Certainly Unsure

There's a line in a Straylight Run song that says, "You take in everything with a certainty I envy; it's somehow all I need," and when The Boy and I were first dating he said it reminded him of me. I was so sure, he said, of so much. I had conviction and definitive answers. This sounds like a compliment, I guess, and I think it was meant as such, but I don't think it's accurate now.

It's not that my conviction is gone. I'm pretty confident those close to me would still label me passionate, and there are still a few things I wholeheartedly know. I'm still animated, I still talk when I should listen, I still embrace opinions with too little information; I still think I know more than I actually do. But not like I did then. Then, there were so many things I just knew. I just knew I had made certain choices that were necessary for me to find my destiny. I knew, despite all evidence to the contrary, that I was going to marry the Other Boy, now referred to as the Marital False Start. I knew there were certain issues that others struggled with-- others I judged, by the way-- that would never plague me. I knew what I would do in just about any situation I had not actually encountered, especially marriage. And parenting. I just knew.

Here's the thing about just knowing: If you're wrong, you're screwed. Let's take the False Start. Turns out I was wrong-- heartshatteringly wrong-- and I had to start over. The logistics were a challenge, though not insurmountable, but the mindset change took much longer. I had built a future on a fantasy, and I had to reframe it all. In fact, I had to throw it all out and learn to wear a wardrobe full of uncertainty. And for a long time, it didn't fit. I had to stare my assumption (previously loudly stated) that there was "one person for everyone" dead in the eye. Because if that were true, I was done. And how could I be comfortable saying I was done for a lifetime at 21?

So when I met The Boy and it started becoming apparent that he was The One, I made the itchy and utterly unromantic statement that I didn't actually believe in The One, or at least I didn't think I did. We still have all the same reminiscent conversations, like, "If I hadn't met Jenn, I'd never have met Erin and I wouldn't have been in that place on that night and I never would have met you," but it's not like I believe that to mean I never would have married or had a family or been happy. I would have, I'm pretty sure, and I would never have thought of what might have been if the door hadn't slid because I wouldn't have known to. "Might have been" doesn't carry much with me because it's so arbitrary. I'm grateful it doesn't.

At our first marriage counseling session, I told our Pastor I was nervous about getting married because so many people get divorced and I have to believe most of them felt like we did at the start. "I just feel like there's nothing that makes us different than them," I said, "and it scares me." I was embarrassed; this was not the kind of thing a blushing bride was supposed to say. He told me he would be worried if we didn't fear divorce; if we thought it was something that couldn't happen to us just because we said we didn't believe in it. It was comforting, in a way, but also disorienting.

I'm much less sure of things than I used to be, which sometimes feels like regression, but probably is progress. I'm working on broadening my view and judging less, or at least later. I think having a child has helped that. I have trouble now looking at someone who is a nuisance or an outcast or a rebel without thinking of the whole of his life. I can't help but think there must have been somebody at some point who really loved him. It may not always be true, but I imagine he probably had a someone who dreamed of his future; who longed for great things for him. There's just so much that I don't see. Maybe it's growth that at least I see that now. I know that I don't know what I don't know.

Mirabella and I went to lunch with my little sister today, and the child threw a fit in front of everyone. More than once. I carried her away from the situation and softly reprimanded her; I put her in time out on a public bench. I didn't actually know what I was doing, but I did what I told her I would. Lately I can see it in people's faces, the internal proclamation that "my child would never behave that way." I'm trying to learn not to care, even while I wince and wish I could apologize to those I've condemned similarly in the past. Being sure was easier.

The Minutiae of Fuschia, and Other Observations

If Barack Obama were my friend on Facebook, our relationship status would be, "it's complicated." I have always shied away from strict partisanship, and much to my family's dismay, I am not a single issue voter. I shudder when I hear "God's people" attempt to speak of God's political affiliation or opinions, and with the exception of my undying love for Brady Anderson, I've really never gotten it about being a celebrity's biggest fan. I don't ever foresee political signs on my lawn or bumper stickers on my car or onesies on my child. I'm just not that kind of girl.

It does not offend my sensibilities or seem contradictory to me to choose the things I believe in from whichever side, then weigh them to see who comes out on top (or least on the bottom), even if that means an R on one ballot column and a D on another. Aside from the irritation I have over not being able to vote in primaries as a voter of undeclared loyalty, this works for me. I believe there is only one man who ever could have saved us and changed everything, and he's already been here once, and he's not the president. Still, I'm not easily sucked into "the sky is falling," overwrought predictions. I think if I say God is in control, then I should act like it, not like the leader of the free world has more power than the one who created it. But still, it's complicated.

Living in proximity to D.C. probably sounds much more exciting than it usually is. In college in North Carolina, the 7-foot Australian I had driven to the grocery store boasted that his home was 30 minutes from members of the then-popular band, Savage Garden. "Really," I said casually, "Well I live about 30 minutes from the President of the United States. You might have heard of him." But everyone here knows that distance rarely has any impact on how long it takes to get somewhere, and that in many ways, Baltimore is a world away from D.C. So I brag about my friend on Capitol Hill, and friends from the south think I'm savvy, but I just pay attention; I don't really know. Even so, the week leading up to the inauguration was interesting. I took for granted the signs above the Baltimore-Washington Parkway I travel every day that said, "Inauguration Jan 20. Expect Heavy Delays." Friends and colleagues were off because they couldn't get to work. Others I knew stayed home to watch TV; others I knew were actually in the thick of it. But not me.

On Tuesday morning I stood in a dark conference room with a man I'd never met staring at the TV in the corner. "I'm glad they have it on somewhere," he said, watching the masses wait on the Mall. "Driving up 95 this morning, I felt really...lonely. During the election, no one here said anything. It's just so bizarre."

