Give a Girl the Correct Footwear, and She can Conquer the World

Last Tuesday I surveyed the backseat of my car. A 12-pack of diet cherry coke, a couple of empty water bottles, a Bible and several Tupperware containers lay beneath four pairs of shoes. Linen stiletto mules and black, wing-tipped pumps were strewn across the floor, their heels pointed menacingly in the air. Another pair of shoes, flats, peeked out of my attaché. How did it come to this?

I find that my life has come to be defined by the foods that I eat but, more importantly, by the shoes that I wear. Unconvinced? Let’s walk through Tuesday. 6 a.m., red and white Sauconys for running around the park. 8 a.m., chocolate brown, peep-toe stiletto pumps (Parker and Tara—don’t they sound super cute?), a triple threat Power Bar and a Big Gulp diet coke on the way to work. 11:30 a.m., a 100 calorie pack of Ritz Snack Mix and dirty, white canvas Nike slides from my bottom desk drawer for walking with the ladies in the office. 12 p.m., back to the peep-toe pumps and, shortly thereafter, a rosemary chicken Lean Cuisine. 4:45 p.m., camel-colored suede moccasin flats for powerwalking up steps and across quads for my class and a six-inch tuna on wheat from Subway on the way.

And so, really, my new hobby is changing my shoes. Maybe I was inspired (or shamed) by the flats-wearing pedestrians in D.C. (Although, unless it’s flops in the summer, I’m not so inclined to wear actual flats. I’m working toward a compromise. Last week it was Nine West olive green, round-toe low-heeled pumps that I got for $24.98, but saw elsewhere ON SALE for $59.99. Really, you can’t beat it.) Or, maybe all this shuffling is bred out of necessity. Two weeks in a row, I got a little overzealous with a callous shaver and skinned the bottoms of my feet. Any idea how painful it is to walk excessively on raw feet? (You don’t have to raise your hand, but should you be unfortunate/compulsive enough to know this type of pain, try Band-Aid’s cushioned blister bandages. Really, they're remarkable.)

Or maybe— and I’m kind of assuming this is true, all the while hoping it isn’t— I am finally learning what “grown-up shoes” really are. In college, in preparation for an induction ceremony, I took inventory of my closet and saw scores of four-inch platform shoes. It occurred to me that my impending graduation would need to breed some changes in my life. One of them, I felt certain, was that I needed more adult hair. I vowed to cut it. (And, after the unfortunate marital “false start,” as a symbol of my “independence,” I did chop it. But that was several years ago, and here I am, a bona-fide adult, growing it out again.) But I also decided I needed grown-up shoes. And, for the record, my dad told me I was ridiculous, while insisting that it really isn't necessary or possible for form and function to marry. Obviously, I think you know where I stand on this matter.

I bought a pair of square-toed, stacked-heel black dress shoes from Payless. They slid off the back of my heels, so I stuffed the toe with toilet paper. I hadn’t done that since I was six. Dressed for my induction ceremony, I walked through the dining hall to get rid of my tray. On the way, I had to pass a table full of football players eating Sunday dinner. I knew they were watching me as I approached; I assumed it was because I looked so sophisticated. I tried to play it up with nonchalance as I walked by, but my stacked heels skidded on the floor and I fell, tray in hand, to my knees. There I was, directly in front of their table, on my knees, with my tray. I think one of them helped me up. They just stared at me. One said, “Oh my God, are you okay?” I don’t know if I answered him. I yanked my skirt down and walked (more carefully, but still with purpose) to return my tray. On the way back, I leaned into the table, “And thanks for not laughing directly in my face, guys. Really, that is impressive.” And my cheeks were really red.

Anyway, so, the moral of the story is, those were obviously not grown-up shoes. Grown ups do not deliberately laugh in the face of blisters and hammertoes and wear stilettos under any conditions (except for those crazy girls in New York. I could never live there. The implied footwear peer pressure is too much for me). Sometimes, coolness be damned, grown ups suck it up and wear loafers. I’ll have to remember that later today as I walk by the cute little undergrads and try not to feel frumpy.

Can You Ever Just be "Whelmed?"

Feels like I’ve been far away from here for a while. And, alas, this is what happens when I am writing because I have to (i.e., in class). I have to force myself to remember that the whole writing thing is because I want to. But here I am!

Where to begin? Saturday I learned a great deal about The Boy who is to become my husband. Walking up to the registry desk at Hecht’s, he cut me off and announced, “Excuse me, we need to get a gun.” I (glared at him) and explained with a weak smile, “We’d like to begin a registry.” Thus began an entire day’s worth of apologizing for a man who looked like the one I know and love, except for that crazy expression in his eyes and the rapidity and volume with which the inappropriateness spewed from his mouth. (Admission: I know, he’s usually inappropriate, and thus the partial basis of his appeal, but this was out of control.) We watched, bemused, as Carol, who has been a team member for six years, but you wouldn’t know it, hunted and pecked every letter of our lives (“How do you spell Christina? Is it t-i-a?”). Once the boy finally received the scanner, he was disappointed. “Do you have one that looks more like a gun?” He asked. My eyes spent more of the day rolling than in their normal state.

We began with china, and I didn’t have many opinions, but he did, so I deferred (a theme of the day, for both of us. It's actually one of the things I love most about this little partnership.). At one point, the list of suggestions we were working from seemed to differ greatly from the options in front of us, so I meandered around the department looking for things they did have. The Boy said, “Wait, just wait a minute. Can we please just go and get a butter dish? I can’t handle all this jumping around, and if we’re not careful, we’ll forget that altogether and then we won’t have anything to serve butter with, because what are we going to use? Our casual butter dish? So can we please just go and get a butter dish? Please, it would make me feel a lot better.” As he scanned a crystal butter dish neither of us even liked, I swear he sighed with relief.

It was the Twilight Zone, complete with a six-foot-tall Halloween decoration that looked like Uncle Fester. It had a sensor that caused it to speak when anyone walked in front of it. A seven-year-old blond, buck-toothed kid discovered this feature, and parked himself in front of it. In ten minutes, he set it off no fewer than 25 times. One of the lines it said was, “Just wait and SEE what will happen if you do that again.” The Boy yelled, loud enough for all in the vicinity to hear, “Yeah, kid, just wait and SEE!” Along with various other declarations of how he really felt. Finally, he stormed across the aisle and stomped on the power switch, much to the horror of mothers passing by. I smiled apologetically and steered him to pots and pans, where I learned of his affinity for all things Teflon. We finally got out of there, hours later, but just barely. I think he had, at that point, developed a facial tic.

We decided a snack (and maybe a beer, for him) would be a good idea before our next store. In TGI Friday’s, I cringed as he tried to order an appetizer, “Yeah, can I just get the chip-the-chip-these chipdips, please?” I explained to the waitress, “We just registered for our wedding; he’s a little shaken.” Thankfully, she was not bitter but newly married herself, and she steered us away from our next destination and toward…that’s right, The Great Beyond. Apparently, there was time.

In The Great Beyond, The Boy was far more relaxed. Except for his wanting to march back to Hecht’s to tell them what a real scanner gun was made of, and announcing loudly in the shower curtain section, “Honestly, I just don’t know what to do—I think we’ve run out of colors to use,” he acted mostly like a normal person.

A nice double dinner date with couple friends at a fabulous (unbeknownst to us) little bistro (outside of which, Nicole Kidman is shooting a movie—show of hands, did anyone know that?), then football (for him) and homework (for me) on Sunday, and that was our weekend.

I was actually excited as I approached Massachusetts Ave on Monday evening, as surely this would be my first incident-free trip to D.C. for class. It was not to be. In all my excitement, I missed my turn to find the elusive parking lot and got hella turned around. And it was raining. And I was yelling, particularly at the incredibly obstinate pedestrians who litter the streets of Washington. Don’t get me wrong—I have no problem with pedestrians in general. But you can’t just walk across any street you want, whenever you want and swear at cars that really should just hit you. Ugh. Having said that, I deserved about 85 percent of the yelling I got. Now, a numerical recap of my drive to class:

Cars that honked and made hand gestures at me: 7
One-way streets I drove down the wrong way: 1
Cars I honked at for almost killing me: 2
Cab drivers I made hand gestures/yelled at: 5
Pedestrians I thought mean thoughts about: 409
Number of times I uttered, “Are you freaking kidding me:” 1,786
Times I circled Dupont Circle: 4
Times I drove past N Street, but not where I needed it: 3
Minutes late I was to class: 9
Mistakes I made on the way out of the city: 0

In better news, Tuesday’s trip to class was completely incident-free! Hooray! We take our victories, however microscopic, wherever we can get them.

Also occurring this week, I finally earned the right to say, “I’d tell you what I do, but then I’d have to kill you,” after a 17-month sitting, waiting, wishing period.

It seems we will probably close on the house within the next week or so, if I can manage to stop flipping out and threatening to cancel the whole thing. Fortunately, I’ve only been doing this with my mortgage broker, who also happens to be The Boy. He tells me I need to relax, and he’s probably right. My perspective has needed a bit of adjusting lately.

Other than that, my new hobby has become changing my shoes. I’ll elaborate on this later, as it really has become too essential to my life just to mention as an aside.

