Portable Home

Skipped class last night only to encounter a frantic Boy. The alleged night off became Outback takeout on particle board desks while we collaborated on deadline. But it was kind of fun in an I always wish I was Keri Russell’s Felicity kind of way. As long as I heard her Kate Bush-inspired soundtrack in my head, I could persevere.

The result of all that collaboration is that I’m not ready to go. And I’m supposed to be ready to go in less than a couple of hours. With half of the duo known as the grandparents and the entirety of their house now gone, traditions are being re-thought. Thanksgiving has moved, for my family, to Virginia, and now that I’m half of a we, I can’t justify traveling to see the family who lives near us. So tonight, we head to Connecticut for what I believe is the longest trip in our brief history. And what is definitely our first joint holiday on purpose.

The Mother will still be in New England at this time, so I will also be experiencing my first divorced holiday. Multiple dinners at multiple houses for different reasons than that has happened before. At least both of our families don’t live in the same state. I can’t even fathom 3-4 Thanksgiving dinners.

I just received the fourth terse phone call of the day from The Boy, who keeps sneakily trying to push our departure time up. I wish I would have anticipated that when I could not drag myself from bed this morning. Last time I was outside it felt like the Wizard of Oz, and I know New York, Jersey and Connecticut are all expecting snow tonight, so I guess we should get on the road. I know how people here get with even a hint of rain, so if they’ve heard the forecast for New England, we could be in trouble…

So I’m stuck between elation and sadness, in the vast middleground of melancholy, as I try to remind myself that no matter where I am on Thursday, things will never again be like last year.

Out of My League

My would-be ring bearer rejected me. Saturday, Little Sister and I went to Ravens Stadium (I know that’s not really its name, but I feel like I’m doing an awkward commercial in the Truman Show when I call it by it’s corporately-sponsored name). Our little cousins played in the “Super Bowls” for their respective age groups. The oldest is 11 and a big star on his team. But the cousin in question is newly seven and plays flag football, without pads or the glasses he usually wears. We just missed his game and found him munching on a hot dog. At this point, he refused to speak with me.

Throughout the day I requested his attention so I could ask him a question.

“Never!” He yelled, throwing his head back. Then he ran away.

Finally, as I escorted him from the seats to meet up with his brother, who had just won the Super Bowl, he let me talk to him.

“I was wondering if you would be in the wedding for me.”

“No,” he said.

“Gillian will be there too. You guys can walk together.” I’m still unsure why I thought this might be a selling point, as seven-year-olds despise members of the opposite sex, even if they are relatives. Maybe especially if they are relatives.

I resorted to saying, “Well, I was just being nice. You have to; your mom already said yes.” Mature, C. Nice.

He came running back later, asking why I didn’t ask his other brother, the shaggy-haired 10-year-old who was a spectator that day. “He’d be better than me, anyway.”

A little friend, Colin, overheard this conversation. “I was a ringbear,” he offered.

“Great!” I said, “Please tell him that it’s fun and he should do it! You had fun, right?”

“NO,” Colin exclaimed without mulling it over, “It’s not fun at all! Don’t do it! SAY NO!”

With that, the two ran away.

My own ring bearer shot me down. At least the groom still wants me.

He's the Inspiration

The Boy is not happy. Today, I received the following call:

Me: (in hushed, working-in-an-open-cubicle voice with a hint of "this is the fourth time you’ve called today") Hi.
Him: I did not throw the controller!

He went on to admonish me that I did not portray the episode properly, then performed a rant on the lack of frequency of his appearances here at, “Setta-dee.”

“I’m not a cricket,” he said, “I’m a cofounder.”

How he suddenly gained the right to call my creations his is a certifiable unknown. He complained that this publication makes him look like a jerk, but added, “The irony in the trunk thing is pretty funny.”

Then he told me it had been eight days since my last post, and he, a not-so-faithful reader, felt that I needed to update as soon as possible.

Here we are. This is his shout-out. I hope he enjoys it.

Life has continued to daunt, as the holidays approach with the rapidity of a big ol’ jet airliner.

I…was…PISSED to earn TWO B+’s in one of my classes. Chalk it up to stylistic differences, I guess, but The Boy chalks it up to unrealistic expectations and ridiculous standards of success. I say that’s what happens when you bring home papers and tests your whole life with 94’s on them to a mother who remarks, “What six did you get wrong?”

To balance out the B’s, an editor called this week about a magazine column. I think that’s as far as this one’s going to go, but with my limited credits, it’s nice to know he looked at my proposal and had any reaction other than unrestrained laughter.

Tonight we are going to Medieval Times. No, really. It might surprise you that a woman of my snobbery (and gorgeous new ivory and aubergine cashmere coats) would make an appearance at such an establishment (only to eat half a chicken with her hands, no less), but these are the things we do for friends. Happy Early Birthday to Edes.