We discussed the unique environment where we work, which tends to be a bastion of Republican ideals in the middle of a very blue state. I told him, "Last week I mentioned concern about traffic on inauguration day, and a colleague said to me, 'I don't really think he's that popular around here, is he?'" Which, I guess, just proves you can always find someone to tell you what you want to hear. Later that morning we were joined by others who brought their lunch and sat mostly in silence to watch the ceremony, and it was a little less lonely.

No matter who you voted for, I think it's hard not to feel proud to be part of a country where it's possible to hold elections and execute peaceful transfers of power, to assemble millions of people in one place without a single arrest, and to elect as president a member of a race that was not so long ago in chains. And while I reject the idea that any one person could fix all that ails us, I hold a cautious hope that some change will do us good.

Help I Don't Need

There is a dearth of good Christian radio stations where I live. Perhaps I should clarify: there is a dearth of Christian radio stations I enjoy listening to where I live. There are three stations, one of them mostly talk, and the other two mostly Casting Crowns, 4-Him, and Mercy Me, and all three of them mostly Republican. I have never subscribed to the notion that God is partisan-- in either direction-- and I've never felt more strongly about that than I do now. It's not that I am naïve enough to believe that mainstream media is any less biased; it's just that I believe as Christians, we should be held to a higher standard. So, for example, in my thinking, a Christian news organization should deliver the news in as fair and unbiased a manner as possible, as if unto God, the same way the rest of us are supposed to go about our jobs. I've had several of these issues recently that irritated me along my commute. This morning, this: "Two-thirds of Americans support domestic drilling efforts; Democrats disagree." So listeners are supposed to believe that a) two-thirds of Americans are Republicans, and b) all Democrats believe the same way? Because that's what an irresponsibly-worded sentence like that suggests.


But, alas, at this point, I expect my news to be pre-filtered for me, telling me what to think, so I take the time to read, watch and listen to multiple sources across the spectrum of media so that I may sort through the biases and form my own opinions. (Except for Fox News. After my 9-month employment seated in front of a 50-inch plasma screen projecting All Fox News All the Time, I think I've had enough Bill Hemmer and Shepard Smith and Neil Cavuto and Head-On, apply directly to the forehead, commercials to last me a lifetime.)

More troubling than all of this, though, are a couple of "uplifting and encouraging" messages I've been subject to recently on these radio stations. The first came from notorious Christian psychologist and radio personality, Dr. James Dobson. I wish I could find a transcript of his message, but I've been unable. I will paraphrase. He spoke of the challenge of being a woman through different phases and roles of life while I nodded:

"First you're somebody's daughter, then you're somebody's wife, then you're somebody's mother, then, perhaps, you're somebody's widow, and the only thing that stays constant through all of this change is Jesus Christ."

Some part of me understood and felt the heart of what he was saying, but still I felt anger in the pit of my stomach. As I drove my baby daughter to day care, I actually yelled aloud, "SO WHEN AM I ACTUALLY SOMEBODY?!" Of course I could not argue that my Jesus stays constant when nothing else does; in that I have always taken great comfort, even when I could find it nowhere else. But I cannot believe that He sees me only through these lenses. What if I had not married? Would I still then just be somebody's daughter, waiting for my next designation? Would I be somebody's future spouse? Why isn't it enough for me just to be me, a child of God and nothing more or less? I am my Heavenly Father's, most definitely, but why, according to Dr. Dobson and so many, am I only defined on this earth as what I am in relation to a man? I have turned this over in my mind in the months since I heard it, and while I know he might not have meant it maliciously, he still meant it, and I have tried to accept it, but I can't.

Since I experienced the complicated joy of becoming a mother nearly six months ago, I have struggled with identity. "What's wrong with being a mom?" One (childless) friend said. My mother, not really understanding what I meant when I shifted uncomfortably as people who are not my child addressed me as "mom," said somewhat defensively, "I always loved my role as a mom." Of course, I am a wife and daughter and sister and mother and friend and employee, and I relish each role independent of the others. But somewhere in all of that, aren't I a woman? An individual, "fearfully and wonderfully made?" Isn't that list made up of the situations in which I am myself? Don't I carry my transcendent identity into and between those locales? I tried to imagine a similar message going out to men, but I couldn't. It never would.

Another personality I have often admired, Dennis Rainey, spoke the other day on grandparents and how, in our culture, they seem to be raising their grandchildren in increasing numbers. I expected him to talk about teenage or ill-equipped parents, too immature or young to handle parenthood by themselves. Although he did credit single parenthood with contributing to this phenomenon, he also cited a rise in working mothers. He went so far as to shame the mothers for allowing their children to be "raised" by their grandparents. Now certainly I'm aware of situations in which this occurs. But I wonder what Mr. Rainey would have to say about my situation.

Aunt Nae is not Mirabella's grandmother. She is not related to us in any way, but she is the precious lady who loves my baby every day. She feeds her three times a day, keeps her warm and dry, plays with her, worries about her diaper rash, comforts her, and meets her needs until I come screeching up the driveway and down the stairs to scoop her up and squeeze her tight at 4:56 every day. I spend my days thinking about my daughter, providing for her, longing for her, and wishing and planning for days when I won't have to because I'll be with her. I spend my nights holding her, bathing her, rocking her, feeding her, playing with her, reading her stories and singing her to sleep. But am I really not the one who is raising my child? Should I be ashamed that we are unable to afford for me to stay home? Or, delving deeper in the guilt and shame department, does it mean I am less of a mother because I am not sure I'm cut out for being a full-time stay-at-home mom?

Nearly three years ago, newly engaged, on the day before I would start classes in the advanced degree program I now feel I may never finish, I proudly talked it over with my extended family. "But why are you going back to school," a relative asked earnestly, "don't you want to have children? What would be the point?" I remember talking lowly and slowly; I remember my face and neck turning red; I remember The Boy meeting me in the kitchen and, in soft tones, telling me we could leave. That's how I felt when I heard the words of Dobson and Rainey: defensive, inadequate, guilty, ashamed. Not remotely uplifted or encouraged, and I wonder if I'm the only one missing the point.

