Finding Good in the Lost and Found

When revisiting the past, it seems the elapsed differences do not whisper subtlety like the sameness does.

"That's the swing where Tara and I sat every night after dinner, eating frozen yogurt and watching boys play...the frisbee that's like football. Ultimate frisbee," I pointed for The Boy. The sameness: the swing is still exactly where it was seven years ago when my frizzy hair and skinny legs met Tara's blue dress and husky voice. The differences: I forgot what the game was called that we were "watching" back then; my hair's not so frizzy, and my legs, at least by my standards, would no longer be classified as skinny. Tara still has the husky voice but not, I suspect, the same blue dress.

To reach the swing, I had to pass a difference. "There used to be a bench there where Mike sat to read Rick Reilly's column every Tuesday afternoon when his Sports Illustrated arrived. When I walked by he would say, 'C. Don't go to work,'" I chuckled to The Boy, "and half the time I wouldn't." The Boy smiled at this story, as he had long ago adopted the phrase from stories I'd told. He says it to me often from his pillow, next to mine, with a fake Southern accent, and especially on Mondays.

Of course, these are minor. There are differences that scream, and there are those that don't have to. Starting six years ago on those grounds, I began a process of pining and losing, growing and finding. I have to believe, and I believe I do, that I found much more than I lost there. Saturday I sat in the new football stadium beside Amber, one of the heartbreakingly loyal and fiercely loving friends I had found, lamenting the things we had lost. The Boy watched football on my other side, and I looped my arm through his, basking in how ordinary the moment seemed; how unlikely and beautiful it actually was.

Years earlier in that town I lost years on a Lost Boy who made me, inadvertently, lose myself. But I found myself again soon after and with a vengeance.

I looked at The Boy who followed me to that same one-stoplight town just to see the setting of so many stories. The Boy I, logically, never should have met, let alone married. The unlikely Boy who had become my favorite person and biggest love. We bought coffee at Broad River. We walked through the quad, and somehow it all made him think about what he had lost, or rather, never had the chance to have.

"This just looks like a college, you know?" he said, echoing my seven-year-old sentiment. He said it made him long for an experience he had long ago decided against. He had worked long hours before and after classes he commuted to. He never had a dorm or a roommate or a swing on the quad. I mirrored his wistfulness, realizing that experience had teamed with other hard ones to bring him to me, in his current state. But it still made me sad.

The things I found cannot be separated from the people I found, and differences in them are just as apparent. I met Amber in our first class on the first day of school. We had been paired together to interview each other. She was wearing a sweater even though it was August, and she admitted she had dressed as the mascot at her high school. I knew we would be friends. This weekend I hugged her and her two-year-old and helped bathe her two-month-old. The Boy, though he would not go near him at first, held the baby to his heart before we left.

"So, do you think we can have one of these?" I whispered.

"Not soon or anything," he prefaced, "but definitely."

Edie, on the other hand, had initially descended on my life whether I liked it or not. And at first, I had not. We had been assigned to each other as roommates; I tried to switch rooms before I had even met her. The night before orientation, our unassuming RA interrupted my new roommate's shower to announce my presence. Edie met me, my siblings and both of my parents while wearing a bath robe and a towel turban. She thought I was weird because I hung a poster of a barechested Brady Anderson in close proximity to a photograph of Mother Teresa. I thought she could eat me for breakfast. We remained roommates for the better part of six years. In my wedding program, though I had known her as long as the others who were labeled, "College Friends," she was marked, "College Roommate." And only she understood the distinction. We talked this weekend about her relocation, adjustments and plans, and a gay hairdresser who had become a real friend.

On the way home Sunday, we stopped in Greensboro so I could see my boys. Or rather, the men who used to be my boys. They were joined respectively by Mike's wife, whom we all met in college, and Tripp's new girlfriend-- and I had a hunch she wouldn't be going anywhere for a while. Sameness and differences. I introduced them to The Boy, who loved them as I knew he would. "If for some reason they were ever local," he said later, "I feel like we'd be boys." I was thrilled he felt the way I figured he would; my love of these people justified, despite its defiance of the time/space continuum. When we ordered lunch, Tripp, ever the token thinker and philosopher, ordered his sandwich with green peppers, but not red. The waitress soon returned and informed him that, though she thought it was stupid, he could not order only one kind of pepper. "It's all or nothing," she shrugged.

And this may have been one of the bigger differences I saw. He did not appear to contemplate; he said, "All." Though I may have fabricated the metaphor, I smiled at the pretty blonde beside him, at the irony of progress abundant all weekend, and at the relief that not everything good goes away.

Monotony, Tummy Aches and the Fake Depression

8:55. Chris Berman and The Boy tell me the game I'm about to not watch is a rivalry. The Giants and the Cowboys just kicked off. Hank Williams, Jr., though he was just standing on the fifty-yard line, does not sing about his rowdy friends. The cheerleaders, though they flanked Hank on the line, do not dance or kick on cue in the song Hank does not sing. Instead, we watch a taped performance in which Little Richard screams and allegedly plays piano, but I just inexplicably called him James Brown.

9:01. Plaxico Burress scores a 50-yard touchdown. I have long been of the opinion that some men were destined to be in the NFL, and their mothers knew it, so they named them accordingly. Lawyer Malloy. Peerless Price. Adalius Thomas. Burress fits with these guys.

9:03. The Boy, dressed in white Adidas pants and a brown t-shirt my dad gave him that reads, "I'm probably lying," shakes his hiney vigorously to the tune of Fall Out Boy's off-key insistence.

The 8 minutes you have just relived is meant to depict how my life has fallen into a predictable pattern. I just plopped on the couch beside The Boy, after preparing dinner and lunch and coffee and halfheartedly cleaning the kitchen. I feel sad that it's already almost tomorrow. It might be the darkness that always falls too soon, but somehow all this monotony still strikes me as unpredictable. I can never believe, whether I slept or not, how quickly "7:00" comes. Of course it isn't really 7:00, hence the quotation marks; The Boy and I take turns sneakily setting the clock forward, all the while trying to forget the difference between now and what we think now is. It still doesn't help. Likewise, I can never believe how quickly 7:00 pm comes and goes. My gym bag lives in the trunk of my car. I haven't worn my Sauconys in far too long.

My doctor informed me that I should do more yoga. "The relaxing kind." I insisted, indignantly, that yoga wouldn't help. I neglected to mention the yoga that I do involves a "butt ball" and a woman who reminds me to tense up those muscles I "sit down on." She also encourages me to check in with my hamstrings. "Notice what they are saying back to you." She does not relax me; she makes me contemplate the most efficient means of committing homicide from the downward dog position.

Minutes before this exchange, I slumped in the plastic chair against a particle board desk, having slipped my olive green pumps back on after being dismally disappointed at the scale.

"We haven't seen you in awhile," The tall Brit with the voice from the outgoing message had remarked, glancing at my chart. He motioned to the scale.

"It's hard to get in here," I mumbled, recalling my conversation with him several months prior, when I attempted to make an appointment for a physical. I was told there was an opening in March. I did the mental math, realizing I could be 7 months pregnant by then. Not that I would be, but I needed a way to visualize how much can change in that time. I did not book the appointment.

"You have to schedule your sickness to be seen here," The Brit chuckled. I did not.

Fortunately, as The Boy had become increasingly concerned with my doubling over multiple times daily, he offered to make the appointment for me. I was curled into a series of punctuation marks on our bed; he was worrying via office telephone. I let him call the doctor, and I'm not sure what he said, but it worked and I had an appointment the same day. I tried to blame my sleepless nights on a steady stream of company. But, given the fact that I lacked sleep due to discomfort regardless of who was sleeping upstairs, I acquiesced.

The Boy insisted on leaving work early to pick me up. I resisted, but he won. I dressed nicely in an attempt to feel better.

To my surprise, my red-haired Russian doctor did not examine me. She did not check my blood pressure, temperature or pulse. She didn't touch my stomach or prescribe medicine or tests. We sat at her desk and she asked me how I felt. She interrupted me to tell me I am more stressed than I realize.

"But how can that be?" I countered. "The most stress I've been through recently is over," I reasoned, approaching the five-month anniversary of my windy wedding and my father's (untimely) brush with (far more untimely) death. She said something about how people never get sick during the war. I didn't hear what came next, because I was too busy thinking, "there's no way that's correct."

As I argued, feeling my face and neck flush with splotches, as they are prone to do when I'm impassioned, I realized I was losing.

"You're coming across very anxious," she said.

I swallowed a lump in my throat, wanting to throttle her. She wanted to prescribe an antidepressant; I wanted not to feel sick every day. I wanted not to worry everywhere I go or every time I make plans. What if I don't feel well? What if I'm no fun? What if I can't leave early? Of course I'm anxious; I always feel miserable! She insisted the cycle went the other way around. I quit arguing and accepted the sample, but I haven't taken the pills and I'm working on a second opinion. I made it to the Saab and cried frustration at The Boy. We visited another pharmacy for another herbal remedy I didn't believe would work. I'm not sure if it's working or not, but I really miss my Diet Coke.

I've bought a new Nalgene bottle and lots of Crystal Light on-the-go. I just finished a dinner of grilled chicken breast, brown rice, asparagus and charcoal capsules. I'm doing all the things I'm supposed to be doing--definitely don't feel better yet. But then, I'm sure it's all in my worried mind.

Daddy, Let Your Mind Roll On

This weekend marked our third of four consecutive weekends of company. Last weekend we hosted my "actual" mother-in-law and her husband. As my in-laws are both remarried, things get a little complicated. Though the step-mother-in-law insists that having two mothers-in-law would be, for me, like having "three mothers," I maintain that one is more than enough.

On that weekend we visited Our Italian Restaurant; The Boy operated, manned and wrote the rule book for the moonbounce at the Grand Opening of our church building, and for the first time, I had an opportunity to say, "Also, Chinaman is not the proper nomenclature. Asian-American, please." No, really-- at the dinner table in my own house. Welcome to life with visiting step-fathers-in-law.

