Don't Care How, I Want it Now

I would love to tell you that Verizon employs customer service representatives that were not raised by wolves. I would love to tell you that they fixed my service the moment I reported it broken. I would also love to tell you that I met Ed McMahon earlier today, and he came bearing a big check. But I'm not a fan of lying. I still do not have a functioning business line or dsl. I still cannot check my corporate e-mail from within the confines of this house. However, I cannot leave the confines of this house between the hours of 8-4, because that might result in my missing the "technician" Verizon may or may not send. Do me a favor. If you reside at 206 Patterson Park, please leave the gate to your alley open, so that said "technician" can get through with his ladder to connect my phone service. Apparently, that's the only way. I guess it's time for me to meet my not-so neighbors.

Last week, instead of attending my first class, I feared I had stumbled upon a divorced women's group. Fortunately, Cameron Crowe's mother was not there claiming that she "finally, finally got in touch with" her anger, but almost. I'm sure our professor, the only male in the room, is wondering about the direction of our class...

Today we filled out an adoption application for a puppy. Not just any puppy. I have decided that when I do get a dog (which probably shouldn't be until after the blessed event-- but you know how it is with should), I would like it to be a Puggle (Beagle+Pug). They are small and adaptable and relatively well behaved. Unfortunately, everyone else in the country also thinks this is a good idea for their respective lives, and the dogs are hard to find and expensive. Yesterday, walking along the water to the gym, I stared at a guy walking his dog and talking on his cell phone. Not at him, though, at his dog. Yes, I maybe even coveted him a little. He was adorable. I said, completely ignoring the cell phone on this man's ear, "Is that a Puggle?" I can't even believe it. Not only did I comment on his breed of dog, I asked him where he got it, what the dog's temperament was like and how much he cost.

My fatal error, however, was in mentioning this encounter to The Boy. Because, much like Veruca Salt, when he gets his mind set on something, he don't care how, he wants it now. I looked up puggle adoption, just for research's sake, and learned that certain breeders are accepting orders now for delivery in 2007. Not only are the puppies not born, their parents could have just been born. The idea of paying $1000 for a dog of undetermined parentage when thousands die in shelters did not sit well with us. Today, on a whim, I stumbled across a shelter in NoVa with 7 Puggles. I feel confident that the application I filled out was more stringent than many adoption agencies. For humans. They asked, if we were to divorce, what would happen to the dog? They asked if we were willing to maintain dog health insurance (we said no), and the contract requires that we complete puppy kindergarten and only feed the dog premium food (organic, no preservatives) for its lifetime. I couldn't believe it. The Boy came home for lunch beside himself. He has already decided upon a name.

"Mosotos." He said, in his Chewbacca voice.

"Well, that doesn't seem fair. Why do you just get to name our dog, who doesn't even exist, this ridiculous name?" I asked him. I reminded him that at the vet, the dog would be identified by this name and our last name. I reminded him that we would have to introduce him to others using this name.

"I know, that's what I like about it," he said. He is not wholly without reason. "If we meet him and he doesn't seem like a Mosotos, we could name him something else. I'm thinking Morotos."
Not only did I never plan on having a dog, I also never considered having to roll the 'r' in my dog's name when meeting new friends at the park.

When asked why he was so excited about having a dog, he said, "It will be like three best friends!" I wondered why two wasn't enough. "Two is great," he said, "but this third is perfect because he won't interrupt us! It'll be awesome!"

I hope he doesn't get this gung-ho about having kids, at least not for a while.

But maybe The Boy is onto something. If I got a little more Veruca-esque I'd get through to the folks at Verizon. I might get sent down the chute with the bad eggs, but at least I'd have a high-speed internet connection.

A Vision all Undone

For any who may have worried, I am (mostly) not dead. Finished up the old job last week, spending lots of time setting up the office at The Home and plotting ways to kill Verizon in its sleep. Adjusting to life as Mork and Mindy, as Tara has dubbed us. My "blue collar"-colored apartment on the third floor is pretty cozy, and that's nice. It will be very strange once The Boy and I are married. ("Oh, I get to marry you? I kind of thought we were just pals who semi-secretly pined for one another.")

Last Wednesday, my last day, I was escorted out of the building and just stood out by my car for a few minutes. Ever seen Guess Who? Where, upon quitting his job, Ashton Kutcher freaks out in the elevator, much to the bemusement of the security staff. He screams at himself, "What am I doing, I can't quit my job!" That's what I did. Then I called my Mommy.