Marginal

"You're over the hump; you're on your way!" a man once proclaimed to me, unprovoked, in a freight elevator we weren't supposed to be taking. I had never met him before. It was a Monday. I smiled, befuddled, on the way to my office with the half sandwich and salad that had cost me nearly $7.00. Back in my cube, I asked my neighbors what such a declaration could possibly mean on a Monday.

"It's probably because it was lunch time," a coworker shrugged, leaving it at that. I wrote it down because that's what I do, and it encourages me, accidentally, when I flip backwards in the planner Tara gave me for Christmas that is called A Year of Days Worse than Yours. She had written on the first page, "Thought you could use this…" I keep thinking the book will become a conversation piece, but no one has ever asked. I sit at the ready with examples from the book like The Valentine-less Valentine's Day, Bris, and Going Hunting with Dick Cheney, but I've ever had the opportunity to share. It's becoming a test on which I will evaluate the character of strangers. Like if I, as a friend recently has, began carrying my lunch in a Dunder-Mifflin lunch bag. The moment I saw the Dwight K. Shrute bobblehead on her desk, I knew I'd underestimated her.

In my planner each day is filled with tasks, marked pressing or not by their case. "MAIL MOTHER'S DAY CARDS" contrasts with scribbles like, "send photos to Ritz," "crushed tomatoes," and "grilled chicken and veggies," which is crossed out and replaced by "Noche de Mexicana," which is crossed out but not replaced at all, which probably indicates I gave up on making tacos and we went out to dinner. Tasks completed are checked off; circles remind me of what is yet to be done.

I see fragments of the nonsensical in my daily encounters. On April 21 I find, "What does the customer want? Do they really want to go down to the nuts and bolts?" Which is not notable except that it points out how buzz-word laden and ineffective at communication my work culture is. And how clunky subject-verb agreement is as it relates to the word "they" in our language. If I wrote something down today, it would be "interface," and it would be overused and it would be used incorrectly. April 4 takes me back to the inexplicable conversation about the Double-T diner that contained the quote, "the Greeks don't put a lot of sugar in their cakes;" a phrase I'm sure I wrote in an effort to keep a straight face.

Nearly three years ago, preparing to move from the suburban townhouse I shared for two years with two (and eventually three) other girls to a tiny apartment in the city, I went through notebooks, personal and academic, eager to lighten my load. Always they were marked with lines of tiny cursive; songs that were stuck in my head ("Round Here" by the Counting Crows and "Stories in my Pockets" by Sarah Masen were standbys), ideas for stories I usually didn't follow through on, snippets of conversation, lines of prose. Ideas to keep my eyes open and my mind alert while making it seem to anyone watching that I was being studious. I wonder what I might have taken with me had I not been so focused on filling the margins. I wonder what it will mean if I ever stop.

"The stories in my pockets are the best I've ever lived; so what if they don't sell, sell, sell?"

Ever Mine, Ever Thine, Ever Ours

We devoured tortilla chips, mini chimis and big margaritas, frozen for one, top shelf for another, sugar-rimmed for me. We talked fast and laughed loud and I gestured wildly enough to jostle my drink, sending the bartender over with a rag and a quizzical gaze. I almost ended up seated beside strangers twice after potty breaks, but eventually we settled in the dark, together, and watched women in impossibly high stilettos live outrageous lives nothing like the three of ours, which are nothing like each other's. Walking to our cars, I looked down at my Naturalizers, which were red, but still Naturalizers, and asked if anyone really wears $500, six-inch tall shoes. "They must have lots of corns," I said.

"Well I went from Easy Spirits to Crocs," Nikki said, gesturing to her flip flops, "and I'm pretty sure these have spit up on them."

I got in my busted up Acura and called my long-suffering husband, who, I would soon learn, had emptied the dishwasher and prepared bottles and cared for our baby and finished his homework, and who didn't for one second make me feel guilty for my ill-timed break. "We're getting ready for bedtime. We were just about to read a story," he reported. I suggested Little Big. "Last night we read There's a Wocket in my Pocket, so maybe we'll take your suggestion."

I rolled down all the windows and opened the sunroof and let the indie rock blare. Even though I was wearing jeans a size bigger than the size bigger I was before I got pregnant, and that coupled with my cropped hair puts me nowhere near the ladies I had just watched on the big screen, I thought of my own group of four. I thought of the women who would drive through the night and run in heels in the rain to be with me if I needed them. And when I have needed them, they have. I thought of so many other drives, with one of them beside me, our hearts screaming through open windows. And though I've never found their equal, I thought of the awe-inspiring women I've met since. The wives who are trudging beside me, the mothers who are teaching me, the girls who sat beside me with my spilled margarita and laughed with me.

I thought of my sweet husband who loves me and our daughter and tells us all the time and shows us even more. And even though I was coming home to a house upended-- my poor mother-in-law on the couch because her broken foot will not allow for stairs, my sister-in-law working a double and then sleeping in our guest room so she could help her mother with our baby since we don't have daycare this week, a bathroom no one can use easily because it lacks a floor and some walls and a sink or counter, a poorly-equipped kitchen because I chose Sex and the City with the girls over grocery shopping by myself-- I couldn't wait to get there. I went about the monotonous litany of tasks I perform every night, chatting away.

"You can tell she had a margarita," The Boy said to his mother.

I advised them that was hours ago.

"Are you just in a good mood because you had a good time? Because maybe you should go out more often."

"I had a wonderful time," I told him, but that was not all.

Our life is more making do than making it big, and I can sometimes get stuck underneath the tedium of the quotidian. But not last night. I felt enveloped by the beautiful in my life that no one is entitled to and that can slip away in a moment. As usual, I felt overwhelmed, but not in the usual way.

