After all, if there's one thing that women, I believe, have in spades over men is their ability to join forces and connect with each other in very short order. When two strong women connect (provided their energy doesn't clash so much that they repel) the result is almost always an exponential expansion of their respective strength.

All one had to do was walk through the lobby of the Westin St. Francis even in the early hours of BlogHer08 as people began to arrive and the energy was palpable. By Friday afternoon the air in the halls of the Westin fairly vibrated with it.

Many a Tweet, blog post and status update (even from the few men who populated the hallways) remarked on the fact that there was a clear and tangible sense that things were happening ... connections being made ... ideas being born ...

I go to a ridiculous number of conferences, events and gatherings during the course of a given year and can state with full certainty that there is no other technology/business related gathering that comes even close to the incredibly powerful sense created at BlogHer.

It was an honor to be part of the proceedings ...

To be perfectly frank, MySpace isn't really my cup of tea. I find the interface to be overly complicated and busy, the pages take too damn long to load, and most of my day-to-day social media environment leans into other platforms anyway.

The only reason I reactivated my stagnant account two years ago (because like any good early adopter I signed up and set a basic profile page just about when MySpace started ... and promptly let it go fallow) was because someone in whom I was a bit interested used it as her primary channel of communication. So if I wanted a response to email, that was where I had to go.

That friendship proved relatively short-lived (for reasons of which I'm not entirely certain) but in any case the profile once again went to seed.

But on my recent trip to LA for Digital Hollywood, I connected with some old friends and made some new ones - all of whom tend to use MySpace a bit more often. So back there I went ... cleaning up some photos, adding a bit of fresh content, and reviewing things I'd left there.

And I came across this item.

I wrote it in July of last year and while the weather patterns don't yet reflect the deep fog and damp of San Francisco summer, there's something about the air today that feels ... well ... like another season altogether.

So I wanted to share it again, and this time in a place where a few more people might enjoy it ...

As originally posted on MySpace - July 11, 2007:

Aromatherapy
Current mood: contemplative
Category: Life

It's on nights like tonight that it hits me particularly hard.

It's late and I was going to step outside with Truman for his pre-bedtime constitutional. The front door of my building is a heavy one - my building being one of those early 1920's Edwardian sorts that are so prevalent in San Francisco.

First the low squeak of the hinge, then a nearly silent whoosh as it swung back, and then I caught it - that unmistakable scent ...

There's nothing like living near the ocean. Granted I can't see it from my window - not unless you count the teensy sliver of bay that, on clear days, I can see between two high rises to the south. But the ever-present sense of sea wraps around me daily, just as it edges San Francisco on three sides.

Recently I made a trip to San Francisco City Hall. It was time to renew my consulting business license. I stood in the City Collectors office and stared at the towering photograph stretching about 10 feet across the wall. It was an aerial shot of the San Francisco skyline taken from somewhere above the Bay Bridge, circa 1963.

Besides the conspicuous absence of now iconic images like the Transamerica Pyramid, the Embarcadero Center and AT&T Park, it was shocking to see just how much of the waterfront area at that time was dedicated to shipping and warehouses - a city living from the sea.

Not any more. Now San Francisco is largely an information economy town. As the northern civilized anchor to the digital breadbasket of Silicon Valley, San Francisco's bread and butter comes from technology. There is still a vibrant waterfront, but largely now landscaped with terraced stone benches sporting weird brackets in the shape of sea creatures designed to both decorate ... and dissuade skateboarders.

Every day people trundle to their buses, cars and trains heading for offices where they toil merrily (or not so). At day's end - especially in summer months when the fog comes in - they retreat from their cubicle cages to some other location to while a few hours before starting it again.

How many people take the time before or after engaging in that work to take a moment and pull in a deep drink of that cool sea-tinged air? How many people are so disconnected from their environment that they can't even catch that scent as is wafts past them on their way to work, to the market, to get the kids at school?

I stood in my old Muckrakers softball jersey and sweatpants, silky cold marble of the front steps under my feet, waiting as Truman took his treeside stroll. Slightly humid air with a cool whoosh of breeze passed by. Truman returned, but I remained still, long swallows of the briny scent filling my lungs, wishing that instead of heading back inside and up the elevator that I had a hammock or Adirondack chair so that I could fall asleep wrapped in the downy comfort of the sea.