Conditions are declining at our B&B. This week, we ran out of Pledge. I finally threw out the once fresh flowers, replacing them with silk flowers in the guest room. I'm running out of linen water, and the laundry is piling up. This week, the office didn't get touched. I didn't get the grocery shopping done until Sunday. Fortunately, our friend visiting from Vermont, Mindy, was kind enough to bring buttermilk pancake mix and a killer handthrown batter bowl as a thank you gift. Groceries or not, we had a great breakfast.

Despite Saturday's chilly rain, The Boy joined Mindy and her friends for the festival. I headed to a baby shower where I joined another newlywed shrugging off "Who's next?" questions and lamenting over that dreaded but oft-repeated query, "How's married life?"

"What am I supposed to say?" She rolled her eyes. "That it's an adjustment? That he has trouble remembering to put the seat down?" I laughed and agreed.

I joined my man and his new friends at an Irish pub where everyone had been there long enough to be thrilled to see me. "I'd like you to meet Danielle-- she's very intelligent and seems like a really nice girl. She just relocated here from Boston," The Boy guided me by the shoulder while supplying me with a beer. I noticed he put the emphasis on the third syllable of relocated.

"Danielle, this is my wife." She smiled and lit up as if she had long anticipated our meeting. I squinted at The Boy, wondering what he had told her. "I really think you'd be great friends," he whispered. "You should also meet Jocelyn," he said later. "She doesn't own a car. She seems like a nice girl." I laughed, realizing my husband hasn't stopped picking up girls in bars. It's just that now he's scouting for me.

Sunday morning we dragged before leaving for lunch with friends at PF Changs. Some of us weren't feeling well. "Mindy," The Boy said, "I think you'll be fine once you get a little Mongolian beef in you. Oh wait," he belatedly attempted to self-censor. We joined six others around a large round table. We stared wide-eyed at our friend who, two days prior, had eloped with the smiling blonde beside him. We tried to know her and presented them with a cake from Vaccaro's with a $7 dark-haired bride and groom on top.

"There was a topper with a blonde bride," I explained at this, my second meeting of the girl. "But she was dragging the groom behind her, and I didn't think that was appropriate. And also, it was like thirty dollars." I stopped talking and ate my chocolate cake.

This beautiful afternoon, I sat with Mindy and, over salads in Canton Square, we shared our life dilemmas. I was glad she came, sorry she had to leave. Thankful for an extra day of real life-- good life-- before the weekly depression set in. A day late, but right on time.

Bienvenue, Welcome

Phase I of the inlaw doubleheader concluded this afternoon. It was opening weekend at our B&B, as it was the first of four consecutive weekends our guest room will be in use. In preparation, we cleaned and wondered if the full size bed tucked into the alcove on the blue-collar colored third floor would be comfortable for a couple. I bought Gerbera daisies, Sunflowers and Black-eyed Susans and placed them in mason jars and bud vases throughout the house. We used pillow mist liberally; we turned down sheets and tucked in corners. We cooked together Friday night in anticipation of the arrival of The Boy's father and stepmother. They were visiting just because.

They are mainstream people who get engaged at Disney World and know people who have had double weddings on Valentine's Day. On their frequent visits to New York City, they are regulars at Central Park, the Phantom of the Opera, and Tavern on the Green. When they visit us in Baltimore, a seemingly magnetic pull attracts them to the Harborplace at the Inner Harbor. The Cheesecake Factory and McCormick & Schmick, Vaccaro's, Starbucks and Camden Yards participate in the periodic parade. And, regardless of where we are living at the time of their visit, we walk to all of these places. Because it was recently my birthday, I was asked to choose a restaurant for our belated celebration. I chose a place in our neighborhood, an upscale mom and pop where the owner greets you at the door. It's got miniature lamps on the tables and original oil paintings on the walls. It's got "character," I'm told. And I was pleased that, given their misgivings, they seemed to enjoy the new experience.

We still walked through the harbor on the way to the baseball game. It couldn't be avoided, although it's about two miles farther this year than it was when they visited last summer. I wore non-athletic sneakers and clear Band-Aids on my heels. We talked without competing with other siblings or events. We sat without looking at the clock before racing to our next commitment. Although probably it wasn't, it felt like our first grown-up visit with the parents, perhaps because it was our first married visit. Not that marriage has made us more adult, but certainly it has necessitated a level of calmness that couldn't coexist with our dating or engagement. We no longer complain about familial conflicts that never involved us until we were challenged with drawing up seating charts. We are no longer preoccupied and apologetically, if inadvertently, self-centered. We lounged with ease, sipping coffee and asking about everyone else's life. And, without unrelenting preoccupation, really listened when they responded. It was a nice way to open the season at the B&B.

Next weekend, The Boy's mother and stepfather will lodge with us on their way home from an extended stay with the other kids. We winced at the awkwardness of the guest room's guest list, but perhaps such run-ins can't be avoided and don't matter anyway. We've banished all the ghosts from our bed; we can only hope that others do the same.

Even at 25, You Gotta Start Sometime

I stood on my dirty, bare tiptoes on the Pergo in the Banana outlet, twirling brown silk for The Boy. "Are you sure I'm not too hippy in it? And I mean hippy like badonkadunk, not like granola."

"I'm sure you don't look hippy."

"It would really help if I were wearing heels," I shuffled back to my door with the 7 on it, "because I would never wear this skirt without heels." I slipped back into my inappropriate platform wedges. They could at least simulate height. I spun back out in front of The Boy.

"I really like it, baby. I think it's sexy."

I wasn't sure how dark brown silk and cream mohair could be sexy, but considering that the man in linen slouching on the boyfriend bench in the dressing room was the only one I'd be concerned with impressing, I took his opinion under advisement. "Let's put it on hold," I said, ushering him out of Banana. Though I'm usually several steps behind his long legs, as we stretched into our second hour of shopping, he lagged behind.

We darted between stores as I explained over my shoulder that usually when I shop, I plan it out in advance. Where am I going? What am I feeling? I have a thoroughly thought-out plan when I shop. But in this case, shopping had not been on my agenda. The night before, The Boy sat up in bed, peering over me and the duvet until it was "officially" my birthday. At that time, he could share his first surprise with me. "You won't have to worry about parking tomorrow at work."

So in the morning, he chauffeured me to work. I didn't really have the heart to tell him that, due to where he had to drop me off, I walked the same distance anyway. It didn't matter. It was one of those days that was short but felt long. My mom called and sang happy birthday, after initially dialing the wrong number and reaching the mysteriously hostile and suspicious guy across the hall. "I guess I have the wrong number," Mom had said.

"Yeah," suspicious guy said, "I guess you do." Thankfully, she didn't sing on that call.

The Boy picked me up, earlier than expected, with a big Diet Coke sweating in the cupholder. "Did you notice?" He glanced at me from the driver's seat, "It's the crushed ice kind."

He sprung the shopping surprise on the way. I changed from work stilettos to shopping wedges. Little did I know how difficult shopping could be without benefit of prior strategic planning.

By the fourth store I perused for shoes to snazz up the brown, my shoulders slumped. The Boy was dragging. I began leaving him at the front of stores, on benches in hallways. I apologized.

The Boy sighed. "Why can't you just look happy, gosh! I can handle this sacrifice of shopping if at least you're having a good time. How can you not find ONE pair of shoes in this whole mall? What about these?" He pointed at patent leather pointy-toed red stilettos. Yes. But not with brown. I had to hand it to him; he tried diligently to apply his "What not to Wear" knowledge.

Later that night, we arrived at the French restaurant I finally figured it would be. I wore the brown skirt and cream top with borderline over-the-top gold bling from H&M. In lieu of sassy shoes. Our reservation for 8 courses for 8 at 8 landed us in a private room upstairs with aperitifs. They must have known we might get a little loud. I lived like a carnivore, sampling five different animals. Not normally my style. 8 glasses of wine is also not normally my style, as evidenced by the end of my evening. The Boy helped me into the car. I remember adjusting my skirt over my thighs. Then we were home, but I didn't believe him. He parked the car; I fell asleep on top of the covers with the lights on. I recovered in time for the family party on Sunday. Chicken parm and chocolate cake. Twenty-five, if not wines from around the world, went down smooth.

Urban Decay

I haven't slept well this week. Perhaps it's because short weeks always feel longer. In elementary school, when I knew I was leaving early for a dr.'s appointment, I stared at the clock all day. I willed Mrs. Colby or Mrs. Ford, the office secretaries, to break in. "Mr. Davis?" They'd say, disrupting a lesson on Ulysses S. Grant or opportunity cost, "Will you please send Christina to the office for early dismissal?" I would always try to look apologetic, trying to get my eyes to communicate: "I'm sorry Mr. Davis, I'd really rather stay. But Mrs. Colby is calling, so there's not much I can do." It was exciting once the abbreviated day ended, but it still felt long. That's what this week has felt like. So maybe that's why I can't sleep.

Maybe it's the new hobby that has forced itself upon my household. We like to call it "stretching a dime." And by dime I mean the currency, not the various forms of debauchery you crickets or Snoop or Everlast might be thinking of. A quickening and increasingly frantic game of financial catch-up has descended upon our new marriage, causing my veteran married friends to nod in understanding. I feel confident this desperate resourcefulness has contributed to my restless nights.

But mostly, I can blame my interrupted sleep on my address, not my emotional composition. For the time being, despite my mother's best efforts and most grisly urban legends, we have chosen to live in the city. And on many days and even nights, this decision seems worthwhile. Not so much this week. Monday night, due to what I cursed and dubbed a bizarre case of food poisoning, I was rendered uncomfortable all day and miserable all night. And also, painfully awake.

Tuesday at midnight, as The Boy and I drifted off, I heard several large trucks arriving outside our door. There was much metal clanging and workmens' slang. And then, over the shouting and the thunderous idling of a giant engine, a hammer on a metal pole. Really. Throwing the duvet aside and huffing loudly, I separated the blinds to find what appeared to be BGE trucks blocking the intersection outside our house. Apparently, night time is the right time for making large repairs to traffic lights in residential neighborhoods. The Boy patiently suggested I sleep in the spare room. I apologized as I headed upstairs to the hotter but also darker and quieter room at the back of the house. When I came back to our room in the morning to get dressed, The Boy sat up in the middle of the bed, confused.