The whole home office thing, so far, is just not working out. This is day 3, and all I have done is watch download timers, hear "good-bye" from the freaking AOL voice, hold for Verizon, wait for Verizon technicians, search for Verizon dialtones and bang my head against the wall. Despite all this, somehow, the laundry has still not gotten done, I still have not gone grocery shopping and I did not get to work out yesterday, and today is not looking any better. I have a web conference in 30, then I'm headed to our Nation's capital for my first class of the semester, for which I am not prepared, because the university neglected to send me confirmation that I had, in fact, been accepted into the class. Writing the Personal Essay and Memoir workshop. Should be...interesting. I usually find that personal stories others decide to write about are not usually as thrilling as they might imagine. Don't you?

So, as if any of this were not mind numbing enough, before it began, The Boy and I have been deep in hibernation. At about this time, I can nearly hear the regret that any of my meager readership has given me a second thought during this time. Hopefully, my amusing life will resume, because what I thought would be monotony and cabin fever is instead uncertainty, inability to catch up, stress and fatigue.

But seasons always change.

It's Not Just for Bears Anymore

This weekend, the previously agreed upon Hibernation began in earnest. The Boy has been feeling under the weather since the middle of last week, so Friday night I bought a few DVDs and cooked Carbonara and we watched the mismatched doubleheader of Finding Neverland and The Life Aquatic (in our defense, we saw the latter in the theater, but by our own admission, we are way behind). Saturday morning, despite his “sickness,” The Boy played icy mud football with my little brother and pals, and I spent three hours and over $100 getting my hair trimmed (but it actually looks longer!) and further lightened (that part, I love). I meandered (two doors down) to The Home from the salon to find The Boy sprawled on the couch. I was antsy to do something—would have been a shame to waste my newfound good hair. Alas, the Boy had other plans. What I did not know, though he swears he told me, was that this weekend kicked off the NFL Playoffs, which meant that football could no longer be contained by the Sundays I had relegated it to.

What you must understand-- I’m okay with Football Sundays. I’ve come to accept them, and even to like them. Except for the fact that they are never as relaxing for me as they used to be, or as they are for The Boy. In the days when he was still trying to impress me, he cooked dinner on Sundays or we cooked together. Not anymore. I have become meal planner and chef, especially on Sundays. I gather whatever ingredients we still need, get snacks together, provide drinks and refills. I think The Boy is so engrossed that he doesn’t realize I’m the one perpetuating this action; all he knows is it’s getting done. Needless to say, when he asked to have people over to watch football on Saturday night, even though we had already planned that for Sunday, I was less than pleased. Now, The Football (as I called it, in my disappointment), had taken over my weekend. After a lengthy discussion (verging on argument) and two trips to the grocery store to switch my Sunday menu to Saturday, we hosted a few friends for football.

While I prepared a Bolognese sauce in the kitchen, The Boy danced in to check on his wings. I teased him. “FOOTBALL! CHICKEN! FRIENDS! BEER!” I mimicked him.

He replied, “I KNOW! And you’re here too! It’s like all my favorite things in ONE PLACE!”

I joked, “You know, I could probably round up some bananas and peanut butter too, to make it more complete.”

“Could you really??” He responded. So that was it.

By Saturday night I began feeling the symptoms of the sickness I could never have avoided. Skipped singing Sunday and saw a matinée (The Boy: “$11 for a movie, babe, did you see that? Why don’t we go to more matinees? Really!?”), then more football and random movies on TV. The Boy confronted me on my restlessness.

“I’m not really sure you’re feeling the hibernation,” he ventured. He was right. But I’m looking at my calendar and realizing that, in addition to creating an office and beginning a new job, it’s possible I will visit Florida, Texas and Vermont, just in the next month and a half. And I'm sure that, around the end of my first flight, I’ll be wishing I had savored this long winter’s nap.

A Shift Has Been Made

I quit my job today, in favor of what now feels like a risk. I verbally accepted the offer this morning, and sat at my desk with my signed letter of resignation all day, cringing every time my boss walked by. Because I just hate that part. Even when I worked in an incredibly hostile environment for a man who made me miserable, I still hated to tell him I was leaving. He, as is his custom, did not handle it professionally. But even then I felt guilty and vaguely deceitful.