It wasn't anything dramatic.

It wasn't anything dire.

It was merely a simple moment in which I found myself staring down some old insecurities that I'd thought long vanquished. (Funny how those things never really go away, they either morph to new form or sometimes hibernate for extended periods.)

In any case, in a weekend otherwise punctuated by incredible high points, I found myself mired in an emotional trough, flummoxed by the situation and feeling ... well ... frankly it was a bit unnerving.

My friend Beth, with whom I'd spent some time on Friday evening, sensed there was something up with me. She's good that way, Beth. Her sense of people is keen and she knows me better than many.

After a few email exchanges, Beth could sense that my Saturday was being spent in one of those not-so-great moods, and she called.

The conversation was brief, and as usual her perspective spot on.

And in that brief exchange I was reminded both of the power of friendship and the importance of not taking oneself too seriously.

It began in late January when I got a friend request on Facebook from a fellow named ... well ... let's call him Jon. His face looked familiar, but a quick scan of his profile and the fact that the three friends we had in common were not really close friends of mine led me to leave his request in the digital holding pattern of my friend request folder.

Fast forward to February 13. I'm at the SF New Tech Meet-up taking place at Mighty.

As I stood in deep conversation with some entrepreneurs, out of the corner of my eye I could see someone circling our group. I'm not one to break eye contact during a conversation, so I let it go.

A few minutes later, I stood at the bar waiting for a drink and catching up on some text messages. I felt someone standing next to me and looked up. It was the fellow who'd been circling my conversation.

"Hi," he said. "You look familiar have we met before?"

His face seemed familiar to me too, but I couldn't place it.

"No... I don't think so," I replied. "But you do look familiar."

We did the requisite card exchange and I saw his name ... Jon XXX.

Then I remembered.

He was the same fellow who'd sent me a friend request on Facebook a couple of weeks prior.

I mentioned this and commented that I'd not accepted the request because I couldn't place where we'd met. We chatted a bit and then the presentations began, so I excused myself to go watch.

Fast forward another 30 minutes and I'm back at the bar awaiting a fresh club soda and handling yet more text messages. Again the sensation of someone standing next to me.

I look up.

It's Jon XXX.

"Hi again," he said. "Enjoying the presentations?"

"Yes," I replied. And went back to the message to which I was responding. That probably wasn't very polite of me, but frankly I wasn't all that interested in talking with him. And on top of it, I had someone needing an answer right away.

As I continued typing, I realized he was still standing there, so I looked up again.

"May I ask you a non-business related question?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Well ... what are you doing for Valentine's Day?"

It seemed an odd question, and I wasn't sure how to reply so I just looked at him quizzically. Then he continued, "How about having dinner with me?"

Okay now you might say, WOW, that guy has courage, and how nice of him.

But to be perfectly honest I found it strange at best and creepy at worst. I mean, perhaps I should be flattered, but something about the whole thing gave me the heebie jeebies. Both because he so clearly lacked any sort of reasonable social aptitude to realize that this was weird and because between the Facebook request, the circling early in the evening and the two bar appearances, I felt stalked.

But then I started thinking about it. Was this just me? I mean ... I am, after all, a lesbian and so just not interested in dating men. If I were straight would I actually find this flattering?

Not having the right data set to make this analysis, I looked for some of my female friends at the event, and took an informal straw poll.

Response was overwhelmingly in favor of my initial reaction.

So what of this social ineptitude? And, more to the point, when someone errs on the side of improper behavior would it have been more appropriate to let him know that it was an out-of-line thing (in a kind, gentle way, of course), or do you just let someone continue their way through the social jungle without the proper tools for survival?

By definition (at least my definition) blogs should be interactive allowing readers to comment directly on the site - either in freely posted or blog writer-moderated mode.

You'll notice this functionality does not exist on this site.

You'll probably also notice that, for the most part, the writing here isn't necessarily of the ilk asking for a "so what do you think" response. This isn't to say that people wouldn't comment if given the opportunity, but when I set out to do this site it was largely an exercise in rediscovering my own voice and having a place to share my thoughts.

I did, however, have my superb designer build in the capacity for people to email me directly from this site, and over the years I have received occasional notes. Generally these consist of greetings and "how the hell have you been" notes from individuals with whom I'd lost contact and on some random meander of the Internet they found my site.