Tomorrow, I am accompanying Little Sister to try on bridesmaids gowns. She was supposed to be a junior bridesmaid, but she campaigned to be a “real” one. I said, “So, what you’re saying is that you want to be a full-fledged bridesmaid?”

She: “No. Because I don’t even know what fuh-ledge means.”

She thinks she’ll talk Mom into allowing her to wear a strapless dress. I’m not sure what she plans on using to hold it up, but I’d like there to be a strict, no double-sided tape rule at my nuptials, thanks.

Otherwise, the wallpaper in the bathroom will be bidding a fond farewell, as The Boy uses his newfound free Saturday to rip it mercilessly from the walls. I think we will finish moving him in sometime in mid-2006.

I hope this post has reminded my several readers that I exist while placating The Boy.

Soon, I’ll be headed to watch jousting. Here’s to hoping your night does not involve bugles or long-haired men with horses and pointy sticks.

The Cemetery and a Stale Grilled Cheese

My old stomping grounds have turned into a graveyard. Burial grounds. And everyone knows you shouldn’t stomp on the departed, even if the parting was not so dear.

As my unfortunate Marital False Start had its roots at said grounds, it is only reasonable to expect certain ghosts to appear. Such as the inevitable “I thought you were married” exclamations or the uncomfortable practice of omitting an obvious name from discussions. I expected such instances, so I was prepared.

I was not, however, prepared to hear Best Friend from College’s husband yell, at the football game, “C! This guy knows Leland!” Leland is not his actual name, but a mocking nickname my “friends” assigned to him. He didn’t know it was mocking. They didn’t think I was serious.

To this day, I would prefer to refer to this guy as “Mulligan.” I cannot offer an excuse for having dated him…or maybe it’s more like, as Jennifer Love Hewitt’s Amanda said in Can’t Hardly Wait, “I mean…I know why I started dating him, but…I just don’t know why it went on so long.” Friends and loved ones offer remembrances that are far from complimentary. I cannot argue; they’re right. So, obviously, that’s one that’s better left in the past. And it was the last thing I expected to encounter at The Cemetery.

Making matters worse, the guy who admitted to knowing Mulligan happened to be False Start’s roommate in his senior year. So, you can just imagine how that conversation went. I don’t think I need to crystallize it for you.

Otherwise, I saw ghosts whose names I could not remember, ghosts with whom I avoided eye contact, and ghosts whom I hugged ferociously. I ate at Yamato Express, my chicken teriyaki measuring stick to which no other Japanese restaurant has ever been able to compare. I saw my brother starting out “on his own.” My friends and I pointed out our successors. Then we ate Dairy Queen and went to bed at the Red Roof Inn before midnight, talking about birthing centers. And things have changed.

But before all of that, Mom and I went to buy a wedding dress. Again, but for the first time.

Our trip took hours longer than it should have, and the day began with my attempt to leave the house at 4:51 a.m. I had meant to leave at 6:00. I am never early, least of all before dawn. In my anxiety about oversleeping, I inadvertently reset my clock, resulting in my being all packed up and ready to go at nine ‘til five. I laid back down in my clothes for an hour. Then, attempting to back out of the space I probably could have just pulled out of, in my haze, I slammed into the car behind me. I did a thorough evaluation of damage from inside my car, and decided it was minimal.

When we finally arrived in Burlington, I was annoyed that I could only take three dresses at a time (a rule we promptly broke) and that I was virtually invisible to anyone with a nametag. Finally interrupting Betsy’s conversation, I asked if I could borrow a bra.

“We don’t do that anymore,” she said, “the bras were getting destroyed.”

I tried not to appear upset. Because I traveled hundreds of miles in pursuit of the dress at this store.

“Most girls just pull their straps down,” she said.

In my head: “This is my wedding dress. I am not pulling straps down. And anyway, I’m wearing a racerback bra.” I said none of this, just huffed over to my mom to relay the news.

Then, I had my first inexplicably emotional bridal moment. My eyes welled up with tears. Mom put an end to that nonsense and attempted to buy me a bra. I tried it on and laughed hysterically. B and D do sound similar, but the difference is marked.

With the proper underarmor (including proper undies—I remembered this time), I began trying on dresses. This store is supposedly “discount,” and apparently the term extends not only to service and undergarments, but also to the existence of the fitting rooms. There aren’t any. There are stalls. Like for cattle at the Indiana State Fair.

So, in my coral Hanes Her Ways, I began the three-and-a-half hour process that resulted in my trying on the same Monique Lhuillier knock-off dress three times. It was so much more than I planned to spend, but so much more beautiful than anything I’d seen. As I walked back to the stall after the second attempt, Mom said to Betsy, “You know which one we’re leaving with, right?”

