I expected to find the dating service in a back alley.

Instead, the crisp, uncluttered offices nestled inside a gleaming business tower.

But those two nagging questions remained: WHAT am I doing here, and how do I log it on my expense report?

It started a few days earlier as I muddled through the office e-mail. It was jammed with the usual nonsense of offers to shrink, enlarge, multiply, save, lower, get away or peep. And there was the standard array of dating services.

Judging by the plethora of ads on radio, TV and e-mail, I don't think any industry outside of Smilin' Bob's has grown faster than dating services.

Service attendants used to pump gas while we hunted our own dates. Now we pump the gas while service attendants cross-match our preferences in a data base to find our one and only. Several of them, if we wish.

We’ve spent so much time in this self-service society learning to run gas pumps, scan and bag our own groceries and even cook our own meals at some of the finer restaurants that we no longer remember how to ask a person out for coffee. We’re probably jittery that we won’t remember how operate the self-serve latte machine.

As a fully licensed journalist, it was high time I investigated this trend. I did so as a public service. And to find out if hot women really were looking for me, why didn’t they just say so while I was pumping gas.

My personal dating service counselor asked me a few strategic questions designed to expose the heart of my personality. In just a few keystrokes, she was able to determine that I indeed have a good credit rating and a valid Visa card. I was exactly the kind of person to match what they wanted.

After a few more questions about hopes, dreams, qualities I wanted in a woman and when I was due for a raise, she asked, "How much do you think the average person spends a week dating in hopes of finding true love?"

I calculated the cost of a Taco Bell run, video rental, dessert, doubled it, then tacked on aftershave and breath mints.

"I dunno – $40?"

"Yes, well, let’s say about $55 to $65 a week," she said.

She figured she could eliminate all that costly searching if I would just hand over my Visa card for their complete services for about $5,000 over the next three years. Plus incidentals.

I was beginning to doubt I could sneak this through my expense report.

She kept slashing the price till it was less than half the original figure.

"You said you were willing to pay $40 a week," she snapped.

"Not EVERY week," I said. "Besides, wouldn’t I still have to pay that much to keep the woman of my dreams in gorditas AFTER I paid you your fee?"

"We've screened these woman. They can buy some of the burritos."

"Plus the hot sauce?"

"Look, you can't expect Cupid to send the perfect person to your front door," she said.

"What if he did? What she's knocking right now while I'm stuck here with you? Say, do you want to go get a enchilada?"

I could tell my service attendant was working up misgivings about my qualifications.

I intended the research to extend to a moonlit evening on a lake cruise with the sample client who looked like Sandra Bullock – at company expense, naturally, since I was conducting an investigation. Instead, I felt fortunate to escape dateless but with my credit card in my own pocket.

I picked up a couple DVDs, ordered Taco Bell and went home with most of my $40 for the week intact.

But I’ll be watching the next time I pump gas.

www.tribune-chronicle.com

We have yet to discover the cure for the common cold -- but that doesn't stop us from spouting off enough home remedies to make the sufferer truly sick.

I'd barely started coughing a couple days ago when friends started insisting I drink tea laced with honey, suck zinc, rub Vicks on my feet and wear garlic around my neck.

Or maybe that was to ward off vampires.

We have doctors, but they are unnecessary in the face of a little mountain magic that the sister of an uncle's neighbor of a cousin twice removed swears he was paid off by pharmaceutical companies to keep secret because it would put them out of business.

It's like that relative we all have who knows a shortcut to everywhere.

The other day, I said to my brother-in-law, ''Hey, hold for 30 seconds. I need to run to my mailbox.''

''Thirty seconds!'' he yelled. ''That's ridiculous. I know a shortcut to your mailbox that will take only 20 seconds. Fewer traffic lights and no speed traps.''

It took me 10 minutes to get my mail by the time I finished arguing that there were no lights or traps in my front yard.

I once made the mistake of telling him about an eight-hour trip I planned. He insisted he knew a better way to my destination -- a place he'd never been, by the way -- that took only six hours. Not only did the trip drag on for nine hours, but I got carsick because he sent me through a bunch of mountains.