In recent months, the volume of these emails has increased - a fact which humbles me greatly as it means there are more of you fabulous people out there reading and based on the notes, it seems that my commentary and other postings are serving some purpose.

I'm also getting feedback from other places, more specifically from Facebook. I channeled the RSS feed for this commentary section into my Facebook profile and have found quite a few people are actually paying attention to what I have to say.

It seems that Facebook's impact on this site now has another angle.

I've gotten a request to write more on a specific subject.

Courage.

In my last commentary piece, I spoke about a rather unusual experience I had with the Honesty Box application on Facebook.

My thoughts after this Honesty Box experience were about courage - and the fact that it is far more simple to be brave when the implications of your actions are slim to none. It's kind of like the little dog on the leash that barks madly at the bigger dog when it walks down the street, but the minute that the larger one stops and turns, the more diminutive canine retreats behind its owner's legs.

I don't mean to imply that those who retreat from things that might be scary should be compared to yappy ankle-biters ... well, maybe I do a bit ...

Joking aside, I made some rather strong statements about my deciding to have a zero-tolerance policy for anyone who was not prepared to stand by their own words.

That makes me a total hypocrite.

You see, not too long after posting that commentary, I found myself perusing old posts one day. In doing so, I came across something that I wrote back on December 1, 2007. At least one person I know has suggested that I take this post down. They suggested that it's just too raw and personal. It is for that precise reason that I have decided to leave it there.

What, you may ask, about that makes me a hypocrite?

Simple.

That particular post is something that I wrote and posted on this site when I should have had the balls to just say it directly to the person about whom it's written. Or perhaps more accurate to say to whom it's written.

You see, I wrote that post telling myself that it didn't really matter whether or not that friend read it. I wrote that post, convincing myself that while there was a chance she might catch sight of it - we are, after all, connected on Facebook and so the post would end up in my profile and perhaps show up in her newsfeed - it didn't matter whether she did or didn't.

I was lying to myself.

I got the idea from an old practice I had many years ago. It had to do with an ex. That relationship was one fraught with drama and chaos. (And that also serves as the basis for another commentary on which I'm working now and hope to post in the next couple of days.) When that relationship ended there were many loose ends and raw emotions that continued to emerge months after our last contact. They were the type of feelings that needed to be processed, and while we were still at a point where I could have reached out and talked with her directly, doing so was inadvisable. (Mostly because any time we talked we ended up getting back together - briefly but disastrously.)

At a friend's suggestion, I wrote everything down and then put it into an envelope. I then addressed it to myself and put it into the mail. When it arrived back in my own mailbox, I burned it without opening. The mere act of hearing the mailbox clang somehow helped. The burning was a final purge.

In this digital age I thought this Web site could serve the same purpose but rather than sending thoughts out in an endless loop I could share them and in doing so offer others who might have had similar experiences some solace.

I told myself I was doing this for the greater good and it didn't matter if my friend read it.

I'm not sure who I was fooling - except maybe myself - but that was crap.

This friend and I haven't really spoken - actually we haven't spoken at all - since the events that transpired in November. There have been a few email exchanges in which the vague idea of getting together was tossed out. But nothing.

And so one day I updated my Facebook status and commented that I wished a certain friend had read something I wrote. A rather passive-aggressive move on my part that perhaps she'd see and be curious.

It was either that day or soon thereafter I got another note in my Honesty Box.

"I read it. Will you write more?"

There had been several posts to my site and to my various other online enclaves since that December 1 post, and so while in my heart I hoped that this note might just be from the person to whom I'd written, I was pretty sure it wasn't.

The next day, another note.

"Not all of us have your courage. Will you write more?"

I replied to the second note asking if they were the same person who'd already asked for me to write more. Because at least this clarified on what topic I was being asked to write.

No reply.

Then the next day, a new note that said:

"I am the same person."

This mystery woman and I have exchanged a few notes within Honesty Box about my writing on the subject. She has been quite gracious and complimentary. I told her that I'd write something and had promised it last week.

But I just couldn't get finger to keyboard - mostly, I think, because I feel as though my bravado has a pretty serious chink.

Of course that merely reflects being human and so isn't grounds for self-deprecation, but I do find myself re-evaluating my own sense of courage and wondering ...