She responded, “Of course, she’s just making sure she does.”

We walked out with THE dress. And, if it really looks the way I think it does, I couldn’t be happier.

Sunday involved church and lunch with the lost boys who deliberately mortified me over my story by repeating one of the lines ad nauseum and then, when I didn't pick up on it, they acted out the final scene as we said good-bye. A grilled sandwich has never caused anyone so much heartache.

Gentle Reminder

Yes, of course, there are many stories to be told from the whirlwhind adventure to the Carolina foothills. Unfortunately, for all involved, they will have to wait. Higher Education (oh yeah, and "work") calls. With that in mind, if you have not yet taken my survey, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?

Due in large part to said adventure, I am behind on the writing of my story, and I could use your assistance. Take the freaking survey. Unless you already have, in which case, thank you. I appreciate you appreciating me.

Mama, I'm Coming Home. . .Sort of

After The Boy’s meeting with the self-proclaimed Bishop of Baltimore ran late (what? Pentecostal preachers have their own, unique sense of time? You don’t say!), we missed our flight to Hartford. We didn’t, as Brother’s Middle Eastern drivers’ improvement teacher would say, “get sweaty,” because Southwest usually has flights there every 45 minutes or so. Not on this Tuesday afternoon. We were delayed two and a half hours.

We arrived at Bradley International at 4:47. Doors opened at the Meadows at 5:00 and Rock Star Brother was set to go on at 6:00. Somehow, we made it to our $100 rental Hyundai (no, really—there are drawbacks to being under 25) and to the hotel where everyone else had already checked in. The guy at the desk looked concerned when we told him we planned on walking to the concert.

“Uhh, is it just going to be the two of you?” He asked. “Just be careful around the bookstore. I mean, it’s safe and everything, but you’ll probably get hustled.”

We were glad to find free parking at the Meadows. We met up with the siblings and assorted friends and made it into the arena just in time. Just in time for me to have it out with three separate “staff members” because they would not allow us access in front of the stage. Even though, because they were the first act, there were hundreds of empty seats. And even though I offered to allow them to escort us back to our real seats after Rock Star Brother finished. And even though I volunteered to show them The Boy’s ID to prove his relationship. The Sister and Other Brother managed to get down there with a couple of self-important friends. Hope they enjoyed the show. But RSB and friends did wonderfully, and it was really exciting to see him in such a big venue.

We were back in the area by 9:30 yesterday morning, so a full day at the office and a 7:30 meeting today and I feel (and, honestly, look) like a zombie. I had planned on leaving for Carolina after work today, but something came up, so it’ll be another early morning for this tired soul.

Tomorrow, if we ever get there (I’ll see you when I get there), marks the beginning of The Search. Mom and I (and maybe Best Friend from college and The Roommate) will scour racks of discount wedding dresses in Burlington. As we sat to discuss wedding budgeting and planning with the parents last weekend, BigJohn, without a hint of sarcasm, said, “Why don’t you take that other one down with you and see if you can make a trade?” This, only a week after, loading groceries into The Boy’s trunk, I noticed a familiar balled up plastic garment bag. Emblazoned with the words, and I am not making this up, “All the Right Choices.” My skeleton found a new, if temporary, home. The Boy said, “I ride around all day with irony in my trunk.” For those who may remember The Marital False Start of 2002, I feel like I need to qualify every wedding planning statement with “No, really!” or, “For real this time!”

It’s like those chicken sandwich ads, “Try it again, for the first time.” Oy.

This weekend Dwayne Johnson and I will also descend upon my old stomping grounds for Homecoming. I always have mixed feelings about this, as it usually resorts in my feeling out of place, heading for the hills and wondering why I wanted to visit in the first place. Hopefully, it will be more pleasant than I anticipate.

If you're going to be there too, hit me up.

Verbal Scenery for Your Day

Venturing up to Hartford this afternoon for the Rock Star Brother's BIG show with Audioslave and Seether. We are trying to fool ourselves into believing this is a mini-vacation so that the insane logistics don't render us suicidal. Wish us luck on that one.

In the meantime, since I can't really post, I thought you might like to see one of my recent pieces.

And, not that you would, but don't even think about disrespecting me or my work by ganking it (see licensing below). That kind of insurrection will not stand ... man. That being said, enjoy. Or don't. It's up to you!

Crossing Paths at Cross Street Market

On Sunday afternoon at Cross Street Market, no one shops. The wide aisle dividing the building is usually crowded with bodies buying stargazer lilies, steaks, pies, and salmon. But on Sundays, the only part of the market doing business sells beer. Around wooden barrels and stools, crowds congregate—as diverse as the drinks in their hands. Watching football or not, Cross Street’s patrons occasionally collide, but they never intersect.