That's the way it is with colds. It's your cold, but everyone else claims it so they can fix it -- and add a half dozen symptoms to your suffering.

I have one friend who wants to rush over a gallon of chicken noodle soup any time she hears me clear my throat. A co-worker wants to keep halved onions lying about the room. One buddy got absolutely annoying with the number of times he worked the word ''zinc'' into the conversation when someone sniffled. He no longer uses zinc himself, by the way, having moved on to chicken feathers dipped in soy sauce. Or something like that.

Someone else insisted that I slather the bottoms of my feet with VapoRub even though the congestion was a considerable distance north of my big toe.

It's made going to the store confusing. The other night, I stood stymied in front of the cough drop display for 45 minutes: ''Let's see, those have honey. Terry said honey is the only thing to use. Those have echinacea. Daryl swears by echinacea. Those have ...''

But fear not for I have come across the cure! Dark chocolate!

According to Wikipedia, the Internet encyclopedia of all knowledge written by anyone who cares to contribute: ''Recent studies have found that theobromine, a compound found in cacao, is more effective as a cough suppressant than prescription codeine. This compound suppresses the 'itch' signal from the nerve in the back of the throat that causes the cough reflex.'' And dark chocolate has up to 10 times more cacao than milk chocolate.

Is there nothing that chocolate can't do?

Actually, I have no idea if it works. But anytime another friend offers another miracle cure, I just pop another dark chocolate Hershey's Kiss in mouth and smile. I'm still sniffling, but I sure feel better.

www.tribune-chronicle.com

I hadn’t even barely swallowed my last Christmas cookie or recovered from my New Year’s hangover and they appeared like Montezuma’s revenge. Thin, leering spokespeople from Waist Watchers, Seattle Glutton, LA Flab Loss and No Pain No Gain Systems emerged from out of now here like a pimple on senior picture day. They invaded my television, radio, and now they have infested my computer.

Who told them I wanted to lose weight and what are they insinuating? Maybe I like my double chin or have an emotional connection with my fat clothes from 1985and the muumuu I bought in Hawaii when I got married.

I’m already in shape…I can walk to the refrigerator without getting winded, hoist myself off the couch without a crane and only drive to the mail box on really cold days. I think I ate a salad just last week…that was healthy. I limit snacking to stressful times, like watching Grey’s Anatomy, Desperate Housewives or American Idol. Want to see how in shape I am? Wrestle me for the chips or Hershey Kisses if I have PMS, and it could cause you bodily harm.

Besides, I don’t want to look like the Olsen twins; I prefer to be like Oprah and yoyo diet my way through life. I’m horizontally challenged and proud of it.

Normally I can live with these annoying advertisements, but this year they crossed the line. The mother of all infractions…they attacked my email and didn’t have the common courtesy to get caught in my spam blocker. It’s bad enough that I survived the "You’ve got mail" era, but now I am expected not to be offended by "Are your clothes too tight?"

Yes, my bandwidth exceeds the current limits and the Internetpol is badgering me. Alright, I accidentally broke my ergonomic chair last week. It was time for a new one anyway. What are they…the scale police? I thought I threw that darn thing out with my Thigh Master.

In order to purge my system of this nasty intrusion, I have come up with a new solution. My New Years revolt-lution is to have "laptop suction." I am going to link my naval up to my internet connection. I will then upload all of my excess body fat to the skinny person in cyber space who sent me the email. They want me to lose the weight in six weeks, great; I’ll send it to them in an email. How’s that for instant gratification?

In the mean time, here are my other revolt-lutions:

1.) I promise not use my treadmill to hang my daughter’s art work.

2.) I will remove the dumbbells from under my bed, so I stop stubbing my toes.

3.) I will toast obnoxious weight-loss ads with a milk shake.

4.) I will eat only chocolate based sweets, because chocolate is good for your heart.

5.) I will get up every morning and be more creative about my excuses not to exercise…my exercise clothes may be hazardous to your health. I might burst a seam and hurt you.

6.) I will cook healthy meals for my family as long as it includes potatoes or pasta.

7.) I will stop consumption of alcoholic beverages as soon as I finish this bottle of wine.