Pre-Nesting Activities and Panhandlers

Actually, we’ve got a nice little Saturday planned. Gonna hit Home Depot in the morning, pick out some paint colors. Then, on to a department store within the May Company family and to Target to register for wedding gifts. In this area, The Boy thinks he is pulling a fast one by acting like he doesn’t really want to go. Evidently, it would not be masculine to admit to being stoked to pick out home decor items. But anyone who knows him knows as well as I do that he will be the more opinionated one of the two of us. He keeps telling all of his friends that he’s excited about going, but only because he gets to shoot the laser gun. Great. Maybe afterward, he can pee his name on the sidewalk.

Then, maybe we’ll hit Bed, Bath and Beyond—I don’t know if there’ll be time.

Tonight I am going on a date with The Boy. I mention this, because it truly is remarkable. I have not had a real conversation or been in the same room as he, absent of any other people/responsibilities/football games in a couple of weeks. That, in concert with trying to grow accustomed to living what feels like someone else’s life, is making me act like a crazy person. I keep picking fights with him over I don’t even know what. He tells me I’m being crazy. That makes me angrier because, come on, I already know that. Time to be part of the solution instead of part of the problem. Or a diagnostic tool for the problem, at the very best. So, hopefully we will fix our telepathy headphones in time for our rendezvous this evening. I don’t know if it’s from the hurricane or what, but the blasted things just haven’t had a great signal lately.

Extended Stay with Little Sister and les chiens was executed successfully. Little Sister did not have school today, so her best friend slept over last night. I went to bed at about 11, and they were watching The Sixth Sense for the first time. Sarah woke me up at 3:00 am for no reason, but she tells me today that she wasn’t scared. Maybe she just wanted to make sure I had not been raptured. The time was mostly hitchless, except for the beagle’s overzealous pursuing of my lapspace and a terrifying encounter with a giant cricket in the laundry room. I yelled him into oblivion. So, apparently I much prefer virtual crickets to the black, crunchy variety. Mostly because you guys don’t have thoraxes.

This weekend I have to interview a panhandler for a story. I feel nervous about this, but I know you all will be breathless, once again, with anticipation. What will she do this time? What inappropriate comment will she make? Stay tuned, as I have an assignment due on Tuesday, so try as I might, I can only put it off for so long.

S’all for now. Happy Friday to all, and to all a good night.

Evading Disaster while Counting Blessings

I feel I would be remiss if I did not update you on that impossible dream I alluded to yesterday, that of escaping Week 2 of Class #2 unscathed. Take heart, there was no recreation of Christina’s Homewood Wilderness Adventure; however, further proof surfaced that I am, in fact, a moron.

I assert that the trouble stemmed from the fact that it took me nearly two hours to get to campus from work (a scant 30 miles away). I had left myself a little less than this amount of time, so when the parking lot that was 95 North extended onto MLK, I had had enough. I was proud of myself for cutting across and finding my way. I pulled into the same parking lot as before at 6:10, a mere five minutes before my class was to start. Last week, Professor/Julia Roberts voiceover artist mentioned that lateness is a blatant sign of disrespect for her. Clearly, I did not want to appear disrespectful, as I had done everything in my (considerably insignificant) power to be there on time. My first challenge was to avoid the temptation of walking the perimeter of campus to get to class (at the center of the center quad). This might not sound like a temptation, but with the construction and closed sidewalks, and given my escapade on the way to class last week, this route is the only known. I just did not have that kind of time.

So, I hiked up my (light heather grey pencil) skirt and walked up the multiple sets of stairs as fast as my (black, leather, stretched out from Little Sister’s use) flip flops would carry me. I followed another student around a couple of buildings on the only available sidewalks and realized quickly that this route was exactly what I needed. I probably should have told her that, because she kept looking suspiciously over her shoulder at me, even taking a longer route, although ending up exactly where I did, to avoid being tailed by me. Then I realized she was a weirdo if coming to the conclusion that there are other students taking classes at the same school at the same time as she is so frightening. Instead of apologizing, I laughed at her. But only a little, and not too loudly.

Of course, I could not head straight to class. Because I had been in the car nearly two hours, had consumed no fewer than 100 oz of diet coke that day, and because I always have to pee at the most inopportune times, I (remembered from last week that the restroom on the ground floor is out of service) ventured upstairs. I screeched into class about a minute or two late, of course the last one there. All conversation ceased when I plopped into my chair, and I smiled. Prof/Julia didn’t seem to hate me, so crisis averted.

In class, we had to practice our interview skills on each other. I interviewed a woman who told me that, unlike me, she had nothing interesting going on in her life. She then proceeded to tell me how she moved here from California 10 years ago to care for her mother, who had had a stroke. If her mother was still around and she so yearned for California, why did she stay here, I asked. She told me that shortly after her mother began to recover, her younger sister died suddenly of cancer. And three other siblings got cancer shortly thereafter, leaving 10 children to raise. My classmate became primary caregiver, at various points, for 10 girls, sometimes driving them to schools in three separate cities before heading to the fourth for work. Her siblings gradually recovered, but just this summer she had to bury her only son. She spoke plainly and firmly, and, searching her face for emotion, I saw calm sadness in her eyes. “So, when I say there is nothing interesting going on in my life,” she explains, “It’s because there isn’t. Only caretaking. And pain.”

Although her story was heartbreaking—she had given so much and, seemingly, gotten so little—there was an air of grace and contentment about her. “I don’t make plans anymore,” she said, dismissively. “Nothing that’s happened to me is what I planned.” I thought, despite how overwhelmed I have felt lately, maybe I was the one with nothing going on in my life. And I felt grateful.

Preparing to leave class, I got into a discussion with Prof/Julia, as I discovered I was the last student in the room. I was rummaging, as usual, for my keys. But I searched every section of my bag twice and I couldn’t find them. I sought a custodian who referred me upstairs to another custodian who, eager to help, had me call Security from the elevator.

“Isn’t that door gonna close on you?” The voice said, through the intercom.
“I don’t know, he’s holding it with his foot,” I replied, while the custodian echoed the same.
“Are you sure you left the keys in the bathroom?” The voice asked, and I shook my head.
“Well, you have to come past Shriver anyway, don’t you? Where’d you park your car?”
“Umm, I’m sorry, but I’m new here and I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. I’m just hoping to be able to find my car when this is over, but without keys, it doesn’t do me much good anyway.”
He didn't laugh and said that no one had turned in any Toyota keys.

The custodian began searching the trash cans for my keys (I acted surprised at first, but then remembered that time in 7th grade when I came back from PE and couldn’t find my clothes—they had been stolen from my locker. Ms. Geist threatened to keep us all in the locker room until the clothes resurfaced, so, miraculously, they did. In a trash can. And I was actually widely accepted and well-liked.). I thanked him for his help and decided it was a possibility I had locked them in my car.

I made it to the lot with no trouble to find my keys glistening in the lamplight, right on my passenger seat. Thank God for the microcosm of college campuses; I called security and a truck pulled into the lot within five minutes. He circled the lot, looking for my car, and if we had been playing hot/cold, he was getting absolutely frigid. I walked across the lot and said, “I think you’re looking for me.”
“You the elevator lady? A very handsome man in his sixties asked.
“I am. It’s all the way over there,” I pointed, sheepishly.
“Is it too far to walk?” He asked, offering me a ride. I told him no, I could probably beat him there.
“Okay, fine, wanna race?” He asked, and pulled ahead of me. He won.

It took about ten minutes. I had to be his assistant and hold the flashlight, he had to try, twice, to convince some guy that his Plymouth Voyager was probably not stolen, just misplaced, and we gained a spectator by the time we finished, but finally I got into the car. This man was so adorable—if The Boy looks and acts like this guy in 40 years, I’ll be a lucky girl. I mean, I am anyway, but you know.

So, I finally got home to poor Little Sister (and the very excited beagle and blasé mutt) around 10:30. I slept in a waterbed with a 12-year-old and a self-centered beagle that woke me up 15 minutes before my alarm went off. See, this is one of the reasons I don’t have a dog. Today I ate my lunch that Little Sister had meticulously packed in a brown paper bag and written my first and last name on in green magic marker. She is cooking dinner tonight and expecting some “bonding.” I am a zookeeper at the moment, but it’s a happy zoo.

At Least Partial Triumph and Enthusiasm

What a day this has been, crickets. And by “day” I mean "several months." Honestly, I’ve lost count.

The day began with another parking ticket (that's THREE outstanding tickets, ah, ah, ah) and another meeting re: the "Everything Will Stay Exactly the Same!" Merger. But then I found out I will most likely NOT be losing my job within the next 10 days. Which is nice.

Week 2 of class #1 was far more successful than Week 1 of classes and NFL season combined. (It’s not hard to be more successful than my NFL Week 1. I was eliminated from my last-man-standing pool. I know, it’s shocking. I still can’t believe it.) Although I made a rookie error on my way to class last night, I recovered beautifully and found the correct parking garage (i.e., the one that gives discounts to JHU students) on the heretofore elusive N Street. It’s good to know that N Street isn’t hanging out with J Street, somewhere out in oblivion. So, obviously, that was successful. My professor found my story idea for the first assignment “provocative” and “creative.” And also “complicated.” We’ll see which of those two ways it will go.