This particular Sunday concludes Cross Street’s grand re-opening celebration. Mayor Martin O’Malley ceremoniously cut the ribbon after the $1.3 million dollar renovation, but the market never actually closed.
The bar area is transformed; exposed duct work and beams make way for tin awnings over each refurbished bar. Brick tiles shimmer on the floor, though, judging by the crowd, they probably won’t for long.
The new Cross Street Market feels a bit more sashimi and bottled beer than crabs and kegs. A sushi chef in a Ravens hat rings a bell—order up.

A pony-tailed teenager flip-flops by, wrinkling her nose. “It smells weird in here,” she remarks loudly.

Eating a seaweed roll, a middle-aged man talks with his mouth full.

“It’s the younger generation’s appreciation for the older generation.” He nearly shouts, “You gotta like it. There’s a sense of fair play in the world.”

His blonde companion chain smokes and smiles. The cement bar around them is littered with empty Heineken keg cans and the market’s infamous four-dollar, 32-ounce beer cups. In front of the blonde sits a half bottle of chardonnay. It is empty.

The couple leaves behind only the bottle and two cigarette butts, lying in an empty oyster shell.

They walk past two round men in Ravens jerseys watching the game at the end of the bar. The older man’s bald head and hoop earring gleam. He laughs and slaps the younger man’s black jersey. The younger man hunches over. His fuzzy blond hair reminds no one of the man whose name he wears. Deion Sanders isn’t really here.

By another T.V., Ravens shirts hold plastic cups and huddle around an overturned barrel. A rumpled man in a flannel shirt interrupts the mass of purple. His enthusiasm is his ticket into this crowd. When officials call a penalty against the Ravens, he shouts disapproval the loudest. He stays.

A woman in a Steelers jersey and red lipstick stands at a bar looking lost. She is not invited to approach the barrel.

Farther down the bar, football does not exist. Poster-board signs declare, “We Need 1’s, 5’s and 10’s. No 20’s, 50’s or Fake 100’s. We Have Plenty.” Two women sit below the signs, drinking Coronas.

“This is what I mean about playing these mind games,” one says, mercilessly separating an oyster from its shell. “That’s the part that rises my blood pressure, and due to my unhappiness, I will not have good health.” She swears, “I knew better. I knew all along he was leaving. I felt it.” The other woman nods and sips her beer.

Also tuning out the game, grey-haired men with wrinkled jackets and puffy faces stand around a picnic table that holds no plastic cups. Drinking Budweiser and Amstel Light from bottles, they laugh as one man casts an imaginary fishing line. Somebody’s grandson looks on from his stroller.

Back at the magnetic barrel, a bearded man in a straw hat and Ravens golf shirt approaches. He holds a plastic cup of Guinness that is big enough to share. The circle widens to accommodate him.

Late-twenties men and women in baseball caps mill past the barrel, oblivious to the 16-3 Ravens score that could mean this season’s first win. They stay across the room.

The woman at the bar rages on, interrupting herself only to order six more oysters. “He said, ‘I did not purposely not call you back,’” she lowers her voice, then bellows, “But you’re not sorry neither? I was just sitting in disbelief. It’s the principle of the thing.” The silent woman excuses herself. She walks several feet behind her to kiss a man slouching on a barstool, watching the game and nursing a beer.

Half the room celebrates as Ray Lewis makes a tackle and pounds his chest. Although his shirt wanders around the bar, Ray Lewis isn’t really here either.

Blocking a T.V., the pony-tailed bartender wears a shirt that reads, “I see drunk people,” and shells oysters. She assures a patron that he is not eating live oysters.

“I kill them when I open them. When I cut the muscle, I’m actually cutting the heart.” She laughs a mock evil laugh, not noticing the man’s look of horror.

Once her friend returns, the woman at the bar finishes her beer and sighs, “I just gotta get some anger out right now. But not today.”

Mourning My Newfound Practicality

I can’t believe it either. Today, I bought shoes far more sensible than I wanted. Convincing The Boy*-- after complaining of my Sharpie-aided “repairs” wasn’t enough-- that boots with broken heels just wouldn’t get me through the next two seasons, I ventured out to buy new black boots. It wouldn’t be my preference, but I live in boots in these, the least fair of seasons. Because they just make sense. And I know, my life is changing; my footwear needs are changing. I just wasn’t prepared for the sensibility that overcame me this afternoon.

