The I Hate To Date Club

"I just don't get it," I said, glancing around the room and keeping my voice low. "Why is it in every single one of these novels, the minute the woman has sex, she's dead soon afterward?"

I was at my monthly book group a few days later, sitting on a couch in Paige Sinclair's spacious living room in San Marino. It had all started innocently enough. A bunch of us had taken a literature class through UCLA Extension in Westwood. I'd enrolled just to get out of my rut. And I've always been self-conscious because I'd dropped out of college during my junior year abroad.

I'd gone to Rome for a year, immediately falling in love with the people, the city and the food. I'd discovered my true passion, signed up for culinary school and became a caterer. Food, prepared with care and love, made people happy. More to the point, I had a chance of making a living doing something I really loved. Why did I have to learn about philosophy when a great alfredo sauce added a lot more happiness to the world?

Anyway, I had taken the literature class to shore up my lack of education and also in the hope of meeting a nice guy who might be able to read and carry on a d ... read full excerpt from: The I Hate to Date Club ebook