Today, I’m hoping against hope to avoid a repeat of the Christina’s Homewood Wilderness Adventure from last week. You’d think this outcome would be within my control, but really, I’m just not sure. In anticipation of disappointment, I brought flip flops.

The weekend: the game went well, because I did not allow myself to watch it. The man on my right ate seven hotdogs in about a half hour. I have never seen his equal. His brother confided in me, “I think he might die.” Seems a surety to me, at some point, anyway. The one on my left got cinnamon sugar in his hair because I’m not very good at “maneuvering” (how’s that for a subtle shout-out, Gilly? Ahh, the wonders of stat counters…). Later that night, I pretended to be my version of single (which, I guess, is some people’s version of married) by watching back-to-back-to-back episodes of Felicity on the couch in my bathrobe.

I got a haircut I’m not too fond of on Saturday, but thus far my mom has been the only one to notice, so I guess it’s not very drastic. Believe it or not, it really is surprising that this news has escaped The Boy’s attention, given his usual over-attention to detail in this arena. For example, in the rain one day, “Wow, honey. You’re hair’s lookin’ a little frizzy there,” or, on a day I did nothing to my hair, “I like your hair like that. It looks 20 times better than the way you normally wear it,” or, the next day, immediately after I had dried and attempted to straighten it, “Oh, so you’re back to wearing it all flat again, huh?”

Little Sister’s team did not win their soccer game, but she was the MVP of the game. Watching her, it occurred to me that she touched the ball more in half her game than I did my entire two seasons. You should have SEEN me run though. With the grace of a gazelle. It is widely observed and admired. Really.

I was only about 10 minutes late for the 7:45 am Sunday call. My punctuality was noted and appreciated. With that extra time, I set up two superfluous mic stands. The potential benefit for my ineptitude in this area is that it might get me out of doing so much work. I’m still undecided if there is a benefit at all.

Sunday afternoon we revisited our future casa, and I mentioned no fewer than 12 times that I would like it better with shutters and flower boxes in the windows. The Boy could have sworn it had exposed brick. I think we’re going to have to fake it. So far, I haven’t been privy to much of The Boy’s handyman prowess, beyond what he tells me, but I sincerely hope he’s more Bob Vila than Tim the Toolman Taylor. Time will tell. Sometimes I think maybe it’s a blessing that I won’t move in until May… a return to Sundays on the couch for this dynamic duo, which was nice, and ç’est ça for us.

Tonight I begin the multi-night sleepover with Little Sister and Tucker, the beagle. She called last night, “Aren’t you SO excited?! I told EVERYONE at school that my SISTER is watching me! It’s gonna be AWESOME! I’m cooking dinner on Wednesday. Can Tucker sleep with us? You don’t mind if I sleep with you, do you? We’re going to have SO MUCH FUN!” Fortunately, she has enough enthusiasm for the both of us. Or, the three of us, as it were.

Best Week Ever?

Or, you can use your degree to be called "cheap" at work four separate times in one day while performing an undervalued job, only to go deep into debt to further that "calling" and come home to putz around writing a blog that a deliberately anonymous contingent occasionally reads. Yes, clearly, you can see what option I find the most appealing.

Alors, is this week ever going to end? And if it does, will that really be what I’m looking for, anyway?

A run-down. Monday morning we put a contract on our first house. Monday and Tuesday I attended my first classes at opposite ends of my geographic spectrum, while waiting to hear if our contract was accepted. Monday/Tuesday, we learned that our contract was accepted, and we finagled the financials to make it work. Wednesday at ohmygod in the morning, The Boy left for Cali. Wednesday night, I had to re-sign all of the documents I signed at ohmygod the previous night re: buying this house it feels like I can’t afford. Thursday, I learned that my job is far more in jeopardy than I had originally thought. Again. Friday, I attended a meeting involving severe self marketing (i.e., Please Love Me Enough to Pay Me, You Just Have To). Whew.

On tap for the weekend? Student night at the O’s game, which, conveniently, is also $1 hot dog night. If it doesn’t rain, because I am not trying to recreate the Howie Day experience. If it does rain, I plan to hop around the Hill with some pals. Tomorrow? Foregoing great tickets to the Maryland football game for homework and Little Sister’s soccer game. And I’m not sure I can put off this apartment cleaning and grocery shopping much longer. GAHH, again with the whole responsibility thing! Sometime between Saturday and Sunday, The Boy is due to arrive home.

Sunday, I have to strive to arrive at church at 7:45. I got a subtle talking-to about my moseying in at 8:15, after all the set-up has been done, so I’m going to try. I have to be honest though, it’s not without resentment. Because I was never made aware of the demands of this commitment at any point. And this girl needs her beauty sleep more than she can say. (If you’ve seen me recently, you can attest that it’s a good thing Dwayne Johnson (a.k.a., THE ROCK) causes such a scene that most people see him more clearly than they do me these days, because I am not looking so hot.) So, moving forward, as I mentioned before, I promised to dedicate myself and my Sunday to football and The Boy. I would say that it’s not necessarily in that order, but you know how I feel about fibbing.

Monday, lather, rinse, repeat. I’m hoping for a smoother experience re: my re-entry to the world of education, but I’ll keep you posted.

Got My Lunch Packed Up, My Boots Tied Tight

As promised, stories from my return to higher education. My schedule consists of a Monday night class on Massachusetts Ave in D.C. and a Tuesday night class on the main campus of Hopkins in Baltimore (read: an oasis of trees and brick in the middle of the ghetto). Monday. I left work about an hour and a half before the 6:00 start time, knowing that my destination was only 28 miles away, but that in the Washington Metro area, that means nothing. I was thrilled to arrive on New York Ave within 25 minutes. Seems like I would have been very early for my class then, n’est-çe pas? No. I drove around looking everywhere for N Street. Why does it get skipped? Where did Connecticut Avenue come from? How can a street be one way only during certain hours of the day? Does anyone in this city stop when oncoming traffic threatens them? These questions peppered my mind as I drove in the same circles at least five times. I was running out of time.

Finally, I found a parking garage on 17th and M that appeared to be open to the public AND open later than 8:30 (if you are not from the D.C. area, this must seem crazy to you, but it’s actually not uncommon). In my haste, I did not receive a ticket upon entry. I looked around for personnel to no avail. I even searched for those pre-pay machines they sometimes have in Metro garages, but saw nothing. And if I didn’t hurry, I would be late for class.

I walked up a mysterious stairwell that somehow landed me in the employees’ entrance hallway, then finally on a completely different street than where I entered. Dressed in my carefully chosen “first day of school outfit” of black pants, a black short-sleeved sweater and fake wing-tipped black Nine West pumps, I thought I’d fit in. And then I remembered that Massachusetts Avenue is not New York City. Therefore, everyone wears flats, at least on the street. I felt a little silly.

I arrived in my class with one minute to spare, and tried to force myself not to think about the unlikelihood that I would ever find my car again. The class itself is a survey, and, at this early stage, it’s probably too soon to tell, but I don’t feel like I’ll learn more about forms than I already know. I will, of course, learn from practicing, and maybe also from my peers in the class. I was surprised that they did not seem to come from the same background I have, but they looked like English majors, so I could be wrong. I deliberately left my phone on vibrate, just in case I got a message from The Boy or BigJohn indicating whether our offer was accepted. Instead, of course, Ryan and Tara called and left messages, resulting in a violent buzzing coming from the bowels of my bag. You can be assured, Miss Nine West Pumps and Jack Georges Cordovan Bag felt pretty silly with her phone ringing in class. My face flushed and I apologized. (A note on the flushing of the face: it’s amazing to me how often I flush. Without experiences like being called on in class or making presentations, I don’t really notice it, but now that I’ve had two classes where I had to address groups of strangers, I remember that I’m a flusher. Brilliant.)

At the break, as you already know, I learned that we won the house, but no one in that room seemed to care, so I didn’t tell. I had originally hoped I might find a person to commute with who was in a similar situation as mine, but these were all Washingtonians who talked funny and said “Baltimore” like it was a foreign country. They don’t know I live there.

Upon leaving the building, I called Tara so I would feel less alone on my walk to the garage (it wasn’t scary, by the way). My car was one of the few left, and as I departed (slaloming through pillars I’m pretty sure are meant to have a different function), I couldn’t find a soul to pay. So, I stole parking from the District of Columbia. Again. Please believe that I had money in hand both times, I just couldn’t figure out who to give it to. I called Tara back, to resume our conversation, and back on New York Ave some guy in a late model Beamer kept honking at me. I forgot that talking on a phone without a headset is illegal in D.C. My bad.

When I came home to a celebratory bottle of Brut with The Boy, he complained that he had forgotten it was Monday Night Football and that I didn’t have cable. I had to promise to dedicate Sunday to his whiny, football junkie self. But that’s pretty much how it always goes anyway. I’ve grown accustomed.