"I missed you." He squinted and said it as an accusation. "I thought you would come back."

I had planned on it, I explained, but once I finally found sleep I couldn't seem to let it go.

Last night, my best laid plans for hitting the sack early were accidentally abandoned. Damn Project Runway. I couldn't let The Boy watch it without me. You know. Not that he would.

Regardless, I deeply believed sheer exhaustion would have felled me quickly and for good last night. It was not to be. The dog, Mosotos, has developed a compulsive, paw-licking habit that somehow manages to wake me in the middle of the night. I snap my fingers and tell him to stop, waking The Boy. Nobody wins. At 4 am, I woke myself up yelling, "Oh my God, what is that noise?" It sounded like a saxophone playing random notes at odd intervals. But much louder. This morning, The Boy looked at me as if I had a saxophone coming out of my ears. He didn't remember. I still didn't sleep.

And now, at nearly 11, the ghetto bird has been circling a two-block radius for the last 20 minutes. It does not bode well.

Women I've Met

There is a woman who favors paisley and olive drab (the color, not some new dull type of tapenade). I run into her in the ladies room. Frankly, let's be honest. I run into most of the women in my wing in the ladies room at some point. I drink a lot of water these days, which means I lose a lot of water. When I leave the office to head to the restroom, I also bring my water bottle to refill it. It takes everything I've got not to say "cause and effect" every time I walk out that door. I don't do it. But I want to.

So the woman in olive drab. It's not her limited color palette that makes her notable to me; it's her love of dental hygiene. How would I know about her passions when I don't even know her name? Well.

Albeit hesitantly, I have accepted there are people who brush their teeth at work. My time-honored appreciation for squeaky teeth is well-documented. Mere days before I face the inevitable 2-5, I maintain a cavity-free grill. However, this maintenance is not accomplished at work. There are more discrete methods. But this woman laughs in the face of discretion. Not only does she brush her chompers at work, she uses mouthwash and floss as well. Since, to my limited understanding, flossing is a once-a-day activity, I just can't comprehend why one would choose to practice said activity in the dimly-lit bathroom occupied by others. I'm just saying.

In more relevant news, the aforementioned birthday is Friday. It's the first one I'm not even remotely excited about. Sunday I met the incredibly gorgeous 19-year-old cousin of one of my beautiful friends. She had just gotten engaged and asked me breathlessly if, as a newlywed, I felt there were any distinctions between engagement and marriage. I looked at my beautiful friend out of the corner of my eye and laughed a little too devilishly. When we got on the topic of age, the pretty young thing said, "Oh my gosh, I KNOW! I'm going to be 20, and it's going to be sooo weird not to be a teenager anymore!" And, as precious as she was, I wasn't proud of the ugly face I made at my friend. I'd rather not inspire that face among any of the crickets ahead of me on our shared candlelit road.

Ain't No Need to Go Outside

I just expressed brilliance onto this machine, but I made the mistake of doing so while also perusing CNN, which, apparently, has the most vicious and unrelenting pop-ups on the market. I'm seething, and I just swore in frustration at The Boy. Then I rebuffed his attempts at kisses and unnecessary apologies. So, I've got work to do, and it doesn't involve reposting.

The much anticipated rain descended on our charming city today. I'm sitting on the couch in the candlelit living room half listening to Sex & the City while The Boy waits out my wrath upstairs. We have tentative plans to walk a couple of soggy blocks to see an old friend's new band, but I'm doubting our attendance. Ever since I heard Jack Johnson's "Banana Pancakes" on my drive this morning, it's been in my head. "Can't you see that it's just raining, ain't no need to go outside..."

Pilsner Epiphany

I decided to see if, as I suspect of many traditionally bachelor-related things, it was overrated. After burning several hundred calories at my gym and eating a thrown-together dinner of French onion burgers, herb encrusted oven fries and lemon pepper green beans (which, clearly turned out better than I'd planned), I stood in the living room in my clingy, sweaty workout clothes. "So, the beer in the shower thing," I said to The Boy. "What's that all about?"

"Baby," he said. "Once you try it, you'll never go back."

"Well, I certainly hope that's not true," I twisted off the cap of a Miller Lite, "because I generally shower in the mornings.
And they have a name for that."

I locked the dog out of the bathroom. The Boy had explained how to balance the bottle on the towel rack to avoid slippage or compromising the contents, and I followed his instructions. I turned on the shower radio The Boy had to have to one of the three stations it gets, Mix 106.5. I stood there for a few minutes while Rhianna then Madonna summoned various DJs regarding replays and putting records on. It may have been theme night.

In the rising steam, I gripped the sweaty bottle, careful not to drop it. I was pleasantly surprised. I tried to determine what was so great about this phenomenon of beer in the shower. First of all, I noticed (despite my repeated cries during every Coors Light ad last football season) beer in the shower actually tastes cold. I know, I always thought it was a feeling too. But apparently not.

More than that though, I think I enjoyed the feeling of having time that was mine. I wasn't groggy; I wasn't rushed. I listened to music, albeit overplayed and underwhelming. Occasionally, I sang. I shaved my legs without hurrying or feeling guilty for how long my shower took. When I was done, I used the good body cream. The Bath and Body Works "butter," not the Jergens everyday stuff.

So, in fact, it's not about the beer at all. The same bottle sits un-nursed as I type. Obviously I won't finish it now; it won't taste even remotely cold.

Carolina in My Mind

My paternal grandfather, the remaining Pop Pop, has picked up an unusual habit.

"Boop-boop-be-doo!" He said in a sing-song voice several octaves higher than usual. "Christina," he said, rolling the 'r' as if the rest of the sentence were also in Greek, "do you know who says that?"

"Betty Boop," I answered, having already heard how his pastor informed him of this fact, which had apparently been a complete revelation.

"I already told you?" He asked. He seems to be ratcheting up the unintentional comedy factor as he racks up the years. Throughout the week of Family Togetherness in the Outer Banks, this conversation happened even more often than his public service announcements that he wanted to be alive to meet his great-grandchildren, and, at nearly 77, he is not getting any younger. We talked procreation planning with my mother and more reluctant father.

"I don't remember planning any of you guys," Dad said.

"Well," The Boy replied too quickly, "if we get pregnant, it'll be a failure of modern medicine." I'm going to have to warn him against making strong statements about that which cannot be controlled. And also that we will not be pushing the kid(s) out together so we will not claim to be pregnant. I digress.

Stuck in traffic on 95 South last Saturday morning (then 64 East, then every road southeast of that), I wore my floppy hat so The Boy could live out his lifelong dream of driving to the beach with the windows down. Personally, I doubt the alleged longevity of this dream, but that's how important he made it sound.

The traffic didn't bother me, but then I wasn't driving. I had to apologize for not wanting to leave at 5 am because, The Boy assured me, we would have beaten the traffic then. As it was, we beat The Fam by a couple of hours. The Boy suggested I thank him for nixing the family caravan idea with which I had previously flirted. Once we crossed the Wright Memorial Bridge and picked up the keys to the house, he smiled sheepishly. "Okay. I'm getting a little excited."

Turns out there was nothing fake about what I had initially dubbed our fake vacation.

"If this is fake, what would you consider a real vacation?" The Boy quizzed me as we unpacked the car.

"Well, you know, I mean, it's not like one we planned. Not like Tahiti."

"I hate to tell you this, baby, but if Tahiti is your only example of a 'real vacation,' you might never see one of those again."

Perhaps so.

Nothing could have been finer than last week's Carolina. I relished guiding The Boy past Jockey's Ridge, through Kitty Hawk and into Nags Head, where a younger version of me took over. I remember bent-knee cartwheels on those beaches, getting wiped out in that part of the ocean. I'm told I described the taste of the ocean as "wet salty popcorn." I remember hunting sandcrabs at night using flashlights and wearing sweatshirts.

Only the wiped out part happened on this trip, but I still remembered.

We had waves for two days, calm for the rest. The Boy grilled chicken and pineapple for my family who sat at a sunny dining room table with 12 chairs. Everyone fit; my mother glowed.

"What do you call this?" Pop asked, spearing a slice of grilled pineapple.

"Grilled pineapple," The Boy said, choking on his own. Pop was rather taken with The Boy already, but his mastery of unusual fruit preparation seemed to have him hooked.

"You know, Christina," he said, again with the rolled 'r,' "Your husband fits in very well with this family. And how wonderful too, because it's important for him to be around family when his isn't always as close." While his quirks have gotten away from him, his perception has certainly not.

Little Sister was beside herself, as she has not grown up on that beach. She giggled as older boys watched her walk by in the parade of bikinis I never would have been allowed to wear.

I giggled because this was the first vacation I'd brought a boy on. Only he was The Boy, and we got to sleep in the same bed without a second thought. We felt a little awkward anyway.

Wednesday, while our suitcases sat on our shared bed, packed and ready to go, The Boy and I stood on the beach. "We don't have to go, you know," he said, though it felt like a foreign concept. We decided to stay another day. We took turns calling offices from his cell phone, while waves crashed in the not so distant background. I mentioned my guilt as I waited for one of my coworkers to pick up. "It's a rubber ball, baby," The Boy reminded me of our metaphor that keeps jobs in perspective. All the other balls we juggle are glass.

We walked back down the beach instead of back to the house. We drove through Brew Thru because The Boy couldn't imagine having driven by one and not going through. He taught Little Sister to play Texas Hold 'Em and Five Card Stud and came to bed shaken after giving an impromptu lecture on abstinence.

"I know you said sometimes you think it's a little too much," Pop said the next day, "But that husband of yours really does fit in. You have to realize what a gift that is." And I do.

Today The Boy called me from work.

"I think I have to stay late, but I'm just not feeling it. I just want to quit working and go to the beach every day with you."

