No Time to Say Hello, Good-bye

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

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

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

Actually...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hookahs, Grand Theft Auto and Coming Out

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

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

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

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

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

Not Quite as Planned

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

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

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

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

Adoption Tips

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Really, I don't have a chance.

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

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

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

Waiting for Vizzini

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.