I had missed bed time and settled, sadly, for a kiss on the cheek. I was thrilled when my sweet girl awoke crying, just before 1:00 and for the first time in months, apparently because she was cold. She beamed at me while I dressed her in warmer pajamas and rocked with her before
putting her back to bed. I nuzzled my face in her fuzzy hair and whispered her songs and held her tight.

It's not that the movie was great. It wasn't. My city and my world may be much smaller and far grittier and more cluttered than the one I watched last night. But every so often something interrupts my busy day to remind me that it's all the little things I take for granted that constitute a life. It doesn't mean I won't ever complain or forget. But, at least for today, I get it and am unspeakably grateful for it.

Compilations and Complications

We were listening to my latest compilation, another collection of songs too self-conscious to be as dark or indie or bluesy as they might be if they were only for me, but downtrodden enough to be entitled, "C's Moody Winter Mix."

When Citizen Cope's "Back Together Again" began, I started bouncing and nodding and singing along. "I think I may have a thing for songs with 'hoo-hoo's' in them. You know, not that kind of 'hoo-hoo,'" I remarked to The Boy. He laughed.

"You definitely do," he said naming "Black Horse and the Cherry Tree," one of my favorites from last year, Sheryl Crow's "Steve McQueen," and, of course, "Take the Money and Run." I nodded as this seemed a quirk funny enough to own.

When "Home," by Marc Broussard started, The Boy sighed. "Here's another one of your songs."

"Why don't you like it?" I asked, defensive. He mimicked Broussard's gravelly voice repeating the word 'home.' The Boy, apparently, dislikes repetition. His complaint about The Damnwells' "Louisville" sounded similar. ("I really like this song until he starts repeating 'Louisville,'" he said, as if the word reminded him of something foul-smelling.) Maybe he just dislikes repeated title lines. Regardless, we disagree, and another song on the new cd, which I've been playing many times in succession, proves it.

Jars of Clay's, "Work," caught my attention with an aggressive, incessant staccato drum beat countered by the slightly off-beat repeated line, "Do you know what I mean when I say I don' t want to be alone?" It might be because the melodic line shifts with the repetition, causing the harmony to cross over it instead of stack on top of it. But I think I like it more for its urgency and for the line I wish I had written: "I have no fear of drowning; it's the breathing that's taking all this work."

Now, I may not be known for my brevity, but that's where I've been. The breathing has been taking the life out of me, not in a bad way, but in a big way.

The mysterious zephyr I once referred to teased me twice but was not to be. We did not so much as flirt with the idea of moving to Texas, it was more like an at-the-expense-of-everything-else whirlwind romance. Alas, we broke up with it. After a nervous lunch to announce our intentions to my parents and three interviews on my part for the job that seemed perfect, apparently, I did not seem perfect. Half of our hearts gave up then. Or rather, maybe just mine did.

A month and a half later, The Boy had three interviews of his own, the third of which took him on an expenses-paid trip to San Antonio. It was warmer here than it was there the day he flew down. He met with 20 people over nearly eight hours. My friend Kelly took him to a Mexican restaurant and gave him a crash-course orientation. He came home the next day and we waited a little over the two weeks they said it would take to learn that he was close, but not close enough. The Boy moped a little, but mostly the ensuing weekend was a series of sighs and plans. The night after we found out, we went out for Mexican here and plotted the future. To sell the house? To start new job(s)? To procreate sooner than the later we planned long ago? To go back to school?

I enrolled in a class on the last day of late registration; we will put our house on the market in the spring, when the windchill is no longer a factor, but we don't expect to sell it for another year or so; my former contract ended last week-- with a party of awkward body language and phrases and really good baked ziti-- and now I'm mulling a new offer it seems I may not be able to refuse, and as for the procreation, well, I feel that will happen when it's supposed to. Most importantly that weekend, The Boy installed his surround sound system and we bought new rugs. We felt comfortable being in our house again. It felt like home, even though it always was. I've stopped being so afraid of calendars, for the most part, and any thoughts of Stetson acquisition have been tabled indefinitely. We can talk freely with family and friends when they inquire about jobs and locales. The Boy joined my gym and we have been working out at least 4 days per week. I could see results for him right away. I'm babystepping and doing the work, but I've yet to become impressed with my progress, or really to notice it at all. Of course, that could have more to do with my aversion to scales than anything else.

Basically, everything is better now. Friday morning we are headed to Jamaica for a long weekend. I can't really believe it, and when people ask the occasion I don't know what to tell them. We're hoping to do all the things we didn't do on our honeymoon. Swim. Lay out in the sun. Snorkel. Not worry that my father is on his deathbed as we return. Breathe deeply and with less work.

Welcome Christmas, Bring Your Light

The difference between dusk and darkness is only about 15 minutes. I wait for a bus, so I know. What I don't know is the way the sky looks in the Mid Atlantic between the hours of 9 AM and 5 PM on weekdays. But I know that if I sneak out early, at 4:45, I can see the pink-orange light behind the skeletal trees. And I know that if I leave at or after 5:00, I won't need my sunglasses, but I'll immediately need my headlights. Regardless of the presence of light while I wait, all the waiting has given me more time to ponder. Circumstances I am far from sure of, and thus not inclined to disclose, have driven me to my knees and, unfortunately, further into my head. While I ponder, I have been weighing, and while weighing, I have made some conclusions.

I am thankful that:

1. My father was around to celebrate Thanksgiving with our family. More than six months ago, lying in a puddle of hiccups and sobs on the softest bed I had ever felt, in the most gorgeous place I had ever dreamed, I realized Bora Bora was the last place I wanted to be. An interrupted honeymoon the least of my worries, my mind wrestled with the biggest fear I had ever felt-- that I had seen my daddy for the last time from the rear window of a borrowed Audi on my wedding night. I had never known terror or helplessness like that. I'm still not sure if I'm relieved; still holding at least part of the breath I sucked in through clenched teeth on that Wednesday in June. But I know that I hug him tighter and longer every time I see him. I know I don't let myself get frustrated as easily when we butt heads because we are different while so much the same. I know that I am grateful every day for the time that we have.

