Last October he told me that there was going to be an earthquake on the 16th in Hawaii. This immediately hit two points of contention:

(1) There are regularly a couple hundred earthquakes each week. No duh that something, somewhere will shake.

(2) I�d be a lot more impressed if he said that some shaking was going to go on in Iowa. Hawaii? California? These I expect. The rest of the states? Not so much.

October 16th rolls around, and my friend Robert greets me on IM with a link to a news article. Son of a fucking bitch! Kona was rocked with a 6.7-magnitude quake.

The thing with people who think they�re psychic is that no matter how many misses there are, one hit will revalidate their supposed abilities.

Earlier this year my dad made a very embarrassing proclamation. It�s no secret that I�ve had an absolutely lackluster two years when it comes to the love departments. And although I rarely publicly admit it, yes, sometimes it gets me down.

During a complete case of the blahs, he told me that this was �The Year of the Man�.

Oh fucking Christ.

When people tell me to �stop looking and it�ll find me� or that �it�ll happen when I least expect it� or whatever else it is that they tell single people so they don�t off themselves, it makes me batshit crazy. It�s like reminding me that the keys are always the last place you except to find them. Of course the keys are in the last place you look! You stop looking then! And of course you find your mate when you least expect it! Who expects to meet The One on any random day?

Anyway, that aside, my dad emphatically tells me that this is The Year of the Man. And he says that I�ll meet him with something running-related.

Maybe at a race?

Well, Dad... I�m only running races in other states. I don�t think that�s feasible.

Maybe while on the lakefront path?

People along the path don�t exactly stop and say hello to each other. It�s not going to happen.

So a few months go by, and I thankfully hear nothing about The Year of the Man for a while. Because, let�s face it, I don�t want any reminding that I can�t find or land a man. I already worry a bit when I find myself talking aloud to Hambone as I go through my evenings, knowing that I�m three cats away from being a crazy cat woman.

But then one day my dad makes another announcement. This time he feels that it has something to do with fish.

And because I�m Captain Sarcastic, I have to ask if he�s talking about the fish in the lake that I�ll pass as I�m hobbling down the path where people barely acknowledge each other.

(In my defense, I�m the model daughter in all other respects. A little back-talk that is delivered with anything but out-right disdain never hurt anyone.)

Lately the visions have been coming more often.

He tells me that his name is Jeff, and he�s very Irish, or we�ll meet in an Irish pub. I ask my dad, �Are you talking about my friend Jeff? He�s very Irish, and we found ourselves on the phone for three hours last night.�

Dad says, �Yes! That must be it! You keep your eye on that Irishman!�

And, yes, I roll my eyes and get a giggle.

That night I went to watch a movie at my girl friend�s house. After too many Jell-O shots, the girlies and I ended up at a seedy bar with a hopping dance floor.

Guys approach, and we rebuff politely. There�s no mistaking the body language, so words are not necessary.

And then I�m approached. His name is Jeff. He�s got the hair and skin that tell me he�s one of my fellow potato-eating kinfolk. And goddammit, Jeff just isn�t taking the hint.

He leans in, and I back up. His questions are met with one-word answers. I�m really just not feelin� this guy, so I tell him that he seems really nice and all, but I want to spend the evening with my friends.

Jeff glares at me and says, �Wow. Aren�t you jaded?� in this sarcastic, snitty voice.

Well, people, let�s just say that Jeff chose the wrong person to call jaded. Not only do I take complete offense to the notion that I�ve written off the entire other half of the population, I take complete offense that he pulls that out based on me not being interested in him. It�s like the so-called nice guys who whine about coming in last. Guess what, fucko! You aren�t actually a nice guy if you say bullshit like that.

As soon as Jeff saw my icy stance and my angry woman pointer finger go up to oh-no-you-didn�t proportions, he knew what he said, the implications, and that he deserved any lashing he got.

So when I got home, I sent my dad�s cell phone a text message about how I met a Jeff, he was very Irish, and that I told him to go fuck himself.

My dad�s response was priceless: He asked if that was any way to talk with the father of my unborn children.

Things have been quiet for a couple weeks, and last night on IM he tells me that the visions are coming on stronger. They�re now to the point that they woke him up two nights in a row.

This vision isn�t just a vision; it�s a set of four visions.

Primarily there is the number 34, but 27 plays some secondary role. There�s also something to do with one�s �golden year�. And �it�s Robert, NOT Bob�.

So now I�m looking to run along the lakefront path, near the fish, sometime before my 28th birthday pops up. There I will meet an Irish man named Jeff who is 34. He�s decided in a bout of endorphin-filled optimism that this is his golden year. And then I will introduce myself as Robert, making it very clear that I don�t like being called Bob.

Hawaiian earthquake be damned, this is the ultimate test of my dad�s powers. Be on the lookout, dear readers. �