"We could do that," I replied, "but not without building a lean-to and living off the land."

We've tabled that idea, but only for now.

Oh, The Fam!

We are headed to Costco with a cooler in preparation for the Family Togetherness in the Outer Banks. We're pretty excited, and I managed to say that without dropping an "actually" anywhere in the sentence. We've got a bit of a diverse crowd going, so there will no doubt be stories galore. And also, board games.

I'm burning a cd (legally, of course) for the drive tomorrow, and I'm realizing I'm pretty stoked to (finally) have the opportunity to take The Boy somewhere he's never been . The farthest we've ventured south together (if you don't count the South Pacific) has been Virginia. And, while I've appreciated the time to get acquanited with the Northeast, I'm dying to take over the tour guide duties. We used to spend time on these beaches every year. My hair would be streaked nearly white and french braided; I coordinated my socks and keds to match my shirts. I'd be ridiculously tan and happy, nearly getting lost and always getting shin splints while I walked for miles on the beach. My grandfather, who used to be the king of sandcastles, will be with us. We'll see if he's still got the skill, though I doubt there will be any beach toys. We are at a pause in the family beach trips-- no siblings are young enough and no one has kids. Yet.

There'll be a laptop and wireless internet there, but I'm hoping to stay far away. Earlier this week my little brother called and said, "You know how slowly this week has gone? Wouldn't it be great if our time together at the beach felt the same way?" I couldn't agree more.

Dating Myself

Ever since that sweaty, solitary summer in Shelby, NC a few years back, I have been a firm believer in dating myself. That summer I lived essentially alone in a ramshackle apartment in a dry, brown rural town. The purpose of my lonely stay was to complete the final class of my undergraduate career and to serve a mandatory internship sentence in order to graduate a year early. It seemed worth it at the beginning, and probably it was.

But my then boyfriend lived about 500 miles away for the summer, at the end of which he planned to move overseas. My family lived another 500 miles away, in a different direction; the three of us formed something of an equidistant triangle. My conflicting class and internship schedule precluded me from having a real job of any kind, so I was faced with too much downtime, not enough channels, living on credit. I commuted twice a week to Asheville, 70 miles away to work at an "independent weekly paper." They chastised me for bringing a styrofoam cup to work every day. I bought a Nalgene bottle, but I still didn't fit in.

At school it was pretty much the same story. Desperate for casual and friendly interaction, multiple times I found myself in cars or apartments with a motley crew of individuals with whom I had rarely associated before. We cooked each other dinner. We went to the movies. We didn't speak after that summer.

I took a graduate class on the American Short Story, Tuesdays from 6-10. Though I loved the professor and didn't mind the subject matter, I hated the class. Those familiar with this publication may know that I have more than once referred to some of the students in the classes I've taken as divorcées. This comment refers not to their marital status, rather it is a reference to the group dynamic many of my (usually mostly female) classmates project when together. Much like Cameron Crowe's mom in Jerry Maguire, they talk about "finally, finally" getting in touch with their anger. They discuss the competitive nature among and between women, the unfair advantage males have in the workplace, their good-for-nothing husbands and ungrateful children. And, in this case, they didn't seem to like 20-year-old undergrads. I tried to keep to myself and hope that the longer I listened the later it would get, but the class was brutal. One divorcée in particular, Star, aggravated me so much that I told Tara I had considered writing a story about the class. I would title it, I snickered, "Shooting Star."

Why do I describe this ennui? Because it has served to set up the concept of dating oneself. Instead of hitting the vending machine in the basement of the English building during our break, I would bolt to my Nissan and zip to The Pantry-- the smoky convenience store around the corner. There I would scrounge up enough change for The Big Chiller (a 64 oz, 69 cent Diet Coke) and a pack of Wild Berry Skittles. On the way to Asheville, I occasionally did the same. I took myself to dinner, rented movies, bought myself shoes.

I find myself reminiscing because I'm back to my old habits. Working in a dark and drab environment with loads of techies, sometimes I need to help myself get through the day. So Tuesday I wore one of my cutest matching lingerie sets (under my clothes, of course). Wednesday I wore my favorite pants and peep-toe stilettos that rank in my top five. Today I took myself out to lunch (at Subway, but still). And evidently, I am not alone.

On the exodus to work this morning, I followed a man wearing a shirt with blue flames. He carried a transparent bag with his rations for the day, which included not one but two bananas. Maybe this morning he needed a little something extra to get him there. Maybe the flames make him feel confident. And, apparently, he could tell even this morning that it would be a two banana day.

I've been carrying a half-full pack of Wild Berry Skittles around in my purse for a week. I have a feeling they are not long for this world.

The Irony of Progress

On her last night of her second pregnancy, my friend drove me in her Japanese pickup to pick up Japanese takeout she said would remind me of college. It did. But the trip there and back reminded me even more. Talking at the same time about the same things in very different lives. She worried she wouldn't be able to hack it as the mother of two. I knew she would be incredible. She said her husband's joy didn't seem capable of comprehending her fear, even if his title was changing as well. I surprised myself with a tirade on the pressures of wifedom that I never thought I would succumb to. Internal pressures. The kind sleeping on the couch wouldn't chase away, even if I was okay with that kind of thing.

Both of us bled on Friday, my friend and I. Stuffing my purse with tampons in the morning, I did not miss the irony.

I scrambled one egg for the two-year-old who preferred my toast; we brushed her teeth and dressed her in her "I'm the Big Sister" shirt. A ponytail vaguely resembling a palm tree protruded from the top side of her head. This is all "Aunt Cvrissi" is good for. I managed to install the car seat properly, even protecting my leather seats, and we were off to meet Baby Brother.

In the delivery room, I sat beside my friend and tried to make her laugh; I pondered what it would be like if (or when) I were her. Nearly two and a half years ago, when the Big Sister was born, I sat in the same waiting room, more uncomfortably than this time. That time, the rest of our fab four sat with me. After the turbulent birth, we drove North to Maryland. The next day we dressed up, flirted with the new neighbors, and drank mango martinis at Red Maple. I remember falling asleep to lubricated cries from a roommate's friend about lost keys. I fell asleep with my pillow over my head.

This time, I was the only one who could make it, too many hundreds of miles separating our other friends from Richmond. I sat mostly comfortably in the chair beside the bed, and I only left after we feared one of the mothers would have my head for staying too long. We speculated about who would be there if it were me; when it would be me. Based on too many clues, I guessed the baby's name that was supposed to be a surprise. I felt a funny mix when I saw the frustration on the new daddy's face. He called me Rainman-- couldn't believe I had figured it out.

Caden was born, amid the standard screaming from both parties. Perhaps above average pain, but perfectly healthy. We ate cheesesteaks once the digital cameras stopped flashing and the room cleared out. I was pleased that our different stations still seem to connect; I was proud of my friend.

One of the camera phone pictures taken made its way to The Boy. A message not to "get any ideas" made its way back to me. But of course I did. Because of our shared (and sometimes unfortunate) nature to focus on the next big thing, we sometimes miss the present great thing. Or at least rush through it. We are determined not to do this with our current married, childless life. This life is the one we want, at least for now. But lately and only sometimes I get conflicted. Which means at least that I have it in me.

I came home and met The Boy and our friend Ryan in the place where Ryan and I first met The Boy two years ago. We drank microbrews and played the mp3 jukebox, shared and laughed earnestly. I recognized the diversity and complexity of my day, of this place in my life.

So I'm wanting and waiting, but definitely wanting to wait.

Too Hot to Handle

I'm smoldering, yes, but not in the preferred way. The new job presents, with its remote parking, 40-degrees-cooler-than-outside temperature and known sexual harrasser, unique wardrobe challenges. First, footwear. I've cracked. I mean, not to the level that I wear sensible shoes all day long, but I do flip flop across the radiating pavement with a jacket/blazer slung over my bag. I continue flipping into the office, as I haven't yet figured out how to seamlessly change my shoes while "commuting." By the time I reach my second floor desk I'm already cold and donning the jacket. Now, where it gets tricky. In my first seven weeks on the job, despite the at times triple-digit outdoor temperatures, I wore pants. On purpose. I have ventured this week to skirts, capris and even-- dare I admit it-- Bermuda shorts. I hope I'm not too risque.

The weeks have kept us longing and the weekends have kept us moving. I attended my first baby shower as a married woman. I had not predicted the pseudo pressure from strangers, though maybe I should have. I glanced across the room at the adorable girl in the white pants, married just a year. She graciously admitted she and her husband just weren't ready yet, amid increasingly pressing questions. "For one thing," I swooped in attempting to help, "We can still wear white pants." They laughed. I looked around at my friend's happily crowding life. I'm pleased that I don't dread it, but also that I don't need it yet. I asked The Boy if these contradictory feelings were strange. He didn't think so.

We ventured up to Pittsburgh with the Old Roommate. Feeling sheepish about our preconceived attitudes, we couldn't believe how pretty it was. I teared up at the wedding the bride said she thought would never come while my husband squeezed my hand. "You were the most beautiful wife I have ever seen." I smiled at his statement, and not only because he said "wife" when he meant "bride." In the bathroom at the reception, I winced while I peed as I overheard a bridesmaid sniffling that everything had been different since she got married. Because even if it's mostly good, it's true.

I discovered IC Light; The Boy discovered PNC Park. We walked through an unfamiliar city holding hands, looking up, and wondering if our life would ever be set against a completely foreign backdrop. For now, we'll settle for planning frugal and far out visits to our increasingly far flung friends. Something's got to distract us from the thick haze of this Baltimore summer. I may be the only person to utter this, but thank goodness for BGE.

Inspired by Holden Caulfield

Alas, I cannot tell you the situation with The Creep has gotten any better. Instead, it's only gotten formally documented and awkwardly silent. And also, I kind of hate the Radiohead song I had previously loved for years. So there's that.