It's a Facebook application called Honesty Box.

Essentially this application allows you to send a completely anonymous note to anyone in Facebook. Well, not just anyone, really. You need to either be in their friend list or part of one of their networks.

The application goes like this:

You pick the person to whom you want to write the note.

You write the note

They get the note and have the option of replying.

The only way for the recipient to know from whom the note comes is for the sender to reveal themselves.

Here's the interesting part. Honesty Box color codes each note. If the sender is a male, it's highlighted in blue, and if the sender is female - you guessed it - it's highlighted in pink. This is based on the profile of the person who creates the note.

My story with Honesty Box begins a couple of days after this year's LeWeb3 conference. I opened up Facebook one day, and saw I had an Honesty Box note. It read:

"You are high in positive energy, and you infected me at LeWeb3. Thank you."

I wondered why someone would keep themselves anonymous for such a lovely sentiment, but didn't think much more beyond that.

The next day another note arrived. This one was a bit more interesting. It read:

"I kind of want to have sex with you."

And it was highlighted in pink.

So, of course I replied:

"Now there's something people don't get to hear very often. And a darn shame that is. In any case, provided the color coding identifiers in HB are accurate, at least your wish lies within the realm of viability. Of course, from there it depends on a couple of things..."

A day later, a reply:

"So what does it depend on?"

Putting aside the grammatical inaccuracy, I took the conversation one step further:

"Well, for starters, I don't mess around with anyone who's married or in a committed relationship. And then of course the attraction/interest needs to be mutual ... the determination of which would require knowing who this is..."

Then, radio silence.

It seems that the feeling of empowerment offered by the anonymous communication lost its steam when I stepped up and engaged.

Cutting to the chase and answering the questions that I can hear you asking as you read this:

Yes, I did actually find out who the person was who wrote the note.

No, I wasn't surprised by who it was (it was actually the person who I'd suspected from the get go.)

No we didn't have sex (although there was a nominal bit of fooling around).

It would seem that that is the end of the story, and it is certainly where the tale of my interaction with said woman comes to a close. But the experience left me thinking about the nature of this digital anonymity and how it's enabling people to go through life lacking one of the qualities that I treasure most - courage.

While I certainly don't consider myself a confrontational sort, I would say that when push comes to shove I tend to step up and face situations rather than walk away.

Taking ownership - of your feelings, of your actions - is hard. And as I look at 2007 in the rear view mirror and look forward to 2008 I have come to the decision that moving forward I shall strive to be brave and shall not tolerate those who fail to do the same.

You see, though I've cut back substantially on the number of hard copy subscriptions I receive, my mailbox still ends up stuffed on a regular basis.

For starters there's my daily addiction to The New York Times. Yes, I know I can get it all on-line, but my dirty little secret is that I LIKE reading a daily paper. I like the feel of newsprint. I like the crinkly whoosh of turning the page as I quietly guzzle my morning coffee.

If it were just the paper it might not be a problem, but my penchant for periodicals includes the regular arrival of Business Week, The New Yorker, Vanity Fair and Portfolio with the occasional newsstand purchase of any number of other glossy gems.

Problem is, who has time to read them all?

The good news is that my incessant need for exercise means that there's a 45 minute window at least five days a week during which I'm shackled to the elliptical at the gym. And so goes my consumption of Business Week.

But the rest lay quietly in a pile ... until I travel.

And this is where my chiropractor's support of my print addiction comes in.

When I hit the road for a trip - as I often do - the stack of magazines gets swept up, stuffed into my carry-on and toted along. The good part is that my bag is lighter on the way home. The bad news is that I generally arrive to my destination walking in a posture that mildly resembles Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein.

Good thing this hotel in Paris has a spa.

November 17, 2007. It was a lovely evening that got a little strange.

Perhaps it was the Pinot.

Perhaps it was the barely perceptible undulation of the ship on the Bay.

More likely it was the Pinot.

But whatever the case, you made it pretty clear that kissing me was a mistake.

You penned a multi-paragraph mea culpa laden with guilt saying (I'll paraphrase here) you were horrified by your intoxication because there's no way you'd have kissed me otherwise. You expressed concern that your behavior had jeopardized our friendship.

Reading your email made me sad. Not so much because you were so obviously horrified at your actions, but because you felt so guilty. I mean, it's not as though you were the only one involved.

