It's been six weeks, I don't think we need to kill a chicken just yet.

"I won't be able to go, I'll be at the Renaissance Festival with Fertility Goddess and CompuGeek all day," I say.

"Oh dear God," R.O.C. moans. "Are you going to be in garb?"

"You bet I am." It's Sunday dinner at the Casa: Mom, The DOD, my sister, Grandma, pasta. All purpose cross-generational harassment. I love my family.

"How do you intend to meet a man when you are walking around in garb?"

I am about to bristly with feminist ire about my need to "meet a man," when I remember something grandma said on Friday when I stopped by to show off the new haircut. "You know . . ." I smirked, "Grandma said she was going to pray for me to meet a knight--my white knight. What better way to meet a knight?"

"No." R.O.C. insists. "You are not bringing some yahoo in chain mail home for dinner."

"I ran into Aunt Claudie earlier this week," Grandma says, cutting off the debate over literal vs. metaphoric Knights For North. "And she asked about your . . . . friend. Ex-friend." She stumbles a bit, but recovers quickly. "And she told me that Uncle Tom is in a prayer group and she's going to add your name to the list."

"I really don't think that's necessary . . . " I begin, while mom and R.O.C. laugh.

"It's all different religions," Grandma continues, "All praying for you to find a nice man."

"Think about that," R.O.C. says. "All different kinds of people praying for you! Lighting things for you! Burning things for you! Sacrificing things for you!."

"Fantastic. How about we wait a little longer before some Santeria guy strangles a chicken so I can get a boyfriend."

"Don't you kind of want to write a novel about your life right now?" R.O.C. asks.