It's possible that many had assumed I had become one of those girls who gets married and gets lost. And it's possible, a little bit, that I have. But only a little. The bit of monotony I've found I have latched happily onto. The married part of married life is just fanfrickintastic. It's the life part that's causing a little trouble. At the gym Tuesday I smiled at the girl with the large, sparkling solitaire huffing frantically next to me on the elyptical. I hoped she saw my double rings and that I was on the elyptical. Maybe not still, but again. If a little halfheartedly.

The long weekend in New England was certainly long. And it is never boring. I got more sun in three afternoons on the Long Island Sound than I did in a week and a half in French Polynesia. I've never been so happy to see tanlines. We crashed a ridiculous beachfront party and saw fireworks that made me gasp and arch my neck to the sky so long and hard that the crick lasted for hours. I thought the fireworks would fall on my head. They weren't the only ones I saw that weekend, and that's not necessarily great.

Rock Star Brother (in law) called today with big news involving a tour with Scott Stapp, formerly of Creed fame, but more recently of sex tape scandal with Kid Rock and Christmastime fisticuffs with 311 fame. That Scott Stapp. I advised that he enjoy the ride while grasping his dream. But more importantly, should he find himself in a crowded tour bus with mutliple naked rockstars and groupies, that he run fast and far.

That New Hit Song, "Alone in my Principles"

It can be said, rather rightly, that I am a person of principle. Sometimes the result of that fact is that I get frustrated, annoyed or even livid on principle. That is, it often has less to do with a tangible thing than it does a larger issue. For example.

There is a "man" at the new "job" who is, to understate it, unaware. Of his capabilities, of his surroundings, of anything related to propriety. He has called me his "bright spot," he has murmured that I get told I look nice "probably like a thousand times a day," among other asinine compliments under his breath, and to top it all off, he has asked me out numerous times in the last few days. Just two weeks after congratulating me on my marriage. The Boy's response to all of this has been appropriate, but lately, he has become bemused.

"I'm not trying to over-intelliectualize this," he began, over verbalizing, "if you were going to hit on a married woman, which I'm not encouraging, of course. But if you were going to, why would you choose one who just returned from her honeymoon? I mean, I can see if you'd been married for seven years or something and you complained about how your husband didn't pay enough attention to you, but really? I'd say your commitment, or at least your enthusiasm, is pretty much at its peak at this point."

My rage subsided as I laughed at his Seven Year Itch theory. But he was right. Lately, my conversations disgust even me, as I deliberately litter them with "my husband" references-- I never say his name-- because I want to remind The Creep constantly that I am married. But as I told a colleague last week, when I asked him to watch out for me, marriage has very little do with it. "Even if I weren't married," I said, unnecessarily not to mention unprofessionally, "never in a million years would I even consider him. Ever."

The principle: it infuriates me that a man is capable of making me feel that uncomfortable. I shouldn't feel like I have to lower my eyes; I shouldn't try to modify what The Creep calls my "supermodel runway walk." I wear jackets all the time, even when I'm not cold. My "professionalism," or rather my prudishness, has skyrocketed since The Creep told me he "likes the way I carry myself." I'm angry. And yet, a guy like The Creep would take this as a victory. He "got" to me. I've met his kind before. I'm hoping he is not long for my world.

When these and other principles and realities have gotten me down, I have sighed, "This is good," while pointing at my chest, then poking The Boy in his, "but sometimes everything else just sucks."

"What else is there?" He has replied. And he's kind of right.

We are counting the days to our long weekend in New England. Mosotos will be passing the time at Doggie Camp in PA. Yes. We are those people.

And now, The Boy waits for me downstairs with a homemade strawberry banana daquiri. And there are much worse things than that.

Eating Crow

At a wedding a few years ago, I ran into the older sister of a good friend. I had mostly looked up to her; she had recently gotten married. I had recently endured the unfortunate Marital False Start. Not a little disillusioned, I smiled tightly and asked her, "How's married life?"

Her new, curly-haired husband behind her, she shot him a glance and muttered, "Umm, it's an adjustment," in too many Southern syllables. My face fell. I wanted her to tell me I was right before, wrong to lose faith. I wanted her to tell me it was better than she ever expected. She didn't.

I have often thought of her, and repeated that line in jest. But I haven't made fun of late, as life has been full of serious adjustments.

My husband leaves his boxers and shorts on the shelf in the bathroom where he sheds them to shower. Every day. If he wonders, he never asks how said shorts miraculously appear under his pillow each night when he needs them. Nor does he question who made our bed, though he usually exits it long after I'm out the door. These are adjustments.

But mostly the adjustments have had little do "us." I'm aware that my speech patterns have changed. I'm self conscious of the "we" and "My husband" clauses that pepper my language. Of my six inboxes, only two bear the right name. My fingers shake and pause while I decide who I am today. Credit card receipts? Old name. Benefits forms? New name. ID to go with credit card receipts? License. ID to go with work-issued badges? Passport. And so on.

I am relearning the meaning of working for the weekend. I never wanted to be the kind of person who danced for joy on Fridays. However, on the past two Fridays, I could have worn Hawaiian shirts with pride; I was so excited. The Boy felt the same. In celebration, I drank more than a beer and a half. I anticipate the trend will continue. Fortunately, it's light beer.

Saturday we walked miles of city asphalt, stopping for drinks and kebabs at street festivals, buying used cds and clothes. We cooked a heart healthy feast for Dad on Sunday to mark the most important Father's Day yet. On the way home, with the windows open (causing my not quite long enough layers to escape my ponytail and whip me in the face), I squinted and sighed. "I just need one more day," I told The Boy. There's another adjustment. The return of the Sunday night depression. I have not yet discovered a cure for that one.

This week, we look forward to the comeback of at least a little normalcy. Gyms will be visited, meals will be crafted instead of nuked. But Friday will come, bearing the promise of great seats to the sold-out Battle of the Beltway, and I will be there. Light beer in hand.

Blame it on the Rain

Nothing is the same as when I left, except for my skin color, thanks to unprecedented cloudy skies in Tahiti.

I'm married now, with the doubled rings, license, and maiden/middle name to prove it. That, I love. I love that The Boy is now my husband. I love that, despite our new shared habit of popping melatonin on restless nights, at least we are together. Our room. Our bed. These are things I've had no problem sharing. (I just wish my shoes could inhabit the space with us, but, alas, it was not meant to be in this house.)

The honeymoon was gorgeous and blissful, even if the weather was not. (The iPod and docking station, pictured above, were named Honeymoon MVPs). It was an adventure; it was romantic; we felt more together than ever. We relished being so. far. away. We vowed not to check e-mail and were never tempted to. We reminded each other we were 8,000 miles from home.

Until breakfast on Tuesday, our second morning in Bora Bora. The Boy, who fancies himself a pseudo meteorologist, predicted sunny skies by noon. He had been right on the previous day-- the only day of the entire trip when we witnessed a sunrise and sunset. We talked about our plans for the day, which included jet skiing and riding ATVs in the mountains. Jerome, the concierge, shattered the reverie, presenting me with a slip of paper with an American number. I remember the word, "urgent;" I recall the phrase, "as soon as is possible," in a stilted French lilt. I followed him to the front desk, leaving The Boy with coffee and the check. I made rambling conversation about the weather.

My hand shook as I held the phone in Jerome's office. My mother was the only one who had our emergency numbers. But she wasn't calling. If something had been wrong with her, Dad would have called-- no question.

The Boy materialized at my side, clutching my hand. My aunt talked too calmly. She mentioned Dad. Said he had "fallen ill;" something about "episodes" and "blockages." My mind couldn't keep up. I had to remind it that "fallen ill" was different than "fallen." I heard "five bypasses" and stumbled. I gasped and sobbed and shook my head. I begged my aunt to talk to The Boy, who hadn't heard a word.

On the way to our gorgeous bungalow, the sun began shining. My eyes were swollen slits and I didn't hide my tears from the other honeymooners. I remember telling The Boy, "I feel like my feet aren't even touching the ground. This can't be real, right?" He didn't respond. When we arrived in the room he spun quickly and caught me, though I hadn't even realized I was falling. We spent over $100 in international calls just to get on earlier flights. I wandered from room to room with random articles in my hands. I found myself plucking stray eyebrows in the magnifying mirror, then swearing at the phone that wasn't ringing. I cried.

We sat for ten hours in three different airports. We traveled for thirty hours, in the same clothes, no meals, no showers. Antsy and anxious, we opened all of our wedding presents when we got home. They are still scattered around the dining room. Thursday, before we visited my dad for the first time, I wrung my hands in the elevator. At my wedding, my father looked the best I can ever remember. I wasn't prepared to see the worst.

Yet again in a matter of days that felt much longer, The Boy held me up. Dad smiled weakly and asked how our trip was. Tubes and oxygen, bruises and blood crowded his bedside. I kissed his face and scratched his head. He didn't look like my dad. He was swollen, but looked smaller. I still cry for him a little part of every day.

He is healing, stabilizing. Will eventually be better than normal. Thank God for warnings and second chances, I tell everyone. And myself.

We are thankful, distracted, burdened. Heavy. Trying to create a beginning at what feels inexplicably like an end. But we are grateful for a life full of promise. Each night longing for sleep, clinging to each other.

Using Your Words

On the phone with The Boy, I just said, "Foof."

"Foof is right," he replied. And so, it has come down to this. I have lost my vocabulary.

The rental coordinator, Ira, called today to tell me he "took the liberty" of scoping out Federal Hill this morning. He mentioned newly planted grass and orange caution tape at our wedding site. He assumed I knew about it. I didn't. We're taking a trip over sometime (we're running out of it) to assess the damage and plan the control. How would tulle look draped over caution tape? (In a related story, our wedding coordinator, Marlene, sent us an email a couple of weeks ago mentioning condoms and needles she saw while walking in the park. We appreciated her...specificity.) I don't worry about the pictures; our photographer has already made it abundantly clear that he has no qualms using PhotoShop. I just wish there were an internal PhotoShop we could impose upon our guests.