Last I checked, I was there too. And while you're a good looking so-and-so, and I may have had a bit to drink myself, it's not as though I was rendered incapable of fending you off.

No, actually the thing that caught me off guard was less about your pushing me up against the bar and kissing me, and more about the fact that it somehow felt rather normal. I'd be lying if I didn't admit to noticing that beyond the wit, brains and dryly sarcastic humor is a sexy, beautiful woman; but we're friends and so the whole physical thing wasn't something on my mind with relation to you.

That might have been a different story about a year ago, because when we first met I wondered whether there might be something there. But you were clearly still taken - if not physically then emotionally and spiritually - by your last relationship. Whether it was that or that you just weren't interested, it became quite clear quite quickly that friendship was to be our path. And a good path it was.

But that's neither here nor there, because whether this was nothing more than a mortifying drunken indiscretion or an indication of something else becomes irrelevant in the shadow of your actions afterwards. You said you were sorry. You said you were hoping that you hadn't ruined our friendship. You asked if I wanted to talk over dinner.

And then you blew me off.

You may not have seen it that way, but looking at the progression of events, the message you sent me to me was that in spite of your seemingly heartfelt concern, whether or not our friendship was damaged didn't really matter to you.

Now I realize that in any situation there are three realities. There's what I see. There's what you see. And then there's the actual thing that happened.

So from my perch, here's how things went:

You sent your apology email.

I called but got your voice mail and tried leaving you a message. It wouldn't let me record so I sent you a quick text.

About an hour later you replied, said you'd call me later and asked if I wanted to talk over dinner or tea.

I replied, said yes and that I'd be around. That was around 2:00pm on Sunday.

Then radio silence from you - until noon on Monday at which point I received a rather casual message.

You'd gone hot-tubbing.

You fell asleep early.

Things were crazy with work and we should get together after the holidays.

I'm not sure what part stung most - your failure to acknowledge that you'd left me hanging, the fact that your sense of concern was so transitory ... or that you chose to reach out using the public wall of my Facebook profile.

Not a phone call. Not a text. Not an email. Heck not even a private message in the social network, but a public wall post.

I'm not sure what's up with that, or whether I should take that as an insult. But it sure felt like one.

Then, on Thanksgiving, a brief text message offering happy Thanksgiving blessings and your hope that I was having a lovely day.

And since then, radio silence again.

Frankly I was going to forget about the whole thing, figuring that I should probably just write things off. But on Friday night I ran into my friend Megan. She was there the night of the party, and she asked me what was up with you.

A terrible sadness washed over me, and mini-tempest whirled in my chest. Megan's expression shifted to concern and she asked what happened.

That's when a tear rose in my eye - because I couldn't answer her.

I don't deal well with uncertainty, but I deal even less well with rejection, and so it is for that reason I cannot bring myself to reach out again to try and talk to you.

So I post my thoughts here, along with the hope that we'll reconnect at some point and rather than sweeping this under the rug we'll be able to sort things through.

In your apology email you said you hoped I could forgive you and that we could move on.

I did, and we can, but whether that happens or not is now up to you.

It began with my cell phone ringing at a ridiculously early hour.

Okay, so 8:00am isn't all THAT early, but it is a Saturday after all.

In any case, I look at the caller ID and see a strange country code. 91.

Wait a second ... that's INDIA!?

Now a friend of mine from Seesmic (the unsinkable "Pistachio") happens to be in India right now ... But I couldn't imagine that she'd be calling.

So I let it go to voice mail.

Then it rang again.

And again.

And again.

No voice mails were left, so I figured it was merely some VoIP spam from a call center somewhere in Bangalore.

That's when the text message arrived.

"Is this Cathy? I'm trying to find you and link as friend."

Weird.

Now it bears mentioning that in my line of work I interact with people from all over the world as a matter-of-course. The requests come in with steady frequency from LinkedIn, Facebook, Skype, Twitter and so forth. Between people whose grasp of English is limited to the challenges of colloquial variations, I've learned that it's important to scrape the surface a bit on some communications to ascertain what, precisely, someone might mean.

So I replied:

"Yes, this is Cathy. Who are you?"

And that's when I got a series of texts that were really strange.

