So, let me start out, to forestall questions that will invariably arise, by saying that Dick Valentine and I did not get married last week.

After some thought, I am OK with that. Because today, even though the skies are yellow with smoke from the fires burning every square inch of land in Southern California, and the Santa Ana winds are howling, and my hair is full of ash, I can hold my head high, and reflect on the Laws of Attraction that of late have been sweeping blessings into my life with their Great Broom of Benevolence.

It started last week. I was shopping, and a tiny blonde girl tip-toed up to me and with a giant, happy smile, yelled, �You�re beautiful!� and danced away on tip-toes. It was slightly startling, but like most of us, I�ll take a spontaneous compliment any time.

The next night, I went with Sweetheart and Mathrock to see the Electric Six. While we waited for the band to start, a very jacked-up guy danced across the room, all jazz hands and lunges, and approached us. After much arm-swirling and posing, he took a step back and said, �I would just like to tell you� [arm swirls] �You are beautiful. Like, your �features, and everything.� Did you hear that? My FEATURES are beautiful. My features AND EVERYTHING. I started to feel a glow of appreciation for my new role as Beauty Icon of teeny kids and the crazy. Think of the merchandising! I began mentally designing my own line of eye shadow, just to start.

�These things come in threes,� I informed Sweetheart and Mathrock, who were keeping a cautious eye on Crazy Dancing Guy. �All I need is one more spontaneous expression of appreciation for my beauty, and it will be TRUE!� (This is the �Be careful what you wish for� part of the story.)

The Electric Six took the stage, with their sunglasses and metallic capes, and whatnot, to set all hips a-rocking. A couple of songs into the set, Dick Valentine announced that he had been asked to sign a political petition as he walked down the street toward the club. �And I signed that petition!� he said. He explained that the petitioner had asked whether he (Dick) was a resident of Santa Barbara County, and that he�d answered Yes. Which isn�t true. �But that�s all right,� Dick explained, and pointed at me from the stage, �Because you and I are going to get married.� I looked around, to be sure that he meant me. �Yes, that�s right,� he continued, �You and I are going to get married, and I will establish residency, and everything will be all right.�

I could tell that the blond girl with long ponytails, who stood several feet in front of me, mistakenly believed that Dick Valentine was pointing at her. She bounced up and down several times, happily believing that she would be the next Dick Valentine, but oh, how mistaken she was. For he was pointing at me, a fact that was confirmed moments later by Mathrock, who stood directly behind me.

Back in March, I had spontaneously �put it out there� to the Universe that Dick Valentine would spontaneously call me and ask me to be his West Coast girlfriend, and now here, a scant �seven months later, I stood transfixed as he spontaneously, and publicly, asked for my hand in marriage. Sure, he had an ulterior motive, but it was for a good cause, and it�s never to late to begin a little political activism, right? Is there a way to explain the rush of excitement, joy, fear, nausea, rage and hope that swept through me as I stood transfixed in the audience? There is not. So let�s move on.

The band continued their set as I struggled to contain the whirling emotion tornado in my gut. This was all so sudden! Was I ready for marriage? Should I wait until after the honeymoon to reveal that I am not actually a resident of Santa Barbara County? I spent the rest of the show in a near-panic, searching through my purse for the identification I�d need to show the justice of the peace, and my passport, just in case. I found a recent property tax bill that clearly proved my residency in Ventura County, but I shredded it in the ladies� room�I wasn�t about to take any chances that the groom would ditch before I became Mrs. Valentine. Violet Valentine. It�s got kind of a creepy ring to it, which I appreciate.

I waited patiently for the show to end, applying fresh deodorant from a supply I keep in my purse. When the band left the stage, I ran�in a dignified way�to the stage door, left hand extended (in case Dick wanted to present me with the ring right then), wearing an alluring but modest smile befitting a true resident of Santa Barbara County.

When Dick walked by, I smiled a fraction of an inch wider, tilted my head fetchingly, and said, �Great set!� which is what I say to all musicians. It�s like a little code word that lets them know you�re �in the club,� the musicians� club. He thanked me politely, and modestly, and thanked me in turn for coming out to the show. �You guys sounded great,� I added, letting him know that I was not going to be one of those jealous rock wives who resent the presence of the other band members in his life. I read the Aerosmith autobiography. I read �Hammer of the Gods,� about Led Zeppelin. I know just how it can be.

I turned to apply fresh lipstick, in case Dick wanted to �make out,� and when I turned back, he was gone. I assume he went to go get the marriage license or call the travel agent for our tickets to Paris. I�ve always wanted a honeymoon in Paris�I�m not sure how he knew that, but it�s just more proof of the perfection of our love.

So, I waited all night by the stage door for Dick Valentine to return. Mathrock and Sweetheart covered me with a sweatshirt before they left, which was kind of them. I told them I�d be fine, and I will. In time. It takes a while to heal from a whirling rock-and-roll love affair like mine, mine and Dick Valentine�s.

Sure, he may have ditched me, but in my heart, I know: He�ll be back. I "put it out there" to the Universe.