We sat at the O's/Red Sox game last night for The Boy's birthday (we celebrated it, albeit modestly, against all odds) and I thought I might have gotten in my first girl fight. The stakes would have been higher if I hadn't had the perspective of wedding pictures in mind. The girl behind me talked a couple of octaves too high, and not by nature. Before the National Anthem, when the announcer said that the Boys' Choir would sing their rendition of the song, she said, "Rendition? Like that's even a word."

She called Trot Nixon "Trotty Trot," loudly and often. She cheered for every out, and even for a few bad plays and strikes against her own team. At one point, with a Sox runner on first, she said, confused, "Wait, why is there a guy in a white jersey there? That means he's an Oriole. I thought the Red Sox were up." One of the males around her informed her he was the first baseman. Later, she and her friend suggested staying at least until "halftime," and when I saw them in the bathroom, they regarded the paper towel holder, looked up into it and stormed off in frustration. Apparently, they were not accustomed to manual machines.

We survived until the 8th inning, when we couldn't take it anymore. We stopped for a beer at the Wharf Rat where many, "Can you believe we're getting married THIS WEEKEND," statements were made. At The Home we split a bottle of Asti while finalizing our rehearsal dinner list. Far from romantic, better than nothing.

Daisies, Thongs, and Fender Benders

These adorable little babies are some of our practice flowers. A bit beat up, but they make my day. The morning flower session was mostly a success, but I was not meant to be driving that early on that little sleep with that limited of a caffeine supplement. A couple of curbs were injured in the process, and I turned left on red for no apparent reason. We made it mostly in one piece.

As we left, I noticed that my car smelled funny. Edie and I tried to name the scent. "Rotten Chinese food?" I suggested. She agreed. We hunted around the car. Under the seats. Nothing. As a last ditch effort, I popped the trunk, only to find a couple pounds of 9-day old broccoli. The stems stayed some semblance of green while the flowers were radioactive yellow. The stink is gone.

The rest of the day was spent scanning pictures and skipping between stores. I made two trips to Wal-Mart, two to separate Targets. With flip flops, bug spray, a Tide pen and Melatonin in hand, I ran into a church lady who was full of honeymoon advice. I grabbed McDonald's on the way home as I coordinated Mother's Day with my dad on the phone. McDonald's is my low point.

Sunday morning I was bombarded with hugs and personal sermon illustrations. "This is the last time I can hug you as a single girl!" Fran said. I heard my nickname and last name paired repeatedly by many because it would be the last time they could say them and have them be accurate.

At The Home, Mosotos threw up what appeared to be a lace thong. Not just any thong-- my wedding day underwear. Fantastic. I'm in the market for a new pair.

Later, groggy and irritable and wearing my hot pink i {heart} mom shirt, I waited at the light at President and Lombard. The woman in front of me abruptly threw her car into reverse. I watched her coming toward me. I swore and laid on my horn. It didn't stop her. Teary-eyed she jumped out of her car, handed me her business card and allowed me to compare it to her license. She was nice. Damage was minimal. But who would ever believe a reverse rear-ending?

After dinner for Mom, I sat on the couch squished between Mom, Little Sister and the obnoxious beagle. We looked through two decades of pictures. My younger hands with the old engagement ring. A glimpse into a different life. Mom with two kids at my age. It felt warm, vaguely sad, mostly triumphant.

Like Old Times

"It definitely needs to be lower," Edes said, making eye contact with me in the three-way mirror, where my reflection stood in my wedding dress. She was right. I tried to explain this to the Russian seamstress, tactfully.

"I know I'm driving you nuts." It was my third fitting. A mere 9 days before the wedding, I knew it would not be my last. "I know I asked you to close this up, and you did a great job." I did not lie.

"You want me to open it up," she offered. She took scissors to my bustline, and it was much improved. We dithered about the bustle, the shoulders that are still too big. She pinned and clucked. I have what has to be a final appointment for the 18th.

I worked and ate popcorn and M&M's in my office while Edes borrowed The Boy's computer and internet. "This feels like college," she said, "except we never would have worked this early." She IM'd me from across the room. It was 3:00. In our younger days we would have done that at 3:00, but in the morning.

Later, we hit the O's game in borrowed seats and new hats. We took this picture and sent it to The Boy, who is spending the evening with his father and friends blowing money at Mohegan Sun on day one of his Bachelor Extravaganza. He verified, once again, that there would be no inappropriateness. He's been sending text messages all night.

Today I built a template for a proposal, handled a cake crisis (spice in place of banana walnut) and dodged the rental facility who wants a ceremony "floor plan," which does not yet exist. I coordinated musicians, made wedding accoutrements. Tomorrow morning at 7 :30 I'm headed with my aunt to the wholesale florists to discuss options. I've already set the coffee timer.

I'm whitening my teeth and crossing off days; I'm savoring "singleness" but dreaming of Tahiti.

Anatomy of a No-Brainer

I have been working since 6:30 at my desk in the "blue collar" room with the white board on the wall listing the names of every person who will be at my wedding and with whom they will sit. Are the old people far enough from the DJ? Are the exes far enough from each other? Is it really obvious that one of the tables should probably be named, "The Island of Misfit Toys?" I don't actually have time to ponder these mysteries, but then again nor do I have time to yell at the dog for sneaking the remains of my breakfast out of the trash can. We do what we have to do.

Suddenly, I am on deadline for the consulting job, and a newborn offer for a "real job" sits by my flip flops in a FedEx envelope. They want me to deliver it back to them today. I haven't even given it much thought. I arrived at my interview 45 minutes late because the secure facility was a little too secure. Eight of us sat around a table. We talked. They laughed. And when it was over, my potential boss walked me across the parking lot and gave me the thumbs up with a "just between us" caveat.

Two days later, they are offering me more than I asked for, different than I wanted. But not different than I need. My budding family needs stability, security, health insurance coverage. A job when I get back from Paradise. So, I'll sign my name on the line. In 10 days, even my name will be different.

An Independent Communications Consultant

And, as abruptly as unemployment began, it has come to a halt. At an impromptu breakfast meeting on Friday, I became an independent consultant. No benefits. Thus far, no contract. Just a check and a handshake and a whole lot of work. After two hours on the beltway, I met my current boss at Starbucks, then headed to our day of meetings regarding a proposal for which there will be a review on Mother's Day, but, so far, we won't be needed there. On the way home, after another two hours in the car, my new acquaintance Andy called.

"Christina, our Proposal Coordinator is out sick for the week. So I need to know,"

Oh, jeez. I already had three different "opportunities" waiting in my inbox, not to mention the 9am interview tomorrow or my wedding, now only 13 days away.

"How are your Word skills?" Gahhhhh, I thought. Anything else, I would have had the potential to be woefully underqualified. But word? Please. I could format templates in my sleep.

"Andy, I hesitate to answer that question," I sighed. "My Word skills are considerable."

"Really?" Andy scoffed as if he didn't believe me. "Templates?"

"Yep."

"Styles?"

"Yep."

"I hear you're an outstanding editor. Can you integrate the components of this document so it sounds like one person wrote it?"

UGH. "Yep."

Not only did I end up volunteering myself for something I have no time or obligation to do, I made this guy hate me by answering the following question:

"So where are you going on your honeymoon?"

When I told him Tahiti, he sounded as if I deserved all the work anyone could throw at me.

Sigh. But it's all far better than being unemployed. Now at least maybe I'll feel like I earned the break.

Now, That's a Man You Marry

We sat closely in one side of a wide booth in the corner, criss-crossing arms to put hands on each other's thighs.

"A woman will love a man forever if she can trust him with her fears." Our pastor sat across from us, looking earnestly through round lenses. He had said this to us before. It always makes me wince.

We were at our second pre-marital counseling session, this time on a Tuesday night at a rib joint.

The Boy, who had been buttering a slice of sourdough, held my hand under the table. "I've struggled with that," he admitted. "It's sometimes hard to remember my job isn't always to fix everything."

I stared at him openly . He was right, and we had fought about it. I had promised myself not to sell him out. But life is scary; marriage is scarier. Of course there are fears. We discussed them that night. Aging. Changing. Drifting. I don't need to be told, "That'll never happen," or, "Don't be silly," and I especially don't need to hear laughter. The Boy looked through me when he apologized for saying those things. Promised to try harder, to listen when I am afraid.

That session is already serving us well. Lately I'm afraid. Sometimes trembling, often terrified. But one thing I am absolutely, unequivocally not afraid of is that I'm marrying the wrong person. The day I lost my job I was crushed, embarrassed. I felt I had let our new family down.

"Don't think for a minute you've let me down," The Boy said, no-nonsense. I didn't say it, but I knew taking that job had been a risk. We both did. We had discussed it openly. I felt foolish-- like a failure-- because we faced the worst-case scenario that could have been prevented. But I didn't say any of that.

"You took a risk, honey. A big risk."

Uh-oh, I thought. Here it comes.

"And I have never been so proud of you, " he proclaimed. I knew he meant it.

We are concerned about our lack of money. It's not every quarter that he starts a new job, I lose a new job. Not every quarter that we spend thousands on one day of festivities and two weeks of South Pacific marital bliss. We admit openly that this timing leaves much to be desired. We fear. But we are gripping hands, always with fingers tightly interlaced, facing the same direction.

I cannot wait to marry this man, and I usually hesitate to write about things like this. What if it's sentimental, I wonder. Today, I don't care. Honesty, in writing and in life, isn't just for the snarky or funny or bad. And this man makes it worth it for me to look forward. I don't care who knows-- in fact, crickets, tell all your friends.

I'm working on trusting. Doing what I can do and not worrying. Not furrowing my brow. Praying more, focusing less on unknowns I can't predict. Enjoying the wind blowing through my hair while I drive the car I never thought I'd have.

I'm working.

But the next person who asks me what I do all day is going to get a to-do list to last them the next 24 days. I kid you not.

Whiplash

I probably should've known the day was about to take a sinister turn when I heard Mike's voice on the phone.

"This is the second hardest thing I've ever had to do."

I silently wondered what the first hardest thing was.

"What's up?" I asked, maybe a little out of breath. I had been stripping beds in preparation for Amber's arrival later that afternoon.