They are my first pair of Aerosoles. My feelings were as mixed as the signals I unintentionally delivered to unsuspecting men in the days before I met The Boy. As you can see above, they are pant boots; not those awful “booties” I will never understand, and not the knee-length hooker boots I so adore. That’s not what makes them sensible. Referring back to the visual aid, you will notice the heel is only about two inches high, and it’s far from stiletto. I winced, spotting the red, pointy-toed, black-heeled stilettos across the aisle, then eyed my black, square-toed reliables. With rubber soles. And cushioned insteps. Neither of those amenities has been on my list of must-haves—let alone in my closet—since my parents funded my fetish. And even then, it was only when Dad paid.

Please don’t misunderstand me; I don’t feel these shoes are frumpy. But they are a completely different species than the knee-high street-walker boots that strike fear in the hearts of cockroaches in corners everywhere that I have in my closet. And love beyond all reason. I feel scandalous in those shoes, sometimes apologizing with my eyes when both women and men raise disapproving eyebrows. Then, sometimes I don’t apologize.

There will be no raised eyebrows as I stumble (because, let’s face it, shoes can’t change everything) through life in my Aerosoles. There will also be less limping, less complaining from The Boy about how slow I move when he insists on walking everywhere, even when it’s freezing, less foot pain, fewer shin splints. Less. I fear that I will grow so accustomed to walking without pain, that my beloved stilettos will go unworn. Walking out of Off Broadway with my sensible purchase, I had the distinct feeling that this was only the first of many times I would depart a shoe store, forlorn, knowing that I had acquired what I needed, but that was all. These shoes are my spinach; roughage for the soul.

* For those wondering why I would need to convince The Boy before making a purchase, never fear, that rant is coming soon.

Please, Allow Me to Entertain You

Do I really have to apologize for the poor treatment you feel you have received? What’s the problem? Not enough to read while you slack at work? No longer able to entertain yourselves, eh? God forbid any of you who actually know me resort to calling or e-mailing me. (And, Parker, those “I love your blog and feel guilty for not writing you, but then I don’t,” halfhearted attempts at repentance don’t count.)

I share this venom with you, because today I received an e-mail admonishing me thusly:

“You do need to update your blog. You can barely call that Starbucks one an entry. Us crickets have high expectations and I have to be honest with you, that's what friends do...you are not meeting them. I didn't read it for a week and I missed NOTHING.”

Yes, that is an actual e-mail from an actual cricket. And my only response can be, why did you take a week off in the first place? Shame on you.

Since last we spoke, my relieved crickets, I have been maintaining. (Because, as I reassured a stressed-out classmate last night, “Well, it’s not like you can crack under the pressure, because you don’t have time to crack, so you’ll wonder if you can keep going, and then of course you’ll just keep going because you don’t really have a choice.” Hmm. Looking at it now, it might not have been the help she was seeking.)

First, it’s a good thing I have been so underwhelmed at “work” these days. Otherwise, I’m not sure how I ever would have accomplished all the school work I’ve had. Professionally, things are, allegedly, going to attempt to drown me in about a week’s time, and now I fear that the quality of my school work will slip. Because, really, I don’t have time in any area of my life except for here. I’ve never met anyone who was relieved to come to work, but sometimes it feels that way. We’ll have to figure out a new juggling method.

Brother returned to the area last weekend (did you not hear the fanfare?), after an emergency landing in Nashville delayed his flight four hours and thoroughly freaked out our mom. He was devastated to learn, as we all eventually do, that you can go home, but it’s never going to be the same again. At 24, I’m finally starting to be okay with this, but at 17, he is in denial that it’s even true. Because classes and parties and football games go on even if he’s not there. Kids date and break up and make new friends no matter where he parks his car at night. He started to get over his disappointment by the time we saw him on Saturday.

We had just arrived at my parents’ house, much to the beagle’s surprise and joy, when my mom greeted The Boy and his offer to help with, “There’s a project for you downstairs.” So, I made dessert; he assembled an elliptical trainer. He mused, "Do you ask me to do things just so I'll be out of your hair and you won't have to socialize with me?" To which Mom replied only with laughter.

When Brother finally decided to bless us with his presence a couple hours later, we all marveled over his growth and weight gain and newly-spiked hair for a few minutes before the boys discovered Madden on PS2. And that was pretty much the end of it. At one point I heard yelling and various, “For the love of GOD” and “Are you KIDDING me?” statements coming from the family room, punctuated by raucous laughter. Brother creamed The Boy, and the male family members couldn't get enough of the spectacle. They left dinner early for a rematch. I had to drag them away for dessert, which they left early as well. At 10:40 I was exhausted, knowing that 6:00 would come early.

Me: Honey, I’m really glad you’re having such a good time, but it’s nearly 11:00. You know I have to get up at 6:00 tomorrow. Can you please wrap this up?
Him: Babe, GOSH, just give me twenty minutes, the game will be over.
Me: UGH.
Brother: Jeez, Christi, just let us play.