First he tells me that he's a 39 year old guy in India, that he found me on Mobiluck and here's his email address and won't I write him to be his friend.

Again, this isn't really the weird part, because people reach out to near and complete strangers from the digital ether all the time trying to connect and make friends - that's part of the amazing and wonderful thing that is the Internet and Social Media.

But the persistence of the initial effort by phone followed by the text just weirds me out.

What I'm talking about are the people whose life path puts them squarely into positions where their actions, words and deeds serve as guidance, motivation and inspiration for others on a macro scale. For the purpose of this discussion, I'm talking about people in the entertainment business - actors, musicians and the like - though the same could be said for authors, politicians and athletes.

It can't be easy. You walk out of your house to get a quart of milk, and you're confronted by people who've seen all of your films, read all of your books, watched all of your concerts and they feel that they know you. After all, you've shared a personal side of yourself through your work, and to them you have been an intimate part of their life.

And from that one way intimacy people often expect that should they ever meet someone for whom they are a fan, that this person will look into their eyes and recognize them. That at first glance you'll be welcomed with open arms and a "Hello friend, how ARE you?"

Of course that's ridiculous.

But how many times have you heard people tell stories of disappointment from meeting someone they idolize in some way? How many times have you heard someone say: "Oh I met so and so, and boy was he/she an asshole."

Well, what if you met them on a bad day? What if you somehow created the problem by approaching them inappropriately? Whatever the case, when our anticipation is dashed, it can be very disheartening.

I remember meeting Bernadette Peters when I was about 16 years old. I was a huge fan, and I met her in between rehearsals for her show at a casino hotel in Atlantic City, N.J. I'd been doing musical theater since I was about 7 and she was one of my favorite performers. So when she blew me off with dismissive wave and turned her back - I was devastated.

Of course, I realize now that she was probably exhausted, worn out from travel and trying to nail her show down before that night's opening and just didn't have time to say hello. Now could she have done it a bit more politely, perhaps. But suffice to say, it's not as though I think she's a horrid person. Many years later my friend Lisa Vroman performed with Bernadette in a show. I was pleased to find out that not only was my initial impression wrong, but based on what Lisa told me of working with her, she was a truly generous performer with an intense focus on perfection. And I'm guessing that my boisterous greeting all those years ago was precisely the type of jarring disruption that she didn't need.

But even having this clear view of reality, and in spite of the fact that I'm blessed to do the kind of work that puts me squarely in the path of some pretty amazing people on a regular basis, I'm still human. And there is a very special list of people in whose presence I'm pretty sure that I would revert to childhood and become a tongue-tied, pre-teen complete with shuffling feet, downcast eyes and deeply ferocious blushing.

Actually in the case of one person on my celebrity crush list I can tell you for fact that this was precisely the case.

If you're not gay and specifically not a lesbian, then you may not have heard of the film Desert Hearts. It is 1986 film based on the Jane Rule novel "Desert of the Heart." I hadn't heard of it either, at least not until I came out at the age of 28. It was during those early days of figuring out my sexuality that I made many a foray to the video store (back in the pre-Netflix era when people still did that) seeking out films that went beyond the usual John Hughes fare upon which I'd been weaned and spoke more directly to some of the experiences I was having.

So it wasn't until some time in the late 90s that I saw the film and first laid eyes on Patricia Charbonneau.

One of the two female leads in the film, she was captivating.

Okay, I'll say it, she was ridiculously smoking hot.

Going beyond that, there was something so delicately balanced about her performance, something that on a number of levels spoke to some of the struggles I was facing with my own attempt to get comfortable in my own skin. I found myself comforted ... and over the years I found myself returning to the film each time catching a fresh nuance of characters and perspective on the story - and of course stoking the fire of my schoolgirl crush.

Fast forward to the spring of 2007. The 20th anniversary Desert Hearts DVD release approached and I caught sight of a notice on the Internet that there was a DVD signing scheduled for the Virgin Megastore on Sunset Blvd. in Los Angeles.

So I did the logical thing.

I begged my dear friend Lisa Dickey to go for me.

All I wanted, I told her, was a picture of Patricia and maybe an autograph.

Lisa hit the ball out of the park - and it went something like this.

On the day of the signing I headed for an event in San Francisco. One of those technology industry networking things where I had to smile a lot, hand out business cards and talk incessantly about the latest widgets and hottest start-ups.