2. I got to marry a man who continues to thrill and surprise me. I never would have believed that the spiky-haired bartender with the killer chocolate martinis and pocket full of pick-up lines ("Why do you look so familiar?) would be my one and only. But however he convinced me, I'm beyond grateful that he did. Marriage is better than I ever knew to hope it could be, and I have never been more excited to come home every night.

3. I get to take a hot shower every morning. This one is relatively new. About six or seven weeks ago, The Boy embarked on what he thought was a minor repair in our only bathroom. "Just need to replace a few tiles," he told the guy at Home Depot. When he returned to take down the tiles, he realized the wall behind the tiles was rotten. It crumbled at his fingertips, and before I knew it, the shower had no walls and the tub was filled with debris. We returned to Home Depot, to the same guy, who taught The Boy how to install cement board and tiles and grout. No one had to teach me how to pick out the tiles, but there was little joy in that. I had to clean the tub each night and wash my hair in the sink each morning, followed by a shivering bath. The first few days, since the tub faucet lacked...well, a faucet, The Boy got up early and turned on the water for me. And stayed to watch. There was nothing erotic about this activity. Fortunately, for the sake of my marriage and everyone's libido, the novelty of my goosebumped and compromised naked body wore off for my husband, but this production continued for 9 days. Even when the functionality of the shower returned, it carried with it admonitions. "The water can't be hot," or, "this corner can't get wet," or, "the door can't be closed." It should go without saying, but here I go: Due to my poor man having to spend every waking moment in the bathroom, there is no longer any mystery or privacy left in our urinary activities.

Our second level has been covered in a layer of white dust, which is finally mostly gone. I have been congested for weeks, unsure if it was due to sickness or the fact that I should be wearing a mask around my home. Note to the novice homebuyer: Never purchase a home with only one bathroom, especially if you are married. You never know when your spouse will feel the need to tear down the walls.

Having said that, the new tile looks smashing. It makes me want to take it with me when we leave, but I haven't worked up the courage to ask about that yet.


4. I am able to give. Continuing the trend that began with the frozen bird, The Boy and I have turned our little house into the North Pole. Using Craigslist as our impetus, and staring with one family, we have initiated an effort that is ending up providing Christmas for three families, who, together, have 11 kids. At least 10 families from our church have contributed piles of generosity, and our adopted families have been blown away and brought to tears. For the last two weeks, my living and dining rooms have looked like a Toys for Tots collection center, and I've driven around with a high chair and a walker in my trunk. We were able to collect everything the first family requested, and then some, to the point where I needed to actively seek families who were in need of the extra items we acquired. I still have surplus, and the family who provided the most has left me multiple voicemails asking if they can contribute more. It has been an incredible outpouring, and it has overwhelmed me. Not only am I grateful to be in a position where I am not the one in need and I am able to give, I am also grateful to have the opportunity just to be part of something so big and full of love and hope and kindness. I got an angry email forwarded to me from a meek friend the other day, asking if I agreed that my decorated tree was a CHRISTmas tree, and that we should not say Happy Holidays when what we mean is Merry CHRISTmas. I guess those things are true. But why shout about Christ's love when you can just give it away? I haven't said this, but then I guess I shouldn't have to.

Conversely, I am not thankful that:

1. My month-long congestion has manifested itself in the form of a nasty and getting nastier cold, prompting a co-worker to ask me, over the wall of the cubicle, if I was chopping onions. My sniffles projected louder than my muffled apologies. No one could be more irritated than I am, except perhaps The Boy. Which leads me to...

1.a. Because of the Meth "crisis," it is very difficult to find decent cold medicine. Did you know that many nighttime medicines have gotten rid of their decongestants? Whaa? Why don't I just take a shot of Bourbon before bed? Instead of doing that last night, though, I chose to take daytime medicine along with nighttime stuff. Which led to a very surreal night of sirens and wide-awake and switching sides so I could alternate breathing out of either side of my nose, leading to the eventual sleeplessness of my also congested husband. Which leads me to...

1.b. I am unthankful for being sick at the same time as my dear husband. Nothing says happily ever after like, "You're not the only one who's sick, you know!"

2. I am, once again, sitting at work each day, looking over my shoulder, waiting for an anvil to fall on my head. Maybe it'll be the end of December, maybe it'll be the end of January; regardless, we're definitely nearing the end.

Though these lists were meant to be only a sampling, clearly 4-2 means I am doing just fine.

And, despite the dense fog that has lately blanketed my hometown and my mind, it is beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Even at 25, You Gotta Start Sometime

I stood on my dirty, bare tiptoes on the Pergo in the Banana outlet, twirling brown silk for The Boy. "Are you sure I'm not too hippy in it? And I mean hippy like badonkadunk, not like granola."

"I'm sure you don't look hippy."

"It would really help if I were wearing heels," I shuffled back to my door with the 7 on it, "because I would never wear this skirt without heels." I slipped back into my inappropriate platform wedges. They could at least simulate height. I spun back out in front of The Boy.

"I really like it, baby. I think it's sexy."

I wasn't sure how dark brown silk and cream mohair could be sexy, but considering that the man in linen slouching on the boyfriend bench in the dressing room was the only one I'd be concerned with impressing, I took his opinion under advisement. "Let's put it on hold," I said, ushering him out of Banana. Though I'm usually several steps behind his long legs, as we stretched into our second hour of shopping, he lagged behind.

We darted between stores as I explained over my shoulder that usually when I shop, I plan it out in advance. Where am I going? What am I feeling? I have a thoroughly thought-out plan when I shop. But in this case, shopping had not been on my agenda. The night before, The Boy sat up in bed, peering over me and the duvet until it was "officially" my birthday. At that time, he could share his first surprise with me. "You won't have to worry about parking tomorrow at work."

