My grandmother is increasingly forgetful, but she still remembers that I'm not married. She has completely forgotten who my brother is and has started calling my sister by my mother's name, but she still remembers me, the Spinster. If I don't get married by the time she dies, I know I'll visit her gravesite and find a tombstone that reads:

Here lies Anna. Her only wish was to see her first grandchild, Jennifer Layton, get married. Was that too much to ask, Miss Career Woman? Since you're standing there, why don't you just go ahead and spit on my grave? What, was no one good enough for you? What about that nice boy with the runny nose who kept coming by to say hello every time you visited us? You know at your age, you can't afford to be too choos - continued on next tombstone.

My mother had obviously read this book (some paragraphs were underlined), and she's been happily married to my dad for over thirty years. Maybe I needed to go back to the basics. Right there among the cardboard boxes, I started on page one.

Ms. Duvall doesn't waste any time with pleasantries. Thank goodness I wasn't trying to eat while reading this. Right off the bat, I found myself staring at such euphemistic chapter headings as "Hair in New Places," "The Undependable Voice," and (I swear) "Testes Do Double Duty."

I learned a lot about guys in the first few pages. Apparently, they're not that different from girls. I was riveted as I read the tragic saga of a young boy named David:

Teen-age David was having an argument with his parents....Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself shouting at his mother. Then, without warning, the shouting ceased, and he found himself in tears. Still angry, embarrassed and puzzled...he dashed out of the house. What was the matter with David?

On to the girls. The author begins with a lovely chapter about girls that "get into trouble." This book loves quotation marks. The book is supposed to present a balanced, non-preachy view of sex, but right in the middle of the chapter about girls "getting into trouble," I turned the page and suddenly encountered the ominous heading PROSTITUTION.

Women who engage in this "profession" are called prostitutes, or commonly, "whores," or "women of the street"...They may operate in houses of prostitution presided over by a "Madam." These are often in a neighborhood called a "red light district."

Those section headings really did hit me right between the eyes. After I recovered from the prostitution thing, I turned the page again and saw the next chapter headings: SYPHILIS THE GREAT MASQUERADER and GONORRHEA THE STERILIZER.

Does this not sound like the next matchup on the WWF Smackdown? "Ladeeez and gentlemen! In this corner, wearing the white patchy skin rash and stumbling around blindly, please welcome Syphilis, the Great Masquerader! And in this corner, doubled over in pain from his recent visit to the men's room, tonight's challenger, Gonorrhea the Sterilizer!"

I don't know why all this stuff about sex and crime and disease comes BEFORE the chapter on dating. If I were a teenager in the 1950s and reading this book, I'd be ready to douse myself in disinfectant, seal myself in Saran Wrap, and never leave my room.

But no, now that we know how deadly and dangerous sex can be, Ms. Duvall is ready to take our collective hand (you did wash, right?) and lead us into the wonderful world of dating. Here, we find all kinds of chapter headings designed to help us find someone who will want to go out with us. "The Importance of Social Experience." "Your Interests and Skills." And my personal favorite, "Help From Your Community."

Maybe I'm wrong, but I'm thinking that a teenage boy who can't find a date would rather gargle with battery acid that let his community know about it. He could wind up looking out his window to find his face on handbills plastered all over the neighborhood with the words "WANTED: A DATE FOR THIS GUY, TOMMY KENDALL OF 1742 LAKE FERRY DRIVE." Everywhere he went, the gas station attendant, mail carrier, and minister would give him the thumbs-up and call out, "Doncha worry there, Tommy! We'll find you someone! We're sending a crew into the red light district tomorrow!"

It was getting late, and I was getting tired, but I had to get through the chapter about what to do on a date. Being socially inept, I was particularly drawn to the heading, "Holding Up Your End of the Conversation."

Let's take a look at Ms. Duvall's idea of perfect date conversation:

He: It's a grand night, isn't it? She: Wonderful. Did you ever see such a moon? He: Isn't that what they call a Harvest Moon, or is it the Hunter's Moon? She: Hunter's Moon? That sounds interesting. Do you hunt?

I'm not sure why Ms. Duvall was so worried about teenagers in the 1950s anyway. What with manic-depressive mood swings and all that inane date chatter about Hunter's Moons, I'm amazed that teens had time to get "into trouble" in the first place.

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