“Yes, in fact, I do, and for your information she really enjoys them. I put a birthday candle in her can of Fancy Mackerel Guts, and afterwards we eat cake and ice cream.”

Okay, so I eat the cake and ice cream. But Prozac licks the lid.

Kandi shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re passing up a chance to go out with a wonderful guy to stay home and work on your relationship with your cat.”

“Sorry, but you’re going to have to tell this termite guy I’m not interested.”

“No,” Kandi said. “You’re going to have to tell him. I already gave him your number.”

“Kandi! How could you?”

“What’s the big deal? When he calls, just say no. You’ve had plenty of practice.”

“I will, don’t worry. And besides, if he’s so great, why don’t you go out with him?”

“I can’t.” Kandi’s eyes lit up with excitement. “I’m dating someone.”

“Really? Who?”

“A martial arts instructor!”

“How on earth did you meet a martial arts instructor?”

“He’s teaching a self-defense course at the studio. One of the producers on the lot got assaulted on the way to her car by an angry writer, and so now they’re making us study self-defense. Oh, Jaine, he’s such a doll. So manly and sure of himself. Unlike the cerebral wimps I usually waste my time on.”

“Does Mr. Manly have a name?”

“Matt Malone. Isn’t that a great name? It’s so No Frills.”

“How long have you been seeing him?”

“Well, he hasn’t exactly asked me out yet, but I know he will.”

That’s Kandi for you. Ever the optimist.

“It’s obvious he likes me. He keeps calling me up to the front of the class for demonstrations. Last night, I kicked him in the groin. Not really. But he showed me where to aim. God, it was sexy.

“I’m telling you, Jaine,” she said, dabbing at the guacamole with the tines of her fork. “This time I’ve met Mr. Right.”

I smiled weakly. Kandi meets an average of 2.38 Mr. Rights per month. And 2.37 of them turn out to be duds. The amazing thing, though, is that she never gives up. She sails from one guy to the next, never bloodied, never bowed. Unlike yours truly, who threw in the towel after one measly marriage.

True, it was the marriage from Hell. But lots of other women recover from bad marriages. Why didn’t I? I’ll tell you why: Because those other women weren’t married to The Blob. That’s what I call my ex-husband. I didn’t always call him The Blob. Back when we were still married, I called him My First Husband. I should’ve known I was in trouble when he wore flip flops to our wedding. I’ll spare you the painful details of the rest of our four years together. Let’s just say that by the time the divorce was final, I was ready to check into a convent and throw away the key.

“Here you go, señoritas.”