Conversely, today involved a teddy bear of a man who baked us all pumpkin bread at Christmas and who is not exaggerating when he says he has done everything in his power to keep me here, even when others had to leave. He was gracious and sad, asking what he could do to keep me. He patted my head when I confessed that I felt guilty. He told me he understood and called me kiddo.

I will miss trading stories with my neighbor, the other blonde—the one I pray will be me in 25 years. And I'll miss teasing the Army vet who never knows I'm joking. I’m nervous about working from The Home prematurely. I fear that I’ll have trouble keeping myself in line. Delineating work and personal time, professional and private. I fear.

But, over the course of this endeavor, I resolve never to conduct conference calls in my jammies. Unless they occur at 7 am. I resolve to join a gym and go as often as possible, not only to achieve that perennial premarital fitness goal, LBN (looking better naked), but also so that I do not become an interaction-starved stay-at-home mom, minus the kids. I resolve not to tackle The Boy when he arrives at The Home just so he will pay attention to me. I will schedule lunches with my friends. I will buy more suits like the one that got me this job. I will invest in real shoes. I will not say, to those of consequence, that I fear I have oversold myself. And in every case, I will do my best to make my voice stop shaking. I will thank God for blindspots and blindsiding by opportunity. I will be proud that I’m doing what feels like the right thing, even if it’s not the safe thing. Because, as Ann-Margret and Jack Lemmon taught me in Grumpy Old Men, I’ll only regret the risks I don’t take.

Wanted: The Holiday Cheermeister

The first Christmas with The Boy (we were “together” last Christmas, but in separate states) was beautiful. He sat beside me on the couch, in the snowflake pajama pants my mom gave him the night before, opening presents and downing coffee to fight the effects of staying up until 4:30 playing video games with my little brother. Mom added his name to personalized family decorations we have had around the house for years and even bought a few new ones. Dad joked that on these The Boy’s name was written in washable ink until after the wedding, but we all actually knew it was a joke. He had his own stocking, and though it didn’t match the rest of ours, it tried. It felt like it was supposed to feel, and that is like it never has before.

I sat in my new L.L. Bean coat on my own passenger seat, the backseat filled with gifts for cousins and uncles The Boy had loaded in the cold rain. I whined about the weather.

“Someone’s the Holiday Cheermeister!” The Boy quoted the live-action Grinch. He was joking, but if he said it today, he’d be right.

I’m dressed entirely in winter white; the new “sea vine” coat is in the closet. Work is pretty barren, although I’ve had things to do. I’m mired in the possibility of a new opportunity that, so far, feels like dating in sixth grade. Egos and politics and shoulds and shouldn’ts. Hurt feelings and fake loyalties and perceived betrayals. Apparently, despite that I am, in fact, a girl and was a liberal arts major—this girl can negotiate with the boys. And today it has occurred to me that all that ability might net me is the right to brag about it.

The Boy’s Mother and her husband will be in town momentarily and until Thursday. The Boy and I will still be working, all the while feeling guilty for not being able to entertain people we assured we would not have time to entertain. Unfortunately, just because obligations feel like they shouldn’t be more important, that doesn’t mean they aren’t.

The weekend brought visits with two old friends—the kind that make you feel warmer every time you see them, not emptier. And that’s the best kind.

Tonight I think I’ll wear my new coat. Perhaps a splash of color would do me good.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

My car sounds like a siren every time I begin to drive from a hard stop. Obviously, this bothers me, but not because something terrible might be wrong with my car. I t bothers me because as I began to pull out of my parking spot in Safeway’s lot last night, the guy walking in front of me gave me a terrible look. So that’s it—I’m bothered because strangers will hear my car and think…I don't know--what do people think about noisy cars?
“That girl’s fender is probably caved in because she hit a pedestrian, and it makes that noise because she’s a moron.” I don’t know. It really does look like I hit a pedestrian though, and when I explain to parking garage attendants that “a person hit my car,” it doesn’t really help my case. Maybe my car is just lobbying not to be sold. Goodness knows none of the other machinery in and around my life has been behaving properly.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas. I’m a little sad to be the cause of The Boy’s first Christmas away from his family, but I’m thrilled that he’ll be here with me (and that I’ll be here, period. I’m trying not to think so far ahead as to recognize that next year it’s my turn to be away). What does not resemble Christmas is that I am doing very little, at this point, to prepare for it. All of my elf-like insanity (look! Mega pixels!) over the past month has apparently paid off, and nearly everything is done. I have more baking to do on Friday, but otherwise, we are in good shape and under budget. I recognize that those who know me are not wowed by the “under” part as much as you are by the “budget” part.

