Yesterday I ended an eight year relationship. With my gynecologist, but still. When you talk about sex with and spread your legs for a person, I think that can be officially considered a relationship.

I didn't dump my doctor; she left me. Well, technically, she's retiring. But my god, the ordeal of finding a new gynecologist has been like trying to recover from a breakup and get back into the dating scene. Okay, so I can't really make that comparison because I don't actually know anything about the dating scene. And, granted, selecting a gynecologist isn't really anything like finding a partner. Except that it sorta is because I am, after all, choosing a person who, for years to come, will influence my decisions, impact my well-being, and have exclusive rights to grope my breasts.

The retirement was announced in July, but just yesterday I finally made the phone call to have my records transferred to a new doctor. I've put off finding Someone New because I've been in complete denial that my doctor is actually abandoning me. But, eventually, I accepted that I needed to move on, and so I began my search. Okay, so basically I just asked every woman at work, at Curves, and at the grocery store for a recommendation. What I learned is that people aren't fond of discussing their reproductive health service provider, especially while shopping for broccoli.

So then I made a list of requirements the new person must have and immediately winnowed the options down to three doctors, one of whom serves on The Board at my workplace. I crossed her off because I cannot handle the thought of providing financial reports to a person who regularly has her hand up my hoohah.

Then I did internet research on the remaining two doctors to make sure they have sufficient experience and no violations or suspensions. Or, you know, MySpace pages that reveal that they are racist or, god forbid, Republican. Fortunately, I didn't find any pics of either one doing a keg stand or wrestling naked in jello. But I did come across their official hospital photos, which told me all I needed to know.

Dr. A has fluffy bangs and a tender expression. She looks dainty and unfashionable. She looks like the kind who would come into the exam room cooing, "And how are we today?" She seems sugary sweet. I seriously suspect she sleeps with a teddy bear. I disliked her the moment I saw her.

Dr. B has short hair and piercing eyes. She looks no-nonsense and hip. She looks like the kind who would come into the exam room and ask, right off, "How's your sex life?" She seems smart. I suspect she could be a bitch if she needed to be. I liked her the moment I saw her.

I had considered meeting with each doctor, but after seeing those photos I so didn't need to. Call me shallow, but you'd be amazed how much a 2x3 headshot reveals about a person's personality, education, and stuffed animal sleeping habits. And I determined - you know, by poring over every pixel of her picture - that Dr. B is totally my medical soul mate.

Except. She doesn't do obstetrics. She's a licensed OB/GYN, but she doesn't practice that part of it. And after learning that little tidbit, this whole decision suddenly became rather loaded. If I thought I might get pregnant in the next few years, I would actually choose Dr. A as my doctor now rather than switch later. Because I seriously cannot handle the effort of finding, and establishing a relationship with, a new doctor more than once a decade.

And while I'm ambivalent (to say the least) about having kids, I'm also not ruling it out entirely. And to choose Dr. B would be the equivalent of marrying a man who refuses to ever consider children. Oh, the heartache! Why, when you find the perfect person, must they have a fatal flaw?

It was enough to give me pause. Several months' pause, during which I declared that I would never see a gynecologist again, that I had sworn them off for life. During this time I may also have secretly hoped that my current doctor would call to say she had decided not to end things after all. Of course that didn't happen; she's clearly moved on. Finally, I realized that I needed to just fucking choose already. The decision had been so drawn out and angst-ridden that it was starting to resemble a season of The Bachelorette.

So yesterday I resorted to more Google stalking, hoping for an answer. And I found a patient's review of Dr. B that claimed, among other praises, that she is a great story teller.

And oddly enough, that clinched it for me. And isn't it always that way? No matter how much you rationally try to sort the data, you find yourself smitten with some seemingly insignificant detail. I don't know if Dr. B is The One for me forever, but I've concluded that trying to anticipate my future needs is an exercise in futility; all I can really know is what I need now.

What I don't need now is a baby-doctor. Right now I need someone who is focused on just me, someone I can trust to take care of me. Someone who might even thrill me with a tale from time to time.

What can I say? I'm easily wooed by words. So much so that I immediately called Dr. B for a date. Er, appointment.

"For Christmas I might get him a chestnut."

"A what?"

"A chess set."

"Oh. I thought you said chestnut and I was like, 'Uh, yeah. And I'm getting Rob an open fire.'"

Do radio listener market research studies really indicate a consumer demand for 30 days of constant, uninterrupted Christmas music?

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday because it is a sincere celebration of something I value. There are no strings (or holiday ribbons) attached: no obligatory gift giving, no commercialization, no unnecessary pomp and circumstance. It is, simply, a day to give thanks. And while I don't offer thanks to a deity, I do believe in appreciating the blessings of life. And I love the thought of families, of all shapes and sizes, each gathering around a table. Thanksgiving is a coming together of community, a setting aside of differences, a humble appreciation of life. It's all very Whoville, really.