Tuesday, after a reckless and used day, I scrambled to determine the location of my class. A professor, and not my own, finally responded with the hall and room number, so I pored over a JHU map to figure out where I could park, since I have not yet registered my car as that of a student. On my way home from work, I realized I had enough extra time to swing by the apartment and grab a kudos, so I did, and, while talking to Amber, apparently I also turned right on red. I then proceeded to nearly hit the traffic cop standing in the middle of Light Street, waving me over. I do not feel that this is the most effective way to pull people over. I kind of feel like, if you’re going to stand in the middle of the road, it’s really your fault if you get hit. Anyway, so I got a $75 ticket and a stern warning for doing something I didn’t know was wrong. Now I’m paranoid every time I see a red light.

I drove through the ghetto and over the train tracks and arrived on campus with few problems. Except that there is hella construction on campus and it caused me confusion. I had no problem reading the map, but putting that knowledge into practice was more difficult, resulting in my circling the campus twice. I finally parked in a lot I had previously thought to be off limits, and walked across the street, this time having traded my stilettos for faux-snakeskin flip flops. Time to begin the attempt to navigate the quads. Surprisingly, I found a clear-cut route, but my plan was thwarted by more construction that apparently obstructs everything from that point on. So, I had to walk past my parking lot, past the medical center I passed on my way in, and past the actual building I needed in order to get going in the right direction. It was the equivalent of spinning a blindfolded child in circles before you allow her to hit a piñata.

Pressed for time, I followed a rollerblader’s lead and asked a couple of girls where my hall was. They pointed me in the opposite direction I had been heading, and when I reached it, the name of the building did indeed begin with a G, but aside from that and being constructed of bricks, it had nothing else in common with the one I needed. I asked another girl, who pointed me in the direction of the building I had originally aspired to. Which, at that point, was also right in front of me. (I also found time to glare at the original direction givers on my way over.)

Although the two classes I'm taking are very similar in content, structure and assignments, I liked this professor and felt more inspired. I guess that could be due to many factors, not the least of which being that I wasn’t distracted about losing my car in the city. This professor looks like any other mid-thirties female English professor, but if you close your eyes, she sounds like Julia Roberts. And she and I were the only ones in the room to have seen Napoleon Dynamite. “You know, Christina,” she said to the class, seemingly embarrassed, “Every person in my undergrad class knew what I was talking about.” I was by far the youngest in this class, which further proves that I am delusional and crazy for thinking that 24 was old to be going back for my Master’s.

The real excitement of this night came when I journeyed across the quad, opposite of the way I came, thinking that I had sufficiently studied the map. I zigzagged around the grass from walkway to walkway, probably appearing drunk to any who might have seen. I ended up at a fork of two roads (devoid of sidewalks) I vaguely remembered from my circumvention of the campus earlier, so I turned around and walked across a skywalk that took me to a parking garage. Unfortunately, it was not mine. I walked down the stairs to the lower level, cheeks burning, and managed to find a way out of it. I walked along a newly constructed sidewalk within the confines of a 4-foot-tall brick wall along the winding road that goes through campus. I had to make a turn, but I still vaguely felt I was headed in the right direction. Then the sidewalk ended (don’t buy the book or trust Shel Silverstein, I’ve seen it myself and can take you there). Surrounded by the aforementioned brick wall, I had to (look all around to make sure no one was watching) throw my chic and savvy leather bag over first, then hop over the wall. Muttering, I continued walking in the same direction, forced to walk on the road through the woods. I kept looking over my shoulder to try to catch any impending traffic. I felt like an idiot. One car eventually did pass me, and I had to stand up on a 6-inch slab of concrete to avoid being hit—me and my bag, just hanging out on the bridge. I got a funny look from that driver.

After I crossed the bridge, I finally found my car, and somehow made it home with only a couple of incidents where I had to turn around on the way back.

Welcome back to college. I felt more competent on my first day of undergrad. And I was wearing a name tag.

Now Everything is Easy 'Cause of You

When last we spoke (remember? I was the writer, you were the voyeur?), I predicted that The Boy and I were gearing up for sing-a-longs that consisted only of the songs, “All You Need is Love,” and, “I Got You, Babe.” I'd like to amend that statement. First and foremost, the song we’ve been hearing in our collective head has been “Changes” (the David Bowie one, not the Bruce Hornsby one. Or the remake of the Bruce Hornsby one. Anyway, not that one.). Because I can’t seem to post these days without some major life change occurring first, let me invite you into today’s version of the goings on. Watch your step, the sand, much like my attitude and faith, tends to shift.

Before we delve into the grandness of this most recent development, a lighter note. Since I’m sure you’re all wondering what The Boy did for my birthday, let’s revisit that first. He told me we had a reservation at 7:30. A week prior, when he asked if he could take me out on Friday, I asked if I needed to dress up. He said not really, so I bought a couple of very cute coordinating tops, ostensibly to wear with jeans. You know, to pretend I was going on a date with my boyfriend. When I came home from work on Friday, I was not concerned that I did not have ample time to get ready, since I had planned my outfit a week in advance. I had even bought some accessories to add to the ensemble that day and needed only to put everything on. After I dressed, I text messaged The Boy to ask if it was still okay that I was wearing suped-up jeans. He said, "It's business casual."

Feel free to refer back to the text above this was new information to me at the time as well. Go ahead, I'll wait. Yeah, I went crazy. My laundry, including most of my dressier pants and a couple of cute skirts, were at his house, in the dryer. I was Christina, Storm of Fury, tearing through my closet, throwing clothing over my head, calling The Boy names and repeating the phrase, “Are you KIDDING me?” ad nauseum. Until I found the skirt I bought for $10 from a discount outlet three years ago in Carolina. The one I wear backwards to enhance the effect of the newly-acquired caboose. Skeptically, I tried it on with the previously mentioned tops and accessories. Jackpot, and I’m not afraid to tell you, it was far better than what I had before. When I met up with The Boy, I tried to stay irritated, but I was so tickled by his obvious (and clearly stated) appreciation of the ensemble (or, rather, me in it) that all I could say was, "Yeah, well its by accident, because you did not properly prepare me." We have led a reasonably well-coordinated and fashionable existence together for over a year now, so this behavior was, obviously, disappointing at best.

From there, he gave me a hand-written letter that made me cry and tickets to Oasis and Jet, which I initially thought we wouldn’t be able to use, but we can. (Champagne Supernova for you, if you’ll be my girl.) We had dinner at Ruth’s Chris, where I had never been, and laughed because our definition of business casual leaves no room to include wrinkled, baggy Dockers, logo’d golf shirts and anything bearing any resemblance or relation to Tommy Bahama. We seemed to be alone in those beliefs. Later, at the piano bar, we sang Billy Joel too loudly and mocked the girl who spent $40 three separate times to sing her rendition of Alanis and the like. And it was a great birthday, even if we expanded the sing-a-long repertoire a bit further than I had planned.

Saturday morning we met my Fajsha, the Realtor, to look at a dizzying number of houses we had researched (and GoogleMapped). We hoped not to waste time, but it is very difficult to know what you’re looking at from a short, too-good-to-be-true description and a photo of the front of a house. (BigJohn calls these overblown descriptions of homes "puffing." I told him it would not surprise me if some of his colleagues died of lung cancer.) This is especially true with row homes, which all of these were. We saw 20-25 homes that day, including a few we loved, but with prices we hated or nonexistent parking. BigJohn had us rate each home with a number, 1-10. I am notoriously horrible at rating like this, because it is too black and white. I'd rather explain to you what I did and did not like, acting almost as if what I am evaluating has feelings I'd like to avoid hurting. This, of course, is nowhere near helpful.

We found a couple of homes in the 8-8.75 range. However, most were not. One was a 200-year-old mansion with marble floors, crystal chandeliers, 20-foot ceilings, no AC and, probably, ghosts. We practically ran from that one. N/A, I suggested. Another had two stories of spiral staircases, terra cotta floors, neon lights on the brick walls, a built in dartboard and pocket pool table in the living room and a four-person hot tub in the bedroom. I’m not going to lie to you, it was cool. But I am contemplating having a child in this house. On the sidewalk when we were finished, The Boy said, "I’m just going to go out there and say it-- 9.75." BigJohn laughed heartily and, thank God, The Boy came down off his testosterone high (or low, depending on how you look at it) within a few hours.

Another home we saw (it begs to be said-- across the street from a church, next door to a vet, but around the corner from a strip club and adult theater) had grapes and figs growing in the back yard. In the master bath of that house, there was a five-foot partially frosted window with a nude Grecian water carrier etched into it to reveal a two-person Jacuzzi, large stall shower and double sinks-- all of them a deep mauve. While I tried not to vomit at something that could have been so great turned so terribly wrong, The Boy said to my father, "Oh, look at this, a dimmer! To set the mood... umm, you know, of relaxation." Oy.

Finally, at the penultimate house of the day, we arrived an hour and a half late. It was in a location we like, but didn’t have secured parking and had only one full bath. The price seemed entirely too fantastic to be real, so we checked it out. The seller was home, so he told us some info on the house and allowed us to walk through. It was really nice. We thought maybe we read the price wrong. It would meet our immediate needs, continue to meet them if they were to change, and it would provide us the opportunity (and the instant equity) to make some additions at our leisure.