So in the morning, he chauffeured me to work. I didn't really have the heart to tell him that, due to where he had to drop me off, I walked the same distance anyway. It didn't matter. It was one of those days that was short but felt long. My mom called and sang happy birthday, after initially dialing the wrong number and reaching the mysteriously hostile and suspicious guy across the hall. "I guess I have the wrong number," Mom had said.

"Yeah," suspicious guy said, "I guess you do." Thankfully, she didn't sing on that call.

The Boy picked me up, earlier than expected, with a big Diet Coke sweating in the cupholder. "Did you notice?" He glanced at me from the driver's seat, "It's the crushed ice kind."

He sprung the shopping surprise on the way. I changed from work stilettos to shopping wedges. Little did I know how difficult shopping could be without benefit of prior strategic planning.

By the fourth store I perused for shoes to snazz up the brown, my shoulders slumped. The Boy was dragging. I began leaving him at the front of stores, on benches in hallways. I apologized.

The Boy sighed. "Why can't you just look happy, gosh! I can handle this sacrifice of shopping if at least you're having a good time. How can you not find ONE pair of shoes in this whole mall? What about these?" He pointed at patent leather pointy-toed red stilettos. Yes. But not with brown. I had to hand it to him; he tried diligently to apply his "What not to Wear" knowledge.

Later that night, we arrived at the French restaurant I finally figured it would be. I wore the brown skirt and cream top with borderline over-the-top gold bling from H&M. In lieu of sassy shoes. Our reservation for 8 courses for 8 at 8 landed us in a private room upstairs with aperitifs. They must have known we might get a little loud. I lived like a carnivore, sampling five different animals. Not normally my style. 8 glasses of wine is also not normally my style, as evidenced by the end of my evening. The Boy helped me into the car. I remember adjusting my skirt over my thighs. Then we were home, but I didn't believe him. He parked the car; I fell asleep on top of the covers with the lights on. I recovered in time for the family party on Sunday. Chicken parm and chocolate cake. Twenty-five, if not wines from around the world, went down smooth.

That New Hit Song, "Alone in my Principles"

It can be said, rather rightly, that I am a person of principle. Sometimes the result of that fact is that I get frustrated, annoyed or even livid on principle. That is, it often has less to do with a tangible thing than it does a larger issue. For example.

There is a "man" at the new "job" who is, to understate it, unaware. Of his capabilities, of his surroundings, of anything related to propriety. He has called me his "bright spot," he has murmured that I get told I look nice "probably like a thousand times a day," among other asinine compliments under his breath, and to top it all off, he has asked me out numerous times in the last few days. Just two weeks after congratulating me on my marriage. The Boy's response to all of this has been appropriate, but lately, he has become bemused.

"I'm not trying to over-intelliectualize this," he began, over verbalizing, "if you were going to hit on a married woman, which I'm not encouraging, of course. But if you were going to, why would you choose one who just returned from her honeymoon? I mean, I can see if you'd been married for seven years or something and you complained about how your husband didn't pay enough attention to you, but really? I'd say your commitment, or at least your enthusiasm, is pretty much at its peak at this point."

My rage subsided as I laughed at his Seven Year Itch theory. But he was right. Lately, my conversations disgust even me, as I deliberately litter them with "my husband" references-- I never say his name-- because I want to remind The Creep constantly that I am married. But as I told a colleague last week, when I asked him to watch out for me, marriage has very little do with it. "Even if I weren't married," I said, unnecessarily not to mention unprofessionally, "never in a million years would I even consider him. Ever."

The principle: it infuriates me that a man is capable of making me feel that uncomfortable. I shouldn't feel like I have to lower my eyes; I shouldn't try to modify what The Creep calls my "supermodel runway walk." I wear jackets all the time, even when I'm not cold. My "professionalism," or rather my prudishness, has skyrocketed since The Creep told me he "likes the way I carry myself." I'm angry. And yet, a guy like The Creep would take this as a victory. He "got" to me. I've met his kind before. I'm hoping he is not long for my world.

When these and other principles and realities have gotten me down, I have sighed, "This is good," while pointing at my chest, then poking The Boy in his, "but sometimes everything else just sucks."

"What else is there?" He has replied. And he's kind of right.

We are counting the days to our long weekend in New England. Mosotos will be passing the time at Doggie Camp in PA. Yes. We are those people.

And now, The Boy waits for me downstairs with a homemade strawberry banana daquiri. And there are much worse things than that.

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.

Wait for it...

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

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

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

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

A Rant and Recollections

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simultaneous Recovery and Preparation

Alors, the week, it got away from me. I have been attempting to do laundry for days. Last night I got the last of my stuff out of the old place, and as I drove there, I realized that it was a good two years. A big two years. I made friends and mistakes in that house, acclimated myself to adulthood and learned volumes. Particularly, about me. I survived the dating jungle while living in that house and emerged from it. So, here's to 700 days in Columbia. It wasn't nearly as bad as I made it out to be. And I'll be back. My rented copy of Coach Carter is three weeks overdue.

This morning, I'm told, The Boy's dad and stepmom arrived with their friends. They will stay for the weekend that has been planned since the blizzard in January. We have had tickets to tonight's Orioles game since they went on sale in February. What we have not had planned that long is the Shrek and Donkey Wilderness Adventure to commence Sunday afternoon after my walk through. Thus, the problem is this: We must devise a way to spend our weekend with The Parents and get our laundry done and everything packed to catch a flight from Dulles on Sunday afternoon, even though I have to be in Columbia starting at 8am that day. Bah.

Tonight we will host The Parents for a cookout, for which I must leave work early to prepare. I feel like I don't even have TIME to be at work, GOSH.

Most likely, this will be my last post until after the Shrek and Donkey Wilderness Adventure (i.e., we get back from Maine), so think of me, think of me fondly. My commitment to you is to take copious notes on the happenings up there so that I may parlay said notes into a worthwhile reading experience for the crickets. My commitment to myself is the economy-sized bottle of anti-bacterial gel I bought yesterday, but I digress.

