Still Pregnant

Really? I could have sworn I had written an update before now. I have been on some form of bed rest for 8 weeks now, putting me at 35 weeks. 32 days until D-Day. What has it been like?

Until Christmas, my days were pretty ordered. Up early, get ready (shower, makeup, etc., of course, because that's just the kind of girl I am), breakfast, then plop on the couch. Conference calls for an hour, then work, Rachael Ray at 10, work throughout the day. I have had some more freedom for the last four weeks-- still couldn't return to work, but was told I could "ambulate a little more and see how it goes." So I have been able to help out around the house a little more. I've had a lot of contractions and discomfort, but so far they don't seem to be affecting me or the baby. Girlfriend and I are very cramped for space at this point. She doesn't move as much as she used to, but when she does, I can see her little limbs and joints protruding from my about-to-burst belly. Like an alien would. It's weird.

Mirabella had a series of birthday parties leading up to her actual birthday, often coinciding with other events like an aunt's or a friend's birthday. On her actual birthday, home sick with a virus, she told me, "O-ny my blow out the candles, right Mommy? Not Amy. O-ny it's my birt-day." We gave her a hand-me-down dollhouse with new people that she loves and I made ladybug cupcakes we only ate 2 1/2 of. The Boy bought a nearly four-foot-tall Cinderella balloon (or "Tinkerbelt," depending on who you ask). We decorated the living and dining rooms with streamers and watched the Tinkerbell movie. All of this after Mirabella awoke from a nap as an official two-year-old, irrationally screaming for no apparent reason. This is not typical behavior for her. Or at least, it wasn't before.

"So," The Boy said, "I didn't expect that the Terrible Twos would start at t he exact moment she turned two." Neither did I.

But mostly she's still the very talkative and hilarious sweetheart she's been. She enjoyed a week-long visit with her Nonna (The Boy's mom) that ended Monday. This was a special challenge, as she was basically couch-ridden with a broken foot and I was supposed to be on the couch as well, but Mirabella was home and basic things still needed to get done. We look forward to a more normal visit after the little one arrives.

This morning The Boy called me on his way to work, after dropping Mirabella off at day care. She has taken to making up and singing mashups, like the following she sang to me in the kitchen the other day, "The Bible tell me so, and the Bible never ever get me, 'cause my in my kitchen, and my mommy make me dinner, the Bible tell me so." This morning's song was about "Baby Sitder," about whom she talks a lot these days. The Boy said, "Are you excited about Baby Sister?"

"Yes, my excited. It's my baby sitder, right? Right Daddy? Not yours. O-ny my baby sitder."

"Right, Mirabella," he said, "She is your baby sister, but she is mine and Mommy's baby."

"No, she not your baby. O-ny you can have one baby, not two ones, Daddy. Your can't have two ones, only one. My your baby, Daddy."

Uh-oh.

Bedrested Development

Today is Day 18 of my latest development, possible pre-term labor and bed rest. Because of cramping (read: contractions), it appears I am progressing in ways I shouldn't be. So I've been living on the couch for going on three weeks. Praise the Lord for the Internet and company-issued BlackBerry, but it's tough on The Boy.

Every day I wake up before 6, when The Boy's alarm goes off. I get Mirabella dressed from bed and give her "piggy tails" when she asks for them. At my daily 8:15 conference calls, they ask me how my jammies feel, but there hasn't been one day I've stayed in pajamas. I shower every morning, put on makeup and do my hair before taking my daily trip down the stairs to the couch. I've been busy with work, which makes me incredibly grateful; my relatively new found ability to work from home has enabled me to avoid taking disability. But, necessarily, I'm out of the loop. My team at work has been wonderful-- concerned about the right things, working with me however they can-- but I'm not nearly as valuable to them as I would be if I were there. And that feeling isn't unlike how I feel at home; I am not useful. I have completed 3/4 of our Christmas shopping, but there's not much more I can do.

Last week at a check up we discussed positive test results from an ultrasound that indicated the baby's birth was not impending, which is great. In the past two weeks, my contractions have gotten better (most days) and I haven't dilated any more. All good signs. So they told me to continue on bed rest for at least two more weeks, "ambulating" a little more to see how it goes. I still cannot lift Mirabella, which means I can't feed her without help, I can't put her to bed; I can't really be alone with her for long. We ambulated to my parents' house for Thanksgiving, which was really nice, but I had contractions most of the day and into the night. Saturday was a lot better and I was able to escape to get my hair done and even have dinner with The Boy, but it was a quick trip, then back to the couch. Last night-- out of nowhere-- the contractions came back, and they've been coming off and on today.