So, Sunday, after much discussion and my final birthday celebration (the annual Mom’s Chicken Parm and Chocolate on Chocolate Cake Extravaganza with the fam), we went to BigJohn’s office to write a contract. Because, even though I feared diving into this too early, we both knew we had to try to get this house.

Yesterday, on a break from my first day of class in D.C. (more to come on that later, and you’ll probably laugh), I found out our contract was joyfully accepted. We are buying a house. Granted, it's a house I won't live in until May, but it's a house. Our house. (And yes, it is a very, very, very fine one.) We would celebrate, but I’ve got class again tonight, and The Boy is off to California for four days in the morning, so there isn’t really time. In the words of David "Let's Dance" Bowie, "Strange fascination, fascinating me; changes are taking the pace I'm going through..."

Gumby Braves the Inevitable

Yesterday I turned 24, making me officially older than The Boy, and really, just officially old. (Disclaimer: Men, except for perhaps Parker, you might just want to take today off, because I feel like you're bound to be confounded by this post.) My brother called, singing a song he wrote about how I’m really getting old and he just realized it. Little Sister mentioned in one of her (seventh grade) classes that I was turning 24 and one of the kids said, “Did she know George Washington?” This is the first birthday on which I was not embarrassed to tell my coworkers my age. So, naturally that lack of shame made me feel bad. Today, a well-meaning gentleman told me I don’t look a day over 25. I always wondered at what point the pendulum swings from wanting to appear older than you are to wanting to appear your age…or maybe just a little younger. Apparently, that point is 24. Having a fiancé with the tendency to call me “granny” and do “preventive maintenance” on my chin/neck (by tapping them with the back of his hand to deter the effects of gravity) doesn’t help.

The birthday began with the third and, hopefully, final installment in the “Please Believe I’ve Never Done Drugs, You Just Have To” trilogy, airing promptly at 8:00 AM. This time, though, it included discussions about my honesty regarding friends, parents and supervisors. I wanted to tell the guy, seriously, it’s never really been dishonesty that’s gotten me into trouble. Pretty much every argument I have is due to the fact that I don’t usually filter the truth. Somehow I got through it, though, and it would seem that is the last time I will have to. Until five years from now, when my entire life will be different. I’m still planning on being honest then, so, according to my understanding of this system, that probably means I’ll have to take the test an additional three times at that point.

At work, I was supposed to have a 1:00 meeting with the Bob (not two of them, just the one this time) to discuss my future with the company. (Following the recent “Everything will Stay Exactly the Same!” Merger, we are on the verge of down-sizing. Don’t worry, this doesn’t even faze me anymore. I’m like Gumby.) I headed down to the 3rd floor café for this meeting (since I do not have access to certain spaces and no one wants to sit with me at my counter), and there was a surprise party for my birthday! Flowers and cake and…loaves of bread and blocks cheese? I had already eaten lunch, but that was not the point. This choice of refreshment seemed odd. Until the Texan announced that she had it on “good authority” that my favorite thing is “cheese on toast.” I felt heat begin to creep up my chest and neck. She explained to those who had gathered that she Googled me and discovered that I looooove cheese on toast, thereby forcing me to explain that a story of mine is published on the literary e-zine Toasted Cheese. I suppose this gesture could have been seen as thoughtful, and I pretended to take it as such, but all I can really say is ew. And also, who does that. Also, shut up. But the idea of the whole birthday surprise was lovely. I also received multiple bags of Skittles, ostensibly to get me through the bevy of days that await at my “temporary” umm... “workspace” (i.e., the counter in the middle of everyone’s way). Seems that I should probably just be rejoicing that I am what the Bob and Texan both proclaim “cheap,” so I don’t have anything to worry about. Mmm, should we be telling those under our employ that they are underpaid?

The birthday continued with Dwayne Johnson inspiring pilates on the living room floor while Scott Speedman brooded in the background (i.e., I was watching Felicity) before dinner at the Melting Pot with The Boy and several friends. At that dinner, Gabe gave me a flowery “Daughter” card with only the words, “We need to talk” printed on the inside, and Edie gave me the cake she baked that slid across the seat of her car. The taste was not affected, and a smashing good time was had by all.

The birthday festivities continue tonight, with The Boy “surprising” me. I assume this means it will be a surprise to him as well, as he really hasn’t planned anything. I told him, not that he was ever under any obligation to begin with, but with the introduction of Dwayne Johnson and all things associated with him, birthdays and holidays between now and our blessed arrangement are going to have to be uncomplicated affairs. I'm envisioning sing-alongs where the only songs played are, "Love is All You Need," and, "I Got You, Babe."

We have yet to decide on a venue for the “after-party” of the event (read: the reception), because we can’t seem to be able to find time to discuss it without the people who are seeking to collect several thousand G’s from us looming over our shoulders. So we need to give that some attention, or else there may not be a party after all.

Tomorrow morning the house hunting begins, a little too soon for my taste, but My Fajsha and The Boy think that now is the time to get on that. Which I will probably appreciate when the wedding is closer, but now it’s all a bit overwhelming. (Also, anyone who knows BigJohn can understand this, and anyone who doesn't, just take my word for it-- this whole The Boy and BigJohn being in cahoots and talking more frequently to each other than either of them do to me is frankly a bit unsettling.) It's all a good kind of overwhelming, certainly, but apparently it's time for a cool change or two. Or seventy.

Powerless Lines, Quality Time and Running in the Dark

Despite the devastation in the Gulf states, Dad and I soldiered on to Texas on Thursday. Which was probably not the best plan, but I wasn't about to question BigJohn. (A word on the ultracatastrophe that is Katrina: I am not, and have never claimed to be, a journalist. Therefore, I am not going to pretend to be now. If you guys want to donate, you know where to look, and that's not why you're here anyway. My saying more on the subject seems only to minimize it, which I refuse to do.)

We stayed in Alabama Thursday night, then nearly ran out of gas Friday in Mississippi. We were too far north to witness the worst of it, but there were trees and huge road signs down all over the place, and the power was out at most of the exits. When we stopped for lunch at 1:00, we saw a mile-long line at a gas station that didn't even have gas. We were told some of the people there had been waiting since 5:30. I had to wonder what made these people panic; most of those we saw were not evacuees, but North Mississippians scrambling. The picture at left is of our gas line. It was at least a mile long when we found the end of it, and we sat for three hours. We could only use the air conditioner whenever we moved the car (sometimes an hour passed in between moves). We still felt fortunate to have gotten gas at all, as there was no guarantee that, at the end of the line, we wouldn't just be stuck.

We caught up with brother east of Dallas near 11:00, where I had three harrowing insect encounters within five minutes. They're not lying about the fire ants, I can tell you that. A night in a run-down motel (not too much choice regarding accommodations), a quick lunch with brother and his pals and a trip to Best Buy (their favorite place to play), where Danny grabbed my face and said, "Stay here as long as you can," and we were already off to the airport. So no QT with the bro, but it was good just to see him and that he is happy. Dad and I were the last two to check in, but we boarded in time and spent the last of our quality time together-- and I do not use that phrase in jest. Amid conversations about politics and consequences, engagements and mistakes, baseball and God, Cat Stevens and credit, I found my relationship with Dad never really got lost, even if I did. So, thanks be to God, time, The Boy, and Dwayne Johnson for that.

Sunday brought lots of showing off (the aforementioned) Dwayne Johnson to various churchmembers who "just knew," then Little Sister and I began our, as she put it, "significant plans." We went semi-successfully shopping and packed a snack to eat in the park, where I saw not one but two Sunday brides who made me act like a crazyheaded woman and get jealous that it wasn't me. (I don't know if you picked up on it, but I'm not so much digging the planning of this blessed event.)

Little Sister and I cooked dinner and watched movies and made each other laugh. Monday's great plans were shot to hell with a migraine, but we managed to get some discount shopping in, where Little Sister purchased an outfit for picture day that didn't quite pass my fake-maternal inspection. I reported it to the Grand Poobah of these issues (aka, Little Sister's real mom), at which Little Sister got angry. I had to tell her that, although I am always on her side, it may not always feel like it. I think she's starting to figure out that I'm actually on Mom's team. I feel like Darth Vader. (I apologize, I really don't care enough for that series to make vague references to it.)

In all of this meantime, The Boy spent the weekend in Connecticut at various picnics and what have you's, even managing to get his father to offer to contribute to our (thus far non-existent) honeymoon fund. The hearty laughs at "Fiji" as the answer to the question, "Where are you thinking about going," confirmed my thoughts that that might be a better anniversary destination. I have yet to see The Boy since last I posted, and, given the choice between the company of him or Dwayne Johnson, I definitely choose him. The Boy maintains that that's not what I might have said two weeks ago, but he is incorrect. And anyway, even if he isn't, sometimes we say things we don't mean.

All of this engagement has inspired me to try to act like a grown-up. Which is fine and good until someone notices, and then it's just embarrassing. For example, at 7:45 am in the 5th floor cafe.

Hawaiian Shirt Guy: "WHOA!" (pretends to faint) "Christina?" (looks at his watch) What are YOU doing here?"

Me: You know, getting married, have to be responsible, etc.