But yes, I do know what a budget is, and I am actually quite capable of adhering to one. I always told people, particularly in the now-defunct “young adult” group at church (which at one time was really just the “young marrieds plus a few losers”) that all I needed to do to reign in my finances was acquire a husband. One marriage veteran of two years assaulted me with the passion of her response, informing me that I had no idea what I was talking about. I can’t speak to the dynamic of her marriage, but so far, my premarriage has worked out nicely in that respect. I am still not excited about justifying needs or explaining expenses, but I’m figuring out that that’s what teammates do, and my teammate is figuring out that he can trust me anyway. I just presented him with a spreadsheet, detailing all the money we spent on Christmas. We were over $100 under. To all those single gals out there, here’s a hint—the way to a man’s heart may be through filling his stomach, but the way to his ring finger is definitely through protecting his wallet. And also quoting Seinfeld. Alas, mine is but the voice of one woman.

Car Adoption and the Worst Party Ever

Given the number of comments I’ve received from crickets, the latest of whom claimed my blog is getting, “stale,” I can only assume that I have been missed. Isn’t that nice.

While I’ve been away from you, I’ve been a very busy girl. That first holiday party was absolutely The Worst Party I’ve Ever Attended, involving a rented-out tavern, a vague conglomeration of food offerings, a dj who, without a shred of irony, played Madonna’s, “Like a Prayer,” and an open bar. The limo was overrated, as they tend to be, but judging by the Nas and 50 Cent buzzing and blaring through the blown-out speaker by my head and the bottles of Grey Goose circling the car, I’m not sure the guys in the limo noticed. The only other women who attended with us weren’t really from the same world as I am, so I spent the evening with the boys. And I was overdressed. I wore my hooker boots, thinking that if ever there were an occasion for them, a Christmas party would be it. Then I proceeded to stand in them for four hours. Balancing a drink and a plate full of cocktail wieners, cheese and crackers and a slice of turkey breast, I teetered in my heels. What good are utensils if you don’t have enough hands to use them? Thus went the night. No one seemed able to waste the “opportunity” that an open bar/limo ride home combo provided, so it was a loooong night.

Stopped at a Sunoco in College Park for a bathroom break, somebody’s girlfriend asked to borrow my shoes. I looked down at her bare feet and asked what happened to hers. “I don’t know,” she said, looking genuinely perplexed, “but they must be somewhere.” I zipped off my boots and sat in stocking feet wondering how I got there. We finally returned to Baltimore six hours after we left, and five hours before I had to get up. I vowed never to attend that type of party ever again.

That weekend, due to the Nor’easter in New England, the Mother and her husband did not make an appearance in Maryland, leaving us time to join Costco. Hundreds of dollars later, we had only crossed three things off our list. In the candle aisle at Wal-Mart, The Boy yelled, frantically, “Who ARE all these people?” An innocent passerby suggested that the earlier I learn to accept The Boy’s insanity, the easier my life would be. Somehow, we mostly finished our Christmas shopping.

I baked all day Sunday, resulting in my giving the earliest gifts in the office. When I handed out cookie tins and mason jars of garlic and rosemary infused olive oil and fresh mozzarella, everyone wrinkled their noses. “What are these?” They asked. It was only December 12th. I told them it was then or never.

Classes wrapped up last week, and I finished up with at least one A. The other class was borderline, so we’ll see how that goes. In that class, we all brought snacks, and the only guy in the class brought pretzels and hard cider, thus marking the first time in my life I’ve drunk beer in school. I know, to some of you, I’m about 10 years late.

Two holiday parties and a fake-out ice storm on Thursday, and we headed to Connecticut (again) with a quickness on Friday morning. We have recently acquired a new car for me (and by “acquired” I mean that it has been purchased through an auction, but not yet by us).
I won’t get to have it until the end of February, but I got to visit it on Friday. It felt much like adoption. And you can tell I have no kids.