"You know how we lost that contract yesterday." I had heard but knew little about it-- it had been before my brief time with the company.

"Christina, they've decided to let you go." I had a feeling the sheets would stay in the washer until we needed them to be on the beds.

I remembered the definition of reeling. My body felt lightheaded-- dizzy. Confused. I asked the standard why's and how's. I looked at the calendar on the desk in my "home office." Friday, April 21st. Exactly one month before my ruthlessly impending nuptials.

Mike was nothing but helpful, gracious. Looking out for me. Calling with possible consulting deals.

I dried my tears (with a towel), updated my resume and drafted an email to HR. The HR rep called me back (clearly ignoring my preferred method of communication). She used the words "departure" and "pay in lieu of notice."

"Can you please explain the difference between severance and pay in lieu of notice?"

Judging by her tone of voice, in her opinion, it was a big difference. "Severance," she said tersely, "asks you to give something up in exchange for something else." Confused, because I thought that was the definition of "quid pro quo," and irritated, because her southern lilt and calmness were unnerving, I put the phone on speaker and held it from my face while I groaned. "With pay in lieu of notice, we're not asking you to give up anything!" That was all I could take. I got off the phone as quickly as possible.

Amber arrived with her burgeoning belly. Shortly after that, a basket of daisies arrived with an I Love You balloon and a hand-written card that began, "Pookie." They were The Boy's words, but not in his handwriting. We laughed and Amber and her fetus took me to Coldstone after a couple of moping hours on the couch. Then we got our toes done and walked home in the rain.

The Boy greeted us at the door in his "I'm a Catch" shirt-- the one I got him last time he saved me. We sat on the couch after a long, tight hug. I hid my face in his shirt.

"I sent a prayer request out to the church," The Boy announced, referring to the church-wide emails that often bombard our inboxes. Amber burst out laughing. So hard she cried and had to leave the room. I wondered if he had considered the possibility of my embarrassment. "I ran it by your dad!" He exclaimed. "I thought I did the right thing!" And he probably did. But I still had visions of my Dad confronting Mr. O'Brien, the man who would become one of my favorite teachers, on junior year back-to-school night. He told O'Brien I was intimidated of him. O'Brien made a scene in front of the whole class the next day. When I confronted Dad, he did not apologize.

I explained this to The Boy. "In the future, if you ever have a question that involves potential embarrassment, do not consult him! He has no sensor for that kind of thing." The conversation spanned the weekend.

We faced our previously scheduled shower, reminding ourselves that our wedding is more than a series of dollar signs, even if it doesn't feel like it. For better or for worse started early. In the car, we started facing forward, together.

Today, my first official "business day" of unemployment, I took care of all the supposed-to's. Breakfast. Cleaning the kitchen. Taking care of the dog. Checking my email. Putting on my workout clothes. Then I did my first real act of unemployment. I went back to bed.

Ticking Away

At 6:14 a.m. on Tuesday, I walked outside with Mosotos and saw the Super Shuttle blocking the driveway of the converted firehouse across the street. I pretended I didn't see it and yanked the dog down to the holly bush and mulch patch at the condos on the corner. He peed, and I pulled him back toward the house. He looked at me, confused. This wasn't how we did it, and it was a good hour too early. Poor little dog.

I handed my luggage to the friendly Nigerian man and climbed into the shuttle. It was still a couple minutes shy of 6:23, the earliest time I was supposed to have been ready. "We can wait," the driver said. I knew I had left my sunglasses on my desk. I told him to go ahead. We headed out in the opposite direction of the airport, and the Nigerian's marveled over laborers waiting in the 7-11 parking lot on Broadway. I explained the phenomenon. We delved into a conversation, or really a monologue, on immigration laws, "carboats," Castro and landfill living. We arrived at our destination and retraced out steps back to my neighborhood. The Nigerian was telling outrageous stories of favors passengers had asked him. "Drive me 26 miles back, I forgot my dentures," and "Can you come back in an hour? I haven't taken a shower yet." When I noted that I had driven all over town with them before 7 in the morning, he said, "Do you want to go back? We can stop."

"No," I sighed. "Then I'd just become a story you'd tell other passengers." He laughed heartily.

A full forty minutes after I began my journey, people who were practically my neighbors boarded the shuttle, having had at least 30 minutes more sleep than I did. I learned about their grandfetus and their houseboat. I arrived at curbside check-in just ahead of my grandparents. We sat together on the plane.

I'm fresh off my first roundtrip flight to Charlotte. I didn't miss the 16+ hours in the car, but I did I spend hundreds of dollars and 30 hours to be at my brother's Senior Recital. He wore a long white tuxedo jacket and a faraway expression, sang in four languages, and was fantastic. I flew with my family for the first time-- the whole family. Grandparents from both sides.

Fast food, fast talking-- many voices all at once-- fast trip. Mosotos was beside himself when I returned, exhausted, late last night. And it was nice to have someone to come home to.

I was six miles from The Boy twice while in Charlotte, but we never connected. He was done with training at 5 this evening but can't come home until tomorrow. I'm headed to D.C. way too early in the morning, and The Boy's father will be in town for a quick car delivery/repair trip. Easter on Sunday and I can't believe we're that far into the year. Two separate friends remarked to me, "It just occurred to me how soon your wedding is. It's like really soon." It is like really soon. 38 days and counting. I'm aware that most of my sentences lead to wedding details or worries. Amber reminded me today, "Don't worry friend, this won't last. Soon you'll be putting together wagons and filling sandboxes," she alluded to her afternoon plans. She's right. I'm looking forward to that, but it wouldn't hurt me to enjoy the trip.

Pre-Marital Absurdity

Florida: Come for the empty promise of sunshine, stay for the torrential rains. Witness The Boy walking on water. Take a good look, I feel certain it's as close as he'll ever get...

We took his mother to her first baseball game in Ft. Lauderdale and we established a plan of attack for our rapidly (rabidly?) approaching Blessed Event. We remembered why we're doing this. On the plane home, we played hangman (as always), with words like "Mosotos" and "Tahiti." The Boy video taped me saying I would not freak out about the wedding and that "everything would be fine." He has already played it back for me twice since then.

I have done enough fake calligraphy that I feared my finger cramps would never go away. Yesterday, The Boy carried two boxes of double-bagged invitations to the post office and weighed them a second time, just to make sure. "There's no turning back, you know. Not now," he told me when he returned. And I did know. And it felt fantastic.

My grandmother accompanied me to my gown fitting and took pictures that make me wonder how I'll actually feel about how I look at the Blessed Event. I accompanied my mom to search for her dress, and The Boy's mother called to inform me that, instead of wearing a dress "the color of water," as she had originally planned, she has now purchased a dress that is cream. When I reminded her that my dress is ivory, she said, "Yes, but it's a dark cream. It doesn't look anything like yours." I felt rather stuck, assuring myself that no one would get the two of us confused, but I also wondered if maybe Betsy at BridalMart was right-- maybe I do need a veil. Just so people know that I'm the bride.

Thank you for indulging my insanity-- this has become my world. And if you've never done it you're going to have to take my word for it; no matter how much I've tried to avoid this consumption, it is in fact, unavoidable. If you're not interested in the inevitable insanity, I suggest you take a 45 day vacation-- or longer-- from this publication. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. Not to mention Pilates and teeth-whitening and tanning. And various other clichés.

No Time to Say Hello, Good-bye

Despite the fact that we are all probably pretty much over anything remotely green, I thought I should share. Friday I paid extra to drink green beer to benefit a Leukemia/Lymphoma charity. In the process, I also remembered how much fun it is to carry highlighters (and the dreaded pen) around with my brackets, even in a public space. Hooray for March Madness. It's even nicer to do it with someone who, not only doesn't think it's excessive, but asks to borrow the highlighter when I'm done. I've officially stopped keeping track now that Bradley (I know, who?) and others have wrecked it for us all. Regardless, it was a much needed kick off to a weekend apart.

The weekend was spent mostly alone, laundering, parenting the dog and looking for reasonably cute but comfortable shoes and various clothing items that would be Ft. Lauderdale appropriate, as that's where I greet you from at the moment. My suite boasts two baths (one with a bidet), and a balcony overlooking the golf course, the mini river and the pool. Not that I've got the time to enjoy it, but it was 87 degrees here today. Even in my heinous and enormous blue Company Shirt, it's hard to complain.

Tomorrow afternoon, The Boy will join me down here for some much needed face time, and also for a visit with The Mother. Even if it thunderstorms, I just don't see how it could be bad. I'm beginning to forget what that mug of his looks like, or how he sounds when he's not sighing in frustration.

Actually...

As it turns out, Baltimore City stole my car. Oops. When we arrived at the impound lot the first time, under advisement of a mistaken Lieutenant, we were asked to pay in excess of $500 to free my car. You can bet we weren't biting. Instead, I asked to visit the car so I could retrieve my charger. I wasn't sure if I locked the door.

Yesterday, after The Boy worked his magic on Brown from the Parking Department, we went to rescue the car. Relieved to see a zero balance, but irked that that was all, I rode in a Cavalier with two other ladies to get my car. I removed the WARNING notice from the windshield, smirking at the irony it represented. But when I got inside, I noticed cds and various paraphernalia all over the floor and seats. My car had been ransacked. Thankfully, it appears my musical tastes do not mesh well with that of the perpetrators, so I don't think I'm missing anything. And yet, all I can say is, "Yeah, but still."

In between the runaround, many loved ones descended upon The Home. Amber's little girl scampered around squealing at Mosotos, pushing his face and repeating "Off, puppy," every time he got too close. I stayed up talking to Tara until 3:00. We listened to Passion songs while cooking and baking and assembling favors, and it felt like college. Until I walked upstairs to give the kid a bath with her Little People. There wasn't really any of that in college.