11:00
Me: Honey, pleeease? It’s 11:00. I’m so tired. You know I’m sick. Can we please go?
Him: Baby, REALLY, it’s best two out of three! If I leave now, we won’t know who won!
Me: (continuing to remind him what time it is, what time I will get home, and what time I need to wake up, which is about three hours before he does)
Him: FINE (throws controller)
Brother: GOSH, Christi, I can’t believe you. We only had half a game left. You’re so ridiculous.

Kisses, hugs, and goodbyes. Once in the car, I said, “Babe, I’m sorry you couldn’t finish your game, but can’t you try to see where I’m coming from?”

He replied, “No. I don’t understand why you wouldn’t let me finish the game. It was best two out of three. Why do you have to be so selfish?”

The next day, waiting for the boys to show up to lunch, Mom informed me that Brother pouted for a full 10 minutes after we left. I called Brother to ask what was taking them so long.

Me: Where are you guys?
Brother:What?
Me:You heard me.
Him: Uhh….Best Buy?
Me: We are all waiting for you at the restaurant. Everyone is here. What are you doing?
Him: Taking care of some unfinished business.

Getting in the car after lunch, The Boy lamented not being able to see Brother again for a couple of months. “I really miss that kid.”

But sometimes I think maybe it’s best for everyone involved that, for now, they live thousands of miles apart.

Those of you hoping for more misadventures from my return to higher education, D.C. edition, may be disappointed to know that I have navigated our fair nation’s capital without a hitch the last two weeks in a row. (I feel confident it would have been more, had I not been out of class the previous two weeks.) This week I got my first graded assignment back (one of two that feature prominent crickets). I was the first person in the room and, when the professor arrived, she complimented me on my story and asked if she could talk to the class about it. I (blushed) and said sure.

At the end of class, when she gave papers back, she began to talk about mine…and then she read it—in its entirety—to the whole class. She stopped to compliment my word and choice and quote usage and unique style—again, in front of everyone—and I did my best to control my facial expression. What is the appropriate one? I think I chose a mix of embarrassment and apology. But then, walking to my car in the cold rain (I remembered my umbrella and a jacket this time), I called The Boy to brag. Because if you can’t let your biggest fan support you, what is the point?

Help a Sista Out?

So, as you probably know, I'm a writer. I write. One of the pieces I'm currently working on is a story about Starbucks and its effect on American culture. To that end, I would really appreciate it if you would spend a couple of minutes taking my survey. It's short, I promise. Come, on, you have to. All the cool kids are doing it. Plus, maybe your name will make it into the story and you'll become famous. You never can tell.

Someone Please Call 911

Maybe it’s because I’ve spent too much time listening to Little Sister’s teenager voice, or maybe it’s because of the inordinate amount of trash I am wont to read when there is nothing more productive I feel compelled to do, but lately I find myself saying one phrase repeatedly: I’m over (fill in the blank).

For example:
“Hey, Christina! How’s the painting going?”
“Ugh, I’m so over it.”
“How’s school going?”
“I have another story due, and I’m so over it.”
“How are things with The Boy?”
“Well, I’m kinda….”

Just kidding on that one. But I’m not kidding that my lack of enthusiasm has extended so far as to reach my beloved life teammate. I found myself comforting a friend by reminding her that we all get scared, no matter our station in life. First, for example and for many, the prospect of lifelong singleness may keep them tossing and turning. I, for one, had that fear and did not think for a second that it was irrational. (Well, it wasn’t just that. I thought I’d probably get married, but that I’d end up marrying someone I wasn’t attracted to.) Anyway, regardless, that was a fear. Now, here I am, mired in premaritalness, and the thought of marriage is sometimes daunting. But, of course, that’s not how I put it; I said I was scared to get married.

A few days later, said dear friend approached me nervously: “You know when you said you were scared to get married? Uhh, that’s just normal stuff, right?” And she was right to wonder and right to check, but apparently my words have been betraying me. Once again, it would seem, it is time for an attitude adjustment. Anyone know a good mood chiropractor? Aetna doesn’t accept mine.

I hesitate to say that we are fresh, but here we are, still standing, after New England came to town. People were just everywhere. Visits with those guys are always nice, but they leave me feeling like a grandma or Nanny from the Muppet Babies (you know, minus the striped stockings. Because, really.). I just walk around behind the boys, picking things up, cooking meals, dolling out Excedrin. I am younger than everyone who visited, but after they left, I just felt so old. I would say I just can’t do it anymore, but I don’t think I really ever could.

Despite my rapid aging, the weekend was fun, and most of the house got painted. There is just trim work left, except for in the bathroom. I attempted to face off with the wallpaper on Saturday, despite being told repeatedly that we had neglected to buy the proper tool. I got about a four and a half by two foot strip finished. It took me at least an hour. I feel like that bathroom will never be done.