Undaunted by the mocking, this morning I went running at 5:30. At first, I feared that the other runners might shun me, since they have not seen me before and have no guarantee, even from me, that they will ever see me again. But they spoke to me. It was like being accepted into an exclusive club. It felt good. Maybe I'll even do it again someday. Because, let's be honest, I am getting married. In college we called the pre-marital scramble for fitness the LGN (Look Good Naked) plan. I'm not trying to brag or anything, but I've also never had terrible issues with self-esteem, so I've amended the plan to LBN (Look Better Naked). And so, I should get on that.

Tomorrow brings a morning meeting with an events coordinator at Reception Option #2 and dinner with the would-be caterer. Hooray for progress, because I can't wait until these details are ironed out. Raise your hand if you'd like to be on my list of "delegates" (i.e., people I delegate the rest of my wedding planning to)...

"Or, We Can do the Chicken, which is not Chic, but Cheap"

While Dwayne Johnson (aka, THE ROCK, seen at left, in all of its pixellated glory) and I have been gallivanting around the wonders that are the preliminary stages of wedding planning, it occurs to me that my readership of the blog (oh, this old thing?) has grown. How did I come to this conclusion? Well.

The Boy had an appointment in a neighborhood in Columbia with which I am familiar from my high school days (chillin’ out max and relaxin’ all cool). I accompanied him, since his doubleheader softball game immediately followed. To maximize the effectiveness of my time spent waiting in the truck (don't be confused, as I’ve mentioned before, The Boy is the proud owner of that marvel of Swedish engineering, the Saab 9-3. We had to borrow an uncle’s truck to transport his unwanted dining room set to The Boy’s living room. You know, one man’s trash…) I called Tara. But I had terrible reception. So, braving the muggy air that harvested surprisingly hostile bugs (I’ve been employing the Benadryl Anti-Itch Stick all day, and I don‘t even care who’s looking), I walked around the neighborhood trying to hear my friend.

There is only one family on my radar screen of influence living in that neighborhood. Wouldn’t you know, on the phone, swatting at bugs that were invisible to anyone but me, in the middle of the street, I ran into the mom of that family (hi, Joyce). Naturally, she looked puzzled and asked about my presence in front of her home. Because she hasn’t seen me in years. I explained to her that my fiancé was running an appointment with one of her neighbors. She appeared unfazed. This unfazedness surprised me, because she has always been one for news. The surprise must have taken up residence on my face, because she fessed up, “Yeah, I’m one of the people stalking your blog.” Wow. Apparently, it’s not singing that is my fake claim to fame, as I had initially thought, it’s blogging.

So, this wedding planning thing, really. Martin Short with a fake accent, if you’re out there and you can hear me, please come over, stat. This is just ridiculous. So many variables. So much money. So much “planning ahead” and “thinking of all possible circumstances” and “avoiding conflicts.” I’m trying to have a small wedding, I am. But if all of Mom’s guest list “suggestions” are incorporated, that’s not going to be in the cards. This is what I’d like: Can’t I just nail down the location and the date and the food provider and let someone else do the rest, with periodic opinions and absolutely no payment from me? Please?

Frankly, I don’t even have time to handle all of this. The Boy is headed home for his all-important Fantasy Football Draft this weekend (no, not the one that is causing him to reschedule our anniversary; that one is tomorrow). I am heading in the absolute opposite direction and driving to Texas with my dad tomorrow. Yeah, that’s what I said, Tay-haas. In a Corolla and a day and a half. We are delivering little brother’s car. So I’m psyched to see him, and it will be nice to have some Father-Daughter time (now that the big, scary questions with ambiguous answers are out of the way—thanks to Dwayne Johnson). But maaaan, is that a long trip. So, I’ve got that.

Next week we have meetings with caterers and events coordinators and then, of course, my birthday, which, naturally, is trumped by my pre-marital status. Because, really, who expects The Boy to carry on about a year together and my birthday when he’s faced with a lifetime with me?

In unrelated relational news, Little Sister just called, dubbing herself "Consuelo" and telling me that some phrase I've never encountered means "see you tomorrow" in Spanish. I said, "Wouldn't that be 'hasta manana'?" She countered, "Really, C, don't you know there's more than one way to say good-bye?"

Detroit Rock City, Baby

Well, my dear crickets, it has come to my attention that some of you are not pleased with my posting schedule…or lack thereof. For that, I really have no apology. Take heart! Instead, I have an update.

Thursday night, best friend from college, Amber, arrived with her child. Now, I have mentioned before that I inhabit the tiniest apartment ever. So small that, when I saw the “All of This Fits in 520 Square Feet” display at Ikea, I marveled at that set-up’s relative spaciousness. I would like to make an amendment. I thought it was the tiniest apartment ever, but until I spent a day and a half there with a 16-month old and her mother, I did not appreciate the definition of tiny. Poor Amber and child. Bumping into walls and what not. Child had to play with plastic coasters on my coffee table for fun and sit in her little chair on the floor to eat. Amber and I sprung for the boxed set of Felicity: Senior Year (try asking for that at Wal-Mart in the ga-heht-to. No, really, just try it). That show is glorious. I feel like I grew up with Felicity. And I still really can’t pick between Ben and Noel. Why can’t I have a combination of BOTH?

So, quality time (if not luxury accommodations) was had had by all. Saturday we had lunch in the harbor with Amber, so that The Boy could try to redeem himself from the horrendous first impression he made at the child’s first birthday party. When we decide we’d like to have children, I think I’m going to start sending him to nursery school once a week, then perhaps more often. He needs to get acclimated slowly, methinks.

That night we did a dinner-and-Broken-Flowers double date that resulted in my acting like a typical woman about wanting to get married yesterday. Now, I realize I have been hesitant to write about this part of my crazy life in this publication, but it was out of respect to the prospective proposer.

Contrary to what public opinion would be if it were derived from my postings on this blog, we have actually been consumed in, “when we get married,” and, “are you sure you prefer that setting?” and “really, you don’t have ANY available Saturdays in April?” and, “BigJohn, I’d like to ask your blessing to ask Christina to marry me,” conversations for quite some time now. But I made a promise to myself not to discuss it much until it was “official,” so that a proposal and engagement would not become formalities, even though I’m aware that that’s exactly what they are. Now. Like a scud missile in 1991, I am engaged. And Lord willing, I’m not planning on ever … uhh … disengaging. So, hooray! I’ve been glassy-eyed all day, distracted by the brilliance of my left hand. My mom tells me she’s jealous of it. Which, really, I would be too. You know, if it weren’t mine. Yesterday, I kept commenting on the ring, then feeling guilty and saying, “But, you know, it’s you that I want and love and am excited about. I don’t need this. But, umm…oh my God.” It’s stunning. I am ecstatic. All day yesterday I announced “firsts,” par exemple:

“This is the first time I’ve walked into my apartment since I got engaged!”
“This is the first time I’ve had to run back into my apartment because I forgot something since I got engaged!”
“Sorry if I didn’t do a great job parking, but it’s the first time I’ve done it since I got engaged.”
And so on.

Now begins the planning. Fneh. I know you might not believe this, but I just don’t care. I mean, I want it to be a nice day, replete with mermaid dress and sunflowers and what have you, but I just don’t care about very many things. The biggie is trying to nail down a way to do it all where and when we want, but the venue formerly known as “our building” isn’t being very accommodating. And they sent us a contract with a price $900 higher than it was the last time. We are working on some alternative ideas and should have a date nailed down in the near future, and I am trying to remind myself that in the grand scheme of things, 7 months is not forever. And, if everything goes the way we’d like, that’s about how far away it will be. We need to get on it, though, because our Pastor is about to verry busy. If the busy-bodies who frequent this blog had blogs of their own, well … you’d know that apparently it’s the time to get married. Ordinarily, for me, this might be reason enough not to do it. But I can’t wait to be married to this boy. (I know, you can remind me I said that when I’m complaining about picking up his dirty socks for the 47th time.)

Pictures of Dwayne Johnson (aka, THE ROCK) will be forthcoming!

Moving on Up, but This Ain't No East Side

I'm such a cry baby. I didn't know what a good thing I had, down on the first floor, in the darkness and amidst the Hawaiian shirts, but only on Fridays. When I was there, I did not appreciate the khaki-olive-grey half-walls around me. I got irritated when tall people leered at me (or my screen) as they walked by. I didn't cherish the anonymity, even getting annoyed when another employee did not recognize me. And now. Well, the Hawaiian shirts are still around, and the pseudo-married-guy flirting continues. (And, a note on the benign flirters-- they're all growing goatees. At a loss for words, I called them the scruffy chin club and they laughed hysterically. Because everything I say is hilarious. Because I'm a girl.)

I have moved, against my will, to the fifth floor, in front of everyone. I sit at a counter, my back to the main door of a suite that houses 50+ people, my screen facing them. I know, this makes it sound like I want to surf for questionable materials while I'm at work, but it's not that. It's just that I don't stay busy enough there, despite my cries for attention and assignments. I fear it's causing me to go crazy and develop at least one facial tic. Every time the door opens, I jump, try as hard as I can not to look over my shoulder, then switch my screen to a spreadsheet. Much like in college when Parker called me out for selling myself out when I hadn't read the assignment (I would participate more on those days. I wasn't fooling anyone), I feel like I'm totally giving myself away by trying too hard to look busy. I don't mean to do it, but I find myself scrunching up my face in mock confusion and making deep sighing noises of frustration. It got so bad this afternoon that I was rubbing my eyes and a passerby suggested that if I had a headache, I should probably take a break. Evidently, I'm not winning any Emmys for daytime drama here.