I was contemplating departure, when my cell phone rang. It was Lisa.

"Hey Cathy. I'm here at the signing. I've been here a while and the line is almost done, so I'm going to get in line and when I get to the front I'm going to hand Patricia the phone."

That's when I almost passed out.

As Lisa gave me the running commentary, describing how Patricia was interacting with people, and counting down how many people were ahead of her in line, I dashed out of the networking event and headed for my car - babbling like a fool the entire time.

"Oh my god ... what the hell am I going to say to her? I feel like an ass. I mean, I have so many questions and things I'd love to discuss with her but it's more of a 'wish I could sit down and chat over lunch' sort of thing. Oh shit."

My anxiety gave Lisa great amusement.

And then the time came.

It was slightly muffled, but I heard Lisa's introduction:

"Hi Patricia, I'm pretty sure that I have one of your biggest fans on the other end of the phone. It's my friend Cathy in San Francisco. Would you mind saying hello?"

And then I heard that velvety voice saying my name.

My first words?

Oh, I was at my utmost eloquent.

"Er ... um ... oh ... it's you ... oh ... um ... hi ... wow ... um ... say, might you hold on a second, while I pull over. I think I might hit a light pole."

Talk about verbal alacrity.

She could not have been more gracious. Clearly sensing a wholly freaked out person on the other end of the line, Patricia gently asked me where I was.

"San Francisco?" she said. "I love San Francisco. It's a lovely city."

With a moment or two of chit-chat, I soon felt far more at ease.

We talked a bit about her role in Desert Hearts. I complimented her bravery at having tackled such a controversial role at such an early juncture in her career.

I told her that putting aside the fact that she's remarkably beautiful, that I was truly impressed by her work and thought it was a true crime that she'd not been around much. And I put in a plea for her to get back on the screen soon.

With that, the conversation was over. And I was floating.

The next day Lisa sent me a picture that she'd taken of Patricia while we were talking on the phone.

A week or so later, a package arrived in the mail for me from Lisa. Inside was a copy of the 20th anniversary Desert Hearts CD. It was signed by director/producer, Donna Deitch, Patricia's co-star Helen Shaver and, of course, by Patricia. She'd written, "It was great talking with you, Cathy. Take care, Patricia."

Fast forward again. This time it's October 2007 and I'm talking with another dear friend, Mariah Hanson, about the upcoming PowerUp benefit. She encourages me to come to LA for the soiree. I agree.

It's not until about a week before the event that I actually take the time to read through the flyer in any detail and see that Donna Deitch was to be honored.

And Patricia Charbonneau was scheduled to be there.

Oy.

Things were actually fine up until it was time to get dressed to head for the event. That's when lightly flapping butterflies in my stomach evolved quickly into a flock of something with far wider wingspan ... pterodactyls perhaps.

I'm already belaboring the story far too much so I'll cut to the chase. Yes, I approached Patricia after she arrived at the event. And yes, I mentioned our phone chat from early in the summer. I'm pleased to say that she remembered it! And with a bashful grin, I asked if she would be so kind as to allow a picture, to which I'm also pleased to report she graciously agreed.

Gracious. That's really the key word here. Here I was, confronted with meeting someone who - unbeknown to her - had played a critical role in my life. Her portrayal of Cay inspired and touched me in a deeply personal way at a time when, like her character, I was wrestling between the pull of fierce independence and the deep desire to belong. And when faced with my somewhat bumbling bashfulness, Patricia could not have been more compassionate and warm.

Since appearing in Desert Hearts, Patricia's screen time hasn't exactly been what one would call prolific. There have been a number of films and some TV appearances, but for the most part this striking and talented actress has spent the better part of the last 20 years well outside the Hollywood scene. There's very little about her personal life published anywhere, but I can't help but wonder if it has something to do with the fact that her film debut placed her as an out lesbian during a time when that sort of thing just wasn't done. That may well be the case. But I'm guessing that it's largely a function of her focusing on an even more important role - that of being mother to her two kids.

Whatever the reason, Patricia Charbonneau is an actress whose face should grace far more screens than it does today. Because being a role model and someone to whom people look takes far more than just good looks and talent - it requires grace and a sense of awareness and responsibility for what comes with the public role.