Friday and Saturday we had the fake Christmas doubleheader, with a 14-year-old’s birthday party thrown in just to shake things up. We drove home separately last night, I in The Boy’s Saab and The Boy in an ’03 Mercedes CLK convertible he is delivering to NC as a “favor” to his uncle. He called earlier today, and I couldn’t hear anything but wind.

“Sorry, baby,” he explained, “tractor trailer.”

Yes, on December 19th, he had the top down.

“You don’t understand,” he said, “it’s warm down here in North Carolina. It’s 53.”

I’m sure the heated seats and heat on full blast didn’t influence his attitude at all. I can just imagine him with his dealer plates, oblivious to all the people driving by simultaneously laughing and rolling their eyes.

Turkey Redux

Much like Jewel, that snaggle-toothed songstress of yore, I’ve been down so long. Well, not literally down, but certainly bogged down, at the very least. Best to catch up in fragments, lest I avoid catching up at all.

Thanksgiving in Connecticut outdid itself. It was the adventure I expected it to be, and then some. The “some” in question involved meeting The Boy’s former lady love, which, even under the best circumstances, is straight-up, down-right awkward. My face flushed, my throat closed in on itself, my hair and flotation devices refused to behave—and all this at a time when I was supposed to be stunning. When faced with one’s predecessor, one is supposed to be non-threatening, visibly if silently apologetic, and accidentally gorgeous. I can assure you I was none of those. I think my head was tilted the whole time (attempting to achieve visibly apologetic), with my sweaty palms on my face to try to reduce the nerve-induced redness (having accepted there would be no declaration of “gorgeous,” I decided to go for anything involving “accidentally’). Taking all those factors into consideration, I may have achieved non-threatening, but given the gravity of the situation, I probably didn’t nail that one either. So, when asked by The Stepmother at brunch on Sunday if I had “met a lot of new people,” I certainly could respond that I had.

Thursday morning, recovering from the confrontation the night before, I teared up, realizing this was my first Thanksgiving without Pop, and by extension, my first without his (should have been) world famous creamed corn. The Boy sympathetically squeezed my hand, and we were off.

Thanksgiving the day, is really more of an experience than a Thursday. There were two meals, naturally, as there are two remarried parents to include. The first involved The Boy’s tiny, preternaturally preserved paternal grandmother. I am happy to report to my father that late onset greying seems to be prevalent in that side of the family, as the grandmother, at 70, is still mostly raven-haired. He swears The Boy’s father, who is more likely to be seen under a car than in front of a mirror, dyes his hair. Now I can pretty safely say he does not.

The Grandmother did most of the work and made it look easy, and we had a nice time, with The Boy begging off the pie so as not to offend his mother, who had made his absolute favorite pumpkin pie.

Fortunately, the second turkey was stubborn, and the dinner that was scheduled for 3, then 4, finally occurred at 6. Right before we began loading our plates up, The Boy grabbed me by the hand and led me into the kitchen. To the stove. He pointed at a pot on the back burner.

“Look, baby.”

Creamed corn. Even in Connecticut. I think he’ll be milking those extra points well into the new year.

Overall, another successful trip, and one in which we scheduled our next trip, the weekend before Christmas for our own fake Christmas. The Boy makes sure to put the emphasis on “fake” when he talks about it, as this is his first Christmas away from home in his entire life (I know that because I’ve heard the fact, as if for the first time, 47 times since Thanksgiving).

The result of these pre-Christmas festivities (The Mother and her husband will be in town this weekend, weather permitting for a Very Special Christmas Celebration), is chaos—CHAOS—in and between our little homes. In the new house (heretofore to be referred to as The Home), the furnace has taken a vacation. It’s going to be 12 degrees tonight. So The Boy is ripping what’s left of his hair out (he shaved off the head spikes, much to my delight) being master mechanic (in the absence of our home warranty that should be going into effect any day), and I have a crazed look in my eye as I budget for, coordinate, gain approval on, acquire and wrap gifts for two and a half families for five separate Christmas extravaganzas (plus the office holiday parties). Can you say oy vey about Christmas? I don’t know about the implied linguistic intermingling of faiths there, but OY VEY.

Tomorrow marks the first of two (yes, two) of The Boy’s office Christmas parties, tomorrow’s being the only one that involves a stretch Excursion limo and lots of drunk young “professionals.” Actually, that last part probably applies to both.

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.