It was a bleak Monday morning as I stared at my computer screen, tears leaking from my eyes. In a moment of utter despair, I whispered, "When I die, I'm gonna burn in hell."

"No, you're not," Sam replied.

I shook my head sadly. "I'm a bad person. Bad people go to hell. Therefore, I am going to hell."

"No, you're not!" Sam repeated.

This argument continued back and forth throughout the day. And I suppose I should mention that Sam's not a person. Sam's my guardian angel. Now, now, I know what you're thinking, but honestly, I'm not nuts. I suppose a little background information is needed to explain Sam.

I spend my life around people that are age 50 or over. Between work and church, interaction with people close to my age is minimal. Back when I had a life and was in choir, I'd always sit by this Tiffany stained glass panel of an angel. My angel, I thought. The thing was, I could never figure out if the angel was male or female. Very ambiguous in a Ruebens sort of way. So I named the angel Sam. Samuel if the angel was male, Samantha is the angel was female. This got me to thinking about MY guardian angel, and I decided to name him or her Sam. Much more convenient and personal than the title of "Guardian Angel" don't you think?

So when I have a problem and can't talk to the handful of friends that are close to my own age, I talk to Sam. Let me state for the record that Sam is not an imaginary friend. Sam's my guardian angel. Now, you may not believe in guardian angels, but I do. And if you have a problem with guardian angels, you might as well stop reading right here. You're not going to like this thread.

So back to my bleak Monday conversation with Sam. I felt lousy, didn't want to call anyone, so I talked to Sam. No surprise there. Over the next couple of days, my online friends gathered to share in my misery. I won't get into it here, but it was very dirge-like. Cathartic too. We were all sick at heart. But before long, I began to realize something - I was sick in body as well.

Yes, a particularly nasty virus had found its way into my system, and it knocked me for a loop. I haven't been that sick in ten years. While I was lying on my bed, mentally choosing my funeral music, I once again began to talk to Sam. "Am I being punished?"

"No! Why would you think such a thing? You should know better!" Sam replied, exasperated.

"Well, I'm lying here and can barely lift my head off the pillow. Four days ago, I brought shame and humiliation down upon myself and my friends. You can't tell me that's coincidence." The room began to sway back and forth, so I shut my eyes. And guess what Sam's reply was?

"When God closes a door, He opens a window."

Now doesn't that just take the starch out of your shorts? I'm lying on my deathbed and what do I get? One of those ambiguous answers that drive me up the wall. And from my guardian angel, no less! I was about to make a sarcastic comeback when my mother sailed in and dropped a stack of books by my bed. I opened my eyes.

"Here, dear, I brought you something to read," she said.

"Mom! How am I supposed to read when the room's spinning?" I asked, annoyed.

"Well, just hold the books real close to your eyes, and then you won't be able to see the room," she answered, as if she were stating the obvious.

I shut my eyes again and waited until Mom had left before telling Sam to go find Daddy in Heaven. "Tell Daddy that Mom's doing her Southern Edith Bunker impression again," I directed. While Sam was gone, I held my head with one hand and brought the books to my eyes with the other. Dear Lord, Mother had outdone herself.

"Get a Financial Life," by Beth Kobliner (yeah, I've got an MBA; I really need to read this!), "The Anti-Aging Zone" by Dr. Barry Sears (do I look that bad?!), "Pandora" by Anne Rice (oh, that'll cheer me up.), "Reading the Old Testament" by Lawrence Boadt (so, you think I'm going to hell, too), and buried at the bottom of the pile was "Remembrance" by Jude Deveraux (now THIS is more like it! happy escapism). I put the romance novel on my night stand and chucked the rest of the books into the floor. It would be a while before I felt able to begin the book, but when I did, I found some comfort and my open window.

And while I don't agree with some of her observations, I like the gist of what she's saying. Here's what I found on page 3:

"Isn't the world a weird place? I saw a man on Oprah who was admitting that he'd had sex with his daughter several times when she was a child. Nearly every actor/singer tells the world he/she has done every drug know and hurt or driven away most of the people in their lives.

And how are all these people greeted? With love, that's how. With love and understanding and sympathy.

But here I am and what do I do? I write funny little romantic stories about men and women who fall in love with each other. The wildest thing they do is make a baby or two. No drugs. No incest. No one boiling anyone and doing heaven only knows what else to them. I don't even have people plotting clever ways to kill someone. I just invent stories about what we all dream about: having someone to love who loves us in return.

You'd think the very thought of a romance writer would bring a smile to people's lips. Ah, how nice. Love. Making love. Laughter. Kissing.

But no, the world is upside down as far as I can see, and romances and their writers are ridiculed, hissed, and generally spat upon."

There you go. In a few short paragraphs, my feelings had been summed up quite neatly. Reading those words made everything click, and I came to the realization that I was not a horrible person after all. Granted, that's what my friends and Sam had been telling me repeatedly. But they fall into the category of mothers who tell their daughters that they're pretty. The daughter discounts the statement because moms HAVE to say that. No, it took reading a total stranger's observations on romance writing to make me believe in myself again. And once I did, I had an "IDEA."

Yes, an idea, and one that I had plenty of time to think about while I was sick. If I had a guardian angel, then wouldn't it be reasonable to conclude that Max and Liz had guardian angels, too? Well, to my mind, it was a foregone conclusion. What would these guardian angels be like? What would their reactions be to the situations presented in each episode? This got my mind to thinking about how it would be fun, and I hope interesting, to write about these angels and their respective charges.

I quickly began to talk to the incomparable Celestial Angel* - my partner in crime, so to speak - and shock of all shocks, comments and suggestions, and the personalities of the head she liked it! Really liked it. She started throwing off guardian angels began to emerge. One was saucy - that would be Max's - and the other had a dry sense of humor - that would be Liz's. The problem was also that I felt that we couldn't use our screen names for these two angels. Too much baggage, etc. So we obviously needed different names for the angels. But which ones? I puzzled over this as I was recovering and the answer hit me as I was channel surfing late one night. The Golden Girls. Specifically, Blanche and Dorothy. Now, most people have seen this television program and are familiar with the characters. So, we wouldn't need too much of an introduction of the angel characters. Yes, this could definitely work.

Angel Blanche is played by Celestial Angel* and is Max's head guardian angel. Angel Dorothy is played by yours truly and is Liz's guardian angel. These two head angels have several angels under them that are sort of angels in training (AITs). We also have angels for Alex, Isabel, Maria and Michael (alphabetical order). But since this is mainly a dreamer thread, they don't have AITs. We don't want a cast of thousands, but we also don't want it to seem like we're ignoring the other characters, either. And no bashing here, either. Neither I nor Celestial Angel* like it, and we won't put up with it. And you don't even know what Saint Olaf thinks about it!