Navigating Sunday AM traffic was a breeze, and the parking situation was simple. I even got to security only to find a few people in front of me.

I knew the morning would go well.

Grabbing coffee at the overpriced Peet's Coffee stand by my gate, I slipped eagerly into a chair in the gate area and slipped the bright blue plastic from my paper.

And that's when the glistening sunshine slipped behind a cloud.

Staring at me from the front page was the news of Norman Mailer's death.

Now of course he was 84 years old and lived a rather full life by many standards, but just knowing that this powerful and prolific voice was now silent gave me pause.

The Times tribute (far more than an obituary, as you can read here), was definitely one of those that I learned about in Journalism school and even participated in writing as a cub reporter - the canned obituary.

It's common practice for media organizations to prepare lengthy tomes and tributes to famous people who are getting up there in age. That's how it's so easy to slam them out into print as soon as the news hits.

This particular item, I must say, wasn't very well written. It was meandering and seemed poorly organized, but there was one point that caught my attention.

Very early in his writing career Norman Mailer made a commitment to write 3,000 words every day. Paraphrasing the article (which paraphrased Mailer) this was his way to get out "all the bad writing".

I'd say that he did a good job.

While I don't know that I have the literary fortitude (or the discipline, frankly) to make such a commitment, I am going to promise to post at least a few words every day ... I know. I know. I've said that here before, but in the last week I've been really good about posting some multimedia content here, and intend to continue that trend. And so in the interest of making sure that this site stays balanced, I will be tossing some words up too.

Considering his start came with writing that highlighted World War II, it seems somehow fitting that he should pass on the eve of Veteran's Day.

And so on the occasion of this great writer's death, I take a moment and think about his commitment to language, his commitment to telling truth and in turn renew my commitment to try and uphold the standard that writers like he so graciously and powerfully held aloft.

Upon clicking the link, though, I became more than amused. I became proud.

And how often can one say that about Jersey?

Don't get me wrong. I loved my summers there. Hell, my dad was FROM New Jersey (went to Atlantic City High School, back in the days when people actually grew up and lived in this seaside community). But generally it's the much maligned state that acts as the punchline of a joke for the Northeastern corridor.

In any event, it pleases me to see that in the wake of The Sopranos leaving the air, and the resurgence of Bruce Springsteen as a great rock idol, that New Jersey is getting its game on!

It began when Archie died.

What I neglected to discuss in my post about Archie was the chaos that roiled the human component of my family during that time.

The morning of September 15 as I wrestled with the specter of euthanasia for Archie, my phone rang. It was my sister.

"You need to come to Florida," she said. "Mom needs to have open heart surgery."

My mother, whose last visit to the doctor was for my birth in 1968, had gone into the hospital the day before with some serious breathing issues and chest pain. The doctor had kept her overnight for morning tests.

In any case, I asked my sister the logical question.

"When?"

"Today," she replied.

My mind went immediately to Archie in his cage at the vet's office - clinging to life and fighting to live. I told my sister that so long as he was breathing I would have to stay in California. Even if he came home from the vet, he'd be in no shape to travel and I wasn't going to leave him.

Part of me thinks that this is in part why Archie let go when he did. It was, in a way, his ultimate last gift to me in a 10-year relationship filled with his unconditionally providing for my emotional needs.

Archie passed that afternoon and I made my arrangements to head for Florida.

Needless to say I was devastated and barely in control of my emotions, but upon arrival in Florida I had to slap on a happy face and bury my pain. Breaking down in front of someone who's just had major heart surgery isn't such a good idea.

There was ample mishegoss during the week (as there always is with my family). My brother had major surgery (a story for another post) and of course all of this transpired just before Rosh Hashana, and my sister was expecting 13 people for dinner on Friday and 20 for lunch the following day. And we were doing all the cooking.

And so the week went: Driving to Fort Lauderdale to visit mom. Driving to Miami to see my brother. Racing to the market for cooking supplies. Standing in the kitchen deciphering kosher cookbooks. And all the time weeping uncontrollably in between.

Such a lovely time it was.

And the only thing that made me feel better was looking at pictures online of puppies.

It was during one of these canine cavalcades that I came upon a site called Next Day Pets. It's kind of an aggregation site where people who have pets to sell - from average folks needing to get rid of a pet to high-end breeders - can list their animals fro