Finally, your moment of Zen. Yesterday on MSN, two headlines that seemed a bit off:

"Shark bites girl off Fla." and
"Single women turn to sperm."

I am not making this up. Don't forget to tip.

Look What I Can Do!

$100 and 45 minutes later and I'm Salvador Dali. Who would have ever thought it might be necessary to take self portraits with one's phone, but voila. My first picture phone picture ever. (Don't be misled-- I did not achieve this...piece...on my first try. More like the eleventh. And really, it's not even very good. I'm trying to convince myself that it's also not very accurate, and that the schnozz does not look like that in person, but I'm not sure.)

Tonight I will be attending my first Washington Nationals baseball game, and perhaps that would have seemed more alluring if they were not doing better in their division than the O's are. I am thrilled for them that they've found a fan base and a winning record here in D.C. I really am. But, unfortunately, said fan base contains not a few pretentious Washingtonians and wealthy suburbanites who feel the need to mention how they never actually wanted to go to Orioles games or cheer for them, etc. I wish they would take a lesson from me: I am able to loyally stand by my team, in victory and defeat, without raining on their parade. I just wish they could find a way to do the same. And if they can't... honestly, we never wanted them in Baltimore anyway.

Like I said, hopefully it will be enjoyable. But just in case, I will not be rocking the orange and black. Well, not on the outside, anyway. I'll be braving the D.C. Metro system to get there, so if no one hears from me for a few days, come looking for me. Or just wait longer.

May 2003 - July 2005. Jaded in Life, Busted in Death.

It would seem that my always temperamental and often battered and despised cell phone fell to its death today. All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't do much about it. Upon learning that there was no hope for recovery, a single, deeply profound thought came into my head: "Who's to say any one of us can't not die in a freak gasoline fight incident? I'm pretty sure there's more to life than being really, really, ridiculously good looking. And I plan on finding out what that is."

As a result of this sad occasion, I am finally forced to visit Verizon and explain to an overzealous sales associate, repeatedly, why I do not need children's programming or interactive party games or sports highlights on my phone. To me, this doesn't seem minimalist or difficult to understand. I fear the sales associate and I will not be in agreement on that one.

So, as most of the crickets may know, I will soon embark upon a wilderness adventure. Long ago, upon hearing The Boy name it his favorite place in the world, without a second of hesitation, I agreed to accompany him to his family's cabin in Maine. Due to circumstances outside my control, it appeared that trip would not take place this year. Until last weekend, when the brothers concocted a plan to get us all there the first week of August. I knew the accommodations would be...rustic, but I had seen pictures and didn't think it anything I wasn't capable of handling. Until The Boy casually referred to our destination as "the campsite." I quickly corrected him. Wrong "c" word-- I believe the word you're searching for is "cabin." He assured me that was the case, but that it also is considered camping. Thus, a couple of facts I was previously oblivious to: There is no electricity, and there is no running water. Oh, and interior walls? Not so much. It's one big happy bunked family at bed time. Yessss. And I am the only girl. Except for what may be the tougher half of the G-Unit. Thanks a lot, Master of Omission.

Now, some of you might scoff that this poses an insurmountable challenge for me, à la Jessica Simpson on her Newlyweds camping trip. But you'd be wrong. I am not content to survive it; I intend to flourish. (Maybe we'll see...sailfish-- Tara, and maybe DP, that's all you.) Really, though. With all of this time to mentally prepare, I know I can do it. And, also, that it's not out of the realm of possibility for this to be a boys' trip from here on out. I know you all wish I could keep a running blog throughout my trip, but I think it's probably best for my relationship and my dignity that I don't have a laptop anymore.

The Miami Sound Machine, Revisited

I came across this at PostSecret.blogspot.com (really a riveting project, check it out). My brother used to swear that the song was called "Christmas is Gonna Getcha." I think this picture finally confirms that it is not.

Memory is 83% Full

Think I could get that emblazoned on a t-shirt? My cell phone announced this to me today, and I really wish I could act like my cell phone. Just quit with no apology when I'm tuckered out, especially if I've been caught in the rain. Free of guilt, hang up on a person I'm tired of listening to. Without explanation, end a call when I'm in the middle of Wal-Mart with my arms full of Excedrin and Skintimate and Balance bars. If you asked me what animal I'd want to be the question would go unanswered, because really, who in their right mind would ever want to be an animal? But if you asked me what electronic device I'd want to be, it would be a cell phone. In reality, I'm probably more of an iPod, but whatever (but not one like mine which apparently has laryngitis and suddenly refuses to scroll. Blast the entire concept of the circular scroll. I never bought into that--always longed for arrows. Way to go, Apple.)

Yesterday I had my first contact-by-Googling experience. See? I knew there were people out there looking for me! This is why I hesitate to change my name when I get married. Because what if someone needs to find me? The Boy is incapable of understanding this concept, arguing that if a person doesn't know I got married then they aren't close enough to me to be looking for me anyway. But I can think of a bunch of girls from high school or college I wouldn't mind talking to again, whom I'd probably never be able to find because they are now hyphenated. On a related note, these childhood and high school friends are coming out of the woodwork. After my CBG experience yesterday, I ran into one of my high school teachers. That's the second time in as many weeks. I've been back from college for three years, so why is all of this happening now?