The Boy’s movers are coming tomorrow, and he is a headcase. Despite my repeated attempts towarn him that two evenings of packing after a weekend of familial company was not realistic, voilà. I know it will get done, but I’m not looking forward to learning how. The scariest words I’ve heard lately? “Babe, the only thing left is the kitchen, and you said you would help with that, so really that’s not a lot at all.” Show of hands, who knows this statement is not at all true?

Another story due tonight, and it is my first workshop with these people. I’ve procrastinated writing it until today, because I’m not thrilled with the notes I took. Much like when dear Tara (The Fan) ceases the telling of her own story because she loses interest, I feel that I cannot successfully sell my writing if I don’t believe it’s worth buying. And I don’t have high hopes for this one.

Enough, is there a doctor in the house? I tried to tell you, these alignment issues are really pervasive.

Is that a Notebook, or are You Just Happy to See Me?

Last night I called The Boy from class, where I had been released on the campus of JHU to “observe and record a scene.” Sure. Ain’t no thing. Except my travails on said campus are dramatic and well-documented . I was only given 25 minutes to complete my assignment, and obviously that is not enough time to get lost, find my way back and capture a scene. So, I went to the building next door, where I witnessed a one-woman show masquerading as a social change group meeting. Also, I saw a salsa class. And also, a guy who looked a lot like Ron Isley, but with cornrows. Surprisingly, no one seemed to notice me.

I say it’s surprising, because Friday night I set out in Cross Street Market to do the very same thing. For back-up, I brought The Boy and Ryan. I figured they could cover me. In the brief few moments The Boy stepped away to buy a beer, it started. A tall guy in an oxford and jeans who looked more Capitol Hill than Federal Hill approached me. And by “approached me” I mean “assaulted me with his closeness.”

Him: What are you doing, taking notes?
Me: Yeah, kind of.
Him: About what? Are you writing about me? Just watching things? Why are you doing this?
Me: I have to write a story for a class. If you’ll excuse me.
Him: What is it going to be about? Do you have any ideas? What are you thinking? You must have some ideas up there?
(NOTE: I still get annoyed when The Boy, a.k.a. The Love of My Life, asks me what I’m thinking. So you can imagine my irritation with this guy, who was rocking Preppy, I feel confident, from the first time it was cool.)
Me: I’m just watching what’s going on.
Him: So you’re just going to see what happens, huh? Well will you tell me? Will you tell me what happens?
Me: Fine (and I spun around on my stool).

Thankfully, Ryan arrived to rescue me. The Boy had witnessed these happenings from afar and sent him. Bless him. Preppy when Preppy Wasn't Cool changed positions all evening so that he could stare me and The Boy (who was wearing paiting clothes, including an inappropriate t-shirt) down. Really, if you're so insecure that you think it's about you that the girl you are miserably hitting on is engaged, I don't really know what to tell you.

So, unfortunately, my notebook and I could not go unnoticed. It baffled me; in a place where a toothless, tattooed man wearing long jean shorts OVER jeans and menacingly wielding a golf umbrella can yell things like “Who’s your daddy,” and, “Why won’t you have somebody call me,” then later, to a fire fighter, “I’m really messed up, you have to believe me,” without ANYONE noticing, I cannot sit quietly on a stool, in a corner with a notebook and pen without people stopping midsentence then talking to their friends about me. Welcome to Baltimore.

As I was saying. I called The Boy from class, expecting him to be at his apartment, packing, as his move is scheduled for next week. (So far, he has packed his DVDs, and only because I convinced him he could do so while watching Monday Night Football.) His voice echoed on the phone. “I’m at the house,” he said, purposely vague. The Home, if you will. Patiently, if tersely, I asked what he was doing there.
“You won’t believe it, babe, but there is just so much to get done.” I did, in fact, believe it, as we have scheduled a painting party for which seven people from Connecticut are coming down this weekend. They are not, however, coming to help The Boy pack. I kindly reminded him of this fact.

An hour and a half later, as he had requested, I called once I was finished with class. He answered, echoing. Another hour later, he showed up with "Serengeti Plain" paint (the green in what will be our bedroom) all over his hands, but none on the clothes he had worn to work. Apparently, he had painted in his boxers. At least the man has his priorities down.

Regarding the planning of our blessed event, we have successfully found and booked a photographer and d.j. and received our save-the-date cards. Since there is really no need to send these cards to everyone we are inviting, I assumed it would be a breeze to address and send them. Until I looked at the list on which The Boy and I collaborated. My portion includes full names, children’s names, where applicable, addresses, phone numbers, and e-mail addresses. His list actually says the following: Mike, Stacy, Child 1, Child 2. I don’t have any idea what these people’s last names are or who their children are or even in what states they live. I asked The Boy, again, to get this information for me, and he replied, “Oh, but that’s one of those Christina jobs. You’re just so good at stuff like that,” to which I replied, “I know nothing about magic.”