Otherwise, big things, HUGE things in the works, but you know how I love the element of fake suspense. Best friend from college and her child are coming up on Thursday night, so I need to buy whole milk and the like. Otherwise, keep on anticipating, my crickets.

Speaking of crickets, it has come to my attention that you are multiplying! Modestly, I'm aware, but I have gained an elementary understanding of how to read my site stats. Unfortunately, none of us know each other so well as to know our corresponding IPs (except for a select couple of NASA and Hopkins employees--slackers, you know who you are). So, because I'm nosy (as, obviously, you all can relate to, or else why would you read my blog?) would you mind stopping by the address book (at the bottom of the page) or leaving a comment? It would be much obliged.

Okay, time to hit the sack. The Boy and I are supposed to check out this new thing called jogging tomorrow...or maybe it's "yogging." Might be a soft 'j'.

Non-Committal Update

Had to wait a few days to let the novelty of my fame wear off. No, but really, the concert went very well and, as far as I could see, there was a good turn out. Because it was dark and we had bright lights in our eyes, all I could see were t-shirts in the front row. With no heads on them. But the cheering was loud enough that it couldn't possibly have come just from those shirts or, rather, the hands that belonged to them, so I think we did all right. And it was fun. But, alas, I am not a star. I just wear these oversized sunglasses (that the boy isn't afraid to tell me he loathes) to increase the mystique.

Everything and nothing doing here. Brother successfully made the move to Texas (pronounced Tay-haass, if you've been watching Into the West. The Boy and I TiVo'd it for a while and watched the first two episodes, but we just can't make that kind of a commitment to a TV show, especially when Felicity is only in snippets.). Anyway, Brother is doing pretty well. I hugged him good-bye and he picked me up and spun me around ten times, so I think that sufficiently scattered the tears so that he didn't see them. I already miss that kid.

The bigger of the two younger brothers moved into his first apartment in North Carolina this weekend, leaving only Little Sister and I in the state, and leaving only Little Sister at home. She is nervous about that, and I'm sad for her. As the "Trailblazer," as my dad would sometimes call it, I never had that loneliness and everyone was always excited to see me. I have to be more deliberate about my relationship with her from here on out.

Went to the Ravens pre-season game last night. They wouldn't let me bring my purse in. The Boy tried not to laugh as I raged to anyone who would look at me about how ridiculous their "policy" was. We sat on the 50-yard line...three rows from the top of the stadium. A really good view, but I had no idea you could sell those for $75-- face value. Another potential reason I've never been as big of a football fan as I am of other things?

S'all for today, it's crazy muggy and hot and I'm tired and bleh. And who wants to hear about that? Big things going on otherwise, but those are for another day...

Summer Beverages with JC

If you are not already in possession of a copy of my autograph, so sorry. Tonight is my big shot at stardom: That's right, the concert on the lake. Okay, so honestly, there is no chance at even a hint of stardom. Not even a little bit. What there will be: Me in a peasant skirt trying to de-emphasize the flotation devices because I'll be singing about/to God. And you know how people are apt to forget that God made boobs. Gahh, I can totally empathize with Jessica Simpson. But, you know, old-school JS. Before the "Oh I forgot I'm not wearing any clothes, and here I am washing my car in a music video" JS. So yeah, there will be that. Also, a synthesizer. Be honest, just reading that word makes you yearn for Herbie Hancock. A little bit, right? What else? Our drummer has a mullet. Yes, the haircut, not the fish. And, I'm not making any promises, but there may be a bolo tie cameo. That greatness is usually reserved for Sundays, so I'm not sure.

In all truth, I'm hoping it will be a nice time, and that we might get the chance to play for people who don't hear us every week. We're playing 8-10, and on a Wednesday, that can be a little late for that crowd anyway. Apparently not for my pastor, though. On Sunday when he gave the announcement about the concert, he invited the congregation to come out and enjoy some "summer beverages" while listening to the music. "We can make it a really happy hour!" He exclaimed, while I tried my darndest to control my facial expressions on stage. Because these people are baptists. And that's only part of the reason I think he's so fabulous.

Anyway, if, after tonight I am suddenly a star, don't say I didn't warn you.

Assessment of Goals

How could I have forgotten to revisit the goals for the trip...

1. Thanks to Little Sister's spray-on sunscreen (which does NOT spray evenly, as its package suggests), I got more pink than bronze, but it is working its way to tan. Except for my nose, which threatens to peel.
2. Really, any walk I take on the beach, especially one as crowded as this one, is long enough that I can't find my stuff upon my return.
3. The waves were fantastic for boogie boarding, leading to many more than one that took me all the way onto the sand.
4. The intra-bikini sand thing wasn't too bad, but I've got ugly strawberries on my thighs and torso. Sigh. I guess that's the price I pay for being such an amazing pseudo-surfer.
5. Thankfully, Little Sister is, so far, most attractive to poorly groomed boys with skateboards who wear shoes that look like they are inflated. Also, the brother didn't let anyone get NEAR her anyway.
6. Unfortunately, I am no longer 12, so this one couldn't be avoided. It was a bit of a consolation to walk around with Brother and make them wonder what I was doing with such a young kid. But also sad because, apparently, I cannot be mistaken for 17 anymore. The jig is up.
7. I didn't bash any skulls. I did tell a skater boy he needed a haircut, though.
8. It's hard to read anything when you've got a 12-year-old standing above you, dripping on you, telling you she wants to go back in the ocean.
9. I laughed my head off.
10. The gig was a success and resulted in some local guy offering to record Brother's music when he's back home at Christmas.
11. Teenager voice was, thankfully, kept to a minimum, but the emo-rock couldn't be avoided. Thank God for earbuds.

Catching up with the Past while the Future Calls

Hmm, as it turns out, I'm a big, fat exaggerating exaggerator. (Also, it would seem, I'm not so hot at formatting blog posts. Sorry for the disorganized pictures.) I am not currently in posession of as much proof from The Wilderness Adventure as I had originally thought. Like, for example, of me shooting guns for the first time (inadvertently when I shot the 12-gauge, I yelled "Woo-hoo!"). Alas, here is a sampling...

The top left is self explanatory, je pense. This is the "backyard," as it were. The one on the left is the lake around dinner time. It really was beautiful. And, it goes without saying that the whole thing got increasingly beautiful the farther I stood from the outhouse.

Last but certainly not least, the one above on the right is our "lovely" and "spacious" cabin. There I slept in a twin bunk with The Boy's head at my head and The Brother's feet at my feet. And, I'm not trying to hurt anyone's feeling here, but I have never been in the company of snorers of such a high...caliber. Fortunately, The Boy was one of the least offensive of the bunch, or I'd be thinking of a separately-roomed Ever After, which, let's be honest, isn't really as happy as what I had previously imagined for us.

Yeah. So, this isn't exactly the excitement I had planned for you either. And now it's been so long since then that I've lost the drama that had previously been inherent in my storytelling. I would be remiss if I didn't fully disclose that I did not part entirely with my prissiness on this trip. I shaved my legs in the lake. Twice. The Boy came upstairs to retrieve something and caught me looking into my compact. "I know you're not putting makeup on." I didn't respond. "Because there is no makeup in Maine." I acted like I was merely getting something out of my eye. And muttered under my breath, "Maybe there's a little makeup in Maine." Because, honestly, the transformation from my natural self to the one often seen parading around the Mid-Atlantic is just that-- a transformation. Let's put it this way: To my knowldege, no one has ever passed me on the street and marveled, "Maybe she really is born with it..."

But in addition to the unprissy new experience of shooting guns, I drove a waverunner for the first time (like a pro, I might add). The Boy was not nearly as lucky, as he fractured two ribs falling off of the aforementioned waverunner (someone else was driving). Talk about an inconvenient injury. He can't do anything without being in pain. Probably it doesn't help that we went to the grocery store to "pick up a few things" yesterday and came back with a cart-full of very heavy items that had to make the journey up the 76 stairs in the 103-degree heat. (No, he's not stereotypical when it comes to injuries. Not at all.)

When we got home from Maine I went to the wedding of my oldest friend (that is, the one I've had the longest. Not the one who is chronologically the oldest. She's only 24, actually). She cried her eyes out when she saw me, but The Boy maintains that I cried more than anyone else there. Which, he tells me, makes him fear for the future. I'll have to reassure him I'll manage to keep my composure, lest I hear, "What are you doing? Are you putting on MAKEUP? Beacause there is no makeup in weddings." The beauty of this wedding is that what had initially felt like an obligation ended up feeling like an honor. It was so wonderful to realize that not everything good goes away.