The uncertainty is probably the hardest part. I'm thrilled to know that the baby looks and sounds great. She is growing well-- a week ago she was 2 lbs, 12 oz-- which they tell me is good. My greatest fear, obviously, would be that she come very early and have to spend time in NICU and might not be healthy. Aside from that, and even though I long for the things I used to take for granted, I fear going back to real life. I don't think I can do it. The days I've been up a few hours, for the most part, have not gone well. I can't imagine re-entering work at a point where it's 6-7 days per week, frequent 12-hour days, plus primary care for my sweet little girl and the house stuff. I think part of The Boy fears I won't be able to come back in any capacity-- it's incredibly hard for him to keep up the pace, and it's gotten the best of his temper only a couple of times, which I was afraid of. I never want him to be resentful, but I'm sure it's hard not to.

It's all pretty complicated and, ironically, hardly restful.

This City Life is Dragging us Down

I was getting ready to saute chicken and talking to The Boy about his softball game I didn't stick around for when the doorbell rang. Which it doesn't often do.

"Someone's at the door," I told him.

"Don't answer it," he advised. I looked up at Curtis Stone, the Take Home Chef, who was on TV talking loud enough for me to hear in the kitchen, and down at the dog, who was barking and scratching at the door.

I told him I had to answer it; it was obvious I was home. "Well, look through the mail slot first," The Boy said.

"I'm not doing that; it's ridiculous. Just stay on the phone," I opened the door. "Oh, it's gay Lenny's dad," I said, "I'll call you back." I tossed the phone onto the couch and closed the dog in the house. The man outside, somewhere close to 60 with an ancient and perpetually leashless dog named Lenny, told me he had lost his cat. "She looks like Puss in Boots," he explained, "have you seen her?" By his estimation, his cat had probably leapt from his rooftop deck to ours and may have happened upon a chimney on the way. He seemed to need the conversation, so I indulged him for awhile. "How did you know Lenny was gay?" He asked. I reminded him we had met while I walked my dog one day and that his dog seemed interested in pursuing more than a friendship with mine.

"Well, you're welcome to go down our alley and check for her when it's light out," I offered. He told me he wasn't that worried, that he had rescued her when she was a stray, and that losing a cat wasn't the same as losing a dog.

"If it had been Lenny, I would be looking under every rock. Mostly I'm just curious about what could have happened to her." This story and its implications would change considerably over the next few hours.

When I came back in to call The Boy, I couldn't get through. When he finally called back, he said, "You want to know the reason why you couldn't get me? Because I was on the phone with the Baltimore City Police Department! Why do you have to be so stubborn?" He went on about the mail slot, apparently oblivious to my comment about harmless old gay Lenny's dad.

When he got home, we sat down to steaming plates and a knock at the door. I turned around to see gay Lenny's dad walking through my living room. "I went up on your roof and she's in the chimney," he said, "I can hear her." He followed The Boy into our basement to tap on the chimney that does not end in a fireplace. I sat kind of bemused and irritated that my chicken and apple cider gravy was getting cold.

We finished dinner to another knock at the door and a request from Lenny's dad to allow him to tear apart our chimney. "I'm a mason," he said, "and I'm very good. I'll put it back together better than it was before; it's kind of a mess as it is." I looked at The Boy who agreed that the chimney was a mess but decided to take a trip to the roof with our new acquaintance to make sure that, indeed, ours was the chimney in question.

Turns out, the chimney didn't belong to us but to the house next door, the owner of which has held out on selling it for many years and, in the meantime, it has sat vacant. And spooky. And in desperate need of the kind of rehabbing that can only be accomplished with many sledgehammers and exterminators. "I would think he was even crazier if I didn't see that cat myself," The Boy shrugged. In his next report, I learned that Lenny's dad was breaking into the house next door. I didn't want to know any further details; I could think only of rats and roaches in the walls and no electricity. And the possibility of police involvement. We had interacted with this neighbor on several occasions; he was disgruntled that The Boy had used his alley to store pieces of our rooftop deck in progress. From then on, we tried to stay out of his way, even though several times a summer his weeds took on a Little Shop of Horrors like quality.