I am overwhelmingly thankful for the big things. That's true this year more than ever before. But there are also many little things that I appreciate, and so I'll continue last year's list.

(But first let me say thanks for being here. I'm so grateful for you guys.)

• doctors
• cream soda
• that new car smell
• photography
• yoga
• Democratic control of Congress
• the look my brother and I exchange when we're thinking the same thing
• Buy one get one 50% off shoe sales
• the stars
• my mom's constant kindness
• the bread share
• comedians like Jon Stewart and Sacha Baron Cohen
• camels
• dolphins
• the coupons Victoria's Secret sends me for a "free panty" (even though I hate that word)
• words
• the color brown
• my co-workers and colleagues who make me laugh and send me complimentary emails and sometimes even give me a round of applause at meetings
• my dad's grin
• that JLD&HFD are local
• people who send me taglines (hint hint)
• air transportation
• scarves and mittens
• Wikipedia contributors
• crème brûlée
• NPR
• cat paws
• our electric blanket which warms the bed before I get in
• sugary cupcake sprinkles
• that I get to start and end each day lying next to Rob

Last week I decided to be culinarily adventurous and try several new recipes. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday we had completely new, never-before-tried meals. Everything turned out really well, but after Wednesday's dinner I was a bit tuckered out and also out of ideas.

"Hey, now it's your turn - the rest of the week," I said to Rob.

"Okay," he said. "That's fair."

"I mean, I'll help prepare your dinners just like you did mine. But, you have to come up with the ideas. It doesn't have to be anything fancy - just, like, pizza or chili or something. But you have to be the one to think up what to make."

"Okay," he said.

So Thursday evening he called from work to say he was coming home. "What are we having for dinner?" I asked.

"Uh..." he said, clearly considering this for the first time. "Pizza?"

"Okay," I said, chuckling. He was obviously falling back on an idea I had mentioned just the evening before, but I didn't bother pointing out that I realized this. "Pizza sounds good."

Then Friday morning as I was getting ready for work, he was chopping onions and dumping cans into the crockpot.

"Dinner?" I asked.

"Yeah, I thought we'd have chili."

He totally said it like it was his idea. Like he had just come up with it on his own. Like the angel Gabriel had visited him in a dream and said, "Thou shalt maketh chili and hark, it shall be good." Or, you know, something.

When, in fact, he just stole my ideas and claimed them as his own! Copied my test answers! Put his name on my homework! Not that I'm complaining, because at least he does his fair share. (Although there's nothing fair about cheating!) And, after all, the man does make a mean chili.

But those days totally shouldn't count, is all I'm saying.

I just got up and searched all through the house, room to room to room, for the tissue box only to give up and come back to my seat, only to find the box sitting 6 inches from my fucking elbow. That's the sort of day it's been.

The highlight had to be when I learned that a course I want to take for my teaching recertification (which I'm maintaining as a fallback plan...and because it's required for my current position, but whatever) will cost $2,500. Um, yeah. That's, like, half of what I paid for a full semester's tuition of college. And at one of the top universities in the state, no less.

Needless to say, I'll be pursuing other options. And by "other options," I mean sleeping with the professor. Okay, not really. That would get me nowhere. But perhaps the dean? Oooh, or the registrar! I could totally do lesbian for $2,500. It'll be kinda sorta just like Indecent Proposal. Only, you know, instead of a million dollars I'll get to further my education. Wooo.

Did I mention that this course is offered at a private Mennonite university? Yes, Mennonite. No really, you read that right. A private Mennonite university. Frankly, I don't care how private - or how Mennonite - they are, $2,500 is an obscene amount to charge for a course. Welcome to Redneck Valley, where smart people have to sleep their way into school and Mennonites get fucking rich swindling the community.

1 butternut squash
1 tbsp. olive oil
1/2 tsp. salt, divided
1/4 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
cooking spray
1 1/2 cups 2% reduced-fat milk
2/3 cup fat-free, less-sodium chicken broth
1 tbsp. brown sugar
dash cumin
dash cinnamon
1 tbsp. chopped walnuts, toasted

Preheat oven to 400°.

Slice butternut squash in half lengthwise. Place face down in baking sheet; add enough water to cover bottom of sheet. Roast squash for 20 minutes or until tender enough to peel and chop. Remove from oven and let sit until cool enough to handle.

Peel squash and cut into 1-inch cubes (approx. 3 cups). Combine squash, oil, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and pepper on a foil-lined baking sheet coated with cooking spray. Bake at 400° for 30 minutes or until tender. Place squash, milk, and broth in a blender; process until smooth. Pour pureed mixture into a large saucepan. Cook over medium heat 5 minutes or until thoroughly heated (do not bring to a boil). Stir in brown sugar and remaining 1/4 teaspoon salt. Add dash of cumin, to taste. Ladle soup into bowls and lightly sprinkle each serving with cinnamon. Garnish with walnuts on top.

Yield: 2 servings