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coffee.   I am most likely still full from last night and have Mom to deal with today
    Morning - While Mom goes to the community church where she has worshipped and served for decades, I experience God in my own way – through nature.   Sunday mornings are my time for silence, gratitude and reflection.   And there is nothing like a morning spent traversing the quietude of the Muir Woods to set me to rights.   It helps me get my zen on in preparation for the blitzkrieg that is my mother
    Lunch - Ever since D ad passed away, Sundays have been spent at Boudin’s Bakery on the Wharf.   My mom loves the place, but equally enjoys commenting on my weight and taunting me with baked goods she says I of course can’t have, given my ample mid-section.   Grrrrrrrrrrrr.   I admit I am not bikini-ready, regardless of season.   I am a busy woman with a variety of interests and tastes, and while I used to be something of a gym rat, I have now migrated to other joys and pursuits , and frankly if Mom doesn’t like my body then she shouldn’t torment herself by scrutinizing it so closely.   Sure , I’d love to be 36, 22, 34 again.   But in the scheme of things, it just d oesn’t matter – really!
    Afternoon - Sunday afternoons are all about Mom , and I am happy to take her wherever she desires to go.   She may be a pain, correction, a royal pain, but a girl only gets one mom
    Tea - Back at my place, we dip into our arsenal of bakery sweets , and Mom insists on having both tea and coffee.  Go figure
    Dinner & Evening   - Tummies full , I deposit M om at home and then head to Jeffrey’s Natural Pet Foods, making a point to mention this errand to my mother, just to get her goat and hear her outraged despair over my menagerie and catlady future – a term that is undeserving of i ts stereotype and stigma.   A nnoying of my mother this way has become yet another tradition
    * * *
    All said, when it comes to my social life and courtship, I very much enjoy traditions.   So , when Bret responded to my email (thanks IT man, Mark) inviting me to Starbucks in Strawberry Village for a Grande Mocha , remembering what I’d ordered the first time we met, I squealed and shot off an email of gleeful acceptance.
    And went shopping in my closet for just the right cuppa jo ensemble.              

Chapter Four
    Going to a coffee shop on a date can be tricky business.   Not only do you have to order at a counter, but you are not guaranteed any sort of seating, and can easily be overdressed. How long do you stay without being a seat-hog?   And where do you wait to meet when you’re there first?
    Even though the Starbucks Bret chose is just blocks from my house, I make a point to take my car to avoid sweatiness and the prospects for a turned ankle in my 4” high Espadrilles, my shoe of choice in order to look leggy without appearing overly sexy or just plain overzealous.   The cute navy blue dress I am sporting says all that I could want:   I’m playful, respectful and would like to think I have a classic sense of style.
    I do my best to arrive at the last minute, but fail, and I have to wait for what feels like eternity for Bret’s arrival, in part because he is about seven minutes late.
    “Wow!   Look at what I missed by being late!” I hear from somewhere behind me, or to the left of me, or to the right, or wherever I am not looking since I can’t find the source of the voice anywhere.
    A tap on my shoulder sets me straight and I turn around and look up into Bret’s kissable face.   His mere presence causes my heart to skip a beat and I stand transfixed, grinning like a fool and breathing in his clean, classy, cologned scent.   He later informs me that he is wearing JB by Jack Black which, according to AskMen , provides “a fresh London barbershop aroma without the cheap afterglow. JB is the right scent if you work in a traditional office with double-vented suits, wingtips and catered lunches of Dover sole but