"He said he's going to break through the sealed fireplace to save the cat, and then he'll fix it later. Better than it is now, he told me," The Boy said. Helicopters circled the neighborhood, as they often do. The Boy wondered if they were coming for Lenny's dad. "We might have to take Lenny in," he said, "when the law comes for his father. Wouldn't you hope it would seem suspicious that a man is breaking through a chimney on someone's roof?" Yes, one would hope.

Around 11PM we lay in bed laughing as we heard chipping away with a chisel; through our bedroom wall, we heard the distinct movement of bricks. "I'm worried I could be considered an accomplice. But he couldn't let his cat die," The Boy rationalized. I reminded him that breaking and entering and destruction of property are crimes, doesn't matter the intent. "But if it were Mosotos, you know we would do the same." I looked at the puggle snoring in his bed across the room. I couldn't be sure about that.

Around 11:30 the chiseling stopped. We haven't seen Lenny or his dad since, but we've been laying low, in case the authorities come knocking. One thing we were assured of: After this adventure, Puss in Boots would be an indoor cat.

Urban Decay

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ain't No Need to Go Outside

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

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

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.

Someone Please Call 911

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Such is life.

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

I am now a proud, if broke, homeowner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Got My Lunch Packed Up, My Boots Tied Tight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now Everything is Easy 'Cause of You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Okay, You Don't Really Have to be My Neighbor

Hawaiian shirt guy spoke to me for the first time today. Usually he just leans forward and watches me walk by over the top of his cube, but he actually came to my cube and spoke to me this morning. He and his neighbors in the first two rows neglect to turn the lights on every morning. Initially, I thought maybe they assumed this was an administrative duty, and huffed my way over there all the while muttering under my breath that it's not difficult to turn the lights on, nor is it my job. So, this morning when I turned on the lights, he came by moaning because they are used to working in the dark. He told me of his several years in Hawaii (hmm, hence the shirts?) where he worked in a basement, and that lack of light except from a computer screen is actually good for the eyes. It is summer outside. I'm already bitter enough that I miss the vast majority of summer, except for walking to and from my car, and that it's so seasonless in here that I have to wear sleeves year round. Really, would it be so terrible, especially in the absence of natural light, to have the lights on? I told him I was sorry to make things difficult for him, but that I would have to buy one of those Sharper Image natural light simulators to prevent my own suicide if there were no light in here. I assume he will adjust. But he wouldn't go away, so I hope he doesn't think we have a connection now. Because how much can you really say about lights? This is pretty much all I've got.

I made the journey to the tiniest apartment ever this weekend, and it all went quite well. I am brainstorming creative ways to store my clothing under my bed and to cook on a slanted stove. S autéeing chicken on the equivalent of a ski slope is not an easy task. Also, I found what appears to be poo under my kitchen sink. Needless to say, I am none too pleased about this development. You better believe my landlord has already heard from me on this troubling matter.

The parents saw the place last night and actually approved, which is no small feat. Granted, they saw it on the heels of seeing The Boy's place for the first time, which is much like a live action version of "City Mouse, Country Mouse." Really, it's like time travel from after to before winning the lottery. But it's my space and I don't have to share it (except with the owner of the under-the-sink poo), and that in and of itself is worth the price of admission. Upon bringing friends up to see the place on Monday, I pointed out that, while it is no architectural gem, there are aspects of the outside that feel European to me. Gabe gestured to the rubble from the renovations next door and said, "Hmm, yes. This does feel very...Post-World War II." Nice.

This morning I met the neighbor across the hall, Laura.
Me: "Hi. I'm Christina; I just moved in. My car is the red one, in case I ever block you in."
Her: "I'm Laura. I was gone all weekend, but I heard voices the other day and figured someone moved in. Any car with a Connecticut plate will be mine, but the one out there right now isn't actually mine, because it's in Connecticut getting fixed because I put a Michael Jackson cd in it and couldn't get it out of the player. Now that's fixed, but something else is being worked on. So I have my dad's car and I was listening to the same Michael Jackson cd and it's stuck again, and he's gonna be so pissed at me for effing up another cd player."
Me: "It was nice to meet you?"
But really I was thinking, for the love, do you really need any clearer direction to stop listening to Michael Jackson?