8.) I will encourage my family and friends to become healthy with me…as soon as they stop laughing. Okay…I tried this last year and the year before…

9.) I’ll stop trying to run over thin fit people and will offer them a Krispy Kreme donut as a peace offering.

10.) I will continue to add black to my wardrobe because it always makes Morticia Adams and Ozzy Osborne look thin.

That being said, I plan to make my goals this year. Granted, my alter ego is a thin person clawing to get out, but I can usually stifle her with an apple pie or an order of fries. If she becomes too annoying…she may become my test case for laptop suction.

www.fabrizios.com/laurie

www.marytmccarthy.com

Today I’m babysitting my granddaughters, but conjugating verbs in my head at the same time. I’m not conjugating just for the hell of it. Today is the last day of winter break and tomorrow I go back to tutoring English at the local community college. I am near comatose when Katie, the 8-year-old, interrupts me. "'High School Musical' is over. What should we do now?"

"Play school?" I say, and hope this will get me nearer to the reality I face the next morning.

Katie and her sister, Emma, 6, run into the kitchen and shove their cats off the table. "We’re ready," they shout, as two startled felines each loses one of his nine lives.

Oh lord, now I have to teach the girls something and all I can think of — and who the heck knows why? — is parallel construction. In my tutor voice I say, "We’ll do the simplest form of parallel construction. Do you know what that is?"

"I do, I do," Katie says, her hand shooting into the air. "I did real good on them in gymnastics."

"Really well," I say. And then I stop, think, and ask: "Did really well on WHAT?"

"The parallel bars, silly Grandma," she giggles.

"Me too, me too," Emma shouts. "I did real good on the peril bars too."

"No, this is about parallel construction. You use it in writing."

"Daddy got a ticket for that," Emma says.

I am dumfounded. "He got a ticket for WHAT?" I ask.

"He was in a ‘struction zone,’ and he drove too fast."

OK. Somehow they know the meanings of "parallel" and "construction" separately, but the concept of both, as they are used in writing, is lost to them That they are 6 and 8 might have a lot to do with it, but I’m not giving up.

"I think I’ll write some sentences for you," I tell them. One cat is back atop the table, hissing at me. The girls don’t bother to chase the cat off, but instead bolt for the family room where they dump their Barbie paraphernalia all over the floor. Emma takes a Barbie’s head off its body. I look at the cat on the table and ask if he wants to learn about parallel construction. He spits out a hair ball. I join the girls in Barbie Land.

"OK, ladies," I say, as I pick up Emma’s blackboard. "This is an example of parallel construction. ‘Barbie and Ken waltzed, fox trotted, and tangoed at the ball.’"

"Grandma!" Katie says, "Don’t you know that Barbie and Ken broke up!"

"No," I say meekly. This breakup has come as a shock to me, but I recoil. "I’m going to write another sentence using parallel construction." (Katie makes a gagging motion, but I pretend not to notice.) I write, "Barbie and Ken broke up, but Barbie kept the house."

"It was Barbie’s house anyway," Katie says.

"That’s not the point. The word ‘broke’ and the word ‘kept’ are both in the past tense so that makes the sentence connect better."

Four confused eyes stare at me. Even the eyes on the unattached Barbie’s head look baffled.

"Well," I tell them, "you don’t want to say, ‘Barbie and Ken have broken up, but she will be keeping the house’ because that doesn’t connect the ideas as efficiently. ‘Have broken up’ is an example of past perfect tense and ‘will be keeping’ is in future progressive tense." Actually, I’m not quite sure my information is correct, but my audience is naive.

The girls cease eye contact with me, head toward the TV, and dive-bomb into their DVD and videotape collection. They pull out a spider-web covered box containing a Barney tape and soon I hear, "I love you; you love me" emanating from the purple dinosaur of their infancy.

I stop myself from pointing out that Barney is using parallel construction, but promise them that if they turn Barney off that Grandma will stop playing school with them. Instead I pop 'High School Musical' back into the DVD player. "You sit and watch," I tell them, "while Grandma sits and sleeps."

"You used peril ‘struction!" Emma shouts!

I can now go back to work knowing I have taught and they have learned.