The Boy golfed with his dad and I had a heart to heart with The Stepmother on the way to my shower. 90 percent of the people on the list shocked me with their attendance. It was a surreal haze of faces, most of whom I could have talked to for hours. I tried to build bridges and introduce; I tried to spend time with each one. But of course I failed. In keeping with my Lent sacrifice, I worked hard to ignore the chocolate fondue fountain everyone else focused on. I answered embarrassing questions about The Boy. "How does she know that already?" One girl remarked, when I answered that The Boy prefers that toothpaste be squeezed from the bottom up. I wondered why that question was considered more personal than how many kids he wants or who his hero is. I got those right too.

Opening gifts in front of those who gave them to me made me sweat. True, I was stoked out of my mind about my new Calphalon Anodized cookware, but who else would be? I would glance at my mom while holding a coffee grinder shrugging, "Am I really supposed to pass this around?" It felt self-indulgent. It felt weird. Lots of sweat and nervous laughter. And then it was over and we loaded way too many presents into the trunk and backseat of Clarice. Yesterday, just three days after seeing our new car, The Boy claims it's his favorite car he's ever owned, "except for the SPG" whose greatness currently sits locked in a basement in Connecticut. Of course. Except for that.

We discovered a dinner theatre in Baltimore with the parents and c'est ca. Mosotos was glad to have his house and parents back to himself; we were unnerved to see our house in far worse condition than it was on Friday. Golf clubs, Pyrex, pillows and towels and a collander crowd the dining room. My car is marked with yellow numbers on the glass and a thick caking of dust everywhere else. The Boy is driving friends around in Clarice. I guess things are getting back to normal.

Mosotos has begun to prefer cement and steel over grass and trees. When we first picked him up, I remember walking him deep into the woods to relieve himself. Last time we took him to the vet, he peed on the sidewalk. And now, in the park, he sniffs trees, but he prefers lightposts. I used to stop him. But I figure, if Baltimore can steal my car, let him pee on their lightposts. They're really just city trees anyway, and after this debacle, I don't blame him.

Hookahs, Grand Theft Auto and Coming Out

Thank God I kept my lifeguard hat stashed handily; I've needed it lately. Treading water has become the name of the game. I never was very good at it. I'm getting better now.

Friday, before the grand theft auto I will soon detail, we had dinner with our Pretty Couple Friends from church. They are, of course, far more than pretty, but at first blush that is certainly their defining characteristic. They are Lebanese, smart, fun, but most noticeably, lovely. After dinner, they introduced us to Turkish coffee in cheetah print demi-tasses. And then, the hookah. I disclaimed that the only thing I had ever smoked was a Swisher Sweet, which didn't bode well. The first time I tried it, there was no smoke. The next few times, I coughed. Everyone else laughed. But it was fun to say, "I smoked a hookah," when asked how my weekend was.

The week of deadlines took its toll, spilling into the weekend, but it passed and I was lauded. But moving the miscellaneous from the apartment to The Home also took all weekend, and the organization process is taking even longer. I haven't needed most of these things in months-- where do I put them now?

In between the thinking about work, heavy lifting and actual working, my red car disappeared. Due to a cryptic letter I received from the MVA referencing mysterious (and, to my knowledge, non existent) outstanding obligations, I assumed the car had been erroneously towed. Apparently, not so. I reported it stolen Monday afternoon and so far, no news. I'm tooling around in a silver Neon. Please, honk if you love Enterprise. The new car (which I have taken to calling "Clarice," because I involuntarily say, "hello" in the exact same manner as Hannibal Lecter every time I see a TSX on the road) will be here Friday, along with The Boy's father, The Stepmother, and sister. Tomorrow, Amber and her toddler arrive, followed by Tara. Saturday I'll be showered. If I can make it that far.

Tonight, after two days of booth standing in a baggy blue shirt, I stumbled to class on sore feet, despite my Aerosoles. There, I was workshpped. And outed. Who knew that searching for "Mosotos" would lead directly to this old thing? Damn Google. So, if any are visiting by way of Hopkins, welcome. Feel free to look around. We are always happy to have new crickets.

Not Quite as Planned

On the Sunday afternoon I had planned to be on the slopes of Mt. Snow in Vermont (or at least warming myself and my injured knee/ankle/what have you in the lodge), I am, instead, at my laptop, with a dog at my slippered feet. And I'm tired of working. That picture, mixed with a couple of movies and cold walks in the park, has consitituted my weekend. An intermediate deadline on Monday preceeds a week of tradeshows in my ill-fitting, though tailored, Company Shirts. Several deadlines are sprinkled through the week of boothsitting, including one at school, which I haven't yet attempted to begin.

The dog, Mosotos, is adorable and mostly well-behaved, but the transition to the new food has not been an easy one. He has been plauged, and thus plaguing us, with the most heinous farts in history for the past two days. I think this is his way of paying us back for giving him his anti-fungal and anti-bacterial ear and eye drops. He has two sets. And also, four sets of pills. Antihistamines, antibiotics. He hides under the dining room table. My mom can't hear my voice without laughing. I'm sitting at my desk, a can of Febreze Air Effects by one hand, a slobbery squeak toy by the other.

The Boy, after his third trip to Home Depot of the weekend, is out in the cold, building a yard on our cement rectangle. A retaining wall for Mosotos.

I'm somebody's mommy, using the word poop in public and writing about farts. Welcome, I have a feeling it's only the beginning.

Adoption Tips

Since last we chatted, I wrote a piece about the red car that saved my life and lost a bet that will result in my creating a toast at my own wedding for dear old Shade-- the friend from college who "saved my life." Tonight, the piece I wrote will be critiqued by the divorcees for 45 minutes. I'm not looking forward to it, but I'm wearing my cowboy boots for support. My face will flush spontaneously, even though I'm not nervous, but then I will become nervous because my face is flushed and everyone can tell. So if all that's going to happen, forcing me to stare at my shoes, they might as well be cute shoes.

In other news, we are the proud pre-parents of a puggle. Let me explain. Or, let me sum up.

We trekked to the Montgomery County animal shelter last week and discovered not one but two puggles. We, along with all of Rockville, submitted applications for both. We were fifth in line for the girl and fourth for the boy. Cheri, the office manager, assured us that stranger things have happened. "There's always a chance!" She sang. We did not get our hopes up. Until Friday at 5:00 when I learned that we had become #1 on the list for the male (seen above). I was advised that we meet him as soon as possible to avoid being bumped off the list by a Montgomery County resident. "Can you get here by 7?" I thought we could. Armed with peanut butter granola bars, water bottles and adrenaline, we raced down to Rockville. About half an hour into the trip, The Boy interrupted me.

"Do you smell that?" He asked. I had just popped in a piece of gum. Couldn't smell a thing. I kept talking.

""Do you hear that? " He asked, turning down the Jimmy Eat World cd I was happily singing along with. "I think my bearing is going." I didn't know what he was talking about, but I did know it was already 6:00. He pulled into an affluent neighborhood to inspect his tire-- rear passenger, flat, melting and shredded. I asked him if he need my help. He didn't. In a matter of minutes, I was tilting to the left, then seated flat and the new tire was on. Seriously, it took him a total of four minutes. Now that's a man you marry.

We managed to make it to the shelter to see Mosotos (no, The Boy still won't budge on that name). The dog couldn't really be bothered with either of us (except for the time The Boy swears he whispered, "Mosotos" to him, causing him to jump up to be pet. "He knows his name." Ugh.) The dog coughed and wheezed and we were assured he would get better as soon as he got out of the shelter. I just wanted to make sure he got neutered before he got out of the shelter. Later, I mentioned it to The Boy, who wasn't aware the dog was "unaltered." "How did you know?" He asked, and I told him I saw.

"Yes!" He said, "That's my little Mosotos. He's got big cajones."

Really, I don't have a chance.

The biggest lesson we've learned in all of this is never to compare this process to that of adopting a child. At dinner with our caterer the other night, we ran into acquaintances from The Boy's bartending days. "So, we're trying to adopt this dog," he says, making conversation, "but the process makes it harder than adopting a child!"

"Actually," Randi said, glancing at her husband, "we're trying to do that right now. And I guarantee you it's not harder."

Ouch. Anyone know where we can find an inner monologue electric fence?

Waiting for Vizzini

Hopefully, I can promise you that this will be the last time the word "Verizon" appears in this publication. I can offer no guarantees. After two weeks of insanity and rage (I ripped the bulletin board off the wall and threw it, kicked over the shredder and said some phrases not appropriate for pre-school toys.) Finally, Comcast came to the rescue, forcing me to reconsider my unofficial list of least favorite companies. Previously, Comcast had been #1, followed by Verizon (but not so much Verizon Wireless). But after Verizon proved that they actually never start working for me, they took top billing. Sometimes it's hard when two words start with the same letter.

I now have a (mostly) fully-functioning home office. I conducted my first conference call from said office today, and the dog barking in the background came from the other guy's side, not mine. Alas, the Puggles from Virginia were not destined for this couple. Based on the strenous nature of the adoption process, I kind of think the agency lied to us because they thought us unfit parents. I guess we'll never know.

As plan B, after much discussion over whether The Boy could handle walking away without a dog, we hit the MD SPCA this afternoon. In the first two kennels, Lucas, the fox terrier with one lazy ear competed for our attention with Ilmer, the Sharpei/Lab mix. They both sat at attention, wagging their tails. They were both adorable, and they both had holds placed on them. Of course, we "met" them both anyway. We decided on Lucas (although I like that name enough to give it to a child). We talked on the way back about whether we are ready, whether The Boy would regret Lucas if later he decided he should have looked around more.

"I think he's great," he said. "I think he looks like our Mosotos."

Over the last couple of weeks, "mosotos" has come to have a plethora of meanings. In actuality, it means nothing.

Less than an hour later, we learned that Lucas was not our "Mosotos." The Boy is furiously researching other avenues for adoption. At the shelter today, Irene asked us, in her brogue, if we were patient people. After a pause, The Boy said, "Well, she would have to be. She puts up with me." And that's why I chose him-- for his self-awareness.

Tomorrow I have my first deadline at "work," Thursday I have the next, and in between, Wednesday night, I turn in my first piece in my writing workshop. A caveat: I may have judged my class too quickly. It's better than I thought, and for the most part, so are my fellow "divorcees."