside from being nice, he is also a Richard Gere look-alike, except he has these really blue eyes and much longer hair than Richard. He's gorgeous, he's nice and he's the hottest thing that's been between my legs in quite some time. "What's new kiddo"?, he asks as he scutches my feet into the stirrups. He has this great way of engaging me in conversation so as to draw attention away from the fact that he's scraping out part of my cervix. The nice thing though, is that he genuinely is interested in what's going on in my life. He remembers our conversations from year-to-year. He remembers that I'm a hospice advocate, that I love Italy and that I became engaged last May, a week before my annual check-up. I remember bouncing into his office that bright May afternoon and proudly showing him my three-carat Cartier diamond. But today, I tell him that I've been having hot flashes, my periods have slowed down and I'm having difficulty sleeping. I go on to tell him that I recently came back from a ten day solo trip to Positano, where I did nothing but eat heavenly food, sit by the pool at Le Sirenuse and visit all of the incredible shops. His head pops up from between my legs and he returns to his little stool. Crossing one leg over the other, he scribbles in my chart, and announces that he will do blood work just to make sure my hormones are where they're supposed to be. He assures me that at age 44 there's no way I can be anywhere near menopause, but he will do the blood work just to make sure.

Then comes the question of all questions;

"So kiddo, whats been going on in the last year since I saw you"?

July 2019

I'm sitting in our weekly hospice meeting listening to our administrator talk about the fact that our census is low and we need to pick it back up. I want to shake her by her dishwater colored head and remind her that a low census may suck for us, but it's great for the patients who don't need hospice. The patients who are recovering, beating cancer and making strides. But I sit there and pretend to listen while what I'm actually thinking about is what kind of wedding cake I want.

If you had told me seven months ago that I'd be engaged by now, I'd have told you that you were nuts. I still remember ringing in the New Year with my friends and telling them my goal for the next twelve months was to have lots of different dates a'la Doris Day. Well, okay, maybe not Doris Day circa 1956, but a modern day Doris Day.  A modern 44 year old Doris Day, happy and single. I even placed ad's on five different dating sites to get the ball rolling. I know that I don't look like a model, although plenty of people have told me I should be a plus-size one. I'm 5'6 and 214 lbs, but I rock Christian Louboutins', a short, cropped haircut, awesome outfits and a healthy attitude. I drive a little Miata convertible thats ten years old and I recently purchased a Mercedes. I rent a gorgeous corner condo thats full of light, good Karma and a healthy dose of feng-shui. I come from a great Italian family (not like those reality show slobs). I go to Mass every morning and I have dinner with my siblings, mother and assorted family members every Sunday. I have great friends and although I've been doing hospice for twenty years, I'm ready for my second act, which I firmly believe involves, pastry, butter, chocolate and all things dessert. The fact of the matter was, I didn't need to be married. Yes, I know, Italian women are supposed to make wonderful Italian wives. But seriously? I loved being single. Loved coming home at night and reading, watching a good movie or leafing through the latest issue of Elle, The Economist or The Italian Tribune newspaper. But I did want to date. I loved going on dates and I loved getting set up. I could never understand the women who (most likely) faked the "I don't really want to, but beg me and I might", when someone suggested they met a friend/co-worker/family member. I absolutely loved when someone was kind enough to suggest I may be a good match for someone they knew. It was flattering as well. Everyone says that I have a great attitude. I guess I do. I read "The Secret" on a daily basis and I practice gratitude, compassion and kindness. Don't get me wrong, I'm no Mother Theresa, but I am definitely the glue that holds my family together.

So, here I was, the first week of the new year, sitting in my hospice meeting when my Blackberry pings me a match.com message from someone named Dan who lives in Westchester County, NY. And yes, I still use a Blackberry. I refuse to buy an iPhone 4, 10, 17 or whatever version is currently the "It" thing. My eyes immediately scan to his profile pictures (so sue me), and I'm pleasantly surprised to see several pictures of a really handsome guy. Not hot, but ruggedly handsome, sort of like Thomas Hadden Church, the airhead mechanic from that old series "Wings" (for anyone who doesn't remember Wings, he also played the sleazy guy who cheated on his fiancé in the movie Sideways). His profile was funny and engaging. I immediately emailed him back (I refuse to play the Rules game and wait three days), and we set up a time to speak on the phone that evening. That conversation lasted six hours, I kid you not. We spoke about everything from our families (mine; loud and noisy, his; small and quiet) to our jobs