Word came down the line that she was there. She was seated at a table in the store, looking perky as ever and talking with people and signing their books. A rush went through my veins and I could feel the excitement overcoming my body. I couldn’t wait for my turn, so that I could tell her of my recipe for a quick sandwich – peanut butter, onions and mayonnaise. I just knew she would include it in her next book, or maybe make it on her show.

I knew I didn’t want my excitement get to me. I didn’t want a repeat of the Teri Hatcher, when I ran into her at Disneyland. (The restraining order is still in effect for that one.)

An hour passed and the line wasn’t moving. I couldn’t understand what was going on. Why was it taking so long to meet the future mother of my children? She wouldn’t disappoint me; not after what I had been through. Not after the doctors had used my chest for French doors. Not my Rachel.

Then, it happened. An employee from the book store came out to extend Rachel’s apologies, but she only had time to sign the first hundred books. The collective “Ahhhs” could be heard for miles. I was crushed as the crowd broke up, muttering obscenities under their breath.

I walked with my head lower than a beer belly. Needless to say, the disappointment was devastating. My heart, with the three new arteries, was crushed. As I rounded the building, I saw a limo, with its engine running. Two women were standing about thirty feet from it. I could see in their faces, the same disappointment we all felt.

I approached them, slowly and cautiously and said, “There will be other book signings and that, if nothing else, we learned that the early bird catches the worm. The next time we’ll be the first ones in line. We’ll be the fortunate first hundred to share a few moments with my one and only.”

As the limo drove off, the women yelled out, “You Suck!” I thought, “Right on.”

And that is why, when I speak of her today, I refer to her as Rachel “She’s Dead To Me. Dead” Ray.