Also in the "Not Everything Good Goes Away" category, Tara, my first college friend spent a fabulous weekend here. Well, to me it was fabulous. To her, it may have seemed like a travel brochure with a subliminal track in the background screaming, not so subtly, "PLEASE MOVE TO BALTIMORE, YOU JUST HAVE TO." Hopefully we'll be able to schedule some additional time to further persuade--visit with Tara in the coming year.

The trip with the kiddos this weekend was also a blast, but don't think that means it wasn't educational. It could have been a field trip in parental preparation. Keep in mind, Brother is 17, Little Sister is 12 1/2 but looks much older. We got out of work as early as we could, already exhausted at 1:00, but Brother had on his Panama Jack hat and aviator shades and Little Sister couldn't stop giggling for no reason. We got to the beach around 4:30 and spent some daylight teaching them to bodysurf (yes, broken ribs and all). We then walked from our 21st St. hotel to the very end of the boardwalk and back up again. Little Sister got the attention of not a few "skater boys" as we walked by and she informed me, "If I see a hot guy tomorrow, I'll probably talk to him, but don't worry, I'll be good." Wow. When we got back and sat down to our pizza a little before midnight, Little Sister said, "What are we going to do NOW?" The Boy just looked weary. "You see," he whispered to me, "this is why God gives you children as BABIES. Because then you have YEARS to prepare to be the parents of teenagers. Like, if we had little kids, we could just call it a night at 9:00 and blame it on them that we want to go to bed t hen too. But this is just making me feel so old. Really. I don't know if we'll ever be ready."

The next day on the beach (after I broke up a pillow fight in our hotel room screaming the words, "BOYS, if you don't cut this out, someone is going to get hurt!") The Boy witnessed a toddler dance his way into a faceplant in the sand. Concerned, The Boy consulted the child's mother. "He's durable," she laughed.

"But I don't think you understand," The Boy ventured, "I think he has sand in his eyeballs."
"Just wait until you're a father and you have to take little kids to the beach," the mother smiled.
"What?" The Boy responded, "They'll have to be 25 before they can go to the beach. 35 if they're girls."

Do you hear that? Yeah, it's my future calling. At least it's not snoring, right?

Big News and a Little Trip

Quel surprise, I am unable to post pictures at this time. S'ok, right? Keep on keeping on with the anticipation.

Somehow, in all this not posting, I have neglected to share BIG news! I am finally funded and enrolled in grad school!! I'll be taking two classes (the content of which would reduce the vast majority of the population, myself potentially included, to rivers of tears) starting September 12th. Woohoo! I am trying not to focus on the fact that I could already have obtained an advanced degree by this time, what with the now officially three-year separation from the ol' B.A. Because it's not a race. And really, in the words of BNL, "If I pass, if I fail if I drop out, does anyone give a damn? And if they do, they'll soon forget, cause it won't take much for me to show them my life ain't over yet." (DISCLAIMER: When I begin to do what everyone thinks I'm gonna do, which is just flip out after this undertaking commences, someone please hit me on the head and send me the link to this post.)

Getting ready to head to the beach with the kiddies and The Boy. We will not, as Little Sister for some reason assumed, be attaching the old school car-top carrier to The Boy's Saab. We will be getting out of here as soon as possible to beat all the other clowns who think it's a good idea to go to the beach on Friday afternoon. We will then ridicule these others for having the exact same idea as we do, and then express mock outrage that we are "the only people who know how to drive anymore." Oh, I'm sorry. It seems I've confused The Boy's DayTimer with mine. I'll just be sighing and rolling my eyes while the above ensues. I apologize for the inadvertent royal "we."

Goals for the trip:
1. To acquire lovely and naturally bronzed skin
2. To take a walk on the beach that is so long I almost forget where my stuff is
3. To ride at least one wave all the way onto the sand
4. To keep the intra-bikini sand and torso-cuts to a minimum
5. To avoid watching disgusting men ogle my 12-year-old sister
6. To avoid watching said men ogle me
7. To avoid bashing the skulls of said men
8. To (finally) read some of Anne Lamott's, Blue Shoe
9. To laugh with my sister and brother
10. To get Brother home in time to shower, set up and play without vomiting on his sweater (already)
11. To survive, at minimum, 6 hours in a car listening to Little Sister's newly acquired "teenager voice" set to the background of adolescent emo-rock

Wish me luck and Happy Friday!

[PS-- I'm still tweaking it a bit, but check out my new links section in the sidebar.]

Wait for it...

Please hold, your call is very important to us. And while you wait, a little Blue Steel... Please know that you don't have to inform me; The Boy reminds me every day that I am, in fact, a tool. The key, I find, is in embracing it. As you can see, I'm really quite fine with it.

Yeah, I know, I'm such a tease. I fear it will all backfire, this fake suspense, and make you all say, "FINE, I didn't care about your stupid Wilderness Adventure ANYWAY!" And yes, I'm aware the assumption that there is ANYONE out there who is waiting in breathless anticipation is impossibly narcissistic. For that, I halfheartedly apologize, because I only halfheartedly assumed in the first place.

While you wait (or curse me for causing you to think of another way to waste your time, since this was, quite possibly, your last resort) check out my new favorite blog (which trumps Paul Shirley's, but only partially because his no longer exists). This, for me, would be like introducing The Boy to a stunning and brilliant friend. It is with trepidation that I link to her, because she is far wittier than I, and I fear you might leave me for her. But this was always and mostly continues to be for my own amusement anyway, and so it will go. She raises many questions I have stumbled into myself, as a twenty-something single Christian woman, sometimes without a paddle. She has fallen in areas I managed to avoid and stood her ground in places I couldn't always, and I appreciate her perspective. Her conclusions are often sage, even if her means of finding them doesn't always appear that way. And she's hysterically funny. So anyway, you should check her out.

And I promise to return with some good stuff soon. Hopefully tomorrow, but tomorrow afternoon we are venturing to the beach with the younger siblings, as a belated present to my brother, who will have his second official gig on Saturday night before he heads off to the heart of Texas (the stars at night are big and bright there, I hear). Re: the gig, comment or e-mail me if you'd like les détails...

A Rant and Recollections

I sincerely hope none of you were contacting the local authorities. I have returned. And, let me just say, I could really use a vacation. Since last we talked I entertained The Boy's parents, spent the better part of last week in Maine and entertained The Fan (Tara!). So much love, yet also so much...information. I will hold off on Maine, as I have some gorgeous pictures on my home PC and, since I haven't yet splurged on any form of internet there, I can't figure out how to get that goodness in here. But, don't despair! I still have plenty of gems for your enjoyment. Or distraction. Or for whatever it is that possesses you to come here.

Let's start at the very beginning (it's a very good place to start, n'est-ce pas?). Somehow, The Boy and I (with the help of Ryan, barbecue chef extraordinaire) pulled off a nice little cookout for The Parents and their friends before the game last last Friday. I walked to the stadium with The Stepmother, who is neither ugly nor mean, and lamented being left by our respective others to catch up. My parents beat us there, and we all had a good time. Except when some jerks followed me up the stairs (where I was meeting my mom) waving money at me and applauding. Men: Please tell those in your gender to stop this. Or buy them some sunglasses or something. Leering is not okay. And yes, that's what they are doing, and yes, even with said sunglasses we can tell, and no, you are not discreet. It is not flattering. It is not funny; it is not acceptable. And these opinions do not make me a bitch. Having to voice them as often as I do makes it apparent that there is a problem, and it isn't with my perception.

Saturday morning I picked my little sister up and we spent the day with The Boy's fam. At the aquarium I saw possibly the coolest thing I've ever seen. (Also, how cool are turtles?) The male seahorse in one of the tanks had just given birth (minutes ago), but I couldn't spot the babies (seacolts?) until another bystander pointed them out. Nearly transparent, they were maybe a centimeter long. I expected them to look something like tadpoles, but even at that size, they were completely formed. I have never seen anything so small, yet so intricately designed. Sometimes it's not the sunset or the stars that remind me of God's greatness; sometimes it's the details. I can't help but think, if He cares enough to form seahorses that completely, from the beginning (if someone knows of the importance of seahorses, shoot me a line), doesn't He care about everything I've got going on, no matter how trivial it seems? I tried to take pictures, but they were so small they wouldn't show up. The Stepmother came back to get me because I was holding everyone up.

That night, my youngest brother joined us for dinner, and we had a blast. We walked everyone through Fells Point (in my poorly chosen heels). Here, we revisited the leering thing, but in a much more offensive manner. Little Sister and I walked together. Little Sister is 12 1/2. Little Sister looks much older than she is. So, as she and I walked, I noticed that much older men were giving her attention. The most grievous offenseoccurredd when a man walked by and jokingly included her in his conversation, touching her arm while he did so. "Why does he think he can just touch me?" She asked, outraged. And to that, all I could say was, exactly. Men: If she looks young, assume that she is. But more than that, leave girls alone. You'll know if they want to be bothered, and if you're that guy, chances are pretty good that they don't.

Anyone want to give me a hand as I step off this soapbox? It's hard to balance in these heels.

So, keep on anticipating stories from Maine, which will be accompanied by lovely pictures. I know you're probably disappointed that it doesn't sound like I hated it, but be encouraged, I'm pretty sure you'll laugh anyway.