At work, I have been moved from my counter into someone’s old office. With a door. I have no reason to shut the door, but I do, simply because I can. I returned to my fake office with a happy meal today, and was dismayed as I watched it get cold, while Hawaiian Shirt Guy (we’ve become quite close) and Hawaiian Shirt Guy in twenty years came to visit. They did not only know I had not eaten my lunch, they followed me in and commented on my happy meal box. It’s pretty bad that I’ve only spoken to this guy for several months, and I already impatiently finish his sentences. Maybe, much like my iPod Party Shuffle, he needs to mix it up a bit more.

I neglected to tell you crickets that the toasted-cheese-exposing Texan, she of the voice just shy of dog-whistle range, is no longer with us. For secretive reasons that it’s about time were no longer a secret. I had occasion to use her desk today, and all that remain are crumbs and two packets of Arby's sauce.

Such is life.

There’ll be Time Enough for Countin’ When the Dealin’s Done

I am now a proud, if broke, homeowner.

Now, I realize I have little room to complain, as my situation is not like most. My fiancé (and co-borrower) is also my mortgage broker (and one of my bridesmaids is his assistant). My father is my real estate agent. My mother is my title processor. And my aunt works in the title office too. The first of the differences that this nepotism presents, aside from not getting taken, is that I got to choose what kind of Otis Spunkmeyer cookies I wanted at my settlement. Oatmeal cranberry and chocolate chip (check and check). The boy wanted coffee (hazelnut, check).

The seller had already moved to Tennessee, so it was a family affair. Mom’s boss did the settlement, but I’ve known her since my not-so-triumphant return to Maryland, so that was comfortable too. If only I hadn’t looked at that huge number that represents how much I will have paid over the course of 30 years…but I keep telling myself “I will not live in this house forever. I will not live in this house forever.” And, really, I won’t.

After I signed 1,684 documents, some of them twice, we were mini-showered! My aunt and parents and Mom’s boss visited our Hecht’s registry and made some fabulous purchases. Not, of course, without difficulty. My aunt called me, panicked, that morning, telling me she had looked at the registry just out of “curiosity” and found some interesting information.

Before she told me what it was I knew. “Oh my gosh, it’s the wrong wedding.” Believe it or not, I have still not escaped the ghost of the wedding that never was. I remembered that my mother and I, in the absence of my “fiancé” at the time, had half-heartedly registered for china three years ago. Oops. And it was still in their system, under my nickname. Which is a name that many people know me by, meaning that the wrong registry was bound to be seen. And the boy is far too fantastic to have the ghost haunting our greatness. I wrote a strongly worded e-mail to the people there and received an immediate apology for any embarrassment it caused. “Oh, there is definitely embarrassment,” I replied, “but that’s certainly not your fault.”

Incidentally, we also learned that The Boy got married to a certain Sherri Smith in New York a couple of years ago. I told him about this, and he said, “I knew that skeleton was bound to come out at some point.” I wonder if she needs a new wedding dress...

At the settlement table, The Boy said, “We’re considered first time Maryland home buyers because the house I bought with my other wife was in New York.” Nice.

But, onto the mini-shower! We got great stuff, including our stellar, stemless red wine glasses (to go with the complimentary “Capitol Title Red Wine” we received at settlement) and champagne flutes (to go with the non-complimentary Brut we picked up later that night). Most important, though, was the package addressed only to The Boy. He was ecstatic (“THIS is what showers are like? I wanna come!”). He gently opened the paper to reveal a Waterford box. (“Ooh, it’s crystal,” he said. Do you realize how funny it is that, two weeks ago, he didn’t know that?) Yeah, so he got his beloved butter dish. A freaking $60 butter dish. THANK GOD.

We immediately went to The Home (as The Boy calls it), and toured it with my parents and Little Sister, who asked “Okay, which one is my room? I think I’d like the front one,” and then, “Can I paint my room any color I want?” Umm, no, probably not. The Boy has made great strides, some of them more than I can even handle, in this last year, but I don’t think a purple and pink striped guest room would fly with him. The man has his limits.

Mom and Dad took us to dinner at Our Italian Restaurant (no, really, first date, place The Boy asked my dad for my hand, first anniversary, etc.). After that The Boy and I bought bubbly and toasted to us while we obsessively toured The Home. He was all knocking down walls and adding rooms and I was thinking, “This wallpaper comes down, yes?” We need to work on tweaking our "vision."

After an exhilarating night of measuring every inch in the house, we are off to buy paint and supplies today. I don’t think Home Depot is ready for us.

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.