This weekend we will take New England by storm/on bald tires. I guess, then, that it is we who might be taken by storm. (Honestly, how John Kerry does that sentence sound? "Who among us does not foster an appreciation for NASCAR?" Sincerest apologies all around. Apologies for everyone.) Tomorrow we have a one-year-old's birthday party to attend, and I think we are on track to set the world record for one-year-old's soirees this year. Certainly we'll set the record for miles logged in order to attend said blessed events. It's a pool party. Thus, I will be meeting The Boy's grandparents for the first time wearing a bathing suit. Because God was experimenting when He stitched me together, the purchasing and subsequent wearing of bathing suits has never been pleasant. Neither are the looks and snide remarks shot my way when I'm engaged in these acts. There just is no way I've discovered yet to avoid looking a) pregnant, or b) distractingly buoyant. I think that, given the circumstances, appearing pregnant would be far worse, so I have resigned myself to meeting the G-Unit for the first time looking like a flotation device. Yesssssss. Because nothing says, "I love your grandson" quite like cleavage and low-rise boy shorts. Adding to my weekend glee and anticipation, I will be accompanying The Boy's mother to church on Sunday, marking her first trip in many years and quite certainly her first experience with all things Protestant. He will be golfing. (Makes him sound gross, but it was just a prior commitment.) I already feel like an ambassador. If I make it through the experience successfully, I think I'll apply to the State department. Kids, I'll move mountains. (Please just forward your request via comment or e-mail re: specific mountains you'd like moved. I'm thinking of starting in the Appalachians. But don't tell Joyce Brown or App State-- I'd rather it be a surprise.)

And now, your moment of Zen: "Paris [Hilton] tried unsuccessfully to position new BFF Kimberly Stewart as Nicole's replacement by posing with her at numerous red carpet events and dropping less-than-subtle hints about their planned partnership. Kim, she of the not-found-in-nature blond locks and rich Corinthian leather-hued skin, would have had to carve out time from her busy schedule of being Rod Stewart's daughter in order to participate." --Kat Giantis

If Only

I wish my "supervisor" were a former gym teacher instead of a former Air Force Guy. (For more hilarious and mostly irrelevant comics like this, see toothpastefordinner.com.)

Parenthetical Expressions and Things that Make You Go Hmm

The guy in my office who seems too young to wear Hawaiian shirts every Friday and who says, "Have a good evening" to no one in particular every day at 1:57 pm is cooking his lunch. At 10:37 am. He has been here since 5:00. WHY??

I, on the other hand, couldn't bring myself to get in much before the crack of 10. And even at that, no one has noticed, no one has called, no one is looking for me. Excuse me-- what's my motivation? Really, I don’t even know this girl who dresses up for herself to play solitaire and read all day. (Well, okay, I know the girl who dresses up for herself. But the solitaire thing is definitely new.) Waiting to hear back from prospective new opportunities has become my hobby. And quite frankly, I had previously been under the impression that I was fabulous enough not to have to wait this long. Never fear, that theory has since been debunked.

So, while the last shreds of my integrity and pride feel like they are withering away at the office, I think about all of the things I could be doing with this time. For example, packing. This weekend I am supposed to move to a very small apartment, and I have neither packed nor downsized sufficiently for this endeavor. Evidently, that’s what Tuesday and Thursday are for. Might have to do this thing in stages. (Incidentally, if any of the crickets would like to assist on Saturday, I know The Boy and I would be much obliged. Well, mainly The Boy would be much obliged. Let’s be honest, if we have everyone operating under their gifts and callings, I’ll probably be supervising, making tea and prematurely hanging pictures.)

The big triumph of the week is that I finally hit this weekend! Granted, I waited until the final game of the season to find my “power,” but isn’t that what some would call “clutch?” Unfortunately, my fake success in softball has inspired my mom to introduce and refer to me as Rally Monkey. Which isn’t really the most appropriate or flattering nickname. Especially considering the “hit” was due in very large part to a poor play by the third baseman. Ahh, technicalities.

I leave you with one last random thought. This weekend I watched The Jacket. I don't necessarily recommend it, but one line still has me laughing: "The four horsemen of the apocalypse are coming today, and they're not bringing flowers, and so it's really hard to get organized." Makes me laugh just thinking about it. Much like this line from the now-irrelevant Late, Late Show host, Craig Kilborn: "The preceding segment was brought to you by the Forest for the Trees-- Come see us." And, I don't care who you are, if you don't find that funny, I suggest this be your last visit.

Hugh Grant and A.O. Scott, Jr.

In Kohl's today, after another day of clockwatching at "work," I was shopping in the junior's department. (Because I still can, and I'm too cheap/"financially burdened" to buy nice, expensive clothes. And, yes, I realize I have no obligation to explain any of this. Onward.) The two high school girls working in the section are yelling to each other across the rounders about movies. One of them mentions Spanglish, and the other asks how it was.
Me: Fabulous! It does such a great job portraying the many ways we misunderstand each other and what it really means to communicate, on various levels.
Girl #1: Ugh, it was so stupid. Definitely not like, you know, a normal Adam Sandler movie.
Me: Right, because those are the epitome of thought-provoking.
Girl #2: Oh, sounds like it was along the same lines as Punch Drunk Love.
[Neither girl speaks because only one of them has heard of this film and clearly neither has seen it]
Girl # 1: Right, whatever. But, you know, like it was totally some of, you know, MY relationships to a tee.
Girl # 2: (Tries to look pensive as she hangs capris)
Me: (Giggling, tries to figure out how she's going to manage this one)
Girl # 1: Well, like, Adam Sandler is like this totally hot shot chef, and he's got this trophy wife...but actually she's really a psycho. I mean, like really. So, you know.
Me: (Fakes a cough to play off the chuckling)*
* - Everything marked "Me" in that paragraph occurred silently EXCEPT for the laughing.

The brightest part of today is that I got some serious fabulousness for cheap. A couple peasant skirts and tanks and capris...crickets probably don't care much for couture, but I'm pretty stoked.

Came home and ate Freschetta pizza and ice cream with Edes while watching Bridget Jones. See what happens when The Boy leaves the country? I act like a collegiate spinster. Again. And it's kind of fun. I'd love to tarry longer, but I think Hugh Grant is beckoning me to come to bed. Love, Actually it is. Adieu, to you and you and you. (My, isn't that optimistic?)